原帖由 黄海声 于 2009-10-22 00:23 发表 
看了这篇,不知不觉想起了奥勒留的《沉思录》。但我却非常愿意让这篇短文的淡淡的绚烂、从容、安详、朴素优雅好好地温暖温暖。能够用来给心灵烤火的好文字。
谢谢版主批阅并给予鼓励。多提宝贵意见。
引用的诗歌正是华莱士 史蒂文斯的。第二段还不敢确定怎么翻译。那天落雪说要看看的,也一并把原文放在下面:
A Postcard from the Volcano
by Wallace Stevens
Children picking up our bones
Will never know that these were once
As quick as foxes on the hill;
And that in autumn, when the grapes
Made sharp air sharper by their smell
These had a being, breathing frost;
And least will guess that with our bones
We left much more, left what still is
The look of things, left what we felt
At what we saw. The spring clouds blow
Above the shuttered mansion house,
Beyond our gate and the windy sky
Cries out a literate despair.
We knew for long the mansion's look
And what we said of it became
A part of what it is ... Children,
Still weaving budded aureoles,
Will speak our speech and never know,
Will say of the mansion that it seems
As if he that lived there left behind
A spirit storming in blank walls,
A dirty house in a gutted world,
A tatter of shadows peaked to white,
Smeared with the gold of the opulent sun.
[ 本帖最后由 丝绸 于 2009-10-22 12:29 编辑 ] |