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Tropic of Cancer[北回归线][En/Cn]

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第5节

雾和雪、高纬度地区、渊博学识、发蓝的咖啡、没有抹奶油的面包、扁豆汤、罐头猪肉煮豆子、放了很久的奶酪、没有烹熟的食物和糟糕的酒已使这整座感化院里的人陷入便秘的窘境中。正当每个人都憋了一肚子屎时厕所的下水管道又冻住了,大便像蚂蚁丘一样堆积起来,人们只得从那个小台子上下来,把屎拉在地板上。于是它在地上冻住了,等待融化。到了星期四驼背推着他的小推车来了,用扫帚和一只盘子样的东西掀起这一摊摊又冷又硬的大便,然后拖着一条枯萎的腿用车子推走。走廊里扔满了手纸,像捕蝇纸一样粘在脚下。一俟天气转暖这气味便更浓,在四十英里外的温彻斯特都闻得到。早上拿着牙刷站在这一堆发酵成熟的大粪前,这股冲天臭气会使你的脑袋发晕。我们都穿着红色法兰绒衬衣站在旁边,等着轮到自己对着下水孔漱口。这很像威尔弟一出伟大歌剧中的一段抒情调—有滑车和罗网的砧琴合奏。夜里迫不急待要上厕所时,我便冲进勒桑塞尔先生的专用卫生间,它就在汽车道边上。我们的马桶上常常沾满了血,他的马桶也没有冲洗,不过至少可以坐下来出恭。我把自己的一摊大便留给他,作为一种尊敬的表示。

The fog and snow, the cold latitude, the heavy learning, the blue Coffee, the unbuttered bread, the soup and lentils, the heavy pork‑packer beans, the stale cheese, the soggy chow, the lousy wine have put the whole penitentiary into a state of constipation. And just when everyone has become shit‑tight the toilet pipes freeze. The shit piles up like ant hills; one has to move down from the little pedestals and leave it on the floor. It lies there stiff and frozen, waiting for the thaw. On Thursdays the hunchback comes with his little wheelbarrow, shovels the cold, stiff turds with a broom and pan, and trundles off dragging his withered leg. The corridors are littered with toilet paper; it sticks to your feet like flypaper. When the weather moderates the odor gets ripe; you can smell it in Winchester forty miles away. Standing over that ripe dung in the morning, with a toothbrush, the stench is so powerful that it makes your head spin. We stand around in red flannel shirts, waiting to spit down the hole; it is like an aria from one of Verdi's great operas – an anvil chorus with pulleys and syringes. In the night, when I am taken short, I rush down to the private toilet of M. le Censeur, just off the driveway. My stool is always full of blood. His toilet doesn't flush either but at least there is the pleasure of sitting down. I leave my little bundle for him as a token of esteem.

 

每天晚上饭快吃完时守夜人便进来同大家一起干杯,他是整个学校唯一一个我能引为同类的人。他是一个微不足道的人,提着一盏灯和一串钥匙。他整夜巡逻,像一部机器那样机械。大约到了把很陈的奶酪传递给大家的时候,他就会闯进来讨一杯酒喝。他站着伸出手来,头发很坚硬,像一头大猎犬,面颊红润,胡须上沾着晶莹的雪。他咕哝了一句什么,那位卡西莫多便递给他酒瓶。他双脚牢牢地戳在地上,一扬脖子酒便下去了,只是缓缓地一大口便喝完了。我觉得他像是在把红酒灌下肚去,他的这个动作使我感动得不得了,他几乎是在喝下人类同情心的渣滓,仿佛世界上的爱与怜悯能这样一口喝干了事,仿佛日复一日这是唯一能挤压在一起的东西。他们已把他弄得连只兔子都不如了,在他们的筹划中他还抵不上胯青鱼用的盐水呢。他不过只是一堆行尸走肉,他自己也明白这一点。喝完酒后他环顾四周、朝我们微笑时这个世界好像四分五裂了,这是甩过一道深渊的微笑。整个发臭的文明世界像一块沼泽地一样处于这个深渊底部,这种犹犹豫豫的微笑像一座海市蜃楼一样在上面飘忽不定地摇曳。

Toward the end of the meal each evening the veilleur de nuit drops in for his bit of cheer. This is the only human being in the whole institution with whom I feel a kinship. He is a nobody. He carries a lantern and a bunch of keys. He makes the rounds through the night, stiff as an automaton. About the time the stale cheese is being passed around, in he pops for his glass of wine. He stands there, with paw outstretched, his hair stiff and wiry, like a mastiff's, his cheeks ruddy, his mustache gleaming with snow. He mumbles a word or two and Quasimodo brings him the bottle. Then, with feet solidly planted, he throws back his head and down it goes, slowly in one long draught. To me it's like he's pouring rubies down his gullet. Something about this gesture which seizes me by the hair. It's almost as if he were drinking down the dregs of human sympathy, as if all the love and compassion in the world could be tossed off like that, in one gulp – as if that were all that could be squeezed together day after day. A little less than a rabbit they have made him. In the scheme of things he's not worth the brine to pickle a herring. He's just a piece of live manure. And he knows it. When he looks around after his drink and smiles at us, the world seems to be falling to pieces. It's a smile thrown across an abyss. The whole stinking civilized world lies like a quagmire at the bottom of the pit, and over it, like a mirage, hovers this wavering smile.


  晚上散步回来时迎接我的仍是这种微笑。记得有一天晚上我站在门口等老头儿巡逻回来,当时我有一种健康愉快的感觉,我愿意一直等下去。我等了大概半个小时他才打开门,在此期间我安详、从容地观察四周,仔细看每一件景物。我看到学校前那棵树枝像绳子一样拧在一起的死树和街对面的房屋,这些房屋在夜晚改变了颜色,现在轮廓更清楚了。我听到一列火车隆隆驶过西伯利亚荒原,看到于特里约画的围栏、天空、深深的车辙,突然不知从哪儿冒出两个情人来,他们走几码就要站下拥抱一番。待我的眼睛再也看不到他们了,我便倾听他们的脚步声,我听到他们突兀地站下,接着便是缓慢、曲折的漫步。我能感觉到他们靠在一根围栏上时两人身体在下堕,能听到他们拥抱前肌肉绷紧时鞋子发出的吱吱响声。他们在镇上漫游,穿过弯弯曲曲的街道朝水平如镜的运河走去,那儿的水黑得像煤块一样。这事有点儿蹊跷,在整个第戎找不出另外两个像他们这样的人。

It was the same smile which greeted me at night when I returned from my rambles. I remember one such night when, standing at the door waiting for the old fellow to finish his rounds, I had such a sense of well‑being that I could have waited thus forever. I had to wait perhaps half an hour before he opened the door. I looked about me calmly and leisurely, drank everything in, the dead tree in front of the school with its twisted rope branches, the houses across the street which had changed color during the night, which curved now more noticeably, the sound of a train rolling through the Siberian wastes, the railings painted by Utrillo, the sky, the deep wagon ruts. Suddenly, out of nowhere, two lovers appeared; every few yards they stopped and embraced, and when I could no longer follow them with my eyes I followed the sound of their steps, heard the abrupt stop, and then the slow, meandering gait. I could feel the sag and slump of their bodies when they leaned against a rail, heard their shoes creak as the muscles tightened for the embrace. Through the town they wandered, through the crooked streets, toward the glassy canal where the water lay black as coal. There was something phenomenal about it. In all Dijon not two like them.


  与此同时老头儿仍在巡逻,我听得到他的钥匙叮当乱响、他的靴子发出的咯吱声和执著机械的走路声。最后我听见他沿着车道走过来开大门,这座有顶的大门很古怪,门前没有壕沟。我听见他在锁上摸索,他的手僵硬了,他的脑袋发木了。门推开时,我看到他头顶上罩着小教堂上方的一个辉煌的星座。每一扇门都已锁上,每一个房间都已闩上,书本都合上了。夜幕低垂,像匕首尖一样锐利,像疯子一样烂醉如泥。这就是虚无的无限了。在小教堂上空悬着的这个星座,像一位主教的法冠。在冬天的几个月里它每月都低垂在小教堂上空,又低又明亮,犹如几把匕首尖,这是彻底的虚无发出的强光。老头跟我来到车道拐弯处,门无声地关上了,同他道晚安时我又看到了那种绝望、无助的笑容,像从一个失去了的世界边缘上掠过的一颗闪光的流星。我仿佛又看到他站在饭厅里,一扬脖子红酒便灌进了肚子。整个地中海似乎都装进他肚于里了,桔子树林、柏树、有翼的雕像、木结构的庙宇、湛蓝的大海、僵直的面具、神秘莫测的数字、神话中的鸟、蔚蓝的天空、小鹰、阳光明媚的小海湾、盲诗人及留胡子的英雄。这一切业已逝去,沉入北方涌来的雪崩之下。它们已被掩埋,永远死去,只遗下一个记忆、一个无羁的希望。

Meanwhile the old fellow was making the rounds; I could hear the jingle of his keys, the crunching of his boots, the steady, automatic tread. Finally I heard him coming through the driveway to open the big door, a monstrous, arched portal without a moat in front of it. I heard him fumbling at the lock, his hands stiff, his mind numbed. As the door swung open I saw over his head a brilliant constellation crowning the chapel. Every door was locked, every cell bolted. The books were closed. The night hung close, dagger-pointed, drunk as a maniac. There it was, the infinitude of emptiness. Over the chapel, like a bishop's miter, hung the constellation, every night, during the winter months, it hung there low over the chapel. Low and bright, a handful of dagger points, a dazzle of pure emptiness. The old fellow followed me to the turn of the drive. The door closed silently. As I bade him good night I caught that desperate, hopeless smile again, like a meteoric flash over the rim of a lost world. And again I saw him standing in the refectory, his head thrown back and the rubies pouring down his gullet. The whole Mediterranean seemed to be buried inside him – the orange groves, the cypress trees, the winged statues, the wooden temples, the blue sea, the stiff masks, the mystic numbers, the mythological birds, the sapphire skies, the eaglets, the sunny coves, the blind bards, the bearded heroes. Gone all that. Sunk beneath the avalanche from the North. Buried, dead forever. A memory. A wild hope.


  我在车道上徘徊了一会儿,体验这夜幕、这阴暗的屏障和难以名状的、紧紧攫任人的空幻感,然后我沿着围墙边的碎石路快步走开,穿过拱门和柱子、铁楼梯,走过一个又一个四合院。一切都锁得严严实实的,锁起来好过冬。我找到了通向宿舍去的拱廊。从肮脏不堪、结了霜的窗子里透出的惨淡光线倾泻在楼梯上,各处的油漆都已脱落,石头被掏空,楼梯扶手嘎嘎直响。楼梯顶上那盏微弱的红灯发出的光穿透了铺路石上散出的潮气形成的苍白、模糊的蒸汽团。我大汗淋漓、惊慌失措地爬上最后一段楼梯,即塔楼。我在一片漆黑中摸索着走过空寂无人的走廊,每个房间都是空的、锁上的,都正在朽掉。我伸手在墙上摸匙孔,握住门把手时总会慌乱一阵。总有一只手抓着我的衣领,预备把我猛拽回去。一进屋我就锁上门,我每天晚上都在创造奇迹,这个奇迹便是不等被人扼死、不等被人用斧头砍倒就进屋。我听见老鼠在走廊里跑过,在我头顶上的粗椽子之间大咬大嚼。灯光像正在燃烧的硫磺一样耀眼,屋里充满从未通过风的房子里的那种又亲切又难闻的恶臭味。装煤的箱子像我离开时一样仍摆在角落里,炉火熄了,这极度的寂静倒叫我觉得像是听到了尼亚加拉大瀑布的水声似的。

For just a moment I linger at the carriageway. The shroud, the pall, the unspeakable, clutching emptiness of it all. Then I walk quickly along the gravel path near the wall, past the arches and columns, the iron staircases, from one quadrangle to the other. Everything is locked tight. Locked for the winter. I find the arcade leading to the dormitory. A sickish light spills down over the stairs from the grimy, frosted windows. Everywhere the paint is peeling off. The stones are hollowed out, the banister creaks; a damp sweat oozes from the flagging and forms a pale, fuzzy aura pierced by the feeble red light at the head of the stairs. I mount the last flight, the turret, in a sweat and terror. In pitch darkness I grope my way through the deserted corridor, every room empty, locked, molding away. My hand slides along the wall seeking the keyhole. A panic comes over me as I grasp the doorknob. Always a hand at my collar ready to yank me back. Once inside the room I bolt the door. It's a miracle which I perform each night, the miracle of getting inside without being strangled, without being struck down by an ax. I can hear the rats scurrying through the corridor, gnawing away over my head between the thick rafters. The light glares like burning sulfur and there is the sweet, sickish stench of a room which is never ventilated. In the corner stands the coal box, just as I left it. The fire is out. A silence so intense that it sounds like Niagara Falls in my ears.


  于是我独自呆着,带着极度空虚的渴求和恐惧,整间房子都听凭我的思绪驰骋。除了我和我所想的、所畏惧的一无所有。 我尽可以去想最最异想天开的事情,尽可以跳舞、啐唾沫、做怪相、诅咒谩骂、掩面大哭—谁也不会知道,谁也听不见。一想到这种彻底的独处生活就足以使我发疯,就好像一个人利落地生下来,一切牵挂都割断了,分割开,赤裸裸的、独自一人呆着,同时也尝到了幸福和痛苦。你有的是时间,每一秒钟都像一座大山一样压在你身上,你在时间中被溺死。沙漠、大海、湖泊、大洋。时间像一把砍肉斧头在一下下砍击中逝去。虚无、大千世界、我和非我。Oomaharumooma。每一件事物都得有一个名称,每一件事情都得通过学习、考验和体验才能掌握。亲爱的,别客气。

Alone, with a tremendous empty longing and dread. The whole room for my thoughts. Nothing but myself and what I think, what I fear. Could think the most fantastic thoughts, could dance, spit, grimace, curse, wail – nobody would ever know, nobody would ever hear. The thought of such absolute privacy is enough to drive me mad. It's like a clean birth. Everything cut away. Separate, naked, alone. Bliss and agony simultaneously. Time on your hands. Each second weighing on you like a mountain. You drown in it. Deserts, seas, lakes, oceans. Time beating away like a meat ax. Nothingness. The world. The me and the not‑me. Oomaharumooma. Everything has to have a name. Everything has to be learned, tested, experienced. Faites comme chez vous, chéri.


  寂静是乘着火山状的降落伞降临的。在那边贫脊的群山中,机车正拖着商品朝广阔的冶金地区隆隆驶去。它们在钢铁路基上滚动,地上洒着矿渣、炉渣和紫色矿石。车里装着海带、鱼尾板、钢材、枕木、盘钢、厚金属板、叠合材料、热轧钢箍、软木条和迫击炮车,以及佐泽斯矿石。轮子是U-80毫米的,或者更大。机车经过盎格鲁-诺曼式建筑的堂皇标本,经过了步行者和男同性恋者、露天冶炼炉、使用贝塞麦法的磨坊、发电机和变压器、生铁块和钢锭。众人都自由自在地在五星状的胡同里过来过去,行人和男同性恋者、金鱼和玻璃丝样的棕桐树,驴子在抽泣。在巴西广场有一只淡紫色的眼睛。

The silence descends in volcanic chutes. Yonder, in the barren hills, rolling onward toward the great metallurgical regions, the locomotives are pulling their merchant products. Over steel and iron beds they roll, the ground sown with slag and cinders and purple ore. In the baggage cars, kelps, fishplate, rolled iron, sleepers, wire rods, plates and sheets, laminated articles, hot rolled hoops, splints and mortar carriages, and Zorès ore. The wheels U‑80 millimetres or over. Pass splendid specimens of Anglo‑Norman architecture, pass pedestrians and pederasts, open hearth furnaces, basic Bessemer mills, dynamos and transformers, pig iron castings and steel ingots. The public at large, pedestrians and pederasts, goldfish and spun‑glass palm trees, donkeys sobbing, all circulating freely through quincuncial alleys. At the Place du Brésil a lavender eye.


  我很快回想了一遍我所认识的女人,这就像一条我用自己的痛苦锻造的铁链,一个套着另一个。这是畏惧分居、畏惧总也长不大。子宫之门总是拴着的。恐惧和希望。血液里蕴藏着天堂的吸引力。来世,总是来世。这完全起源于肚脐,他们在这儿割断了脐带,在你屁股上掴一掌,然后全妥了!你来到这个世界上,随波逐流,是一只没有舵的船。你先看看群星,再瞧瞧自个儿的肚脐。你身上到处长出眼睛来,腋下、两嘴唇间、头发根上、脚心。远的变近,近的变远。里外处于永恒的变化之中,成为蜕下的皮。你就这样一年年四处漂泊下去,直到发现自己来到了一个死滞的中心,你将在这儿慢慢腐烂,慢慢变成粉末后又重新散落到各处,只有你的名字留下来。

Going back in a flash over the women I've known. It's like a chain which I've forged out of my own misery. Each one bound to the other. A fear of living separate, of staying born. The door of the womb always on the latch. Dread and longing. Deep in the blood the pull of paradise. The beyond. Always the beyond. It must have all started with the navel. They cut the umbilical cord, give you a slap on the ass, and presto! you're out in the world, adrift, a ship without a rudder. You look at the stars and then you look at your navel. You grow eyes everywhere – in the armpits, between the lips, in the roots of your hair, on the soles of your feet. What is distant becomes near, what is near becomes distant. Inner-outer, a constant flux, a shedding of skins, a turning inside out. You drift around like that for years and years, until you find yourself in the dead center, and there you slowly rot, slowly crumble to pieces, get dispersed again. Only your name remains.

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