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Tropic of Cancer  北回归线-第十三章第二节

And now it is three o'clock in the morning and we have a couple of trollops here who are doing somersaults on the bare floor. Fillmore is walking around naked with a goblet in his hand, and that paunch of his is drumtight, hard as a fistula. All the Pernod and champagne and cognac and Anjou which he guzzled from three in the afternoon on, is gurgling in his trap like a sewer. The girls are putting their ears to his belly as if it were a music box. Open his mouth with a buttonhook and drop a slug in the slot. When the sewer gurgles I hear the bats flying out of the belfry and the dream slides into artifice.

现在是凌晨三点钟,我们这儿有几个婊子,她们正在光地板上翻跟头。菲尔莫光着身子走来走去,手里端着一只高脚杯,他的肚皮绷得像鼓一样,硬得像一根管子。从下午三点开始不停地往下灌的茵香酒、香摈酒、科尼亚克白兰地和安如葡萄酒在他嘴巴里像阴沟一样汩汩响,姑娘们把耳朵贴在他肚子上倾听,像听音乐匣似的。用一根纽扣钩拨开他的嘴,往里面再倒一杯酒,当这阴沟发出潺潺响声时我听见蝙蝠飞出钟楼,这场梦也变得奇妙了。

The girls have undressed and we are examining the floor to make sure that they won't get any splinters in their ass. They are still wearing their high heeled shoes. But the ass! The ass is worn down, scraped, sandpapered, smooth, hard, bright as a billiard ball or the skull of a leper. On the wall is Mona's picture: she is facing northeast on a line with Cracow written in green ink. To the left of her is the Dordogne, encircled with a red pencil. Suddenly I see a dark, hairy crack in front of me set in a bright, polished billiard ball; the legs are holding me like a pair of scissors. A glance at that dark, unstitched wound and a deep fissure in my brain opens up: all the images and memories that had been laboriously or absent mindedly assorted, labeled, documented, filed, sealed and stamped break forth pell mell like ants pouring out of a crack in the sidewalk; the world ceases to revolve, time stops, the very nexus of my dreams is broken and dissolved and my guts spill out in a grand schizophrenic rush, an evacuation that leaves me face to face with the Absolute. I see again the great sprawling mothers of Picasso, their breasts covered with spiders, their legend hidden deep in the labyrinth. And Molly Bloom lying on a dirty mattress for eternity. On the toilet door red chalk cocks and the madonna uttering the diapason of woe. I hear a wild, hysterical laugh, a room full of lockjaw, and the body that was black glows like phosphorus. Wild, wild, utterly uncontrollable laughter, and that crack laughing at me too, laughing through the mossy whiskers, a laugh that creases the bright, polished surface of the billiard ball. Great whore and mother of man with gin in her veins. Mother of all harlots, spider rolling us in your logarithmic grave, insatiable one, fiend whose laughter rives me! I look down into that sunken crater, world lost and without traces, and I hear the bells chiming, two nuns at the Palace Stanislas and the smell of rancid butter under their dresses, manifesto never printed because it was raining, war fought to further the cause of plastic surgery, the Prince of Wales flying around the world decorating the graves of unknown heroes. Every bat flying out of the belfry a lost cause, every whoopla a groan over the radio from the private trenches of the damned. Out of that dark, unstitched wound, that sink of abominations, that cradle of black thronged cities where the music of ideas is drowned in cold fat, out of strangled Utopias is born a clown, a being divided between beauty and ugliness, between light and chaos, a clown who when he looks down and sidelong is Satan himself and when he looks upward sees a buttered angel, a snail with wings.

姑娘们脱光了,我们检查一遍地板,以免木刺戳进她们屁股里去。她们仍全穿着高跟鞋。她们的屁股!她们的屁股磨光了、擦破了、用沙纸打光了,光滑、结实、鲜艳得像一只台球或一个麻风病人的脑袋。墙上挂着莫娜的像,她面朝东北方,与她的视线平行的是用绿墨水写的克拉科夫,她左边是多尔多涅河,这个词是用红铅笔圈起来的。突然我看到眼前一个鲜艳、光亮的台球上出现了一道黑洞洞毛茸茸的缝,这时支撑我的两条腿像一把剪刀一样。瞧一眼这个黑洞洞的、未缝台的伤口我的脑袋上便裂开一道深深的缝。所有以前费力地或心不在焉地分门别类、贴标签、引证、归档、密封并且打上印戳的印象和记忆乱纷纷一涌而出,就像一群蚂蚁从人行道上的一个蚁穴中涌出。这时地球停转了,时间停滞了,我的梦之间的相互联系也断了、消逝了,在精神分裂症大发作中我的肚肠流出来,这一次大扫除后我就与上帝面对面站在一起了。我又看到了毕加索笔下仰卧着的伟大母亲,她们的乳房上爬满了蜘蛛,她们的传奇深藏在迷宫里,而莫莉•布卢姆永远躺在一块脏垫子上了。厕所门上涂着红粉笔画的阴茎,圣母用悦耳的声音发出哀号。我听到一阵放荡的大笑,这儿是满满一屋子患了牙关紧闭症的人,那个发黑的身体像磷一样在发光。放荡、完全控制不住的狂笑,还有冲着我来的格格狂笑,那是从青苔般的髭间发出的笑声,这笑声使那个台球鲜艳、光滑的表面起了皱褶。这是血管里含有杜松子酒的伟大妓女、人类的母亲。婊子们的母亲啊!蜘蛛在你对数的坟墓里滚动我们,这是一只贪得无厌的恶魔,它的笑声叫我心碎。我低头看看这个深陷下去的坑,这是一个不留痕迹的迷失的世界。我又听到钟鸣,斯塔尼斯拉斯宫那儿有两个修女,她们衣衫下散发出陈腐的奶油味,还有因为下雨始终未付印的宣言、为了发展整形外科而打的战争、威尔士王子飞遍全世界装修无名英雄的陵墓。每一只飞出钟楼的骗幅都是一项失败的事业,每一次狂欢都是注定要死的人从单人战壕里通过无线电台发出的呻吟。从那个黑洞洞的未缝合的伤口、从那个令人嫌恶的臭水沟、从那个挤满黑压压人群的城市的摇篮(思想的乐曲就在这儿被淹没在动物油中)、从被扼杀的乌托邦中,生下一个小丑,一个半美半丑、半明亮半混沌的怪物,这个小丑向厂向旁边看时是撒旦,向上看时是一个涂了黄油的天使、一个长翅膀的蜗牛。

When I look down into that crack I see an equation sign, the world at balance, a world reduced to zero and no trace of remainder. Not the zero on which Van Norden turned his flashlight, not the empty crack of the prematurely disillusioned man, but an Arabian zero rather, the sign from which spring endless mathematical worlds, the fulcrum which balances the stars and the light dreams and the machines lighter than air and the lightweight limbs and the explosives that produced them. Into that crack I would like to penetrate up to the eyes, make them waggle ferociously, dear, crazy, metallurgical eyes. When the eyes waggle then will I hear again Dostoevski's words, hear them rolling on page after page, with minutest observation, with maddest introspection, with all the undertones of misery now lightly, humorously touched, now swelling like an organ note until the heart bursts and there is nothing left but a blinding, scorching light, the radiant light that carries off the fecundating seeds of the stars. The story of art whose roots lie in massacre.

低头看那条缝里,我看到一个方程式符号,一个处于平衡状态的世界,一个化为零蛋、一点痕迹不留的世界,这不是范诺登用手电筒照的那个零蛋,也不是那个过早地醒悟过来的人身上的空洞,这更像一个阿拉伯数码里的零,从这个符号中能跃出无数数学的世界和一个杠杆支点,这个杠杆平衡星星、不清晰的梦、比空气还轻的机器、轻量级的四肢及生产这些东西的炸药。我要在那条缝里一直穿上去,穿过眼睛,让这双可爱的、古怪的、炼金术炼成的眼睛拼命转动。只有在它们转动时我才会又听见陀思妥耶夫斯基的话,听见这些话滚过一页页纸张,这些话观察极为细致入微,内省极为大胆,所有悲哀的言外之意都轻轻地幽默地提到了,现在这些话就像风琴曲子一直奏到人的心脏破裂为止。过后什么也没有了,只剩下令人目眩、的人的强烈光线,它将群星多产的种子带走,这是艺术史,它植根于大屠杀中。

When I look down into this fucked out cunt of a whore I feel the whole world beneath me, a world tottering and crumbling, a world used up and polished like a leper's skull. If there were a man who dared to say all that he thought of this world there would not be left him a square foot of ground to stand on. When a man appears the world bears down on him and breaks his back. There are always too many rotten pillars left standing, too much festering humanity for man to bloom. The superstructure is a lie and the foundation is a huge quaking fear. If at intervals of centuries there does appear a man with a desperate, hungry look in his eye, a man who would turn the world upside down in order to create a new race, the love that he brings to the world is turned to bile and he becomes a scourge. If now and then we encounter pages that explode, pages that wound and sear, that wring groans and tears and curses, know that they come from a man with his back up, a man whose only defenses left are his words and his words are always stronger than the lying, crushing weight of the world, stronger than all the racks and wheels which the cowardly invent to crush out the miracle of personality. If any man ever dared to translate all that is in his heart, to put down what is really his experience, what is truly his truth, I think then the world would go to smash, that it would be blown to smithereens and no god, no accident, no will could ever again assemble the pieces, the atoms, the indestructible elements that have gone to make up the world.

每当我低头看一个婊子被人操过多次的阴户时便感觉到了脚下的整个世界,这是一个分崩离析的世界、一个精疲力竭的世界。它光滑得就像麻风病人的脑袋一样。假如哪个人敢把他对这个世界的看法都谈出来,他就连一平方英尺的立足之地也得不到。一个人一露面这个世界便重压在他身上,把他的腰压断。总有过多的腐朽柱子立着,过多令人痛苦的人性有待人去繁衍。上层建筑是一个谎言,其基础则是巨大的、令人不寒而栗的恐怖。如果说在过去千百年间真的出现了一个眼睛中流露出绝望、饥饿神色的人,一个为创造一种新生物把世界翻个底朝天的人,那么他带给世界的爱便会化为忿怒,他自己则会变成一场灾难。如果我们不时读到探究真理的书、刺伤人使人冷酷无情的书、令人叫苦落泪诅咒谩骂的书,我们就知道这些文字是那个被压趴下的人写的,他唯一的抵抗就是诉诸文字了,而他的文字总是比世界上撒谎压人的重量更有力,比胆小鬼们发明的要压垮人格之奇迹的刑台和刑车更有力。如果哪个人敢于直抒胸臆、秉笔直书他的真实经历,真正的真实,那么我想世界将毁灭、将被吹成碎片,没有神、变故和意志能重新弥合起这些失去的碎片、原子和不可摧毁的要素以再造一个世界。

In the four hundred years since the last devouring soul appeared, the last man to know the meaning of ecstasy, there has been a constant and steady decline of man in art, in thought, in action. The world is pooped out: there isn't a dry fart left. Who that has a desperate, hungry eye can have the slightest regard for these existent governments, laws, codes, principles, ideals, ideas, totems, and taboos? If anyone knew what it meant to read the riddle of that thing which today is called a "crack" or a "hole," if any one had the least feeling of mystery about the phenomena which are labeled "obscene," this world would crack asunder. It is the obscene horror, the dry, fucked out aspect of things which makes this crazy civilization look like a crater. It is this great yawning gulf of nothingness which the creative spirits and mothers of the race carry between their legs. When a hungry, desperate spirit appears and makes the guinea pigs squeal it is because he knows where to put the live wire of sex, because he knows that beneath the hard carapace of indifference there is concealed the ugly gash, the wound that never heals. And he puts the live wire right between the legs; he hits below the belt, scorches the very gizzards. It is no use putting on rubber gloves; all that can be coolly and intellectually handled belongs to the carapace and a man who is intent on creation always dives beneath, to the open wound, to the festering obscene horror. He hitches his dynamo to the tenderest parts; if only blood and pus gush forth, it is something. The dry, fucked-out crater is obscene. More obscene than anything is inertia. More blasphemous than the bloodiest oath is paralysis. If there is only a gaping wound left then it must gush forth though it produce nothing but toads and bats and homunculi.

自从最后一个贪吃的人、最后一个懂得“喜悦”的含义的人出现以来的四百年间,人类在艺术、思想和行为上都在持续不断地衰败。这个世界完蛋了,连一个干脆利落的屁也不曾留下。哪一个绝望的、饥肠辘辘的人会对现存政府、法律、道德、准则、理想、思想、图腾和禁忌表现出丝毫敬重?如果谁知道念出那个在今天被称之为“缝”或“洞”的谜一般的东西意味着什么,如果谁对被贴上“淫秽”标签的现象怀有最低限度的神秘感,那么这个世界便会分裂成几块。正是对淫秽的惧怕,即事情干巴巴的、被人操过的那一面,使得这个疯狂的文明社会显得像个火山口,创造性精神和人类母亲大腿间正是这种张开大嘴打哈欠似的空幻感。一个饥饿、绝望的精灵出现并使一只土拨鼠锐声尖叫是因为他懂得在哪儿敷下性的炽热导线,是因为他懂得在无动于衷的坚硬表现下藏着丑恶的创伤,其伤口永远不会愈合。于是他把这段炽热的导线夹在两腿间,他使用难以令人接受的卑下手段。戴上橡皮手套也没有用,所有能冷静、机智地加以处理的都是表皮上的东西,而一个志在创造的人总是要钻到底下、钻到开放的伤口上、钻到正在化脓的对淫秽的惧怕上。他把发电机拴在最脆弱的部分,叫人操过的火山口是淫秽的,比一切更加淫秽的是隋性,比最难听的赌咒发誓更亵读的则是麻痹。如果只剩下一个裂口的创伤,它一定得向外喷射,尽管喷出来的只是蛤螈蝙蝠和侏儒。

Everything is packed into a second which is either consummated or not consummated. The earth is not an arid plateau of health and comfort, but a great sprawling female with velvet torso that swells and heaves with ocean billows; she squirms beneath a diadem of sweat and anguish. Naked and sexed she rolls among the clouds in the violet light of the stars. All of her, from her generous breasts to her gleaming thighs, blazes with furious ardor. She moves amongst the seasons and the years with a grand whoopla that seizes the torso with paroxysmal fury, that shakes the cobwebs out of the sky; she subsides on her pivotal orbits with volcanic tremors. She is like a doe at times, a doe that has fallen into a snare and lies waiting with beating heart for the cymbals to crash and the dogs to bark. Love and hate, despair, pity, rage, disgust – what are these amidst the fornications of the planets? What is war, disease, cruelty, terror, when night presents the ecstasy of myriad blazing suns? What is this chaff we chew in our sleep if it is not the remembrance of fang whorl and star cluster.

每一样东西都装在另一样东西里面,有的是完全的,有的是不完全的。地球不是健康和舒适的干旱高原,而是一位仰卧的硕大女性,她天鹅绒般的躯体随着海浪而涨大,起伏,她在大汗淋漓、极度痛苦的王冠重压下蠕动。赤身裸体性交后,她在星星紫光笼罩下的云彩中滚动。她的全身在狂热的激情支配下放出光芒,从慷慨的乳房到隐约可见的大腿。她在四季和岁月间邀游,一场盛大的狂欢以突发的狂怒攫住她的躯体,抖去了天空中的蜘蛛网,于是她以暴躁的兴奋心情降落在自己的旋转轨道上。有时她像一只母鹿。这只母鹿跌进了陷阶,它心怦怦跳着躺在那儿等待钦声敲响、猎狗狂吠。爱与恨、失望、怜悯、怒气、厌恶—这些在行星间的乱交中又算得了什么?当夜晚提供了耀眼的太阳般的欣喜时,战争、疾并残酷和恐怖又算得了什么?若不是记起回到野蛮时代和星团,我们睡觉时嚼的糠又是什么?

She used to say to me, Mona, in her fits of exaltation, "you're a great human being," and though she left me here to perish, though she put beneath my feet a great howling pit of emptiness, the words that lie at the bottom of my soul leap forth and they light the shadows below me. I am one who was lost in the crowd, whom the fizzing lights made dizzy, a zero who saw everything about him reduced to mockery. Passed me men and women ignited with sulfur, porters in calcium livery opening the jaws of hell, fame walking on crutches, dwindled by the skyscrapers, chewed to a frazzle by the spiked mouth of the machines. I walked between the tall buildings toward the cool of the river and I saw the lights shoot up between the ribs of the skeletons like rockets. If I was truly a great human being, as she said, then what was the meaning of this slavering idiocy about me?

莫娜每逢性欲亢奋时常常对我说,“你是一个伟大的人。”藏在我灵魂深处的这话常会跳出来照亮我下面的阴影,尽管她把我扔在这儿听任我死掉,尽管她在我脚下留下了一个空空的大坑。我是一个普通的人,嘶嘶响的灯光使我头晕。我是一个零蛋,我看到周围的一切都沦为嘲弄人的东西。由硫磺燃着的男女从我身边走过,穿着黑色号衣的搬运工打开了地狱的双颚,声名在拄着拐杖走路,它被摩天大楼骗了,被生着锋利牙齿的机器的大口嚼烂。我穿过高大的建筑物朝清凉的河边走去,我看见光束像火箭一样从骷髅的肋间直刺天空。如果我像莫娜所说的真是一个伟大的人,我阿谀奉承人的愚蠢行为又该作何解释?

I was a man with body and soul, I had a heart that was not protected by a steel vault. I had moments of ecstasy and I sang with burning sparks. I sang of the Equator, her red feathered legs and the islands dropping out of sight. But nobody heard. A gun fired across the Pacific falls into space because the earth is round and pigeons fly upside down. I saw her looking at me across the table with eyes turned to grief; sorrow spreading inward flattened its nose against her spine; the marrow churned to pity had turned liquid. She was light as a corpse that floats in the Dead Sea. Her fingers bled with anguish and the blood turned to drool. With the wet dawn came the tolling of bells and along the fibers of my nerves the bells played ceaselessly and their tongues pounded in my heart and clanged with iron malice. Strange that the bells should toll so, but stranger still the body bursting, this woman turned to night and her maggot words gnawing through the mattress. I moved along under the Equator, heard the hideous laughter of the green jawed hyena, saw the jackal with silken tail and the dick dick and the spotted leopard, all left behind in the Garden of Eden. And then her sorrow widened, like the bow of a dreadnought and the weight of her sinking flooded my ears. Slime wash and sapphires slipping, sluicing through the gay neurons, and the spectrum spliced and the gunwales dipping. Soft as lion pad I heard the gun carriages turn, saw them vomit and drool: the firmament sagged and all the stars turned black. Black ocean bleeding and the brooding stars breeding chunks of fresh swollen flesh while overhead the birds wheeled and out of the hallucinated sky fell the balance with mortar and pestle and the bandaged eyes of justice. All that is here related moves with imaginary feet along the parallels of dead orbs; all that is seen with the empty sockets bursts like flowering grass. Out of nothingness arises the sign of infinity; beneath the ever rising spirals slowly sinks the gaping hole. The land and the water make numbers joined, a poem written with flesh and stronger than steel or granite. Through endless night the earth whirls toward a creation unknown…

我是一个有灵有肉的人,我的心并没有钢梁拱卫,我有过欣喜的时刻,我伴着燃烧的火星歌唱。我歌唱赤道、她生着红毛的大腿和从视线中消失的岛屿。不过谁也没有听见我唱,朝太平洋彼岸发射的一炮落进太空里了,因为地球是圆的,鸽子们朝下飞行。我看到她隔着桌子望着我,眼光中一派悲怆。在她身体里扩散的悲伤将鼻子碰在她脊骨上,碰扁了,搅拌成怜悯的骨髓已变成液体。她轻巧得犹如浮在死海海面上的一具死尸,她的手指痛得流血,血变成了口水。随着潮湿的黎明来临,钟声敲响了,这钟声沿着我的神经纤维无休无止地回荡,这撞击声伴随着铁一般的恶意在我心里当当响。奇怪的是钟声竞会这样响,更怪的是钟破裂了,于是这个女人转向黑夜。她的蛆一般的言辞咬透了床垫。我在赤道下移动,听见了张着绿色大口的鬣狗可怕的哈哈大笑声,看见了生着光滑尾巴的豺、羚羊和有斑点的豹子,它们全被留在伊甸园里了。这时她的悲哀扩展了,像一艘无畏战舰的舰首,她沉下去的重量使我的耳朵被水淹没了。稀泥被洗掉,蓝宝石滑出来,通过快乐的神经细胞淘洗出来,它的光谱被拼接在一起,船舷泡在水里。我听见炮架像狮爪落地时一样无声无息地转动,看到它们在呕吐、在流口水。天幕垂下来,所有的星星都变成了黑的。黑色的海洋在流血,沉思默想的星星孕育着一大块一大块刚刚肿胀起来的肉,同时鸟儿在头顶上盘旋,幻党的天空中落下臼杵,还有正义包扎起来的眼睛。所有在这儿讲到的东西都用想象中的脚沿着死去的球体平行移动,所有用空眼眶看到的东西都像开花的草一样绽开。在虚无缥缈之中出现了无限的符号,不断上升的螺旋下裂开的口子在缓慢下沉。陆地和海洋和谐地连为一体,这是用血肉写就的诗篇,它比钢丝和花岗岩还坚硬。经过无尽的长夜,地球向一个未知的创造物飞速旋转而去……

Today I awoke from a sound sleep with curses of joy on my lips, with gibberish on my tongue, repeating to myself like a litany – "Fay ce que vouldras!… fay ce que vouldras!"; Do anything, but let it produce joy. Do anything, but let it yield ecstasy. So much crowds into my head when I say this to myself: images, gay ones, terrible ones, maddening ones, the wolf and the goat, the spider, the crab, syphilis with her wings outstretched and the door of the womb always on the latch, always open, ready like the tomb. Lust, crime, holiness: the lives of my adored ones, the failures of my adored ones, the words they left behind them, the words they left unfinished; the good they dragged after them and the evil, the sorrow, the discord, the rancor, the strife they created. But above all, the ecstasy!

今天我在熟睡中醒来,嘴边挂着快活的诅咒,我不断地自己咕哝谁也听不懂的话,像在念一篇连祷文—“做你想做的事……做你想做的事!”干什么都行,但是要叫它带来欢乐;干什么都行,但是要叫它带来欣喜。当我向自己提到下面这些东西时脑袋里塞得满满的—搞同性恋的人、叫人恐惧的人、叫人发疯的人、狼和羊、蜘蛛、蟹、梅毒张开了翅膀、子宫的门总闩着、总敞着,像坟墓一样作好了接待准备。淫欲、犯罪的神圣—我崇拜的人就过着这种生活,那也是我崇拜的人的失败,是他们留下的话,是他们未说完的话。那是他们拖在身后的善与恶、他们造成的悲哀不和、仇恨和争斗,而超出这一切的是狂喜!

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