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Tropic of Cancer[北回归线][En/Cn]

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第6节

这副车把摆在那儿显得非常宁静、十分心满意足,似乎它已在那儿打了多年瞌睡。这又突然使我觉得我俩仿佛也已在这间屋里仁立了很长的、无法计算的一段时间,就像现在这样。这是我们在梦中想起的一种姿势,这是一场我们永远难以摆脱的梦,又是一场微微打个手势、稍稍眨眨眼便会粉碎的梦。然而更叫人惊奇的是,我脑子里忽然掠过一场真实的梦境、一场昨天夜里才做过的梦,我在梦中看到范诺登正像现在这样呆在一个角落里研究那副车把。不过不同的是,角落里没有自行车把,却有一个蜷起两条腿趴着的女人。我看到他站在那儿低头望着那女人,眼睛里流露出焦急热切的神色,当他极想得到一件东西时总是这副样子。

They look so absolutely peaceful and contented, as if they had been dozing there for years, that suddenly it seems to me as if we had been standing in this room, in exactly this position, for an incalculably long time, that it was a pose we had struck in a dream from which we never emerged, a dream which the least gesture, the wink of an eye even, will shatter. But more remarkable still is the remembrance that suddenly floats up of an actual dream which occurred only the other night, a dream in which I saw Van Norden in just such a corner as is occupied now by the handle bars, only instead of the handle bars there was a woman crouching with her legs drawn up. I see him standing over the woman with that alert, eager look in his eye which comes when he wants something badly.

 

  这件事是在哪一条街上发生的已变得模糊不清了,只有两堵墙之间的夹角还在,还有那女人发抖的身子。我看见他用他那种迅捷的牲口方式朝她猛扑过去,全然不顾周围发生了什么事,只是打定主意要随心所欲地去干。他的目光像是在说 “事情完了以后你尽可以宰了我,只是现在先让我把它弄进去……我必须把它弄进去!”于是他俯在那女人身上,他俩的脑袋都撞在墙上,他勃起得那么厉害,简直根本无法进入她身体里去。突然,他直起身子,整整衣服,脸上一副十分厌烦的样子。做出这种表情是他的拿手好戏,猛然发现他的那玩艺儿扔在马路上,他便准备一走了之。那玩艺儿跟锯子锯下来的一根扫帚柄差不多粗细,他漠然地把它捡起来夹在胳膊底下。他走开时我看到两只很大的球体在那根扫帚柄一端荡来荡去,像郁金香的球茎,我听到他自己对自己咕哝:“花盆……花盆。”

The street in which this is going on is blurred – only the angle made by the two walls is clear, and the cowering figure of the woman. I can see him going at her in that quick, animal way of his, reckless of what's going on about him, determined only to have his way. And a look in his eyes as though to say – "you can kill me afterwards, but just let me get it in… I've got to get it in!" And there he is, bent over her, their heads knocking against the wall, he has such a tremendous erection that it's simply impossible to get it in her. Suddenly, with that disgusted air which he knows so well how to summon, he picks himself up and adjusts his clothes. He is about to walk away when suddenly he notices that his penis is lying on the sidewalk. It is about the size of a sawed off broomstick. He picks it up nonchalantly and slings it under his arm. As he walks off I notice two huge bulbs, like tulip bulbs, dangling from the end of the broomstick, and I can hear him muttering to himself "flowerpots… flowerpots."

 

  佣人气喘吁吁、大汗淋漓地跑来了,范诺登不解地望着他。这时老板娘也昂首阔步地进来了,她径直走到范诺登面前,从他手中夺过书,把它塞进婴儿车里,然后,她一言不发推起婴儿车来到走廊上。

The garçon arrives panting and sweating. Van Norden looks at him uncomprehendingly. The madam now marches in and, walking straight up to Van Norden, she takes the book out of his hand, thrusts it in the baby carriage, and, without saying a word, wheels the baby carriage into the hallway.

 

  范诺登忧伤地笑着说,“这儿是一座疯人院。”他的微笑若隐若现、难以描述,有一瞬间那种做梦的感觉又回来了。我隐约觉得我们正站在一条长长的走廊的尽头,那儿挂着一面凸凹不平的镜子。范诺登沿着走廊摇摇晃晃走过来,一副潦倒失意的样子,活像一只黯淡的灯笼。他踉踉跄跄、跌跌撞撞地不时闯进一个门里去,门开处或有一只手把他一把拽进屋去,或有一只蹄子把他蹬出来。越向前走他便越发沮丧。他身上流露出的这种优郁像骑自行车的人夜里在又湿又滑的道路上行驶时用牙咬着的提灯。他在这些阴暗的房间里进进出出,待他一坐下椅子便散架了;待他打开箱子,里面却只有一只牙刷。每间房子里都有一面镜子,他便全神贯注地站在镜子前发牢骚。由于没完没了地发牢骚,由于不停地发牢骚、咕哝。喃喃自语和诅咒谩骂,他的上下颚脱节了,下垂得很厉害。他一蹭下巴上的胡子,下颚上便掉下几块肉来,于是他十分生自己的气,一气之下用脚踏在自个儿的下颚上,用高鞋跟把它碾个稀烂。

"This is a bughouse," says Van Norden, smiling distressedly. It is such a faint, indescribable smile that for a moment the dream feeling comes back and it seems to me that we are standing at the end of along corridor at the end of which is a corrugated mirror. And down this corridor, swinging his distress like a dingy lantern, Van Norden staggers, staggers in and out as here and there a door opens and a hand yanks him, or a hoof pushes him out. And the further off he wanders the more lugubrious is his distress; he wears it like a lantern which the cyclists hold between their teeth on a night when the pavement is wet and slippery. In and out of the dingy rooms he wanders, and when he sits down the chair collapses, when he opens his valise there is only a toothbrush inside. In every room there is a mirror before which he stands attentively and chews his rage, and from the constant chewing, from the grumbling and mumbling and the muttering and cursing his jaws have gotten unhinged and they sag badly and, when he rubs his beard, pieces of his jaw crumble away and he's so disgusted with himself that he stamps on his own jaw, grinds it to bits with his big heels.

 

  这时仆人把行李送进来,事情已变得越发古怪了,尤其是当范诺登把健身器械绑在床脚上练起桑多式体操来之后。他朝那仆人笑着说,“我喜欢这个地方。”他脱去外衣和背心,仆人不解地盯着他看。他一手提起箱子,另一手里拎着装灌洗器的袋子。此时我站在前厅里,手里捧着笼罩在一层绿色薄雾中的镜子,没有一件东西是有实用价值的,前厅也没多大用处,像一条通到牲口棚去的走廊。每当我走进法兰西喜剧院或皇家剧院,同样的感觉便会涌上心头。这些地方到处是小摆设,地板上的活动门、胳膊、胸脯和打蜡地板、烛台和身穿盔甲的人、没有眼睛的塑像及躺在玻璃匣子里的求爱信。什么事情在进行着,但没有多大意义,就好像因为箱子里放不下,而把剩下的半瓶卡尔瓦多斯酒喝掉一样。

Meanwhile the luggage is being hauled in. And things begin to look crazier even than before – particularly when he attaches his exerciser to the bedstead and begins his Sandow exercises. "I like this place," he says, smiling at the garçon. He takes his coat and vest off. The garçon is watching him with a puzzled air; he has a valise in one hand and the douche bag in the other. I'm standing apart in the antechamber holding the mirror with the green gauze. Not a single object seems to possess a practical use. The antechamber itself seems useless, a sort of vestibule to a barn. It is exactly the same sort of sensation which I get when I enter the Comédie Française or the Palais-Royal Theatre; it is a world of bric a brac, of trap doors, of arms and busts and waxed floors, of candelabras and men in armor, of statues without eyes and love letters lying in glass cases. Something is going on, but it makes no sense; it's like finishing the half empty bottle of Calvados because there's no room in the valise.

 

  我刚才说过,上楼时范诺登曾说起莫泊桑也在这儿住过,这一巧合似乎给他留下了印象。他一厢情愿地认为莫泊桑当年住的正是这问屋子,在这儿写出了那些令人毛骨惊然、也使他声名大振的故事。范诺登说,“他们像猪秽一样生活,这些可怜虫。”

Climbing up the stairs, as I said a moment ago, he had mentioned the fact that Maupassant used to live here. The coincidence seems to have made an impression upon him. He would like to believe that it was in this very room that Maupassant gave birth to some of those gruesome tales on which his reputation rests. " They lived like pigs, those poor bastards," he says.

 

  我们坐在一个圆桌旁的两把舒服的扶手椅里,这两把椅子已经年代久了,都用皮条和支架加固着。身边就是床,挨得这么近,我们简直可以把脚搁上去。衣柜就在我们身后的一个角落里,很方便,一伸手便够得到。范诺登已把他的脏衣服全倒在桌上,我们把脚伸进他的脏袜子和衬衣堆里,坐在那里心满意足地抽烟。

We are sitting at the round table in a pair of comfortable old armchairs that have been trussed up with thongs and braces; the bed is right beside us, so close indeed that we can put our feet on it. The armoire stands in a corner behind us, also conveniently within reach. Van Norden has emptied his dirty wash on the table; we sit there with our feet buried in his dirty socks and shirts and smoke contentedly.

 

  这个臭气熏天的地方对他产生了魔力,他对这儿很满意。我起身去开灯时他提议出去吃饭前玩一会儿纸牌,于是我们在窗前坐下玩了几把双人皮纳克,脏衣服堆在地板上,练桑多式体操的器械挂在吊灯上。范诺登已把烟斗收起来了,又在下唇内放了一小块鼻烟。他不时朝窗外啐一口,大口大口的棕色口水落在底下人行道上发出响亮的噗噗声,现在他挺满意。

The sordidness of the place seems to have worked a spell on him: he is content here. When I get up to switch on the light he suggests that we play a game of cards before going out to eat. And so we sit there by the window, with the dirty wash strewn over the floor and the Sandow exerciser hanging from the chandelier, and we play a few rounds of two handed pinochle. Van Norden has put away his pipe and packed a wad of snuff on the underside of his lower lip. Now and then he spits out of the window, big healthy gobs of brown juice which resound with a smack on the pavement below. He seems content now.

 

  他说,“在美国,你无论如也不会住到这种下流地方来,即使是在四处流浪时我睡觉的房间也比这个好。不过在这儿这是正常的—正如你看过的书里讲到的。如果我还回去我要把这儿的生活忘得一干二净,像忘掉一场恶梦一样。或许我会重新去体验过去那种生活……只要我回去。有时我躺在床上恍馏忆起了过去,一切都是那么真切,我得摇摇头才能意识到自己在哪儿。身边有女人时尤其是这样,最使我着迷的就是女人了。

"In America," he says, "you wouldn't dream of living in a joint like this. Even when I was on the bum I slept in better rooms than this. But here it seems natural – it's like the books you read. If I ever go back there I'll forget all about this life, just like you forget a bad dream. I'll probably take up the old life again just where I left off… if I ever get back. Sometimes I lie in bed dreaming about the past and it's so vivid to me that I have to shake myself in order to realize where I am. Especially when I have a woman beside me; a woman can set me off better than anything.

 

  我要她们只有一个目的—忘掉我自己。有时我完全沉溺在幻想之中,竟想不起那女人的名字以及我是在哪儿找到她的。好调笑,是吗?早晨醒来时旁边有个健壮的暖烘烘的身子陪伴你是件好事,这会叫你心里自在。你会变得高尚些……直到她们开口扯起爱情之类的软绵绵的蠢话。为什么所有女人都要大谈特谈爱情,你能告诉我吗?显然她们是觉得你和她好好睡一觉还不够……她们还要你的灵魂……”

That's all I want of them – to forget myself. Sometimes I get so lost in my reveries that I can't remember the name of the cunt or where I picked her up. That's funny, eh? It's good to have a fresh warm body beside you when you wake up in the morning. It gives you a clean feeling. You get spiritual like… until they start pulling that mushy crap about love et cetera. Why do all these cunts talk about love so much, can you tell me that? A good lay isn't enough for them apparently… they want your soul too…"

 

范诺登自言自语时嘴边常挂着“灵魂”这个词儿,起初我一听到这个词便觉得好笑。一听到这个词从他嘴里说出来我便会发歇斯底里,不知怎么搞的我总觉得这个词儿像一枚假硬币,尤其是当他说这个字眼时总要吐一大口棕色口水,并且在嘴角上流下一道涎水。我从不顾忌当面笑他,所以范诺登每回一吐出这个小词儿一定会停下让我开怀大笑一番,接着他又若无其事地自个儿说起来,越来越频繁地提到这个字眼,每一回调子都比上回更动听一些。女人想要的是他的灵魂,他这样对我说。

Now this word soul, which pops up frequently in Van Norden's soliloquies, used to have a droll effect upon me at first. Whenever I heard the word soul from his lips I would get hysterical; somehow it seemed like a false coin, more particularly because it was usually accompanied by a gob of brown juice which left a trickle down the corner of his mouth. And as I never hesitated to laugh in his face it happened invariably that when this little word bobbed up Van Norden would pause just long enough for me to burst into a cackle and then, as if nothing had happened, he would resume his monologue, repeating the word more and more frequently and each time with a more caressing emphasis. It was the soul of him that women were trying to possess – that he made clear to me.

 

他已经一遍遍重复了好多次,可是每一次仍要从头提起,就像一个偏执狂老是要谈在他心头索绕的事情。从某种意义上来看,范诺登是个疯子,这一点我已确信无疑。他怕独自一人呆着,他的恐惧是根深蒂固、无法摆脱的,趴在一个女人身上、同她结合在一起时他也仍旧逃不出自己为自己筑成的炼狱。他对我说,“我什么都试过了,甚至还数过数,考虑过哲学难题,可全没有用。我好像成了两个人,其中一个始终在盯着我。我生自己的气,气得要命,恨不得去自杀……可以说每一回达到性欲高峰时都是这样。约摸有那么一秒钟我完全忘记了自己,这时我甚至已不存在了……什么也没有了……那女人也不见了。这同领受圣餐差不多。真的,我真这么想。完事以后有几秒钟我觉得精神振奋……也许这种精神状态会无限期地持续下去 -若不是身边有个女人,还有装灌洗器的袋子,水在哗哗流……这些微小的细节使得你心里清楚得要命,使你觉得十分孤独,而就在这完全解脱的一瞬间内你还得听那些谈论爱情的废话……有时这简直要叫我发疯……我不时发疯。发疯也不会叫她们走开,实际上她们喜欢我这样。你越不去注意她们,她们越缠着你不放。女人身上有一种反常的气质……她们在内心深处都是受虐狂。”

He has explained it over and over again, but he comes back to it afresh each time like a paranoiac to his obsession. In a sense Van Norden is mad, of that I'm convinced. His one fear is to be left alone, and this fear is so deep and so persistent that even when he is on top of a woman, even when he has welded himself to her, he cannot escape the prison which he has created for himself. "I try all sorts of things," he explains tome. "I even count sometimes, or I begin to think of a problem in philosophy, but it doesn't work. It's like I'm two people, and one of them is watching me all the time. I get so goddamned mad at myself that I could kill myself… and in a way, that's what I do every time I have an orgasm. For one second like I obliterate myself. There's not even one me then… there's nothing… not even the cunt. It's like receiving communion. Honest, I mean that. For a few seconds afterwards I have a fine spiritual glow… and maybe it would continue that way indefinitely – how can you tell? – if it weren't for the fact that there's a woman beside you and then the douche bag and the water running… all those little details that make you desperately selfconscious, desperately lonely. And for that one moment of freedom you have to listen to all that love crap… it drives me nuts sometimes… I want to kick them out immediately… I do now and then. But that doesn't keep them away. They like it, in fact. The less you notice them the more they chase after you. There's something perverse about women… they're all masochists at heart."

 

  我追问道,“那么,你想要从女人那儿得到什么?”

"But what is it you want of a woman, then?" I demand.

 

  他开始摆弄自己的双手,下唇也放松了,一副十分垂头丧气的样子。最后他才结结巴巴地吭出几句没头没尾的话,言词中却流露出辩解也无益的意思。他不假思索他说,“我想叫自己能被女人迷住,我想叫她帮我摆脱自我的束缚。要这样做,她必须比我强才行,她得有脑子而不仅仅是有阴户,她必须得叫我相信我需要她、没有她我就活不下去。给我找一个这样的女人,好吗?如果你能办到我就把工作让给你,那时我就不在乎会发生什么事情了。我再也不需要工作、朋友、书籍或别的什么了。只要她能叫我相信世界上有比自己更重要的东西就行。天呀,我恨我自己!我更恨这些王八蛋女人—因为她们没有一个比我强。”

He begins to mold his hands; his lower lip droops. He looks completely frustrated. When eventually he succeeds in stammering out a few broken phrases it's with the conviction that behind his words lies an overwhelming futility. "I want to be able to surrender myself to a woman," he blurts out. "I want her to take me out of myself. But to do that, she's got to be better than I am; she's got to have a mind, not just a cunt. She's got to make me believe that I need her, that I can't live without her. Find me a cunt like that, will you? If you could do that I'd give you my job. I wouldn't care then what happened to me: I wouldn't need a job or friends or books or anything. If she could only make me believe that there was something more important on earth then myself. Jesus, I hate myself! But I hate these bastardly cunts even more – because they're none of them any good.

 

  他接着说,“你以为我喜欢自己,这说明你根本不了解我。 我知道自己很了不起……如果没有一些过人之处我也就不会遇到这些难题了。使我烦躁不安的是无法表达自己的想法,人们认为我是一个追逐女色的人。这些人就这么肤浅,这些自命不凡的学者整天坐在咖啡馆露天座上反复进行心理反刍……还不坏,嗯—心理反刍?替我把它写下来,下星期我要把这话用在我的专栏里……对了,你读过司太克的书吗?他写得好吗?叫我看那像一本病历。我衷心希望自己能鼓足勇气去拜访一位精神分析学家……找个好人,我的意思是,我不想见到留山羊胡子、穿常礼服的奸滑小人,比如你的朋友鲍里斯。你怎么能容忍这些家伙呢?他们不叫你厌烦吗?我注意到你跟谁都讲话,你根本不在乎。也许你做得对,我也希望自己别他妈的这么挑剔。

"You think I like myself," he continues. "That shows how little you know about me. I know I'm a great guy… I wouldn't have these problems if there weren't something to me. But what eats me up is that I can't express myself. People think I'm a cunt chaser. That's how shallow they are, these high brows who sit on the terrasse all day chewing the psychologic cud… That's not so bad, eh – psychologic cud? Write it down for me. I'll use it in my column next week… By the way, did you ever read Stekel? Is he any good? It looks like nothing but case histories to me. I wish to Christ I could get up enough nerve to visit an analyst… a good one, I mean. I don't want to see these little shysters with goatees and frock coats, like your friend Boris. How do you manage to tolerate those guys? Don't they bore you stiff? You talk to anybody, I notice. You don't give a goddamn. Maybe you're right. I wish I weren't so damned critical.

 

  可是那伙在大教堂附近荡来荡去的脏兮兮的小犹太佬真叫人讨厌,他们说起话来同教科书一个味儿。如果我能天天跟你谈一阵也许心里会轻松一些,你很善于倾听别人讲话。我知道你根本不在乎我怎么样,不过你有耐心,也没有什么理论去探讨,我猜你准是事后把这些都记在你那本笔记上了。听着,我不在乎你说我什么,可是别把我写成一个追逐女色的人—那样就太简单了。有朝一日我要写一本关于我自己。关于我的思想的书,我指的不仅仅是一份内省分析……我是说我要把自己放在手术台上,把所有内脏都摆出来让人看……每一件东西。以前有人这样做过吗?你在笑什么?我讲得太天真了?”

But these dirty little Jews who hang around the Dôme, Jesus, they give me the creeps. They sound just like textbooks. If I could talk to you every day maybe I could get things off my chest. You're a good listener. I know you don't give a damn about me, but you're patient. And you don't have any theories to exploit. I suppose you put it all down afterward in that notebook of yours. Listen, I don't mind what you say about me, but don't make me out to be a cunt chaser – it's too simple. Some day I'll write a book about myself, about my thoughts. I don't mean just a piece of introspective analysis… I mean that I'll lay myself down on the operating table and I'll expose my whole guts… every goddamned thing. Has anybody ever done that before? – What the hell are you smiling at? Does it sound naïf?"

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