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Tropic of Cancer[北回归线][En/Cn]

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第3节

一天夜里沿着勒蒙街散步时一阵不寻常的痛苦和忧伤攫住了我,一些事情栩栩如生地展示在我面前。我不知道这是否是因为我常常闷闷不乐地、绝望地在这条街上行走,还是因为我想起了一天夜里我们站在吕西安一埃广场时她说过的一句话。

Walking down the Rue Lhomond one night in a fit of unusual anguish and desolation, certain things were revealed to me with poignant clarity. Whether it was that I had so often walked this street in bitterness and despair or whether it was the remembrance of a phrase which she had dropped one night as we stood at the Place Lucien Herr I do not know.

 

  她说,“你为什么不带我去看看你写过的那个巴黎?”想起这话时我明白了,我忽然悟到根本不可能指给她看那个我已经了解的巴黎,那个区域未确定的巴黎,那个只是由于我的孤独和对她的渴求才存在的巴黎。这样一个巨大的巴黎!再探究它一遍会花去一个人的一生。只有我拥有打开它的钥匙,这个巴黎不适合游览,即使是抱着最好的意愿来旅游,只能在这个巴黎生活,每天必须体验它的一千种不同的折磨。这个巴黎像一个恶性肿瘤在你体内长大,越长越大,直到吞噬掉你。

"Why don't you show me that Paris," she said, "that you have written about?" One thing I know, that at the recollection of these words I suddenly realized the impossibility of ever revealing to her that Paris which I had gotten to know, the Paris whose arrondissements are undefined, a Paris that has never existed except by virtue of my loneliness, my hunger for her. Such a huge Paris! It would take a lifetime to explore it again. This Paris, to which I alone had the key, hardly lends itself to a tour, even with the best of intentions; it is a Paris that has to be lived, that has to be experienced each day in a thousand different forms of torture, a Paris that grows inside you like a cancer, and grows and grows until you are eaten away by it.

 

  跌跌撞撞地走过沐佛塔尔街,这些往事在脑子里转来转去,我又回想起以往的另一件怪事。那是一本导游手册,莫娜要我替她翻书页,因为封面太沉重,可我当时发现根本无法翻开。一点原因也没有,只是因为那时我一门心思都去想沙拉文,现在我正是在他的神圣管区内漫游—仍是一点儿原因也没有—我忆起有一天受到日复一日经过的那块招牌启发后我冲动地闯进奥尔菲拉公寓要求看看斯特林堡曾住过的房间。截至那时为止我还没有遇到很大不幸,尽管我已失去了所有的东西,也已尝过空着肚子在街上徘徊、提心吊胆地提防警察的滋味。那时我在巴黎还没有交上一个朋友,这种状况与其说令人沮丧倒不如说是使人茫然,不论我在这个世界上流浪到何处,最容易找到的莫过于一个朋友。不过实际上迄今为止我还没有遭遇什么太大的不幸,一个人的生活中可以没有朋友,正如他没有爱情甚至没有钱也可以生活下去,尽管人们认为钱是必不可少的。我发现,一个人可以只凭悲哀和痛苦在巴黎生活!这是一种苦涩的滋养品,或许对于某些人这是最好的滋养品。不管怎样,我还没有落到穷途末路的地步,我只是在同灾祸调情而已。我有充裕的时间,有闲情逸致去窥探别人的生活,去同已死去的传奇故事闹着玩。不论一件事物有多么肮脏,一旦塞进一本书里便显得令人惬意地遥远和陌生了。离开这个地方时我意识到自己唇边浮现出一丝讥讽的笑容,好像在对自己说,“别着急,奥尔菲拉公寓!”

Stumbling down the Rue Mouffetard, with these reflections stirring in my brain, I recalled another strange item out of the past, out of that guidebook whose leaves she had asked me to turn but which, because the covers were so heavy, I then found impossible to pry open. For no reason at all – because at the moment my thoughts were occupied with Salavin in whose sacred precincts I was now meandering – for no reason at all, I say, there came to mind the recollection of a day when, inspired by the plaque which I passed day in and day out, I impulsively entered the Pension Orfila and asked to see the room Strindberg had occupied. Up to that time nothing very terrible had befallen me, though I had already lost all my worldly possessions and had known what it was to walk the streets in hunger and in fear of the police. Up to then I had not found a single friend in Paris, a circumstance which was not so much depressing as bewildering, for wherever I have roamed in this world the easiest thing for me to discover has been a friend. But in reality, nothing very terrible had happened to me yet. One can live without friends, as one can live without love, or even without money, that supposed sine qua non. One can live in Paris – I discovered that! – on just grief and anguish. A bitter nourishment – perhaps the best there is for certain people. At any rate, I had not yet come to the end of my rope. I was only flirting with disaster. I had time and sentiment enough to spare to peep into other people's lives, to dally with the dead stuff of romance which, however morbid it may be, when it is wrapped between the covers of a book, seems deliciously remote and anonymous. As I was leaving the place I was conscious of an ironic smile hovering over my lips, as though I were saying to myself "Not yet, the Pension Orfila!"

 

  从那时起我当然明白在巴黎的每个疯子早晚都会发现一件事:并不存在为受磨难者预备的现成地狱。

Since then, of course, I have learned what every madman in Paris discovers sooner or later; that there are no ready-made infernos for the tormented.

 

  现在我好像有点儿明白她为什么那么喜欢看斯特林堡的作品了,我看到她读完“有味道”的一段后抬起头来,眼睛里充满笑出来的泪水,她说,“你同他一样疯……你该受罚!”当她找到了一个合适的受虐狂后,这位施虐狂是多么高兴啊!她还没咬自己,看看牙齿是否锋利。我刚刚认识她的那些日子里她浑身都是斯特林堡的味道,使我们聚到一起的是使斯特林堡沉迷于其中的纷乱飘忽的念头、两性之间永恒的争斗和使斯堪的纳维亚的蠢极了的白痴喜欢的那种蜘蛛般的残忍。我们在死亡的舞会上相聚,我很快被吸进漩涡里,待再浮出水面我已辨认不出这个世界了。当我发现自己解脱时音乐已停止,盛宴已结束,我被剥得光光的……

It seems to me I understand a little better now why she took such huge delight in reading Strindberg. I can see her looking up from her book after reading a delicious passage, and, with tears of laughter in her eyes, saying to me: "You're just as mad as he was… you want to be punished!" What a delight that must be to the sadist when she discovers her own proper masochist! When she bites herself, as it were, to test the sharpness of her teeth. In those days, when I first knew her, she was saturated with Strindberg. That wild carnival of maggots which he reveled in, that eternal duel of the sexes, that spiderish ferocity which had endeared him to the sodden oafs of the northland, it was that which had brought us together. We came together in a dance of death and so quickly was I sucked down into the vortex that when I came to the surface again I could not recognize the world. When I found myself loose the music had ceased; the carnival was over and I had been picked clean…

 

那天下午离开奥尔菲拉公寓后我去了图书馆,在恒河中沐寓沉思默想了一阵黄道十二宫,然后我便开始琢磨斯特林堡无情地描写的那个地狱的含义。这样细想着,我渐渐明白了神秘的远游—这位诗人飞越地球表面,然后又英勇地降到地球的核心,仿佛命中注定要在一出已失传的剧中再扮演角色。这是在鲸鱼肚子里做一阵黑暗、可怕的居留;是试图解放自己的血腥挣扎;是要从过去的羁绊中脱身;是投射在异国海岸上的明亮、血迹斑斑的太阳。他和其他人(但盯拉伯雷、凡高等)为什么都来到巴黎对于我已不再是神秘的了。我明白了为什么正是这个巴黎吸引了那些受折磨、产生幻党的爱情狂人,我明白了为什么在这儿、在这个轮子的正中,一个人能够接受最离奇、最不切实际的理论,却又一点儿也不觉得它们古怪。一个人正是在这儿重读青年时代读过的书,每个谜都有了新的意义,每一根白头发都是一个谜。一个走在街上的人早就知道自己傻了、疯了,因为很明显这些冷漠、麻木的脸正是他的看守的面孔。在这儿所有的分界线都消失了,世界展现出它是一座疯狂的屠宰常单调的生活延伸到无限,出口紧紧关上了,逻辑在四处横行,血淋淋的刀在闪光。空气寒冷而污浊,语言则是《启示录》式的。到处都找不到一个标明出口的牌子,除了死亡之外没有什么好谈的。一条死胡同的末尾有一座绞刑架。

After leaving the Pension Orfila that afternoon I went to the library and there, after bathing in the Ganges and pondering over the signs of the zodiac, I began to reflect on the meaning of that inferno which Strindberg had so mercilessly depicted. And, as I ruminated, it began to grow clear to me, the mystery of his pilgrimage, the flight which the poet makes over the face of the earth and then, as if he had been ordained to re enact a lost drama, the heroic descent to the very bowels of the earth, the dark and fearsome sojourn in the belly of the whale, the bloody struggle to liberate himself, to emerge clean of the past, a bright, gory sun god cast up on an alien shore. It was no mystery to me any longer why he and others (Dante, Rabelais, Van Gogh, etc., etc.) had made their pilgrimage to Paris. I understood then why it is that Paris attracts the tortured, the hallucinated, the great maniacs of love. I understood why it is that here, at the very hub of the wheel, one can embrace the most fantastic, the most impossible theories, without finding them in the least strange; it is here that one reads again the books of his youth and the enigmas take on new meanings, one for every white hair. One walks the streets knowing that he is mad, possessed, because it is only too obvious that these cold, indifferent faces are the visages of one's keepers. Here all boundaries fade away and the world reveals itself for the mad slaughterhouse that it is. The treadmill stretches away to infinitude, the hatches are closed down tight, logic runs rampant, with bloody cleaver flashing. The air is chill and stagnant, the language apocalyptic. Not an exit sign anywhere; no issue save death. A blind alley at the end of which is a scaffold.

 

  巴黎,一座永恒的城市!它比罗马更久远,比尼尼微更壮观,它是世界的肚脐,人像一只漂到大洋中死一般寂静的软木塞,独自漂浮在这儿,在海洋的渣滓和船只残骸之中,无精打彩、毫无希望,连路过的哥伦布也不去注意他,文明的摇篮也就是扔全世界的腐肉的污水坑,就是尸体存放所,发臭的子宫把骨肉的血污包裹放在里面。

An eternal city, Paris! More eternal than Rome, more splendorous than Nineveh. The very navel of the world to which, like a blind and faltering idiot, one crawls back on hands and knees. And like a cork that has drifted to the dead center of the ocean, one floats here in the scum and wrack of the seas, listless, hopeless, heedless even of a passing Columbus. The cradles of civilization are the putrid sinks of the world, the charnel house to which the stinking wombs confide their bloody packages of flesh and bone.

 

  大街是我的庇护所,谁也无法明白大街的魔力,直到他被迫在街上避难,直到他变成一根稻草被每一阵西风吹来吹去。冬季某一天走过一条街时看到一条被出卖的狗,这个人便会感动地落泪。街对面竖立着一个破烂的棚屋,像一座公墓一样令人快活,它自称是“免于坟墓宾馆”。这使人哈哈大笑,笑得要死,一直笑到他看到到处都有旅馆,为兔子、狗、虱子、皇帝、内阁部长、当铺老板和屠宰马的人建的旅馆,而且两家中就有一家是“未来旅馆”,这更叫人发歇斯底里。这么多未来旅馆!没有一家旅馆的名称中用了过去分词、用了虚拟式、用了连接词。

The streets were my refuge. And no man can understand the glamor of the streets until he is obliged to take refuge in them, until he has become a straw that is tossed here and there by every zephyr that blows. One passes along a street on a wintry day and, seeing a dog for sale, one is moved to tears. While across the way, cheerful as a cemetery, stands a miserable hut that calls itself "Hôtel du Tombeau des Lapins." That makes one laugh, laugh fit to die. Until one notices that there are hotels everywhere, for rabbits, dogs, lice, emperors, cabinet ministers, pawnbrokers, horse knackers, and so on. And almost every other one is an "Hôtel de l'Avenir." Which makes one more hysterical still. So many hotels of the future! No hotels in the past participle, no subjunctive modes, no conjunctivitis.

 

  一切都是古老的、可怖的,叫人笑得毛骨惊然,像牙龈脓肿,充满了未来气息。这未来的淫荡湿疹使我沉醉了,我摇摇晃晃来到紫罗兰广场,花都是淡紫色和蓝灰色的,门框很低,只有侏儒和小妖精能挤进来。左拉的迟钝头盖骨上方的烟囱正在冒出纯焦炭,与此同时桑威奇斯教堂的圣母玛丽亚竖着包心菜样的耳朵倾听油箱咕咕的冒泡声,那是那些漂亮的臃肿蛤蟆蹲在路边发出的声响。

Everything is hoary, grisly, bristling with merriment, swollen with the future, like a gumboil. Drunk with this lecherous eczema of the future, I stagger over to the Place Violet, the colors all mauve and slate, the doorways so low that only dwarfs and goblins could hobble in; over the dull cranium of Zola the chimneys are belching pure coke, while the Madonna of Sandwiches listens with cabbage ears to the bubbling of the gas tanks, those beautiful bloated toads which squat by the roadside.

 

  我为什么会突然想起了温泉关?因为那天有个女人用屠宰场里《启示录》式的语言同她的小狗说话,而那条小母狗也懂得这个油腻腻的邋遢接生婆在说什么。这使我多么沮丧啊!甚至比看到在布尔街出售的呜咽的杂种狗更叫人难过,使我产生惋惜之情的并不是狗,而是巨大的铁栅栏—生锈的铁矛,它们仿佛把我和属于人的生活隔开了。在沃格端屠宰场(伊波阿格屠宰场)附近那条令人愉快的小胡同里,那儿叫作贝口海哨街,我看到有些地方有血迹。正如斯特林堡在疯狂中在奥尔菲拉公寓的铺地石中辨认出了凶兆,我漫无目的地走过这条溅满血污的泥泞小巷时记忆中破碎的往事纷纷散落,从我眼前零零散散地飘过,以最可怕的恶兆训诫我。我看到自己的血洒出来,洒在泥泞的道路上,就我所知准是从路的顶端洒起的。人像一个肮脏的小木乃伊投入这个世界,道路被血污弄得很滑,谁也不知道为什么会这样。每个人都在走他自己的路,纵使地球上果实多得成堆,也没有时间去采摘。人群摇摇晃晃地向出口的标志奔去,如此惊慌,如此拼命,体弱无助的人被踩在泥里,讼也听不见他们的呼号。

Why do I suddenly recollect the Passage des Thermopyles? Because that day a woman addressed her puppy in the apocalyptic language of the slaughterhouse, and the little bitch, she understood what this greasy slut of a midwife was saying. How that depressed me! More even than the sight of those whimpering curs that were being sold on the Rue Brandon, because it was not the dogs which filled me so with pity, but the huge iron railing, those rusty spikes which seemed to stand between me and my rightful life. In the pleasant little lane near the Abattoir de Vaugirard (Abattoir Hippophagique), which is called the Rue des Périchaux, I had noticed here and there signs of blood. Just as Strindberg in his madness had recognized omens and portents in the very flagging of the Pension Orfila, so, as I wandered aimlessly through this muddy lane bespattered with blood, fragments of the past detached themselves and floated listlessly before my eyes, taunting me with the direst forebodings. I saw my own blood being spilled, the muddy road stained with it, as far back as I could remember, from the very beginning doubtless. One is ejected into the world like a dirty little mummy; the roads are slippery with blood and no one knows why it should be so. Each one is traveling his own way and, though the earth be rotting with good things, there is no time to pluck the fruits; the procession scrambles toward the exit sign, and such a panic is there, such a sweat to escape, that the weak and the helpless are trampled into the mud and their cries are unheard.

 

  我的人类世界已经死去,我在世界上是完全孤独的,大街是我的朋友,大街以悲哀、痛苦的语言向我倾诉,其中包含着人类的不幸、渴求,懊悔、失败和徒劳的努力。一天夜里,接到消息说莫娜生病了,快饿死了,我从布罗卡街的立交桥下走过,突然想起正是在这儿,在这条凹陷的街道的污秽和沉闷气氛中,莫娜靠在我身上用颤抖的声音恳求我答应永不离开她,无论发生什么事情,或许她是被对未来的预感吓坏了。才过了几天我便站在圣拉扎尔车站的站台上看着列车启动,这趟车将要把她载走,她把身子探出窗外,我在纽约同她道别时她也是这样。她脸上仍挂着悲伤的、难以捉摸的微笑,最后那一瞥如此意味深长,可那不过是一副面具、一副被茫然的笑容扭曲的面具。仅仅几天以前她还难舍难分地靠在我身上,后来发生了什么事,到底发生了什么我到现在仍不清楚,于是她自己决定上了火车并且带着忧伤、神秘的微笑望着我,这微笑使我困惑不解,这是不公平、不自然的笑,我一点儿也不明白。现在站在立交桥阴影里的是我,我伸手去拉她,我绝望地依在她身上,唇边挂着同样难以捉摸的笑,这是我罩在自己的悲伤之上的面具我可以站在这儿茫然地笑,不论我的祷告多么充满激情,不论我多么焦急地盼望,我们之间隔着大洋—她将在那儿饿死,我却在这儿走过一条条街,热泪涔涔。

My world of human beings had perished; I was utterly alone in the world and for friends I had the streets, and the streets spoke to me in that sad, bitter language compounded of human misery, yearning, regret, failure, wasted effort. Passing under the viaduct along the Rue Broca, one night after I had been informed that Mona was ill and starving, I suddenly recalled that it was here in the squalor and gloom of this sunken street, terrorized perhaps by a premonition of the future, that Mona clung to me and with a quivering voice begged me to promise that I would never leave her, never, no matter what happened. And, only a few days later, I stood on the platform of the Gare St. Lazare and I watched the train pull out, the train that was bearing her away: she was leaning out of the window, just as she had leaned out of the window when I left her in New York, and there was that same, sad, inscrutable smile on her face, that last minute look which is intended to convey so much, but which is only a mask that is twisted by a vacant smile. Only a few days before, she had clung to me desperately and then something happened, something which is not even clear to me now, and of her own volition she boarded the train and she was looking at me again with that sad, enigmatic smile which baffles me, which is unjust, unnatural, which I distrust with all my soul. And now it is I, standing in the shadow of the viaduct, who reach out for her who cling to her desperately and there is that same inexplicable smile on my lips, the mask that I have clamped down over my grief. I can stand here and smile vacantly, and no matter how fervid my prayers, no matter how desperate my longing, there is an ocean between us; there she will stay and starve, and here I shall walk from one street to the next, the hot tears scalding my face.

 

  嵌在街上的就是这一类的残酷,它透过墙缝盯着我们,恐吓我们,尤其是当我们突然对无名的恐惧做出反应时,当我们的心灵中突然侵入叫人发怵的惊慌时。正是它使街灯柱像鬼魂似地扭来扭去,使它们向我们招手,引诱我们走上前去听任它们死死抓住正是它使有些房子显得像一些秘密罪行的守护人,关闭的窗子又像看东西看得太多的眼睛眶。正是这种东西、这种嵌进街道的人为地貌使我突然看到头顶上方铭刻着“僵死的撒旦”时撒腿便跑。将要进入寺院时我看看到那儿写着“星期一、二接待肺结核病人,星期三、五接待梅毒病人”,这使我毛骨悚然。每一个地铁车站上都有咧嘴笑的骷髅用“谨防梅毒!”欢迎你。凡有墙壁的地方都贴着海报,上面画着有毒的蟹预报癌症的到来。不论你走到哪里,不论你碰到什么,都有癌症和梅毒。它写在天空上,它冒火花、跳跃,像一个凶兆。它已经咬食了我们的灵魂,我们只不过是月亮一样的无生命物质。

It is that sort of cruelty which is embedded in the streets; it is that which stares out from the walls and terrifies us when suddenly we respond to a nameless fear, when suddenly our souls are invaded by a sickening panic. It is that which gives the lamposts their ghoulish twists, which makes them beckon to us and lure us to their strangling grip; it is that which makes certain houses appear like the guardians of secret crimes and their blind windows like the empty sockets of eyes that have seen too much. It is that sort of thing, written into the human physiognomy of the streets which makes me flee when overhead I suddenly see inscribed "Impasse Satan." That which makes me shudder when at the very entrance to the Mosque I observe that it is written: "Mondays and Thursdays tuberculosis; Wednesdays and Fridays syphilis." In every Metro station there are grinning skulls that greet you with "Défendez vous contre la syphilis!" Wherever there are walls, there are posters with bright venomous crabs heralding the approach of cancer. No matter where you go, no matter what you touch, there is cancer and syphilis. It is written in the sky; it flames and dances, like an evil portent. It has eaten into our souls and we are nothing but a dead thing like the moon.

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