用了好久,终于读完了Endymion,感觉丹•西蒙斯太会讲故事了。整本书语言优美,叙述流畅,即使是作为即将到来的大结局的铺垫也毫不逊色。那天看到最后一章觉得怎么也得翻出来,于是就有了这篇文章。

原文如下:

Raul, consider this a postscript to the memories you wrote about today, and which I read tonight. Years ago, years ago… those last three hours of our first journey together, when you, my darling Raul, and dear sleeping A. Bettik and I flew the dropship southwest toward Taliesin West and my long apprenticeship there, I longed to tell you everything that day—the dreams that showed us being lovers of whom the poets would sing, visions of the great dangers that lay ahead, dreams of the discovery of friends, dreams of the deaths of friends, certainty of unspeakable sorrow to be borne, certainty of unimaginable triumphs still unborn.

I said nothing.

Do you remember? We dozed during our flight. How strange life is that way… our last few hours alone together, this ending to one of the most intimate periods of our life together, the end of my childhood and the beginning of our time as equals, and we spent most of our last minutes sleeping. In separate couches. Life is brutal that way… the loss of irrecoverable moments amid trivia and distraction.

But we were tired. It had been a rough few days.

As the dropship was beginning to descend over the southwestern desert toward Taliesin West and my new life, I took a page from my soiled journal—it had survived the water and flames when most of my clothing had not—and wrote a hasty note to you. You were sleeping. Your face was against the vinyl of the acceleration chair and you were drooling slightly. Your eyelashes were burned away, as was a patch of hair at the crown of your head, and the effect was to make you look comical—a clown surprised in the act of sleeping. (We later talked of clowns, remember, Raul? During our Ouster odyssey. You had seen clowns at a circus in Port Romance as a teenager; I had seen clowns in Jacktown during the annual First Settlers Fair.)

The burns and burn ointment we had liberally applied to your cheeks and temples, eyes and upper lip, looked for all the world like clown makeup—red and white. You were beautiful. I loved you then. I loved you backward and forward in time. I loved you beyond boundaries of time and space.

I wrote my note hurriedly, tucked it in what was left of the pocket on your ruined shirt, and kissed you ever so softly on the corner of your mouth, in the one spot that was not burned or salved. You stirred but did not wake. You did not mention the note the next day—nor ever again—and I always wondered if you found it, or if it fell out of the pocket, or was tossed away unread when you threw away the shirt at Taliesin.

The words were my father’s. He wrote them centuries ago. Then he died, was reborn—after a fashion—as a cybrid persona, and died again as a man. But still he lived in essence, his persona roving through metaspace, and eventually leaving Hyperion with the Consul, in the DNA coils of the ship’s AI. His final spoken words to my mother will never be known, despite Uncle Martin’s creative license in the Cantos. But these words were discovered in my mother’s text stylus when she awoke that morning after he left forever, and she kept the original printout for the rest of her life. I know… I used to sneak into her room in Jacktown on Hyperion and read the hurried handwriting on that yellowed slip of vellum, at least once a week from the time I was two.

These were the words that I gave to you with a sleeping kiss that last hour of our last day of our first voyage, my darling Raul. These are the words I leave tonight with a waking kiss. These are the words I will claim from you when I return next, when the tale is complete and our final voyage begins.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

And so, Raul Endymion, until we meet again on your pages, in wild ecstasy, I bid you adieu—

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the tales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? For now, my love, I wish you sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

翻译如下,得找雪姐给我看看~哈哈~(雪姐已经看过了!雪姐说:”不错!你厉害啊!连诗都翻译了!“我说:“诗是查良铮翻译的><。”)

劳尔,这是对你今天写下的、我读到的记忆的附言。许多许多年前…我们在一起第一次旅行的最后三个小时,当你,我亲爱的劳尔、A.贝提克、我,我们一起乘坐运输机向西南的西塔里耶森飞去,向我在那里漫长的学徒生涯飞去时,我是多么渴望在那一天告诉你一切——那些梦,那些我们成为被诗人和歌者们歌唱着的恋人的梦,那些显示着前路有着巨大的危险的梦,那些发现朋友们的梦,那些关于我们同伴死亡的梦,陷入必然的不可名状的悲伤和终将获得那不可想象的凯旋。

可是我什么也没有说。

你还记得吗?我们在航行中打盹。多么奇怪啊,生活以这样的方式运行着…我们在一起的最后几个小时,我们生命中最初、最重要的时光之一是以这样的方式结束;我的童年时光的结束、我们终于平等生活的时光的开始;我们却在这最后的最重要的几分钟里在那几个沙发里睡觉。生活就是这样不讲道理的…失去的不可挽回的时光里却充满了琐事。

但是我们真的太累了。那些天真是太艰苦了。

当运输机开始在西南沙漠的西塔利辛降落的时候,我的新生活开始了,我在被弄脏的日记上撕下一页(它从水浸和火烧中幸存了下来,可惜我的大部分衣服却没有),草草地为你写下了一张便笺。你在睡觉。你的脸冲着乙烯基的加速椅,轻轻地流着口水。你的睫毛被烧光了,头发也被烧的斑斑点点的,那使你看起来真的很滑稽——看起来就像一个表演睡觉时被吓到的小丑(后来我们还谈到了小丑,记得吗?劳尔?在我们去往驱逐者的奇幻旅途中,你年轻时在浪漫港的马戏团看到过小丑,而我是在杰克镇一年一度的定居者集会上看到的小丑)。

那些烧伤和我们随意抹到你脸颊、太阳穴、眼睛和上嘴唇的烧伤药膏,无论在哪个世界看起来都像是小丑的装扮——又红又白的。你真美,我爱你。无论时间前行还是倒退我都爱你。我爱你会一直爱你到时间和空间的尽头。

我匆匆地写下了这个一个便笺,把它塞在你那残存的衬衫口袋上,然后轻轻亲吻你的嘴角,那里还好没被烧伤也没有涂上药膏。你只是翻了个身。你那天没提到那个便笺,也从来没提到过它,我总是想你到底看到它了吗?可能它从你的口袋里掉出来了,或者是它在塔里耶森你扔掉你的衬衫时被甩出来了。

便笺上的话是我父亲写的。他在几个世纪前写下这些词语。而后他死了又重生了——勉强算是吧——作为一个赛博人格,然后他又作为一个人类死去。但是他本质上还是活着,他的人格漫游于元空间,最终躲在飞船人工智能的DNA线圈中和领事一起离开了海伯利安。谁也不曾知道他最后和我母亲说了什么,无论马丁叔叔在《诗篇》里怎样猜测. 但是便签上的这些词语是母亲在我父亲永远离开的早上发现的,那是她起床在自己的记录板上看到了这些话,她一辈子都留着那份原版。我知道那些话…在海伯利安的杰克镇的时候,我总是溜进她的房间,偷看那牛皮纸上泛黄的笔记,从我两岁开始,至少一周我会去看一次。

亲爱的劳尔,这些词语和这个吻就是我要给你的,这是我们第一次旅程的最后一天的最后一刻。我在今晚留下这些词语,还有一个早安吻。当我下一次返回,当故事完结,当我们最后的旅程开始的时候,我会向你索要这些词语。

一件美好事物永远是一种欢乐: 它的美妙与日俱增;它决不会 化为乌有;而是会使我们永远有 一座幽静的花亭,一个充满美梦, 健康,和匀静的呼吸的睡眠。

因此,劳尔•安迪密恩,我向你告别,直到我们在你的纸页上带着狂喜再次重逢——

你委身“寂静”的、完美的处子,
 受过了“沉默”和“悠久”的抚育,
 呵,田园的史家,你竟能铺叙
 一个如花的故事,比诗还瑰丽:
 在你的形体上,岂非缭绕着
 古老的传说,以绿叶为其边缘; 讲着人,或神,敦陂或阿卡狄? 
呵,是怎样的人,或神!在舞乐前 多热烈的追求!少女怎样地逃躲!
 怎样的风笛和鼓谣!怎样的狂喜!

至此,我的爱人,我祝你健康,和匀静的呼吸的睡眠。

comments powered by Disqus