她透过翻译卡佛的著述

无论在散文照旧在小说里,用平常但可信赖的言语,去写普通的事物,并赋予那么些普普通通的东西

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,依然一块石头,或女子的耳环——以广阔而惊心动魄的力量,那是可以形成的。写一句表面上看起来无伤大雅的寒暄,并随之传递给读者冷彻骨髓的寒意,那是可以完毕的。

A fateful literary meeting: Raymond Carver and Haruki Murakami

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不久前多看随笔短篇,翻开卡佛的短篇集《大教堂》的第一页,明明是中译本,前言却是村上春树所写,篇名「RaymondCarver:
美国国民的口舌」。其中缘由,多半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的文章中,也可知到卡佛的印痕,语言平实,用词简练,多为没有截至的收尾。卡佛的文章被评论为极具极简主义的美学,即使他自己并不喜欢那一个标签。

Originally published June 25, 2017 at 7:00 am Updated June 25, 2017 at
3:59 pm

1983年,在卡佛在United States还未拥有伟大声誉之时,村上间或在一本选集中读到了卡佛的一篇题为《脚下流淌的深河》(So
Much 沃·特(W·at)er so Close to
Home)的小说,继而深受感动,便想方设法把卡佛的富有文章都翻译,并介绍到了东瀛。卡佛小说的饱满内涵根植于他前半生所受的破产,他各处阶层(即工人阶级或中私自产阶层)所处的魔难和无奈,和她所观望到的愈发真正的弥利坚。东瀛的读者喜欢卡佛,大致是因为他们和美利坚联邦合众国的中产阶级一样,是隔离和烦恼的。在她们生命中,或许有类似羞愧的事物在内部作梗,不管日本人照旧U.S.A.人都是一律。

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1984年夏,村上夫妇去了在华盛顿(Washington)州奥林匹亚半岛,登门拜访卡佛夫妇,他们的家建在山丘上,取了一个
“sky house”
的雅名,当时卡佛正忙着写作,但要么控制要挤出时间来和村上聊一聊。译者大老远的从东瀛跑过来拜访,卡佛也乐得安心乐意。据卡佛的老伴说,「Ray
尤其想和村上会师。完全像个儿女同一雀跃着,他专门想清楚,自己的篇章是何许把远隔重洋的几人总是到一头的」。早上村上夫妇到达未来,一起吃了熏鲑鱼,喝了些黄茶,村上和卡佛走到屋外的阶梯上,哀悼撞上玻璃的鸟儿之死,谈论着卡佛在日本得到好评的说辞。

(Mary Cauffman / The Seattle Times)

村上说,

The two writers met in person only once, but it provided a lifetime of
inspiration; most recently shown in Murakami’s new collection “Men
Without Women.”

或是是因为你的随笔是由人生中广大的细微的污辱而构成的?那样日本人会比较不难接受。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

后天,卡佛依照那段对话,写了一首诗,赠与村上。(The
Projectile,附在文末)

Haruki Murakami met Northwest short-story writer Raymond Carver for the
first and only time in the summer of 1984. Murakami was 35 and had been
writing for six years; his first great novel, “A Wild Sheep Chase,” came
out in 1982 but none of his work had been published in English. He was
known to Carver only as the enthusiastic translator who had been
bringing his stories out in Japan at an impressive clip.

村上在一些演讲会上曾说,讲自己的小说有点难为情,然而讲讲翻译是足以的,因为是别人写的小说。他透过翻译卡佛的作品,亦雕琢出来村上作风的文体,卡佛的文风诚实而不难,「推敲细密,把程式化的言语和不要求的修饰全部去除,在这么些基础上尽可能以『故事』的方式,坦诚而温和地披露自己的心声,是卡佛追求的管经济学境界」,那与村上也很为接近。固然二人的作品为主截然不相同,卡佛的世界聚焦于人与人以内的涉嫌和内在的紧张感,而村上的世界则是围绕内心的孤独和无尽的设想。但他仍然翻译了卡佛的全套作品。

Carver was curious enough to interrupt his writing schedule for a social
visit — something he generally avoided — and he was flattered that
Murakami had come all the way from Japan to Port Angeles to meet him.

在那天的会师中,村上一直不问卡佛翻译的事,也从不报告她,他骨子里是一个小说家。

“Ray was eager, almost childlike with delight, to meet Murakami, to see
who he was and why Ray’s writing had brought them together on the
planet,” Tess Gallagher, Carver’s widow, wrote after the meeting.

本人猜我应当说的。但自我没悟出,他会走得那么早。

Carver didn’t know it, but Murakami was on a pilgrimage. When Murakami
read Carver’s “So Much Water So Close to Home” in 1982, he was hit by a
thunderbolt. To Murakami, this was genius, “an entirely new kind of
fiction,” realistic but penetrating and profound in a way that he
believed “goes beyond simple realism.” Murakami read another Carver
story, “Where I’m Calling From,” in The New Yorker, and began collecting
and translating everything of Carver’s he could find.

二十年后,村上那样说。

Murakami is self-taught, a jazz-club owner who started writing fiction
after an epiphany at a baseball game. He sticks to his own path and
follows it without hesitation. In Carver’s fiction, he found a map to
guide him.

对此村上而言,翻译其实是兴趣爱好,而非工作,它如同保龄球一样。他并从未专门地上学过翻译,大学也并不是葡萄牙语专业,只是高中的时候习惯了读希伯来语原版的书本,积累大批量的开卷之后,任天由命地,便学会了翻译。他说,小说能够根据自己的想法,天马行空,不过翻译不行,需求尽最大可能扼杀本我(ego),在牵制当中,让翻译中的自己谦虚而充实,那样对写小说也有很大的便宜。

“Raymond Carver was without question the most valuable teacher I ever
had and also the greatest literary comrade,” Murakami wrote in “A
Literary Comrade,” an essay published after Carver’s death. “The novels
I write tend, I believe, in a very different direction from the fiction
Ray has written. But if he had never existed, or I had never encountered
his writings, the books I write, especially my short fiction, would
probably assume a very different form.”

随笔格局是把心里所思所想流畅而即兴的抒发出来,翻译格局则是把客人的所思所想对照自己的言语转换出来。村上在三十五年间,交替举办那两种方式,宛如精神上的血液循环一般。他把翻译名为「向外打开的窗」,去吗,把团结的观点放到国外去,把自己放在到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为目光如豆的险恶。

Carver’s literary path zigzagged through the Northwest. Born in
Clatskanie, Oregon, to a sawmill worker and a waitress, Carver grew up
in Yakima, got married at 19, and joined his father in the mill. He
bounced around for the next 20 years, drinking, taking classes,
squeezing out time to write on the weekends. His stories were about
working people struggling to connect, falling down and getting up.

モノをつくる人間にとって一番恐いのは井の中の蛙のみたいに狭い場所で、固定されたシステムの中で妙に落ち着いてしまうこと。もっと目を外に向けていくべきだし、もっと広い場所に自分をおかなければいけない。そういう点で
“翻訳は外に開かれた窓” 。

Murakami and his wife, Yoko, visited Carver and Gallagher at Sky House,
a wide-windowed home on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Murakami was struck
by Carver’s “massive physical size,” and noted “the way he sat on the
sofa with his body crunched up as if to say he had never intended to get
so big, and he had an embarrassed expression on his face.”

Both men were shy. Carver was a mumbler, uneasy around strangers, and a
tape Murakami made sounded “like little more than a badly done wiretap.”
They connected, though, and Carver paid close attention to his guest.
Carver was in the warm flush of fame, good years after so much alcohol
and heartbreak. “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” (1981) was
his breakout book and “Cathedral” (1983), his masterpiece, the best
stories of his generation, the best ever by a Northwest writer.


Smoked salmon and black tea were served. Carver’s mind, as it often did,
wandered away for a moment that he captured in “The Projectile,” a poem
he dedicated to Murakami:

The Projectile

We sipped tea. Politely musing

for Haruki Murakami

on possible reasons for the success

We sipped tea. Politely musing

of my books in your country. Slipped

on possible reasons for the success

into talk of pain and humiliation

of my books in your country. Slipped

you find occurring, and recurring,

into talk of pain and humiliation

in my stories. And that element

you find occurring, and recurring,

of sheer chance. How all this translates

in my stories. And that element

in terms of sales.

of sheer chance. How all this translates

Murakami probably was thinking of “So Much Water So Close to Home,” the
story of men who find a woman’s body on a fishing trip and continue to
fish for two days before contacting the police. Carver was thinking of a
moment when he was 16 and his eardrum was broken by a snowball, a memory
that came roaring back 30 years later and left just as quickly.

in terms of sales.

The Murakamis stayed for two hours. All went well, and Carver promised
to return the visit on a trip to Japan. Murakami was thrilled and
ordered an extra-large bed so his new American friend would be
comfortable in his home.

I looked into a corner of the room.

It never happened. Carver thought his years of hard drinking would kill
him but the cigarettes got there first, lung cancer that spread to his
brain and brought him down in 1988, at 50. Gallagher gave Murakami a
pair of Carver’s shoes, a sign of respect from one writer to another.

And for a minute I was 16 again,

Murakami is an international sensation, the author of two dozen books
that are translated everywhere. “Men Without Women,” his new short-story
collection (Knopf, 228 pp., $25.95), has Carver’s influence on every
page. An actor knows his more-famous wife had affairs and after her
death he befriends one of her lovers. A housewife delivers groceries to
a shut-in and tells him stories after passionless sex. A doctor spends a
lifetime keeping love at arm’s length and forgets its power. “Men
Without Women” is the title of a 1927 short-story collection by Ernest
Hemingway, but it’s Carver that Murakami is thinking of when he writes
that “Dreams are the kind of things you can — when you need to — borrow
and lend out.”

careening around in the snow

At their one meeting, Murakami never asked Carver about translation and
never told Carver he was a writer.

in a ‘50 Dodge sedan with five or six

“I guess I should have done that,” Murakami told the Harvard Crimson 20
years later, “but I didn’t know he would die so young.”

bozos. Giving the finger

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to some other bozos, who yelled and pelted

Raymond Clevie Carver, Jr.

our car with snowballs, gravel, old

(May 25, 1938 – August 2, 1988)

tree branches. We spun away, shouting.

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And we were gonna leave it at that.

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But my window was down three inches.

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Three inches. I hollered out

(以上图片均出自于网络。)

one last obscenity. And saw this guy

wind up to throw. From this vantage,

now, I imagine I see it coming. See it

speeding through the air while I watch,

like those soldiers in the first part

of the last century watched cannisters

of shot fly in their direction

while they stood, unable to move

for the dread fascination of it.

But I didn’t see it. I’d already turned

my head to laugh with my pals.

When something slammed into the side

of my head so hard it broke my eardrum and fell

into my lap, intact. A ball of packed ice

and snow. The pain was stupendous.

And the humiliation.

It was awful when I began to weep

in front of those tough guys while they

cried, Dumb luck. Freak accident.

A chance in a million!

The guy who threw it, he had to be amazed,

and proud of himself, while he took

the shouts and back-slaps of the others.

He must have wiped his hands on his pants.

And messed around a little more

before going home to supper. He grew up

to have his share of setbacks and get lost

in his life, same as I got lost in mine.

He never gave that afternoon

another thought. And why should he?

So much else to think about always.

Why remember that stupid car sliding

down the stupid road, then turning the stupid corner

and disappearing?

We politely raise our tea cups in the room.

A room that for a minute something else entered.

抛掷物

给村上春树

俺们抿着茶。思忖着

自家的书在你的国家得到成功的

恐怕的来由。沉浸在

至于难受和侮辱的交谈中

那是您意识在自身的随笔中

几度出现的事物。以及那种

纯属偶然的因素。所有这么些

什么转化成销量。

自己凝视着房间的一个角落。

一须臾,我又回去十六岁

和五四个傻小子

驾着一辆五十年代的马自达小汽车

在雪地里横冲直撞。向此外一些东西

伸出中指,他们喊话着,

用雪球,砂砾,枯枝朝着大家的汽车

扔掉。大家疾驰离开,叫骂着。

打算就到此甘休。

但自我的车窗降下了三英寸。

只有三英寸。我叫喊出

最后一句下流话。看见非常东西

挥手手臂准备扔掉。从这几个便利地方

方今,我估摸自己看见它飞过去了。看见它

越过空气疾速发展。我望着它,

就如上个世纪前半期的

那一个士兵瞧着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而她们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但随即我没瞧见。我已转过头

和自我的同伙们说笑。

出人意外某种东西猛地撞击我底部旁边,

自身的耳膜震破了,耳垂

掉下来,完整无缺。一个紧实的

冰雪球。疼痛是钻心的。

耻辱也是。

真痛苦,我起始哭泣,

在那么些粗鲁的玩意儿面前,而她们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

不行扔雪球的实物,不得不装出惊愕,

自负的神色,当其余人朝她大吵大闹,

拍拍她的肩膀意味着褒奖。

她也许在裤子上擦了擦手。

再者在返家吃晚饭前

多闲荡了会儿。长大后

她肯定遭到他的挫折,蒙受

他生命中的失利,正如我同样。

她再没有想过

可怜中午,为何要想吧?

其余要想的事总是这么多。

何以要记得那辆呆头呆脑的车

沿路滑行,然后转头拐角

随之消失?

我们在屋子里雅致地举起茶杯。

一个陡然有些其他什么进来了的房间。


参考资料:

翻译 | Raymond Carver / The Projectile – for Haruki
Mu…

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