多半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了

不管在杂文照旧在随笔里,用常常但可信的言语,去写普通的东西,并赋予这几个平凡的事物

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,依然一块石头,或女生的耳环——以大范围而震动的力量,那是足以成功的。写一句表面上看起来无伤大雅的寒暄,并跟着传递给读者冷彻骨髓的寒意,那是足以做到的。

A fateful literary meeting: Raymond Carver and Haruki Murakami

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近日多看小说短篇,翻开卡佛的短篇集《大教堂》的率先页,明明是中译本,前言却是村上春树所写,篇名「RaymondCarver:
U.S.公民的口舌」。在那之中缘由,多半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的文章中,也可观看卡佛的划痕,语言平实,用词简练,多为没有完毕的达成。卡佛的小说被争持为极具极简主义的美学,固然他本人并恶感那么些标签。

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

一九八四年,在卡佛在美利坚合众国还未持有巨大声誉之时,村上一时在一本选聚焦读到了卡佛的一篇题为《脚下流淌的深河》(So
Much Water so Close to
Home)的随笔,继而十分受感动,便费尽脑筋把卡佛的装有小说都翻译,并介绍到了日本。卡佛小说的振作感奋内涵根植于她前半生所受的挫败,他所在阶层(即工人阶级或中国和亚洲法产阶层)所处的切肤之痛和无语,和他所观望到的愈加真实的United States。东瀛的读者喜欢卡佛,大概是因为她们和美利坚联邦合众国的中产阶级同样,是与世隔膜和烦恼的。在他们生命中,可能有周围羞愧的东西在在这之中作梗,不管马来人照旧外国人都以大同小异。

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一九八二年夏,村上夫妇去了在Washington州奥林匹亚半岛,登门探望卡佛夫妇,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,但要么调节要腾出时间来和村上聊一聊。译者大老远的从东瀛跑过来拜候,卡佛也乐得欢乐。据卡佛的老伴说,「Ray
极度想和村上寻访。完全像个男女同一雀跃着,他专门想清楚,本身的篇章是哪些把远远地离开重洋的五个人连连到手拉手的」。清晨村上夫妇达到现在,一起吃了熏马哈鱼,喝了些白茶,村上和卡佛走到室外的台阶上,哀悼撞上玻璃的飞禽之死,钻探着卡佛在日本获得好评的说辞。

(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.”

唯恐是因为您的小说是由人生中繁多的分寸的屈辱而构成的?那样新加坡人会比较轻易接受。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

后天,卡佛依据这段对话,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.

村上在有些阐述会上曾说,讲协和的随笔有一些难为情,然则讲讲翻译是足以的,因为是外人写的随笔。他透过翻译卡佛的著述,亦雕琢出来村上作风的文娱体育,卡佛的文风诚实而轻易,「推敲细密,把程式化的言语和不供给的修饰全部刨除,在这一个基础上尽恐怕以『好玩的事』的款式,坦诚而温和地揭露自个儿的名人名言,是卡佛追求的管教育学境界」,那与村上也很为临近。固然叁人的作品为主相差甚远,卡佛的世界集中于人与人以内的涉嫌和内在的恐慌感,而村上的世界则是围绕内心的孤寂和点不清的想象。但他长期以来翻译了卡佛的百分百创作。

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.

在那天的会晤中,村上尚未问卡佛翻译的事,也从没报告她,他其实是贰个大手笔。

“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.

自己猜作者应当说的。但自己没悟出,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,村上这么说。

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.

对于村上来说,翻译其实是兴趣爱好,而非职业,它如同保龄球同样。他并未特意地读书过翻译,大学也并非立陶宛共和国(Republic of Lithuania)语职业,只是高级中学的时候习贯了读立陶宛(Lithuania)语原版的图书,积存大批量的阅读之后,任其自然地,便学会了翻译。他说,小说能够根据自个儿的想法,天马行空,但是翻译不行,需求尽最大也许扼杀本作者(ego),在制约个中,让翻译中的本人谦虚而充实,那样对写小说也可能有相当大的补益。

“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.”

随笔形式是把内心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本人的语言调换出来。村上在三十三年间,交替举办那三种方式,就像是精神上的血液循环一般。他把翻译名字为「向外张开的窗」,去啊,把温馨的眼光放到外国去,把温馨投身到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为挂一漏万的权利险。

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

(以上航海用教室片均源于于互联网。)

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

我们抿着茶。思忖着

自己的书在您的国度获得成功的

或然的缘由。沉浸在

有关哀痛和侮辱的攀谈中

那是您发觉在本身的小说中

多次出现的事物。以及那种

纯属有的时候的成分。全部那么些

哪些转化成销量。

自己凝视着房间的八个角落。

一弹指顷,笔者又回来16周岁

和五四个傻小子

驾着一辆五十时期的Dodge小汽车

在雪地里横冲直撞。向别的一些东西

伸出中指,他们喊话着,

用雪球,砂砾,枯枝朝着大家的小车

扔掉。大家疾驰离开,叫骂着。

筹划就到此截止。

但我的车窗降下了三英寸。

独有三英寸。小编叫喊出

最终一句下流话。看见格外东西

挥手手臂筹算扔掉。从这几个便利地方

方今,我预计小编看见它飞过去了。看见它

通过空气飞速发展。小编瞧着它,

就如上个世纪前半期的

那叁个士兵瞧着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而他们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但登时自己没看见。作者已转过头

和本人的伴儿们说笑。

忽地某种东西猛地撞击作者尾部旁边,

自己的耳膜震破了,耳垂

掉下来,完整无缺。八个紧实的

冰雪球。疼痛是钻心的。

耻辱也是。

真优伤,小编开首哭泣,

在那么些粗鲁的钱物前边,而他们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

特别扔雪球的家伙,不得不装出惊愕,

沾沾自喜的神情,当别的人朝他大吵大闹,

拍拍他的双肩意味着赞叹。

她可能在裤子上擦了擦手。

再者在回家吃晚饭前

多闲荡了少时。长大后

她一定遭到他的停业,碰到

他生命中的战败,正如作者同样。

她再没有想过

格外深夜,为何要想呢?

其余要想的事总是那样多。

缘何要记得那辆呆头呆脑的车

沿着路滑行,然后转头拐角

跟着消失?

大家在屋家里高雅地举起茶盏。

四个黑马有个别别的什么进来了的房间。


参考资料:

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

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