但他依旧翻译了卡佛的任何作品威尼斯人官网

无论在杂谈照旧在随笔里,用通常但可信的言语,去写普通的东西,并给予那个普通的事物

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,依然一块石头,或女子的耳环——以科学普及而震惊的才干,那是足以做到的。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,那是足以成功的。

A fateful literary meeting: Raymond Carver and Haruki Murakami

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近年多看小说短篇,翻开卡佛的短篇集《大教堂》的首先页,明明是中译本,前言却是村上春树所写,篇名「RaymondCarver:
U.S.A.公民的语句」。个中原因,多半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的创作中,也可看出卡佛的印痕,语言平实,用词简练,多为未有停止的了断。卡佛的文章被商议为极具极简主义的美学,尽管他本人并不爱好那些标签。

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

一九八二年,在卡佛在美利坚合众国还未具有巨大声誉之时,村上临时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 Water so Close to
Home)的随笔,继而十分受感动,便想方设法把卡佛的享有作品都翻译,并介绍到了扶桑。卡佛文章的动感内涵根植于他前半生所受的波折,他随地阶层(即工人阶级或中私下产阶层)所处的苦水和无语,和她所观看到的更为真实的United States。东瀛的读者喜欢卡佛,大致是因为他俩和美利坚合众国的中产阶级一样,是隔断和窝火的。在她们生命中,只怕有像样羞愧的事物在里面作梗,不管马来人照旧瑞士人没什么不相同样。

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一九八三年夏,村上夫妇去了在华盛顿州奥林匹亚半岛,登门拜见卡佛夫妇,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,但要么调整要腾出时间来和村上聊一聊。译者大老远的从东瀛跑过来探望,卡佛也乐得欢跃。据卡佛的爱妻说,「Ray
特别想和村上探问。完全像个子女无差距雀跃着,他特意想领悟,本人的篇章是哪些把远远地离开重洋的两个人一连到一块的」。晚上村上夫妇达到未来,一起吃了熏罗锅鱼,喝了些黄茶,村上和卡佛走到屋外的台阶上,哀悼撞上玻璃的鸟类之死,批评着卡佛在扶桑获得好评的理由。

(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.”

或是是因为您的随笔是由人生中相当多的细小的屈辱而结缘的?那样印度人会比较轻松接受。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

前天,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.

村上在有的阐述会上曾说,讲本身的随笔有一点难为情,可是讲讲翻译是足以的,因为是旁人写的随笔。他经过翻译卡佛的创作,亦雕琢出来村上作风的文娱体育,卡佛的文风诚实而轻巧,「推敲细密,把程式化的言语和不须求的修饰全部剔除,在那么些基础上尽量以『传说』的方式,坦诚而温和地揭露自个儿的名人名言,是卡佛追求的文化艺术境界」,那与村上也很为邻近。尽管几位的文章为主天堂地狱,卡佛的社会风气聚焦于人与人之间的关联和内在的恐慌感,而村上的世界则是围绕内心的一身和数不胜数的想象。但他长期以来翻译了卡佛的一体创作。

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.

在那天的会合中,村上平素不问卡佛翻译的事,也从没告诉她,他实在是二个文豪。

“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.

自笔者猜笔者应当说的。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.

对于村上来讲,翻译其实是兴趣爱好,而非专门的学问,它似乎保龄球同样。他并从未特意地学习过翻译,大学也并非克罗地亚共和国(Republika Hrvatska)语专门的学问,只是高级中学的时候习于旧贯了读加泰罗尼亚语原版的图书,储存大量的阅读之后,任其自流地,便学会了翻译。他说,小说能够依据本身的主见,天马行空,但是翻译不行,必要尽最大大概扼杀本自个儿(ego),在牵制个中,让翻译中的自身谦虚而充实,这样对写随笔也可能有不小的实惠。

“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.”

小说情势是把心里所思所想流畅而率性的发表出来,翻译形式则是把客人的所思所想对照自个儿的言语转变出来。村上在三十三年间,交替举办这两种方式,就好像精神上的血液循环一般。他把翻译名字为「向外展开的窗」,去吗,把温馨的视角放到国外去,把团结放在到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为一叶障目标高危。

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

(以上海体育地方片均来源于于网络。)

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

大家抿着茶。思忖着

本人的书在您的国度获得成功的

恐怕的来由。沉浸在

至于痛楚和侮辱的攀谈中

那是您发掘在自个儿的小说中

一再现身的事物。以及这种

纯属不常的因素。全数那些

如何转化成销量。

自个儿凝视着房间的多少个角落。

立即间,作者又回到15周岁

和五多个傻小子

驾着一辆五十年份的Dodge小小车

在雪地里横冲直撞。向别的一些实物

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。

计划就到此结束。

但自己的车窗降下了三英寸。

独有三英寸。小编叫喊出

聊起底一句下流话。看见那几个东西

挥手单臂筹划扔掉。从那个有利地方

前些天,作者猜测小编看见它飞过去了。看见它

通过空气飞快提升。笔者望着它,

就如上个世纪前半期的

那二个士兵望着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而他们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但当时自己没看见。笔者已转过头

和自个儿的友人们说笑。

忽然某种东西猛地撞击笔者尾部旁边,

本人的耳膜震破了,耳垂

掉下来,完整无缺。叁个紧实的

冰雪球。疼痛是钻心的。

耻辱也是。

真难熬,小编开头哭泣,

在那一个粗鲁的玩意前边,而她们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

老大扔雪球的玩意儿,不得不装出惊愕,

足高气强的表情,当其余人朝她大吵大闹,

拍拍她的双肩意味着赞誉。

她或者在裤子上擦了擦手。

还要在回村吃晚餐前

多闲荡了少时。长大后

他迟早遭到他的停业,境遇

她生命中的失利,正如作者同样。

她再未有想过

不行中午,为啥要想吧?

别的要想的事总是那样多。

缘何要记得那辆呆头呆脑的车

沿路滑行,然后转头拐角

随着消失?

我们在房内高雅地举起水杯。

三个蓦地有一点点其他什么进来了的屋家。


参谋资料:

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

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