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北回归线|Tropic Of Cancer

Part 1 第2章|Part 1 Chapter 2

属类： 双语小说 【分类】世界名著 -[作者: 亨利-米勒] 阅读：[19172]
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鲍里斯喝威士忌喝得浑身发烧时塔尼亚便会说，”坐在这儿！啊，鲍里斯……俄国……我该怎么办，我都快叫它撑破了。”

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And while Boris scalds himself with whisky she says: "Sit down here! O Boris … Russia … what’ll I do? I’m bursting with it!"

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到了夜里，我一看到鲍里斯的山羊胡子垂在枕头上便要发歇斯底里，啊，塔尼亚，你那热呼呼的阴部如今在哪儿？那副又肥又厚的吊袜带、那两条柔软而又粗壮的大腿又在哪儿？我的胯下有一根六英寸长的骨头。塔尼亚，我要弄平你那充满精液的阴部上的每一条皱纹。我要先叫你肚子疼、子宫翻个个儿，再把你送到你的西尔维斯特那儿去。你的西尔维斯特！喂，他懂得怎样生火，我却明白如何叫女人欲火中烧。塔尼亚，我把灼热的精液射进你的身体，我叫你的卵巢发热。你的西尔维斯特这会儿有点吃醋了吧，他觉得不大舒服，是吗？他感觉到我的硕大的阴茎留下的东西了。我把你那玩艺儿撑大了，我把皱纹都熨平了，跟我干过以后，你尽可同公马、公牛、公羊、公鸭子和一只瑞士圣伯尔拿僧院驯养的雪山救人犬干。你可以把癫蛤膜、编幅和蝴蝎塞进你的肛门。只要愿意，你可以奏出一串和音急速弹奏，或是在肚脐那儿拴上一只齐特拉琴。塔尼亚，我在操你，你就得这样叫我操下去。若是你不喜欢叫我当着众人的面于，我就在暗中干。

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At night when I look at Boris’ goatee lying on the pillow I get hysterical. O Tania, where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider. I have ironed out the wrinkles. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel. I am fucking you, Tania, so that you’ll stay fucked. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I will tear off a few hairs from your cunt and paste them on Boris’ chin. I will bite into your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces…

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蔚蓝色的天空上鹅毛般的云丝被吹散了，干枯的树木无限延伸，黑呼呼的树枝像一个有梦游症的人那样打着各种手势。这些阴沉的、鬼怪般的树木的枝干苍白得像雪茄烟灰。这是一种超然的、全然欧洲式的静寂，百叶窗放下了，店铺闩上了，这里或那里偶尔可见一盏红灯，表明有人在幽会。其正面粗暴甚至可怕，除了树木投下星星点点的影子，一片洁净。从奥坦格利经过使我想起另一个巴黎，那便是毛姆、高更的巴黎，乔治?摩尔的巴黎，我想起那个可怖的西班牙人，他那时正以杂技演员的步子从一种作风跳跃到另一种作风，使全世界大吃一惊。我想起施本格勒同他那些可怕的宣言，并且不由得惊异—风格，广义上的风格，是否全完蛋了？我说我脑子里尽是这些念头，不过这也不是实话。只是到了后来，当我走到塞纳河对岸、当我把辉煌的灯光甩到身后时我才允许自己胡思乱想这些事儿，眼下我什么也不想，只感觉到自己这个活生生的人被河水映出的奇迹搞得很伤心，因为这河水映出了一个已被遗忘的世界。沿河两岸，树木佝偻着身子，在这面没有光泽的镜子上投下情影，起风时这些树便发出一阵沙沙声，河水翻腾着流过时它们也会流下几滴眼泪。这条河使我默默无言，我找不到可以倾诉心曲的人，哪怕是一点点也好……

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Indigo sky swept clear of fleecy clouds, gaunt trees infinitely extended, their black boughs gesticulating like a sleepwalker. Somber, spectral trees, their trunks pale as cigar ash. A silence supreme and altogether European. Shutters drawn, shops barred. A red glow here and there to mark a tryst. Brusque the facades, almost forbidding; immaculate except for the splotches of shadow cast by the trees. Passing by the Orangerie I am reminded of another Paris, the Paris of Maugham, of Gauguin, Paris of George Moore. I think of that terrible Spaniard who was then startling the world with his acrobatic leaps from style to style. I think of Spengler and of his terrible pronunciamentos, and I wonder if style, style in the grand manner, is done for. I say that my mind is occupied with these thoughts, but it is not true; it is only later, after I have crossed the Seine, after I have put behind me the carnival of lights, that I allow my mind to play with these ideas. For the moment I can think of nothing – except that I am a sentient being stabbed by the miracle of these waters that reflect a forgotten world. All along the banks the trees lean heavily over the tarnished mirror; when the wind rises and fills them with a rustling murmur they will shed a few tears and shiver as the water swirls by. I am suffocated by it. No one to whom I can communicate even a fraction of my feelings…

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艾琳的毛病在于她只有一个手提包，却没有阴户。她总想把厚厚的信塞进包里，信上都是大量闻所未闻的事情，现在她叫劳娜，因而也有阴户了，我知道这一点是因为她给我们送来了一些下面的毛。劳娜—一头疯狂的驴子，在风中乱闻乱嗅，以此取乐。在每一座山坡上她都要扮演妓女的角色，有时还在电话亭和卫生间里。她为金 ?卡罗尔买了一张床和一只铭刻上他的姓名首字母的刮胡子时用的杯子。她躺在托特纳姆广场大道上，撩起衣裙用手指弄自己那个地方，还有蜡烛，用罗马蜡烛和门把手弄。全国找不到一个男人的那玩艺儿大到能令她满意的程度……一个也没有。男人的玩艺儿一进入她身体便会蜷起来，她需要胀大的阴茎、自动爆炸的纸火箭和滚烫的蜡油、木焦油。你若是由着她，她会割断你的命根，叫它永远留在她身体里。劳娜这样的阴户在一百万女人中才有一个！这是试验室里的阴户，没有一种石蕊试纸能显出它的颜色。这个劳娜还是一个骗子。她从未替卡罗尔买过床，她用一个威士忌酒瓶砸他的脑袋。她满嘴脏话和承诺。可怜的卡罗尔，他的阴茎只能在她体内蜷起来然后死掉，只要她吸一口气他那玩艺儿就会掉出来，像一只死泥鳅一样。

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The trouble with Irène is that she has a valise instead of a cunt. She wants fat letters to shove in her valise. Immense, avec des choses inou?es. Llona now, she had a cunt. I know because she sent us some hairs from down below. Llona – a wild ass snuffing pleasure out of the wind. On every high hill she played the harlot – and sometimes in telephone booths and toilets. She bought a bed for King Carol and a shaving mug with his initials on it. She lay in Tottenham Court Road with her dress pulled up and fingered herself. She used candles, Roman candles, and door knobs. Not a prick in the land big enough for her… not one. Men went inside her and curled up. She wanted extension pricks, self exploding rockets, hot boiling oil made of wax and creosote. She would cut off your prick and keep it inside her forever, if you gave her permission. One cunt out of a million, Llona! A laboratory cunt and no litmus paper that could take her color. She was a liar, too, this Llona. She never bought a bed for her King Carol. She crowned him with a whisky bottle and her tongue was full of lice and tomorrows. Poor Carol, he could only curl up inside her and die. She drew a breath and he fell out – like a dead clam.

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大量的、厚厚的、闻所未闻的信件。一只没有带子的手提包。一个没有插钥匙的锁孔。她有一张德国人的嘴、一对法国人的耳朵和一个俄国入的屁股，而阴户却是世界通用的。当国旗挥动时，它便一直红到喉咙处。你从于勒—费里林荫道进去，从维莱特门出来。你把你的小羊尾放进粪车里，自然是两个轮子的红色粪车。在乌尔克和马恩河的汇合处，水顺着河堤流去，在桥下静静地流淌，仿佛一面镜子。劳娜如今躺在那儿，河道里满是玻璃碎片。含羞草在哭泣，窗户上有一个潮湿的、雾状的屁。劳娜是一百万女人中的姣姣者。全是阴户和一截直肠，你可以坐在里面看中世纪史。

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Enormous, fat letters, avec des choses inou?es. A valise without straps. A hole without a key. She had a German mouth, French ears, Russian ass. cunt international. When the flag waved it was red all the way back to the throat. You entered on the Boulevard Jules Ferry and came out at the Porte de la Villette. You dropped your sweetbreads into the tumbrils – red tumbrils with two wheels, naturally. At the confluence of the Ourcq and Marne, where the water sluices through the dikes and lies like glass under the bridges. Llona is lying there now and the canal is full of glass and splinters; the mimosas weep, and there is a wet, foggy fart on the windowpanes. One cunt out of a million Llona! All cunt and a glass ass in which you can read the history of the Middle Ages.

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莫尔多夫首先显得像某人的一幅漫画，甲状腺似的眼睛，米什林式的嘴唇，声音像豌豆汤。他在背心里掖了一个小梨，不论你怎么看他都是那副尊容，随身带着有个坠子的鼻烟盒，象牙柄的，还有棋子、扇子、教堂地图。他发酵的时间太长，现在已变得毫无形状了，成了失去维生素的酵母，没有橡皮底座的花瓶。

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It is the caricature of a man which Moldorf first presents. Thyroid eyes. Michelin lips. Voice like pea soup. Under his vest he carries a little pear. However you look at him it is always the same panorama: netsuke snuffbox, ivory handle, chess piece, fan, temple motif. He has fermented so long now that he is amorphous. Yeast despoiled of its vitamins. Vase without a rubber plant.

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他家族中的女人们在九世纪曾两次改换祖先，到了文艺复兴期间又换了一次。他在一次次战乱中、在众多的黄肚皮和白肚皮下留存下来。在以色列人出埃及前很久，一个鞑靼人便朝他的血液里哗过唾沫。

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The females were sired twice in the ninth century, and again during the Renaissance. He was carried through the great dispersions under yellow bellies and white. Long before the Exodus a Tatar spat in his blood.

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他的为难也就是一个侏儒的困惑。透过松球状的眼睛，他看到自己的侧面轮廓投影在一幅无法计量的幕布上，他的声音使他陶醉，因为它尖细得如间一个针头一般。他听到的一声大吼对于别人只是尖细的叫唤。

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His dilemma is that of the dwarf. With his pineal eye he sees his silhouette projected on a screen of incommensurable size. His voice, synchronized to the shadow of a pinhead, intoxicates him. He hears a roar where others hear only a squeak.

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他的头脑，他的头脑是一个圆形剧场，场上的演员一人扮演好几个角色。莫尔多夫，多才多艺而且不出错，一个个依次扮演着他的角色—小丑、耍把戏的、杂技演员、牧师、登徒子、江湖骗子。这个圆形剧场太小了，于是他在剧场里安放了炸药。观众都吃了迷幻药，于是他便把它炸毁了。

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There is his mind. It is an amphitheater in which the actor gives a protean performance. Moldorf, multiform and unerring, goes through his roles – clown, juggler, contortionist, priest, lecher, mountebank. The amphitheater is too small. He puts dynamite to it. The audience is drugged. He scotches it.

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我徒劳地企图接近莫尔多夫。这就像企图接近上帝一样，因为莫尔多夫就是上帝—他本来就是上帝。我只是记载下……我以前就对他有一些看法，现在我放弃了，而另一些看法现在正在修正中。我把他抓住了，结果发现手中不是蟑螂而是一只靖蜒。他的粗鲁冒犯了我，然而他的脆弱又叫我为之倾倒。

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I am trying ineffectually to approach Moldorf. It is like trying to approach God, for Moldorf is God – he has never been anything else. I am merely putting down words…I have had opinions about him which I have discarded; I have had other opinions which I am revising. I have pinned him down only to find that it was not a dung beetle I had in my hands, but a dragonfly. He has offended me by his coarseness and then overwhelmed me with his delicacy.

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他滔滔不绝直到把自个儿憋得透不过气来，随后又像约旦河一样沉默无语。

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He has been voluble to the point of suffocation, then quiet as the Jordan.

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每当我看着他小跑着走上前来迎接我，伸出一对小爪子，眼睛里流着泪，我便觉得自己在同……不，这句话不能这么说。

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When I see him trotting forward to greet me, his little paws outstretched, his eyes perspiring, I feel that I am meeting… No, this is not the way to go about it!

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“像在喷泉上跳跃的鸡蛋。”

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"Comme un ?uf dansant sur un jet d’eau."

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他只有一根手杖---根普通的手杖。他的衣袋里装了一张张纸，都是治疗悲观狂的处方。他的病现在痊愈了，替他洗脚的那个德国小姑娘因而悲痛欲绝。这正如一个无足轻重的小人物背着他的古吉拉特语字典到处走。”对人人都不可避免”，这后无疑就是指”绝对必要的”。博罗夫斯基会觉得这话不可理喻，一星期里每天他都要换一根手杖，还有一根是复活节专用的。

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He has only one cane – a mediocre one. In his pocket scraps of paper containing prescriptions for Weltschmerz. He is cured now, and the little German girl who washed his feet is breaking her heart. It is like Mr. Nonentity toting his Gujarati dictionary everywhere. "Inevitable for everyone" – meaning, no doubt, indispensable. Borowski would find all this incomprehensible. Borowski has a different cane for each day in the week, and one for Easter.

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我们彼此间有这么多共同点，看别人便犹如在一面裂了缝的镜子里看自己。

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We have so many points in common that it is like looking at myself in a cracked mirror.

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我一直在翻阅我的手稿，每一页上都是潦草涂改过的手迹。全是文学！我有点害怕。这多么像莫尔多夫，唯一不同的是，我是一个非犹太人的异教徒，而异教徒受苦受难的方式是不同的。据西尔维斯特讲，他们虽有痛苦，但却不患神经病，而一个从未患过神经病的人是不懂什么叫作痛苦的。

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I have been looking over my manuscripts, pages scrawled with revisions. Pages of literature. This frightens me a little. It is so much like Moldorf. Only I am a Gentile, and Gentiles have a different way of suffering. They suffer without neuroses and, as Sylvester, says a man who has never been afflicted with a neurosis does not know the meaning of suffering.

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于是我清楚地回忆起我痛苦时是多么快活，那正像带着一头小熊仔上床睡觉，有时它会用爪子抓你，那时你才真正知道害怕。平时你不会怕—你可以放掉它，或者把它的头砍掉。

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I recall distinctly how I enjoyed my suffering. It was like taking a cub to bed with you. Once in a while he clawed you – and then you really were frightened. Ordinarily you had no fear – you could always turn him loose, or chop his head off.

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有些人无法抵御钻进野兽笼子里、同野兽在一起厮混的欲望，他们连手枪、鞭子都不带便进去了，正是恐惧使他们变得无所畏惧……对于一个犹大人，全世界便是一个野兽横行的笼子。笼门锁上了，他在笼子里，没有手枪、鞭子，但他勇气十足，甚至嗅不到笼子角落里的兽粪味。围观者在拍手，可他听不见，他认为这场戏是在笼子里面演的，他认为这个笼子便是整个世界，门锁上了，他独自一人无助地站在那儿，发现狮子不懂他的话。没有一头狮子听说过斯宾诺莎人斯宾诺莎？它们干吗不咬他？”给我们肉吃！”它们吼道，而他却站在那儿吓呆了，脑子全乱了，他的世界观也变成一个荡到空中再也够不到的秋千。狮子举起爪子扇一下，他的世界便被打得粉碎。

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There are people who cannot resist the desire to get into a cage with wild beasts and be mangled. They go in even without revolver or whip. Fear makes them fearless… For the Jew the world is a cage filled with wild beasts. The door is locked and he is there without whip or revolver. His courage is so great that he does not even smell the dung in the corner. The spectators applaud but he does not hear. The drama, he thinks, is going on inside the cage. The cage, he thinks, is the world. Standing there alone and helpless, the door locked, he finds that the lions do not understand his language. Not one lion has ever heard of Spinoza. Spinoza? Why they can’t even get their teeth into him. "Give us meat!" they roar, while he stands there petrified, his ideas frozen, his Weltanschauung a trapeze out of reach. A single blow of the lion’s paw and his cosmogony is smashed.

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同样，狮子们也失望了。它们期待的是血，是骨头，是软骨，是筋，它们嚼了又嚼，然而词汇是无味的树胶，树胶是无法消化的。你可以朝树胶上撒糖、助消化药、百里香草汁和甘草汁，待树胶被树胶收集者裹起来后便好消化了，这些树胶收集者是沿着一个业已下沉的大陆的山脊来的，他们带来了一种代数语言，在亚利桑那沙漠中他们遇到了北方的蒙古人，这些人像茄子一样光滑。这是地球呈陀螺仪状倾斜后不久的事情，当时墨西哥湾流同日本湾流分道扬镳了。在地球的中心他们找到了石灰岩，于是他们将自己的语言绣在地壳底下。他们吃伙伴的内脏，森林围住了他们，围住了他们的骨头，脑壳和饰有花边的石灰岩，他们的语言便消失了。人们有时在这儿或那儿仍找得到一个兽群遗骸，一个被各种塑像所覆盖的头盖骨。

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The lions, too, are disappointed. They expected blood, bones, gristle, sinews. They chew and chew, but the words are chide and Chicle is indigestible. Chicle is a base over which you sprinkle sugar, pepsin, thyme, licorice. Chicle, when it is gathered by chicleros, is O.K. The chicleros came over on the ridge of a sunken continent. They brought with them an algebraic language. In the Arizona desert they met the Mongols of the North, glazed like eggplants. Time shortly after the earth had taken its gyroscopic lean – when the Gulf Stream was parting ways with the Japanese current. In the heart of the soil they found tufa rock. They embroidered the very bowels of the earth with their language. They ate one another’s entrails and the forest closed in on them, on their bones and skulls, on their lace tufa. Their language was lost. Here and there one still finds the remnants of a menagerie, a brain plate covered with figures.

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这一切与你有什么关系，莫尔多夫？你口中的话是杂乱无章的，说吧，莫尔多夫，我正等着你说呢。当咱俩握手时，谁也感觉不到透过我们汗水浇下的大量的水。每当想词儿时，你总是半张着嘴，唾液在你腮帮子里面流淌。我一跃跳过了半个亚洲，我到那儿丢捡你的手杖，尽管这是一技普普通通的手杖。在你身体一侧戳一个洞，我便可以搜集到足够塞满大英博物馆的东西。我们站上五分钟便可吞没很多个世纪。你是一个筛子，我的模糊想法便是通过它滤下去并且变成言语的，言语后面是一片混乱，每个词是一条、是一杠，只是杠还不够，永远无法做成一只筛子。

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What has all this to do with you, Moldorf? The word in your mouth is anarchy. Say it, Moldorf, I am waiting for it. Nobody knows, when we shake hands, the rivers that pour through our sweat. Whilst you are framing your words, your lips half parted, the saliva gurgling in your cheeks, I have jumped halfway across Asia. Were I to take your cane, mediocre as it is, and poke a little hole in your side, I could collect enough material to fill the British Museum. We stand on five minutes and devour centuries. You are the sieve through which my anarchy strains, resolves itself into words. Behind the word is chaos. Each word a stripe, a bar, but there are not and never will be enough bars to make the mesh.

道德经
论语
孙子兵法
禮記
孟子
尚書
詩經
周易
简典
A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z

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