过半是由于村上太喜欢卡佛了

随便在散文依然在小说里,用经常但可相信的言语,去写普通的事物,并赋予那个普普通通的东西

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,依旧一块石头,或女孩子的耳环——以广大而惊心动魄的力量,那是能够形成的。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,那是能够成功的。

A fateful literary meeting: Raymond Carver and Haruki Murakami

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近来多看随笔短篇,翻开卡佛的短篇集《大教堂》的第③页,明明是中译本,前言却是村上春树所写,篇名「RaymondCarver:
法国人民的言语」。其中原因,多半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的创作中,也可看出卡佛的痕迹,语言平实,用词简练,多为没有甘休的停止。卡佛的文章被评论为极具极简主义的美学,就算他自身并不欣赏这一个标签。

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

一九八三年,在卡佛在美利坚联邦合众国还未持有巨大声誉之时,村上突发性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er so Close to
Home)的小说,继而深受感动,便左思右想把卡佛的拥有文章都翻译,并介绍到了日本。卡佛小说的旺盛内涵根植于她前半生所受的败诉,他无处阶层(即工人阶级或中国和亚洲法产阶层)所处的苦水和无奈,和他所观察到的愈来愈真正的美利哥。日本的读者喜欢卡佛,大概是因为他俩和美国的中产阶级一样,是隔开和窝火的。在他们生命中,恐怕有像样羞愧的东西在中间作梗,不管越南人依旧西班牙人都是如出一辙。

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1981年夏,村上夫妇去了在华盛顿州奥林匹亚半岛,登门拜访卡佛夫妇,他们的家建在山丘上,取了三个“sky house”
的雅名,当时卡佛正忙着写作,但要么控制要抽出时间来和村上聊一聊。译者大老远的从东瀛跑过来拜访,卡佛也自愿热情洋溢。据卡佛的太太说,「Ray
特别想和村上晤面。完全像个儿女没有差异雀跃着,他特地想知道,自个儿的小说是哪些把远隔重洋的两个人总是到一块的」。早晨村上夫妇到达现在,一起吃了熏罗锅鱼,喝了些白茶,村上和卡佛走到屋外的阶梯上,哀悼撞上玻璃的鸟儿之死,谈论着卡佛在扶桑获得好评的说辞。

(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.”

兴许是因为您的小说是由人生中过多的一线的耻辱而结缘的?那样马来人会相比不难接受。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

前些天,卡佛依据那段对话,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.

村上在局地阐述会上曾说,讲团结的随笔有点难为情,但是讲讲翻译是足以的,因为是人家写的小说。他通过翻译卡佛的小说,亦雕琢出来村上作风的文体,卡佛的文风诚实而简单,「推敲细密,把程式化的言语和不供给的修饰全体删减,在这几个基础上尽量以『传说』的格局,坦诚而温和地吐露自身的真心话,是卡佛追求的教育学境界」,那与村上也很为接近。固然2位的小说为主截然分歧,卡佛的世界聚焦于人与人之间的关联和内在的紧张感,而村上的世界则是围绕内心的孤身和无尽的想像。但他依然翻译了卡佛的一体小说。

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.

在那天的汇合中,村上尚无问卡佛翻译的事,也平昔不告知她,他实在是3个大诗人。

“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.

自作者猜笔者应当说的。但作者没悟出,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,它就像是保龄球一样。他并从未专门地上学过翻译,高校也并不是保加汉密尔顿语专业,只是高级中学的时候习惯了读塞尔维亚语原版的书本,积累大量的读书之后,大势所趋地,便学会了翻译。他说,小说能够依据自身的想法,天马行空,然则翻译不行,供给尽最大大概扼杀本笔者(ego),在制裁其中,让翻译中的自个儿谦虚而增添,那样对写随笔也有非常的大的补益。

“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.”

小说形式是把心里所思所想流畅而即兴的发挥出来,翻译形式则是把客人的所思所想对照本人的言语转换出来。村上在三十五年间,交替举办那三种形式,宛如精神上的血液循环一般。他把翻译名为「向外打开的窗」,去呢,把团结的看法放到国外去,把自个儿放在到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为一孔之见的摇摇欲坠。

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

(以上海体育场地片均出自于互连网。)

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

咱俩抿着茶。思忖着

本身的书在你的国家获得成功的

莫不的缘故。沉浸在

至于伤心和侮辱的攀谈中

那是您意识在笔者的小说中

屡次出现的事物。以及那种

纯属偶然的要素。全体那几个

什么样转化成销量。

自小编凝视着房间的二个角落。

刹这间,我又回到十七虚岁

和五三个傻小子

驾着一辆五十年间的雪铁龙小汽车

在雪地里横冲直撞。向此外一些家伙

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。

打算就到此甘休。

但本身的车窗降下了三英寸。

唯有三英寸。作者叫喊出

末尾一句下流话。看见卓殊东西

挥手手臂准备扔掉。从那么些便利地方

现行反革命,我猜测笔者看见它飞过去了。看见它

穿过空气赶快进步。笔者看着它,

就好像上个世纪前半期的

那个士兵瞧着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而她们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但当时自小编没瞧见。小编已转过头

和自家的伙伴们说笑。

黑马某种东西猛地撞击笔者尾部旁边,

我的耳膜震破了,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。

真难熬,作者开头哭泣,

在那多少个粗鲁的家伙前边,而他们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

老大扔雪球的实物,不得不装出惊愕,

目中无人的表情,当其余人朝他大吵大闹,

拍拍他的双肩意味着赞许。

她可能在裤子上擦了擦手。

与此同时在回家吃晚饭前

多闲荡了片刻。长大后

她必定碰到他的退步,遭逢

她生命中的退步,正如笔者一样。

他再没有想过

那么些早晨,为什么要想呢?

其余要想的事总是那样多。

干什么要记得那辆呆头呆脑的车

沿路滑行,然后转头拐角

紧接着消失?

我们在房间里雅致地举起茶杯。

多少个突然有点别的什么进来了的屋子。


参考资料:

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

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