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原文： 4 M [' n% Z6 HI saw color-patches for weeks after I read this wonderful book. It was summer; the peaches were ripe in the valley orchards. When I woke in the morning, color-patches wrapped round my eyes, intricately, leaving not one unfilled spot. All day long I walked among shifting color-patches that parted before me like the Red Sea and closed again in silence, transfigured, wherever I looked back. Some patches swelled and loomed, while others vanished utterly, and dark marks flitted at random over the whole dazzling sweep. But I couldn’t sustain the illusion of flatness. I’ve been around for too long. Form is condemned to an eternal danse macabre with meaning: I couldn’t unpeach the peaches. Now can I remember ever having seen without understanding; the colorpatches of infancy are lost. My brain then must have been smooth as any balloon. I’m told I reached for the moon; many babies do. But the color-patches of infancy swelled as meaning filled them; they arrayed themselves in solemn ranks down distance which unrolled and stretched before me like a plain. The moon rocketed away. I live now in a world of shadows that take shape and distance color, a world where space makes a kind of terrible sense. What gnosticism is this, and what physics? The fluttering patch I saw in my nursery window—silver and green and shapeshifting blue—is gone; a row of Lombardy poplars takes its place, mute, across the distant lawn. That humming oblong creature pale as light that stole along the walls of my room at night, stretching exhilaratingly around the corners, is gone, too, gone the night I ate of the bittersweet fruit, put two and two together and puckered forever my brain. Martin Buber tells this tale: “Rabbi Mendel once boasted to his teacher Rabbi Elimelekh that evenings he saw the angel who rolls away the light before the darkness, and mornings the angel who rolls away the darkness before the light. ‘Yes,’ said Rabbie Elimelekh, ‘in my youth I saw that too. Later on you don’t see these things any more.’” 1 o. x6 O/ f6 o- Y$ y3 H8 [" O% _+ c( a4 z) E# t) V8 X" ?
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Annie Dillard (from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, HarperPerennial, 1974)0 f3 T( B& |& {$ f. M* _# ]3 N http://www.anniedillard.com/ 5 c, n' G1 b3 ~& H ~ c8 {" m& g" b- Z* L( D
" k! P1 v G* `5 _; p8 `维基上的作者和作品简介： + \, e: k1 C, M8 Y- h* D* n" i) h4 |4 ?* e! a5 z/ K
Annie Dillard (born April 30, 1945) is an American author, best known for her narrative prose in both fiction and non-fiction. She has published works of poetry, essays, prose, and literary criticism, as well as two novels and one memoir. Her 1974 work Pilgrim at Tinker Creek won the 1975 Pulitzer Prize for General Nonfiction. Dillard taught for 21 years in the English department of Wesleyan University, in Middletown, Connecticut.[groupid=211]叶子的小院[/groupid]作者: 齐若散 时间: 2017-2-19 06:52
港真，读这个帖子，自然是依序先读的译文，再看的原著。 0 R$ d. N8 X$ C ) P1 V1 Z) x1 E: _0 g2 n0 ~读译文时，脑海里一直萦绕着连绵不断的惊叹号，这翻译太棒了，除了语言的精炼，更有配合得天衣无缝的后面有注解的内容，仿佛读古诗时汲取的不只是那首诗的营养，更能溯源到前一或者前几个作者的精华。再看后面的英文原文时，直觉译文要比原文好很多。当然，这一方面说明了我英文的匮乏，另一方面也因译者鹤梦白云上展现出了知识的渊博和功底的深厚。+ m3 f1 _% i A, z: j