多半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了

随意在随想依然在随笔里,用普通但标准的语言,去写普通的东西,并给予那一个平常的东西

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,依旧一块石头,或女人的耳环——以广大而惊魂动魄的力量,那是能够造成的。写一句表面上看起来无伤大雅的寒暄,并进而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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这两日多看小说短篇,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:
美利坚合众国公民的言语」。在那之中缘由,多半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的创作中,也可观看卡佛的印痕,语言平实,用词简练,多为未有达成的完成。卡佛的创作被切磋为极具极简主义的美学,就算他本身并反感那么些标签。

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

1984年,在卡佛在美利坚合众国还未持有巨大声誉之时,村上有的时候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,继而非常受感动,便大费周折把卡佛的富有小说都翻译,并介绍到了日本。卡佛小说的饱满内涵根植于她前半生所受的挫败,他无处阶层(即工人阶级或中专擅产阶层)所处的酸楚和无可奈何,和她所观望到的更加的真正的美利哥。日本的读者喜欢卡佛,大概是因为他们和U.S.A.的中产阶级一样,是隔开分离和抑郁的。在她们生命中,恐怕有近似羞愧的东西在内部作梗,不管印度人仍然意大利人都是一样。

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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,登门拜候卡佛夫妇,他们的家建在山丘上,取了二个“sky house”
的雅名,当时卡佛正忙着写作,但要么调整要挤出时间来和村上聊一聊。译者大老远的从东瀛跑过来拜谒,卡佛也自愿快乐。据卡佛的太太说,「Ray
特别想和村上拜会。完全像个子女一样雀跃着,他特地想清楚,自个儿的小说是如何把隔开重洋的四人再三再四到一块的」。早上村上夫妇到达现在,一齐吃了熏北赤眼鱼,喝了些白茶,村上和卡佛走到户外的台阶上,哀悼撞上玻璃的鸟儿之死,评论着卡佛在东瀛得到好评的说辞。

(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.”

莫不是因为您的小说是由人生中众多的细微的羞辱而构成的?那样印度人会比较轻巧接受。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

前天,卡佛依照这段对话,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.

村上在有些演讲会上曾说,讲团结的随笔有一点点难为情,可是讲讲翻译是足以的,因为是人家写的小说。他由此翻译卡佛的著述,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须要的梳洗全体剔除,在那么些基础上尽大概以『遗闻』的方式,坦诚而温柔地揭破本人的心声,是卡佛追求的农学境界」,那与村上也很为左近。就算二位的文章为主南辕北辙,卡佛的社会风气聚焦于人与人里面包车型客车涉嫌和内在的紧张感,而村上的世界则是环绕内心的孤独和成千上万的想像。但他如故翻译了卡佛的整个创作。

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.

在那天的晤面中,村上未有问卡佛翻译的事,也一贯不报告她,他其实是一个女诗人。

“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.

自个儿猜笔者应当说的。但自身没悟出,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,而非专门的职业,它就好像保龄球一样。他并未有极度地读书过翻译,大学也实际不是意大利语专门的学业,只是高中的时候习于旧贯了读波兰语原版的书本,积攒一大波的翻阅之后,大势所趋地,便学会了翻译。他说,小说可以依照自身的主见,天马行空,不过翻译不行,须求尽最大也许扼杀本自个儿(ego),在制裁个中,让翻译中的本人谦虚而扩大,那样对写小说也许有非常的大的平价。

“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.”

随笔格局是把内心所思所想流畅而自便的表明出来,翻译方式则是把客人的所思所想对照自身的语言调换出来。村上在三十八年间,交替举办那三种形式,仿佛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,把温馨的眼光放到国外去,把团结身处到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为目光如豆的险恶。

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

(以上航海用体育场地片均源于于网络。)

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

小编的书在你的国度得到成功的

兴许的来由。沉浸在

关于忧伤和侮辱的攀谈中

那是您意识在自身的小说中

一再出现的事物。以及这种

纯属有时的元素。全数那一个

怎么转化成销量。

自身凝视着房间的三个角落。

时而,作者又回来17虚岁

和五多少个傻小子

驾着一辆五十时期的道奇小汽车

在雪地里横冲直撞。向另外一些钱物

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。

策画就到此甘休。

但作者的车窗降下了三英寸。

只有三英寸。笔者叫喊出

提及底一句下流话。看见那些东西

挥手双手筹算扔掉。从这一个便利地方

明日,作者估摸笔者看见它飞过去了。看见它

越过空气快速发展。笔者望着它,

仿佛上个世纪前半期的

那多少个士兵看着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而她们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但立即本人没看见。小编已转过头

和笔者的同伙们说笑。

黑马某种东西猛地撞击小编底部旁边,

自家的耳膜震破了,耳垂

掉下来,完整无缺。贰个紧实的

冰雪球。疼痛是钻心的。

耻辱也是。

真忧伤,笔者起来哭泣,

在那二个粗鲁的家伙眼下,而他们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

那多少个扔雪球的钱物,不得不装出惊愕,

自大的神气,当其余人朝他大吵大闹,

拍拍他的双肩意味着嘉许。

她恐怕在裤子上擦了擦手。

再者在回家吃晚饭前

多闲荡了一会儿。长大后

她自然遭到他的挫败,蒙受

他生命中的失利,正如小编同一。

她再未有想过

不行早上,为啥要想呢?

其他要想的事总是如此多。

缘何要记得那辆呆头呆脑的车

沿着马路滑行,然后转头拐角

继之消失?

我们在屋子里雅致地举起保温杯。

一个陡然有一点其余什么进来了的房屋。


仿效资料:

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