加载中…
个人资料
Rhapsodia_晚枫
Rhapsodia_晚枫
  • 博客等级:
  • 博客积分:0
  • 博客访问:371,132
  • 关注人气:770
  • 获赠金笔:0支
  • 赠出金笔:0支
  • 荣誉徽章:
相关博文
推荐博文
谁看过这篇博文
加载中…
正文 字体大小:

【双语朗诵素材】匆匆Rush       朱自清

(2010-08-27 04:33:39)
标签:

汉英

教育

散文

朗诵

分类: 英汉诵读素材、视频

匆匆         文/朱自清 

 

  燕子去了,有再来的时候;杨柳枯了,有再青的时候;桃花谢了,有再开的时候。但是,聪明的,你告诉我,我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢?——是有人偷了他们罢:那是谁?又藏在何处呢?是他们自己逃走了:现在又到了哪里呢?


  我不知道他们给了我多少日子;但我的手确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着,八千多日子已经从我手中溜去;象针尖上一滴水滴在大海里,我的日子滴在时间的流里,没有声音也没有影子。我不禁头涔涔而泪潸潸了。

  去的尽管去了,来的尽管来着,去来的中间,又怎样的匆匆呢?早上我起来的时候,小屋里射进两三方斜斜的太阳。太阳他有脚啊,轻轻悄悄地挪移了;我也茫茫然跟着旋转。于是——洗手的时候,日子从水盆里过去;吃饭的时候,日子从饭碗里过去;默默时,便从凝然的双眼前过去。我觉察他去的匆匆了,伸出手遮挽时,他又从遮挽着的手边过去,天黑时,我躺在床上,他便伶伶俐俐地从我身边垮过,从我脚边飞去了。等我睁开眼和太阳再见,这算又溜走了一日。我掩着面叹息。但是新来的日子的影儿又开始在叹息里闪过了。

  在逃去如飞的日子里,在千门万户的世界里的我能做些什么呢?只有徘徊罢了,只有匆匆罢了;在八千多日的匆匆里,除徘徊外,又剩些什么呢?过去的日子如轻烟却被微风吹散了,如薄雾,被初阳蒸融了;我留着些什么痕迹呢?我何曾留着象游丝样的痕迹呢?我赤裸裸来到这世界,转眼间也将赤裸裸地回去罢?但不能平的,为什么偏要白白走这一遭啊?

    你聪明的,告诉我,我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢?


朱纯深译本

Rush

Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? - If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could he hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment?

 

    I don't know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes. 
    Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus--the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.

    What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind, or evaporated as mist by the morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to the world, stark naked; am I to go back, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I have made such a trip for nothing!

 

You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?

张培基译本

Transient Days ­
        If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn green again. If peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have been stolen by someone. But who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhaps they have just run away by themselves. But where could they be at the present moment? 
        I don't know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of them is undoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8,000 days have already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the stream of time without leaving a trace. At the thought of this, sweat oozes from my forehead and tears trickle down my cheeks. 
        What is gone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the transition in between! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or three squarish patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in its revolution .Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands; vanishes in the rice bowl when I have my meal; passes away quietly before the fixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie. Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my out-stretched hands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body and flits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day is already gone. I heave a sigh, my head buried in my hands. But, in the midst of my sighs, a new day is flashing past. ­
        Living in this world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but waver and wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8,000 fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps of smoke, have been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, not even gossamer-like traces. I have come to this world stark naked, and in the twinkling of an eye, I am to go to back as stark naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass through this world for nothing at all? ­

        You the wise, would you tell me please: why should our days go by never to return?

张梦井译本
Days Gone By ­

        When the swallows have gone, there is still time to return; when the poplar and willow trees have become withered, there is still time to see green; when the peach flowers have already faded, there is still time to blossom. But please tell me, the genius, why then have my days gone and never returned? If some people have stolen them, then who are they? And where are they hidden? If they have escaped by themselves, then where are they now? 
        I don't know how many days I have been given, but they in my hands are becoming numbered. Counting silently, eight thousand days have slipped by. Just like water drops a pinpoint dripping slowly into the vast ocean, my days have been dripping into the river of time, quietly and invisibly. I can’t help dripping with sweat and weeping many tears.
        Although the goings have gone and the comings are constantly coming, how hurried is the time between? When I get up in the morning, I see two or three ribbons of light streaming into my room. The sun also has feet; it moves away on tiptoe and I follow it aimlessly. When I wash my hands, my days wash off into my basin; when I am eating, the days vanish from my bowl; and when I am sitting silently, my days pass by my gazing eyes. When I feel them go away so hurriedly, I reach out my hands only to hold them back before they are beyond my grasp. When it is dark, I lie upon my bed and watch days cleverly jump over my body or fly away from my feet. When I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day has gone by. I cover my face and sigh, but the spark of a new day begins to flash away in my breath.

        In these swiftly escaping days, what can I do in this world amongst thousands of households? I can do nothing but hesitate and hurry. In these over eight thousand hurried days, what has been left to me besides hesitation? The past days like light smoke are blown away with the breeze or like a thin layer of mist evaporate with the morning sun. And what mark have I left in the world? When have I ever left a mark as tiny as a hairspring? I came to this world naked, soon I’ll leave here naked too. But, it's unfair to me. . . why did I come to this world for nothing? ­

        You, the genius, please tell me why our days have gone by and have never returned?

铁冰译本

【《匆匆》三家译文各有佳句,更多缺陷。今重译之,有吸收各家所长之句,更有另辟蹊径之妙语。-- 铁冰】 
Rush in Hush ­

        When swallows have gone, there’s still a time to return; when willow trees have become withered, there’s still a time to regreen; when peach blossoms have faded, there’s still a time to rebloom. But, you the wise, tell me, why would our days be gone yet never come back? If they have been stolen by someone, who should it be and where could he hide them? Or if they just have fled by themselves, then where should they be now?
        I do not know how many days my life was granted. However, I do feel in my hands they are running out. I count in my heart, and find that more than eight thousand days and nights have slipped away though my fingers. Just like a water drop that drips from a needle tip and vanishes into the vast ocean, my days have been dripping into the stream of time, even without a sound or a trace. Once I think of that, I can’t help having my forehead flooded in sweats and face drowned in tears.
        Those gone do have gone, and those to come are simply coming; yet in between, how hasty does the rush like? When I get up at dawn I can see two or three patches of light are slantingly cast in my small room by the sun. But he silently and stealthily moves away on his own feet, making me follow up absently. So, when I wash my hands, my days pass by beside the sink; when I have my meal, they pass away between dishes; when I am drowned in contemplation, they pass on before my gazing eyes. When I notice they are going so hurriedly, I reach out my hands and try to hold them back, only to see them glide away beyond my holding hands; when I lie in bed at night, they nimbly stride over my body and flit past my feet; when I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one more day is gone. I can’t but sigh with my face buried in hands, but the new day has begun to flash away in my sighs. ­

        What can I do in this bustling world with my days fleeting as fleeing? Oh nothing but wander, only wander in haste! What have I done in my eight-thousand-day rush, except wandering? The past days, like light smokes, have been blown away by gentle breeze; and like thin mists, have been melted by the rising sun. Oh what have I left behind, have I ever left behind even a mark as tiny as gossamer, other than nothing?­ ­Shall I, who stark-nakedly came to this world, leave with the same nakedness in a blink? If so, how can I not regret, for going though my life all in vain? ­­

        You the wise, tell me, why should our days be gone yet never come back?

无心剑译本:

Gone in a Rush

by Zhu Ziqing

Swallows will return even they have gone; willow trees will regreen even they have withered; peach flowers will rebloom even they have faded. But, you the wise, tell me, why would our days be gone without return? If someone has stolen them, who and where is he then? Or if they have fled themselves, where are they now?

I don't know how many days were given to me, but I do feel they slip away from my hands. Counted in silence, over eight thousand days have gone through my fingers. Just as a waterdrop drips from a needle tip into the sea, my days drip into the stream of time without any sound or trace. O, sweat floods my head and tears drown my face!

The past has gone and the future still comes, yet in between, it is such a rush! When I get up in the morning, my small room is greeted by two or three patches of slanting sunshine. The sun silently moves on its own feet, while I follow it without awareness. So, when I wash my hands, my days pass my washbasin; when I have my meal, they pass my ricebowl; when I meditate, they pass my gazing eyes. When I realize they go in such a hurry, I stretch out my hands to hold them back, but they also pass my hands; when I lie in bed at night, they quickly stride over my body and flit past my feet; when I open my eyes to meet the sun again, one more day is gone. I bury my face in my hands and sigh, but a new day again begins to flash away in my sigh.

What can I do in this crowded world during my days fleeing like an arrow? O nothing but wander! O nothing but rush! In the rush of my past eight thousand days, what remains besides my wandering? The past days are like a light smoke, blown away by breeze, and like a thin mist, melted by the morning sun. What trace have I left on this world? Alas, even a gossamer trace I have not left! I came to this world stark-nakedly, and instantly I will leave this world in the same way! But how can I not complain of going through this life all in vain?

You the wise, tell me, why would our days be gone without return?

0

阅读 评论 收藏 转载 喜欢 打印举报/Report
  • 评论加载中,请稍候...
发评论

    发评论

    以上网友发言只代表其个人观点,不代表新浪网的观点或立场。

      

    新浪BLOG意见反馈留言板 电话:4000520066 提示音后按1键(按当地市话标准计费) 欢迎批评指正

    新浪简介 | About Sina | 广告服务 | 联系我们 | 招聘信息 | 网站律师 | SINA English | 会员注册 | 产品答疑

    新浪公司 版权所有