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沃尔特•惠特曼#我自己的歌#章节二十六

(2013-05-06 15:53:04)
标签:

杂谈

分类: 美国文学

 

Whitman in New Orleans, 1848 (a daguerreotype; photographer unknown).


现在我除了倾听以外不作别的,
把听到的注入这首歌,让声音为它作出贡献。

我听见鸟类的华丽唱段,正在成长的小麦的喧闹声,
火苗在闲嚼舌头,煮着我饭食的柴枝在爆炸,
我听见了我爱听的声音,人的声音,
我听见各种声音在同时鸣响着,联合在二起,互相熔入,或互相追随着,
城里的声音,城外的声音,白天和黑夜的声音,
健谈的青年们对喜欢他们的人说话,工人们在进食时的放声大笑,
友谊破裂后的粗声粗气,病人们的微弱声调,
法官的手紧攥着桌子,他苍白的嘴唇宣判着死刑,
码头上卸货工人的杭育声,起锚工人的齐声哼唱,
警钟的鸣响,喊叫失火的声音,伴随着警铃和颜色灯光呼呼疾驶而来的机车和水龙车,
汽笛声,列车渐渐走近时的隆隆滚动声,
两人一排的行列前面吹奏着慢步的进行曲,
(他们是前去守灵的,旗杆头上还蒙盖着黑纱。)

我听见了低音提琴,(这是那青年人的内心在悲鸣,)
我听见了那安着键钮的短号,它迅速地滑进了我的耳鼓,
它穿过我的胸与腹,激起了阵阵蜜样甜的伤痛。

我听见了合唱队,这是一出大型歌剧,
啊,这才是音乐--这正合我的心意。

一个和宇宙一样宽广而清新的男高音将我灌注满了,
他那圆圆的口腔还在倾注着,而且把我灌得满满的。

我听见那有修养的女高音(我这项工作又怎能和她相匹配?)
弦乐队带着我旋转,使我飞得比天王星22还远,
它从我身上攫取了连我自己都不知道我怀有的热情,
它使我飘举,我赤着双脚轻拍,承受着懒惰的波浪的舔弄,
我受到了凄苦而狂怒的冰雹的打击,我透不过气来,
我浸泡在加了蜜糖的麻醉剂中,我的气管受到了绳索般的死亡的窒息,
最后又被放松,以体验这谜中之谜,
即我们所谓的“存在”。


 

Section 26

Now I will do nothing but listen,
To accrue what I hear into this song, to let sounds contribute toward it.
I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat, gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the day and night,
Talkative young ones to those that like them, the loud laugh of work-people at their meals,
The angry base of disjointed friendship, the faint tones of the sick,
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing a death-sentence,
The heave'e'yo of stevedores unlading ships by the wharves, the refrain of the anchor-lifters,
The ring of alarm-bells, the cry of fire, the whirr of swift-streak-
         ing engines and hose-carts with premonitory tinkles and color'd lights,
The steam-whistle, the solid roll of the train of approaching cars,
The slow march play'd at the head of the association marching two and two,
(They go to guard some corpse, the flag-tops are draped with black muslin.)
I hear the violoncello, ('tis the young man's heart's complaint,)
I hear the key'd cornet, it glides quickly in through my ears,
It shakes mad-sweet pangs through my belly and breast.
I hear the chorus, it is a grand opera,
Ah this indeed is music—this suits me.
A tenor large and fresh as the creation fills me,
The orbic flex of his mouth is pouring and filling me full.
I hear the train'd soprano (what work with hers is this?)
The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies,
It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them,
It sails me, I dab with bare feet, they are lick'd by the indolent waves,
I am cut by bitter and angry hail, I lose my breath,
Steep'd amid honey'd morphine, my windpipe throttled in fakes of death,
At length let up again to feel the puzzle of puzzles,
And that we call Being.

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