被遗忘的内心方言

多么令人惊讶，语言几乎总能有意义，
多么让人害怕，它并不完全有意义。爱，我们说，
上帝，我们说，罗马和美智子，我们写，而词语
误解了它。我们说面包，它的意义取决于
哪一个民族。法语没有一个词表示家，
我们没有一个词表示严格的快乐。印度北部
有一个民族即将灭绝，因为他们古老的语言里
没有亲爱这类词语。我梦到已经消逝的
词汇，它们可能表达了某些我们再也无法
表达的东西。也许伊特鲁里亚的文本
最终会解释为什么坟墓上的那对夫妇
正在微笑。也许不会解释。当数以千计
神秘的苏美尔匾牌被破译的时候，
它们似乎是商业记录。但如果
是诗文或圣歌呢？我的喜悦如同十二只
埃塞俄比亚山羊静立在清晨的阳光里。

噢，主啊，你是盐板和铜锭，
壮丽如成熟的麦子在风的吹动中弯曲。

她的胸脯是六头白色公牛，系着
埃及长纤维缰绳。我的爱是一百罐
蜂蜜。大量的金钟柏是我的身体
想对你的身体的述说。长颈鹿是黑夜里的
这种欲望。或许，螺旋状的米诺斯文字 [1]
不是一种语言而是一幅地图。我们感受最多的
没有名字，除了琥珀，人马座，樟树，马和鸟。

THE FORGOTTEN DIALECT OF THE HEART

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not a language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
P.5

热爱

每次听到男人们夸耀他们如何

有激情，我就想起两位清洁女工

在二楼窗边观看一个男人——
他刚从一个供应许多免费啤酒的
聚会回来，在大楼跑进跑出

找洗手间。“我的天，”

高个女人说，“下面那个家伙

肯定热爱建筑艺术。”

LOVERS

When I hear men boast about how passionate
they are, I think of the two cleaning ladies
at a second-story window watching a man
coming back from a party where there was
lots of free beer. He runs in and out
of building looking for a toilet. “My Lord,”
the tall woman says, “that fellow down there
surely does love architecture.”
P.6