加载中…【佩索阿的一个早晨】
(2015-08-13 08:56:25)
除掉睡眠，人的一辈子只有一万多天。人与人的不同在于：你是真的活了一万多天，还是仅仅生活了一天，却重复了一万多次。
我希望能够远走，逃离我的所知，逃离我的所有。我想出发，去任何地方，不论是村庄或者荒原，只要不是这里就行。我向往的只是不再见到这些人，不再过这种没完没了的日子。我想做到的，是卸下我已习惯的伪装，成为另一个我，以此得到喘息。不幸的是，我在这些事情上从来都事与愿违。
我最快乐的时候，是我既不思想也不向往的时候，甚至没有梦的时候，我把自己失落在某种虚有所获的麻木之中，生活的地表上青苔生长。我品尝自己什么也不是的荒诞感，预尝一种死亡和熄灭的滋味，却没有丝毫苦涩。
自由是孤立的可能性。只有你离开了人们，感到无需为了钱，或者为了合群，或者为了爱情、光荣甚至好奇去追寻他们，你才能获得自由----那些事情没有哪一件可以得到宁静和寂寞的滋养。
我们活过的刹那，前后皆是暗夜。
文学是艺术嫁给了思想，使现实纯洁无暇的现实化。
Whether we write or speak or do but lookWe are ever unapparent. What we areCannot be transfused into word or book.Our soul from us is infinitely far.However much we give our thoughts the willTo be our soul and gesture it abroad,Our hearts are incommunicable still.In what we show ourselves we are ignored.The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridgedBy any skill of thought or trick of seeming.Unto our very selves we are abridgedWhen we would utter to our thought our being.We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams,And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.
We are born at sunset and we die ere morn,And the whole darkness of the world we know,How can we guess its truth, to darkness born,The obscure consequence of absent glow?Only the stars do teach us light. We graspTheir scattered smallnesses with thoughts that stray,And, though their eyes look through night's complete mask,Yet they speak not the features of the day.Why should these small denials of the wholeMore than the black whole the pleased eyes attract?Why what it calls «worth» does the captive soulAdd to the small and from the large detract?So, put of light's love wishing it night's stretch,A nightly thought of day we darkly reach.
我希望能够远走，逃离我的所知，逃离我的所有。我想出发，去任何地方，不论是村庄或者荒原，只要不是这里就行。我向往的只是不再见到这些人，不再过这种没完没了的日子。我想做到的，是卸下我已习惯的伪装，成为另一个我，以此得到喘息。不幸的是，我在这些事情上从来都事与愿违。
我最快乐的时候，是我既不思想也不向往的时候，甚至没有梦的时候，我把自己失落在某种虚有所获的麻木之中，生活的地表上青苔生长。我品尝自己什么也不是的荒诞感，预尝一种死亡和熄灭的滋味，却没有丝毫苦涩。
自由是孤立的可能性。只有你离开了人们，感到无需为了钱，或者为了合群，或者为了爱情、光荣甚至好奇去追寻他们，你才能获得自由----那些事情没有哪一件可以得到宁静和寂寞的滋养。
我们活过的刹那，前后皆是暗夜。
文学是艺术嫁给了思想，使现实纯洁无暇的现实化。
Whether we write or speak or do but lookWe are ever unapparent. What we areCannot be transfused into word or book.Our soul from us is infinitely far.However much we give our thoughts the willTo be our soul and gesture it abroad,Our hearts are incommunicable still.In what we show ourselves we are ignored.The abyss from soul to soul cannot be bridgedBy any skill of thought or trick of seeming.Unto our very selves we are abridgedWhen we would utter to our thought our being.We are our dreams of ourselves, souls by gleams,And each to each other dreams of others' dreams.
We are born at sunset and we die ere morn,And the whole darkness of the world we know,How can we guess its truth, to darkness born,The obscure consequence of absent glow?Only the stars do teach us light. We graspTheir scattered smallnesses with thoughts that stray,And, though their eyes look through night's complete mask,Yet they speak not the features of the day.Why should these small denials of the wholeMore than the black whole the pleased eyes attract?Why what it calls «worth» does the captive soulAdd to the small and from the large detract?So, put of light's love wishing it night's stretch,A nightly thought of day we darkly reach.
喜欢
0
赠金笔
后一篇：【帕斯捷尔纳克的色彩学】