thanksgiving是什么意思：鲁迅《秋夜》英译文对比赏析

2020年11月29日发(作者：奚奖)

鲁迅·《秋夜》英译

在我的后园，可以看见墙外有两株树，一株是枣树，还有一株也是枣树。

这上面 的夜的天空，奇怪而高，我生平没有见过这样奇怪而高的天空。他仿
佛要离开人间而去，使人们仰面不再 看见。然而现在却非常之蓝，闪闪地睒着几
十个星星的眼，冷眼。他的口角上现出微笑，似乎自以为大有 深意，而将繁霜洒
在我的园里的野花草上。

我不知道那些花草真叫什么名字，人 们叫他们什么名字。我记得有一种开过
极细小的粉红花，现在还开着，但是更极细小了，她在冷的夜气中 ，瑟缩地做梦，
梦见春的到来，梦见秋的到来，梦见瘦的诗人将眼泪擦在她最末的花瓣上，告诉
她秋虽然来，冬虽然来，而此后接着还是春，胡蝶乱飞，蜜蜂都唱起春词来了。
她于是一笑，虽然颜色冻 得红惨惨地，仍然瑟缩着。

枣树，他们简直落尽了叶子。先前，还有一两个孩子来打他们 ，别人打剩的
枣子，现在是一个也不剩了，连叶子也落尽了。他知道小粉红花的梦，秋后要有
春 ；他也知道落叶的梦，春后还是秋。他简直落尽叶子，单剩干子，然而脱了当
初满树是果实和叶子时候的 弧形，欠伸得很舒服。但是，有几枝还低亚着，护定
他从打枣的竿梢所得的皮伤，而最直最长的几枝，却 已默默地铁似的直刺着奇怪
而高的天空，使天空闪闪地鬼眨眼；直刺着天空中圆满的月亮，使月亮窘得发 白。

鬼睒眼的天空越加非常之蓝，不安了，仿佛想离去人间，避开枣树，只将月
亮剩下。然而月亮也暗暗地躲到东边去了。而一无所有的干子，却仍然默默地铁
似的直刺着奇怪而高的天 空，一意要制他的死命，不管他各式各样地睒着许多蛊
惑的眼睛。

哇的一声，夜游的恶鸟飞过了。

我忽而听到夜半的笑声，吃吃地，似乎不愿意惊 动睡着的人，然而四围的空
气都应和着笑。夜半，没有别的人，我即刻听出这声音就在我嘴里，我也即刻 被
这笑声所驱逐，回进自己的房。灯火的带子也即刻被我旋高了。

后窗的玻璃上 丁丁地响，还有许多小飞虫乱撞。不多久，几个进来了，许是
从窗纸的破孔进来的。他们一进来，又在玻 璃的灯罩上撞得丁丁地响。一个从上
面撞进去了，他于是遇到火，而且我以为这火是真的。两三个却休息 在灯的纸罩
上喘气。那罩是昨晚新换的罩，雪白的纸，折出波浪纹的叠痕，一角还画出一枝
猩红 色的栀子。

猩红的栀子开花时，枣树又要做小粉红花的梦，青葱地弯成弧形了……我又< br>听到夜半的笑声；我赶紧砍断我的心绪，看那老在白纸罩上的小青虫，头大尾小，
向日葵子似的， 只有半粒小麦那么大，遍身的颜色苍翠得可爱，可怜。

我打一个呵欠，点起一支纸烟，喷出烟来，对着灯默默地敬奠这些苍翠精致
的英雄们。

一九二四年九月十五日。


Autumn Night



Lu Xun



Behind the wall of my backyard you can see two trees: one is a date tree, the other is also a date
tree.



The night sky above them is strange and high. I have never seen such a strange, high sky. It seems
to want to leave this world of men, so that when folk look up they won’t be able to see it. For the
moment, though, it is singularly blue; and its scores of starry eyes are blinking coldly. A faint
smile plays round its lips, a smile which it seems to think highly significant; and it dusts the wild
plants in my courtyard with heavy frost.



I have no idea what these plants are called, what names they are commonly known by. One of
them, I remember, has minute pink flowers, and its flowers are still lingering on, although more
minute than ever. Shivering in the cold night air they dream of the coming of spring, of the coming
of autumn, of the lean poet wiping his tears upon their last petals, who tells them autumn will
come and winter will come, yet spring will follow when butterflies flit to and fro, and all the bees
start humming songs of spring. Then the little pink flowers smile, though they have turned a
mournful crimson with cold and are shivering still.



As for the date trees, they have lost absolutely all their leaves. Before, one or two boys still came
to beat down the dates other people had missed. But now not one date is left, and the trees have
lost all their leaves as well. They know the little pink flowers’ dream of spring after autumn; and
they know the dream of the fallen leaves of autumn after spring. They may have lost all their
leaves and have only their branches left; but these, no longer weighed down with fruit and foliage,
are stretching themselves luxuriously. A few boughs, though, are still drooping, nursing the
wounds made in their bark by the sticks which beat down the dates; while, rigid as iron, the
straightest and longest boughs silently pierce the strange, high sky, making it blink in dismay.
They pierce even the full moon in the sky, making it pale and ill at ease.



Blinking in dismay, the sky becomes bluer and bluer, more and more uneasy, as if eager to escape
from the world of men and avoid the date trees, leaving the moon behind. But the moon, too, is
hiding itself in the east; while, silent still and as rigid as iron, the bare boughs pierce the strange,
high sky, resolved to inflict on it a mortal wound, no matter in how many ways it winks all its
bewitching eyes.



With a shriek, a fierce night-bird passes.



All of a sudden, I hear midnight laughter. The sound is muffled, as if not to wake those who sleep;
yet all around the air resounds to this laughter. Midnight, and no one else is by. At once I realize it
is I who am laughing, and at once I am driven by this laughter back to my room. At once I turn up
the wick of my paraffin lamp.



A pit-a-pat sounds from the glass of the back window, where swarms of insects are recklessly
dashing themselves against the pane. Presently some get in, no doubt through a hole in the
window paper. Once in, they set up another pit-a-pat by dashing themselves against the chimney
of the lamp. One hurls itself into the chimney from the top, falling into the flame, and I fancy the
flame is real. On the paper shade two or three others rest, panting. The shade is a new one since
last night. Its snow white paper is pleated in wave-like folds, and painted in one corner is a spray
of blood-red gardenias.



When the blood-red gardenias blossom, the date trees, weighed down with bright foliage, will
dream once more the dream of the little pink flowers and I shall hear the midnight laughter again.
I hastily break off this train of thought to look at the small green insects still on the paper. Like
sunflower seeds with their large heads and small tails, they are only half the size of a grain of
wheat, the whole of them an adorable, pathetic green.



I yawn, light a cigarette, and puff out the smoke, paying silent homage before the lamp to these
green and exquisite heroes.



September 15, 1924.



（杨宪益、戴乃迭 译）

Autumn Night



Lu Xun



Through the window I can see two trees in my backyard. The one is a date tree, the other is also a
date tree.



The night sky above is a strange and distant. Never in my life have I seen such a strange and
distant sky. He seems intent on forsaking the world and staying out of people’s sight. But now he
is winking—with eyes of a few dozen stars, utterly blue, and cold. A smile hovers around his
mouth, seeming to him to be very profound, and thereupon he begins to spread frost on the wild
flowers and wild grass in my courtyard.



I do not know the names of these flowers and grasses, or what people call them. I remember a
plant that put forth a tiny flower—the flower is still in bloom, but she is even tiner, trembling in
the cold, dreaming. She dreams of the coming of spring, of autumn, of a skinny poet wiping his
tears on her last petal, telling her that autumn may come, winter may come, but eventually spring
will come, when butterflies will fly gaily about, and the bees will sing their spring song.
Thereupon she smiles, although she has turned red in the piercing cold and remains curled up.



The date trees have shed all their leaves. Some time ago, a boy or two still came to beat them for
the dates that others had left behind. Now, not a single one is left; even the leaves have all fallen.
The date tree understands the dream of the tiny pink flower, that after autumn spring will come; he
also knows the dream of the fallen leaves, that after spring there is still autumn.



He has shed all his foliage, leaving only the trunk; he is relieved from bending under his load of
leaves and fruit, and now enjoys stretching himself. But a few boughs are still hanging down,
nursing the wounds caused by the poles that struck him for his dates, while the longest and
straightest of his boughs are like iron, silently piercing the strange and distant sky, making him
wink his wicked eyes; piercing the full moon in the sky, making her go pale with embarrassment.



The wickedly winking sky turns an even deeper, perturbed blue. He seems intent on escaping from
men, on avoiding the date tree, leaving only the moon behind. But the moon has secretly hid
herself in the east. Only the naked trunk is still like iron, silently piercing the strange and distant
sky, determined to pierce it to death, regardless of how and how often he winks his seductive eyes.



With a sharp shriek, a vicious bird of the night flies past.



I suddenly hear a slight tittering in the middle of the night, so soft that it seems not to want to
awaken those who are asleep, though the titter echoes across the surroundings air. In the dead of
night, there is no one about. I instantly recognize that this laughter is coming from my own mouth.
Put to flight by the sound, I go back into my room and immediately raise the wick of my lamp.



The glass pane of the back window rattles; many insects are still blindly battering against it.
Shortly afterward, a few squeeze in, probably through the holes in the paper covering. Once inside,
they knock against the glass lampshade, making yet more rattling sounds. One plunges in from
above, and runs into the flame. It is a real flame, I think. But two or three rest panting on the paper
lampshade. The lampshade was replaced only last night, its snow- white paper folded in a wavelike
pattern, with a sprig of scarlet jasmine painted in one corner.



When the scarlet jasmine blossoms, the date tree will again dream the dream of the tiny pink
flower; it will grow lushly and bend in an arc. I hear again the midnight laughter, and immediately
cut the train of my thought. I look at these little insects still resting on the snow-white paper—their
heads big and tails small, like sunflower seeds, only half the size of a grain of wheat. How lovely
and pitiable they are in their emerald hue.



I yawn, and light a cigarette, puffing out the smoke. I stare at the lamp and pay silent tribute to
these dainty heroes in emerald green.





（Ng Mau-sang 译）