整理英文辛波斯卡诺贝尔领奖致辞

Nobel Lecture

The Poet and the World

by Wislawa Szymborska

Polish Poet/Nobel Literature Prize 1996

December 10, 1996 at the Stockholm Concert Hall, Stockholm, Sweden

They say the first sentence in any speech is always the hardest. Well, that one's behind me, anyway

.

But I have a feeling that the sentences to come - the third, the sixth, the tenth, and so on, up to the

final line - will be just as hard, since I'm supposed to talk about poetry. I've said very little on the

subject, next to nothing, in fact. And whenever I have said anything, I've always had the sneaking

suspicion that I'm not very good at it. This is why my lecture will be rather short. All imperfection

is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

Contemporary

poets

are

skeptical

and suspicious

even,

or

perhaps

especially,

about

themselves.

They publicly confess to being poets only reluctantly, as if they were a little ashamed of it. But in

our clamorous

times

it's

much

easier

to

acknowledge

your

faults,

at

least

if

they're

attractively

packaged, than to recognize your own merits, since these are hidden deeper and you never quite

believe in them yourself ... When filling in questionnaires or chatting with strangers, that is, when

they can't avoid revealing their profession, poets prefer to use the general term

with

the

name

of

whatever

job

they

do

in

addition

to

writing.

Bureaucrats

and

bus

passengers respond with a touch of incredulity and alarm when they find out that they're dealing

with

a

poet. I

suppose

philosophers

may

meet with

a

similar

reaction.

Still,

they're

in

a

better

position, since as often as not they can embellish their calling with some kind of scholarly title.

Professor of philosophy - now that sounds much more respectable.

But

there

are

no

professors

of

poetry

.

This would

mean,

after

all,

that

poetry

is

an

occupation

requiring

specialized

study,

regular

examinations,

theoretical

articles

with

bibliographies

and

footnotes attached, and finally, ceremoniously conferred diplomas. And this would mean, in turn,

that it's not enough to cover pages with even the most exquisite poems in order to become a poet.

The crucial element is some slip of paper bearing an official stamp. Let us recall that the pride of

Russian

poetry,

the

future

Nobel

Laureate

Joseph

Brodsky was

once

sentenced

to

internal

exile

precisely on such grounds. They called him

lacked official certification

granting him the right to be a poet ...

Several years ago, I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Brodsky in person. And I noticed that,

of

all

the

poets

I've

known,

he

was

the

only

one

who

enjoyed

calling

himself

a

poet.

He

pronounced the word without inhibitions. Just the opposite

- he spoke it with defiant freedom. It

seems

to

me

that

this

must

have

been

because

he

recalled

the

brutal

humiliations

he

had

experienced in his youth.

In more fortunate countries, where human dignity isn't assaulted so readily, poets yearn, of course,

to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the

common herd and the daily grind. And yet it wasn't so long ago, in this century's first decades, that

poets

strove

to

shock

us

with

their

extravagant

dress

and

eccentric

behavior.

But

all

this

was

merely for the sake of public display. The moment always came when poets had to close the doors

behind

them,

strip

off

their

mantles,

fripperies,

and

other

poetic

paraphernalia,

and

confront

-

silently, patiently awaiting their own selves - the still white sheet of paper. For this is finally what

really counts.

It's not accidental that film biographies of great scientists and artists are produced in droves. The

more ambitious directors seek to reproduce convincingly the creative process that led to important

scientific

discoveries

or

the

emergence

of

a

masterpiece.

And

one

can

depict

certain

kinds

of

scientific labor with some success. Laboratories, sundry instruments, elaborate machinery brought

to life: such scenes may hold the audience's interest for a while. And those moments of uncertainty

- will the experiment, conducted for the thousandth time with some tiny modification, finally yield

the

desired

result?

- can

be

quite

dramatic.

Films

about

painters can

be

spectacular,

as they

go

about recreating every stage of a famous painting's evolution, from the first penciled

line to the

final brushstroke. Music swells in films about composers: the first bars of the melody that rings in

the musician's ears finally emerge as a mature work in symphonic form. Of course this is all quite

naive

and

doesn't

explain

the

strange

mental

state

popularly

known

as

inspiration,

but

at

least

there's something to look at and listen to.

But poets are the worst. Their work is hopelessly unphotogenic. Someone sits at a table or lies on

a sofa while staring motionless at a wall or ceiling. Once in a while this person writes down seven

lines

only

to

cross

out

one

of them

fifteen

minutes

later,

and

then

another

hour

passes,

during

which nothing happens ... Who could stand to watch this kind of thing?

I've mentioned inspiration. Contemporary poets answer evasively when asked what it is, and if it

actually

exists.

It's

not

that

they've

never

known

the

blessing

of

this

inner

impulse.

It's

just

not

easy to explain something to someone else that you don't understand yourself.

When

I'm

asked

about

this

on

occasion,

I

hedge

the

question

too.

But

my

answer

is

this:

inspiration is not the exclusive privilege of poets or artists generally. There is, has been, and will

always

be

a

certain

group

of

people

whom

inspiration

visits.

It's

made

up

of

all

those

who've

consciously chosen their calling and do their job with love and imagination. It may include doctors,

teachers,

gardeners

-

and

I

could

list

a

hundred

more

professions.

Their

work

becomes

one

continuous adventure as long as they manage to keep discovering new challenges in it. Difficulties

and setbacks never quell their curiosity. A

swarm of new questions emerges from every problem

they solve. Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous

There aren't many such people. Most of the earth's inhabitants work to get by

. They work because

they have to. They didn't pick this or that kind of job out of passion; the circumstances of their

lives

did

the choosing

for

them.

Loveless

work,

boring work,

work

valued

only

because

others

haven't

got

even

that

much,

however

loveless

and

boring

-

this

is

one

of

the

harshest

human

miseries. And there's no sign that coming centuries will produce any changes for the better as far

as this goes.

And so, though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group

of Fortune's darlings.

At

this

point,

though, certain

doubts

may

arise

in

my

audience.

All

sorts

of

torturers,

dictators,

fanatics, and demagogues struggling for power by way of a few loudly shouted slogans also enjoy

their

jobs,

and

they

too

perform

their

duties with

inventive

fervor.

Well,

yes,

but

they

They know, and whatever they know is enough for them once and for all. They don't want to find

out about anything else, since that might diminish their arguments' force. And any knowledge that

doesn't

lead

to

new

questions

quickly

dies

out:

it

fails

to

maintain

the

temperature required

for

sustaining life. In the most extreme cases, cases well known from ancient and modern history, it

even poses a lethal threat to society.

This

is why

I

value

that

little

phrase

don't

know

highly.

It's small,

but

it

flies

on

mighty

wings. It

expands

our

lives

to

include

the

spaces within

us

as well

as

those

outer

expanses

in

which our tiny Earth hangs suspended. If Isaac Newton had never said to himself

the

apples

in

his

little

orchard

might

have

dropped

to

the

ground

like

hailstones

and

at

best

he

would

have

stooped

to

pick

them

up

and

gobble

them

with

gusto.

Had

my

compatriot

Marie

Sklodowska-Curie

never

said

to

herself

don't

know

she

probably

would

have

wound

up

teaching chemistry at some private high school for young ladies from good families, and would

have ended her days performing this otherwise perfectly respectable job. But she kept on saying

don't

know,

and

these

words

led

her,

not

just

once

but

twice,

to

Stockholm,

where

restless,

questing spirits are occasionally rewarded with the Nobel Prize.

Poets, if they're genuine, must also keep repeating

answer

this

statement,

but

as soon

as

the

final

period

hits

the

page,

the

poet

begins

to

hesitate,

starts to realize that this particular answer was pure makeshift that's absolutely inadequate to boot.

So the poets keep on trying, and sooner or later the consecutive results of their self-dissatisfaction

are clipped together with a giant paperclip by literary historians and called their

I sometimes dream of situations that can't possibly come true. I audaciously imagine, for example,

that I get a chance to chat with the Ecclesiastes, the author of that moving lament on the vanity of

all

human

endeavors. I would

bow

very

deeply

before

him,

because

he

is,

after

all,

one

of

the

greatest poets, for me at least. That done, I would grab his hand.

sun': that's what you wrote, Ecclesiastes. But you yourself were born new under the sun. And the

poem you created is also new under the sun, since no one wrote it down before you. And all your

readers

are

also

new

under

the

sun,

since

those who

lived

before

you couldn't

read

your

poem.

And that cypress that you're sitting under hasn't been growing since the dawn of time. It came into

being by way of another cypress similar to yours, but not exactly the same. And Ecclesiastes, I'd

also

like

to

ask

you what

new

thing

under

the

sun

you're

planning

to

work

on

now?

A

further

supplement to the thoughts you've already expressed? Or maybe you're tempted to contradict some

of them now? In your earlier work you mentioned joy

- so what if it's fleeting? So maybe your

new-under-the-sun poem will be about joy? Have you taken notes yet, do you have drafts? I doubt