第二十一届韩素音翻译题目

英译汉

Beyond Life

I

want

my

life,

the

only

life

of

which

I

am

assured,

to

have

symmetry

or,

in

default

of

that,

at

least

to

acquire

some

clarity.

Surely

it

is

not

asking

very

much

to

wish

that

my

personal

conduct

be

intelligible

to

me!

Yet

it

is

forbidden

to

know

for

what

purpose

this

universe

was

intended,

to

what

end

it

was

set

a-going,

or

why

I

am

here,

or

even

what

I

had

preferably

do

while

here.

It

vaguely

seems

to

me

that

I

am

expected

to

perform

an

allotted

task,

but

as

to

what

it

is

I

have

no

notion. And

indeed,

what

have

I

done

hitherto,

in

the

years

behind

me?

There

are

some

books

to

show

as

increment,

as something which was not anywhere before I made it, and which even in bulk will

replace my buried body, so that my life will be to mankind no loss materially. But

the

course

of

my

life,

when

I

look

back,

is

as

orderless

as

a

trickle

of

water

that

is diverted and guided by every pebble and crevice and grass-root it encounters.

I

seem

to

have

done

nothing

with

pre- meditation,

but

rather,

to

have

had

things

done

to me. And for all the rest of my life, as I know now, I shall have to shave every

morning in order to be ready for no more than this!

I

have

attempted

to

make

the

best

of

my

material

circumstances

always;

nor

do

I

see

to-day how any widely varying course could have been wiser or even feasible: but

material

things

have

nothing

to

do

with

that

life

which

moves

in

me.

Why,

then,

should

they direct and heighten and provoke and curb every action of life? It is against

the

tyranny

of

matter

I

would

rebel

—

against

life

’

s

absolute

need

of

food,

and

books,

and fire, and clothing, and flesh, to touch and to inhabit, lest life perish. No,

all that which I do here or refrain from doing lacks clarity, nor can I detect any

symmetry

anywhere,

such

as

living

would assuredly

display,

I

think,

if

my

progress

were directed by any particular motive. It is all a muddling through, somehow,

without any recognizable goal in view, and there is no explanation of the scuffle

tendered or anywhere procurable. It merely seems that to go on living has become

with me a habit.

And

I

want

beauty

in

my

life.

I

have

seen

beauty

in

a

sunset

and

in

the

spring

woods

and in the eyes of divers women, but now these happy accidents of light and color

no

longer

thrill

me.

And

I

want

beauty

in

my

life

itself,

rather

than

in

such

chances

as

befall

it.

It

seems

to

me

that

many

actions

of

my

life

were

beautiful,

very

long

ago, when I was young in an evanished world of friendly girls, who were all more

lovely

than

any

girl

is

nowadays.

For

women

now

are

merely

more

or

less

good-looking,

and as I know, their looks when at their best have been painstakingly enhanced and

edited. But I would like this life which moves and yearns in me, to be able itself

to attain to comeliness, though but in transitory performance. The life of a

butterfly,

for

example,

is

just

a

graceful

gesture:

and

yet,

in

that

its

loveliness

is complete and perfectly rounded in itself, I envy this bright flicker through

existence.

And

the

nearest

I

can

come

to

my

ideal

is

punctiliously to

pay

my

bills,

be polite to my wife, and contribute to deserving charities: and the program does

not seem, somehow, quite adequate. There are my books, I know; and there is beauty

“

embalmed and treasured up

”

in many pages of my books, and in the books of other

persons, too, which I may read at will: but this desire inborn in me is not to be

satiated

by

making

marks

upon

paper,

nor

by

deciphering

them.

In

short,

I

am

enamored

of that flawless beauty of which all poets have perturbedly divined the existence

somewhere,

and

which

life

as

men

know

it

simply

does

not

afford

nor

anywhere

foresee.

And tenderness, too

—

but does that appear a mawkish thing to desiderate in life?

Well, to my finding human beings do not like one another. Indeed, why should they,

being

rational

creatures?

All

babies

have

a

temporary

lien

on

tenderness,

of

course:

and therefrom children too receive a dwindling income, although on looking back,

you

will

recollect

that

your

childhood

was

upon

the

whole

a

lonesome

and

much

put-upon

period.

But

all

grown

persons

ineffably

distrust

one

another.

In

courtship,

I

grant

you,

there

is

a

passing

aberration

which

often

mimics

tenderness,

sometimes

as

the

result of honest delusion, but more frequently as an ambuscade in the endless

struggle

between

man

and

woman.

Married

people

are

not

ever

tender

with

each

other,

you

will

notice:

if

they

are

mutually

civil

it

is

much:

and

physical

contacts

apart,

their relation is that of a very moderate intimacy. My own wife, at all events, I

find

an

unfailing

mystery,

a

Sphinx

whose

secrets

I

assume

to

be

not

worth

knowing:

and,

as

I

am

mildly

thankful

to

narrate,

she

knows

very

little

about

me,

and

evinces

as to my affairs no morbid interest. That is not to assert that if I were ill she

would

not

nurse

me

through

any

imaginable

contagion,

nor

that

if

she

were

drowning

I

would

not

plunge

in

after

her,

whatever

my

delinquencies

at

swimming:

what

I

mean

is

that,

pending

such

high

crises,

we

tolerate

each

other

amicably,

and

never

think

of

doing

more.

And

from

our

blood-kin

we

grow

apart

inevitably.

Their

lives

and

their

interests are no longer the same as ours, and when we meet it is with conscious

reservations and much manufactured talk. Besides, they know things about us which

we resent. And with the rest of my fellows, I find that convention orders all our

dealings, even with children, and we do and say what seems more or less expected.

And I know that we distrust one another all the while, and instinctively conceal

or

misrepresent

our

actual

thoughts

and

emotions

when

there

is

no

very

apparent

need.

Personally, I do not like human beings because I am not aware, upon the whole, of