默溫作品

◎董繼平 譯

對 話

當一陣風轉動的時候，我聽見花園和沙漠在相互討論一些事情。有時在花園，有時在沙漠，要么在白天，要么在夜晚。泥墻，石墻，無墻，石灰石，遙遠的綿羊，嚎叫聲，鳥鳴聲，嘶嘶聲，滴落聲，沉寂，干燥的氣味，有水的氣味，月亮，星星，那成為它們之間的鑰匙的花朵。

花園和沙漠，相互訴說自己的夢幻。它們尤其會夢見對方。沙漠夢見花園在自己里面。它熱愛花園。它擁抱花園。它想把花園變成沙漠。花園生活在自己的范圍內。它夢見沙漠把自己團團圍住，夢見它與沙漠的差異，它知道那種差異脆弱得就像情感。

我肯定在很久前就聽見了它們交談。我肯定在兩歲時就聽見了它們交談。我肯定一歲時就聽見了它們交談，如此等等。也許是在我出生之前。或者任何人出生之前。或者任何圓弧變成雞蛋之前。或者水誕生，在高高的巖石上冷卻，預言淚水，預言眼神之前。

甚至在巖石誕生，在彩色之夜里移動之前，我就肯定聽見了它們交談。或許，我早就聽見了它們交談，自從光芒開始尋找某種要在上面寫作的東西，向前飛翔，潔白，里面隱藏著色彩，周圍環繞著黑暗，從開始沒有遺忘什么，到預言知識的結束，預言荒野，預言花園，預言那夢見自己成為花園的荒野。而且花園。而且荒野。

A CONVERSATION

There is a wind that when it turns I hear the garden and the desert discussing things with each other.Sometimes in the garden，sometimes in the desert， day or night.Mud walls， stone walls， no walls， limestone， sheep far away，howling， birds singing， hissing，trickling，silence，dry smells，watered smells，moons，stars，flowers that are keys between them.

They tell their dreams to each other，the garden and the desert.They dream above all of each other.The desert dreams of the garden inside it.It loves the garden.It embraces the garden.It wants to turn it into desert.The garden lives within itself.It dreams of the desert all around it，and of its difference from the desert，which it knows is as frail as feeling.

It must be a long time since I first heard them talking.I must have heard them when I was two.I must have heard them when I was one，and so on.Perhaps before I was born.Or anyone was born.Or any roundness became an egg.Or the water was born，cooling on a high rock，prophesying tear， prophesying eyes.

I must have heard them even before the rocks were born moving in the colored night.Probably I have heard them ever since the light began looking for something to write on，flying on，white，with the colors hidden inside it and the darkness around it，forgetting nothing from the beginning.prophesying the end of knowledge，prophesying the wilderness，prophesying the garden，prophesying the wilderness dreaming that it was a garden.And the garden.And the wilderness.

第二人稱

你是第二人稱。

你四處尋找別的人成為第二人稱。但沒有別的人。即使有別的人，他們也不可能成為你。你試圖在想象中遮蔽你是復數。那是整個醒著的世界試圖想起的一個夢。它是孤兒的母親——那位母親從未生活過，但被渴望過，而且因為她沒有名字，她就賦予了一個那就是你自己的回聲的代詞。她的神廟是鏡子的陣列。但沒有什么停留在它里面。想想在你極少造訪那里的時候，你怎樣對自己保持你的思想吧。還有你多么迅速地離開。

你是第二人稱。話語對你而來，仿佛它們是認識你且最終找到了你的鳥兒，但它們卻并沒看著你，你從前也從未見過它們，你沒有地方飼養它們，你沒有食物去喂養它們，它們將干預你的生活，你自己聽不見，那些小小的爪子，并不意味著傷害，從不讓你獨處，如此溫順，如此相信人。但你知道它們并不屬于你。你也知道它們并不屬于別人。

有時候，在睡與醒之間，你真的忘記了你是第二人稱。你再一次開始運行，你到達了，什么也沒失去，沒有失去。薄暮是無限的重聚。于是一個使者進入，到處尋找某人。尋找第二人稱。別的哪個人？

你被創造在第二人稱的形象中，從未看見自己的臉。即使鏡子把你的臉向后露給你看。親愛的讀者有時在自衛中想象我是第二人稱，我比了解我自己還要了解你，但我不會認出你。至于你，你真的不了解自己的故事。不了解自己的故事都送了出去。它躺在一條萬物匯入但無人擁有的河底。無人承認它。為什么你的這種捉摸不定，就像那生活在動物眼里的東西？因為你不得不被發現，你被發現，我發現了你。你作出可憐的努力，竭力裝模作樣地把自己偽裝在第三人稱之中，但你知道這并沒有用。第三人稱不是什么人。一種慣例。

當人們向你致意，你就永遠不能快樂地回答嗎？我想要你快樂地回答嗎？

不，你堅持認為，這一切都是錯誤，我是第一人稱。但你知道那多么令人不滿意。而且真的多么罕見。

THE SECOND PERSON

You are the second person.

You look around for someone else to be the second person.But there is no one else.Even if there were someone else there they could not be you.You try to shelter in imagining that you are plural.It is a dream which the whole of the waking world is trying to remember.It is the orphan's mother who never lived but is longed for and has been accorded a pronoun that is an echo of your own，since she has no name.Her temple is an arrangement of mirrors.But nothing stays in it.Think how you keep your thoughts to yourself，on your rare visits there.And how quickly you leave.

You are the second person.The words come to you as though they were birds that knew you and had found you at last，but they do not look at you and you never saw them before，you have nowhere to keep them，you have nothing to feed them，they will interfere with your life，you cannot hear yourself，the little claws，meaning no harm，never let you alone，so tame，so confiding.But you know they are not yours.You know they are no one else's，either.

Sometimes between sleeping and waking you really forget that you are the second person.Once again you have embarked，you have arrived，nothing is missing，nothing.The twilight is an infinite reunion.Then a messenger enters looking everywhere for someone.For the second person.Who else?

Made in the image of The Second Person，you never see your face.Even the mirrors show it to you backwards.Dear reader at times imagining in your own defense that I am the second person，I know more about you than I know about myself，but I would not recognize you.For your part，it is true that you do not know your own story.That it has all been given away.That it lies at the bottom of a river where everything joins it but no one owns it.No one admits to it.Why this elusiveness of yours，like that which lives in an animal's eye?For you have to be found，you are found，I have found you.You make a pathetic effort to disguise yourself in all the affectations of the third person，but you know it is no use.The third person is no one.A convention.

Can you never answer happily when you are addressed?Do I want you to?

No,you insist,it is all a mistake,I am the first person.But you know how unsatisfactory that is.And how seldom it is true.