过半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了

无论在诗词还是在小说里,用日常但标准的语言,去写普通的东西,并授予那些常常的东西

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,依旧一块石头,或女性的耳环——以大面积而震憾的本事,那是能够达成的。写一句表面上看起来无伤大雅的寒暄,并跟着传递给读者冷彻骨髓的寒意,那是足以做到的。

A fateful literary meeting: Raymond Carver and Haruki Murakami

图片 1

图片 2

多年来多看随笔短篇,翻开卡佛的短篇集《大教堂》的首先页,明明是中译本,前言却是村上春树所写,篇名「雷MondCarver:
United States国民的口舌」。在那之中原因,多半是由于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的著述中,也可看到卡佛的印痕,语言平实,用词简练,多为未有终止的终止。卡佛的创作被议论为极具极简主义的美学,固然她和煦并不希罕这几个标签。

Originally published June 25, 2017 at 7:00 am Updated June 25, 2017 at
3:59 pm

一九八七年,在卡佛在美利坚合众国还未具备伟大声誉之时,村上有的时候在一本选集中读到了卡佛的一篇题为《脚下流淌的深河》(So
Much Water so Close to
Home)的小说,继而异常受感动,便想方设法把卡佛的有着小说都翻译,并介绍到了东瀛。卡佛著作的动感内涵根植于他前半生所受的退步,他随处阶层(即工人阶级或中私下产阶层)所处的苦水和万般无奈,和她所观察到的特别真正的U.S.A.。东瀛的读者喜欢卡佛,大致是因为他们和美利坚合资国的中产阶级同样,是隔断和烦恼的。在她们生命中,或然有周围羞愧的事物在其中作梗,不管马来西亚人照旧外国人都是平等。

图片 3

一九八二年夏,村上夫妇去了在Washington州奥林匹亚半岛,登门拜候卡佛夫妇,他们的家建在山丘上,取了多少个“sky house”
的雅名,当时卡佛正忙着写作,但要么调控要腾出时间来和村上聊一聊。译者大老远的从东瀛跑过来拜会,卡佛也乐得欢跃。据卡佛的婆姨说,「Ray
特别想和村上拜见。完全像个男女同一雀跃着,他非常想精通,本人的篇章是哪些把远远地离开重洋的多人三翻五次到手拉手的」。早上村上夫妇到达以往,一齐吃了熏三文鱼,喝了些山茶,村上和卡佛走到户外的台阶上,哀悼撞上玻璃的飞禽之死,探究着卡佛在东瀛获得好评的理由。

(Mary Cauffman / The Seattle Times)

村上说,

The two writers met in person only once, but it provided a lifetime of
inspiration; most recently shown in Murakami’s new collection “Men
Without Women.”

唯恐是因为您的随笔是由人生中过多的一线的屈辱而结成的?那样印度人会相比较轻巧接受。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

前天,卡佛依照这段对话,写了一首诗,赠与村上。(The
Projectile,附在文末)

Haruki Murakami met Northwest short-story writer Raymond Carver for the
first and only time in the summer of 1984. Murakami was 35 and had been
writing for six years; his first great novel, “A Wild Sheep Chase,” came
out in 1982 but none of his work had been published in English. He was
known to Carver only as the enthusiastic translator who had been
bringing his stories out in Japan at an impressive clip.

村上在有个不要演说会上曾说,讲和煦的随笔有一点难为情,可是讲讲翻译是足以的,因为是外人写的小说。他透过翻译卡佛的小说,亦雕琢出来村上作风的文娱体育,卡佛的文风诚实而简单,「推敲细密,把程式化的语言和不须求的修饰全体去除,在那一个基础上尽可能以『传说』的花样,坦诚而温和地表露本身的真心话,是卡佛追求的医学境界」,那与村上也很为附近。固然三位的创作为主一丈差九尺,卡佛的世界聚集于人与人里面包车型大巴涉嫌和内在的恐慌感,而村上的社会风气则是围绕内心的孤寂和数不完的想像。但他依然翻译了卡佛的上上下下小说。

Carver was curious enough to interrupt his writing schedule for a social
visit — something he generally avoided — and he was flattered that
Murakami had come all the way from Japan to Port Angeles to meet him.

在这天的汇合中,村上未有问卡佛翻译的事,也远非报告她,他骨子里是三个大手笔。

“Ray was eager, almost childlike with delight, to meet Murakami, to see
who he was and why Ray’s writing had brought them together on the
planet,” Tess Gallagher, Carver’s widow, wrote after the meeting.

自个儿猜小编应当说的。但自个儿没悟出,他会走得那么早。

Carver didn’t know it, but Murakami was on a pilgrimage. When Murakami
read Carver’s “So Much Water So Close to Home” in 1982, he was hit by a
thunderbolt. To Murakami, this was genius, “an entirely new kind of
fiction,” realistic but penetrating and profound in a way that he
believed “goes beyond simple realism.” Murakami read another Carver
story, “Where I’m Calling From,” in The New Yorker, and began collecting
and translating everything of Carver’s he could find.

二十年后,村上这么说。

Murakami is self-taught, a jazz-club owner who started writing fiction
after an epiphany at a baseball game. He sticks to his own path and
follows it without hesitation. In Carver’s fiction, he found a map to
guide him.

对于村上来讲,翻译其实是兴趣爱好,而非专门的职业,它仿佛保龄球一样。他并未非常地读书过翻译,大学也并非罗马尼亚(România)语职业,只是高级中学的时候习于旧贯了读韩文原版的书籍,累积大批量的阅读之后,坐以待毙地,便学会了翻译。他说,小说能够服从自身的主张,天马行空,可是翻译不行,须要尽最大大概扼杀本本人(ego),在制裁个中,让翻译中的自身谦虚而扩大,那样对写随笔也许有十分的大的益处。

“Raymond Carver was without question the most valuable teacher I ever
had and also the greatest literary comrade,” Murakami wrote in “A
Literary Comrade,” an essay published after Carver’s death. “The novels
I write tend, I believe, in a very different direction from the fiction
Ray has written. But if he had never existed, or I had never encountered
his writings, the books I write, especially my short fiction, would
probably assume a very different form.”

小说方式是把心里所思所想流畅而随便的发挥出来,翻译情势则是把客人的所思所想对照本人的言语调换出来。村上在三十七年间,交替进行那三种形式,就好像精神上的血液循环一般。他把翻译名叫「向外展开的窗」,去吧,把自个儿的视角放到外国去,把温馨身处到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为目光如豆的危险。

Carver’s literary path zigzagged through the Northwest. Born in
Clatskanie, Oregon, to a sawmill worker and a waitress, Carver grew up
in Yakima, got married at 19, and joined his father in the mill. He
bounced around for the next 20 years, drinking, taking classes,
squeezing out time to write on the weekends. His stories were about
working people struggling to connect, falling down and getting up.

モノをつくる人間にとって一番恐いのは井の中の蛙のみたいに狭い場所で、固定されたシステムの中で妙に落ち着いてしまうこと。もっと目を外に向けていくべきだし、もっと広い場所に自分をおかなければいけない。そういう点で
“翻訳は外に開かれた窓” 。

Murakami and his wife, Yoko, visited Carver and Gallagher at Sky House,
a wide-windowed home on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Murakami was struck
by Carver’s “massive physical size,” and noted “the way he sat on the
sofa with his body crunched up as if to say he had never intended to get
so big, and he had an embarrassed expression on his face.”

Both men were shy. Carver was a mumbler, uneasy around strangers, and a
tape Murakami made sounded “like little more than a badly done wiretap.”
They connected, though, and Carver paid close attention to his guest.
Carver was in the warm flush of fame, good years after so much alcohol
and heartbreak. “What We Talk About When We Talk About Love” (1981) was
his breakout book and “Cathedral” (1983), his masterpiece, the best
stories of his generation, the best ever by a Northwest writer.


Smoked salmon and black tea were served. Carver’s mind, as it often did,
wandered away for a moment that he captured in “The Projectile,” a poem
he dedicated to Murakami:

The Projectile

We sipped tea. Politely musing

for Haruki Murakami

on possible reasons for the success

We sipped tea. Politely musing

of my books in your country. Slipped

on possible reasons for the success

into talk of pain and humiliation

of my books in your country. Slipped

you find occurring, and recurring,

into talk of pain and humiliation

in my stories. And that element

you find occurring, and recurring,

of sheer chance. How all this translates

in my stories. And that element

in terms of sales.

of sheer chance. How all this translates

Murakami probably was thinking of “So Much Water So Close to Home,” the
story of men who find a woman’s body on a fishing trip and continue to
fish for two days before contacting the police. Carver was thinking of a
moment when he was 16 and his eardrum was broken by a snowball, a memory
that came roaring back 30 years later and left just as quickly.

in terms of sales.

The Murakamis stayed for two hours. All went well, and Carver promised
to return the visit on a trip to Japan. Murakami was thrilled and
ordered an extra-large bed so his new American friend would be
comfortable in his home.

I looked into a corner of the room.

It never happened. Carver thought his years of hard drinking would kill
him but the cigarettes got there first, lung cancer that spread to his
brain and brought him down in 1988, at 50. Gallagher gave Murakami a
pair of Carver’s shoes, a sign of respect from one writer to another.

And for a minute I was 16 again,

Murakami is an international sensation, the author of two dozen books
that are translated everywhere. “Men Without Women,” his new short-story
collection (Knopf, 228 pp., $25.95), has Carver’s influence on every
page. An actor knows his more-famous wife had affairs and after her
death he befriends one of her lovers. A housewife delivers groceries to
a shut-in and tells him stories after passionless sex. A doctor spends a
lifetime keeping love at arm’s length and forgets its power. “Men
Without Women” is the title of a 1927 short-story collection by Ernest
Hemingway, but it’s Carver that Murakami is thinking of when he writes
that “Dreams are the kind of things you can — when you need to — borrow
and lend out.”

careening around in the snow

At their one meeting, Murakami never asked Carver about translation and
never told Carver he was a writer.

in a ‘50 Dodge sedan with five or six

“I guess I should have done that,” Murakami told the Harvard Crimson 20
years later, “but I didn’t know he would die so young.”

bozos. Giving the finger

图片 4

to some other bozos, who yelled and pelted

Raymond Clevie Carver, Jr.

our car with snowballs, gravel, old

(May 25, 1938 – August 2, 1988)

tree branches. We spun away, shouting.

图片 5

And we were gonna leave it at that.

图片 6

But my window was down three inches.

图片 7

Three inches. I hollered out

(以上海教室片均来自于网络。)

one last obscenity. And saw this guy

wind up to throw. From this vantage,

now, I imagine I see it coming. See it

speeding through the air while I watch,

like those soldiers in the first part

of the last century watched cannisters

of shot fly in their direction

while they stood, unable to move

for the dread fascination of it.

But I didn’t see it. I’d already turned

my head to laugh with my pals.

When something slammed into the side

of my head so hard it broke my eardrum and fell

into my lap, intact. A ball of packed ice

and snow. The pain was stupendous.

And the humiliation.

It was awful when I began to weep

in front of those tough guys while they

cried, Dumb luck. Freak accident.

A chance in a million!

The guy who threw it, he had to be amazed,

and proud of himself, while he took

the shouts and back-slaps of the others.

He must have wiped his hands on his pants.

And messed around a little more

before going home to supper. He grew up

to have his share of setbacks and get lost

in his life, same as I got lost in mine.

He never gave that afternoon

another thought. And why should he?

So much else to think about always.

Why remember that stupid car sliding

down the stupid road, then turning the stupid corner

and disappearing?

We politely raise our tea cups in the room.

A room that for a minute something else entered.

抛掷物

给村上春树

我们抿着茶。思忖着

笔者的书在您的国度得到成功的

只怕的由来。沉浸在

关于优伤和侮辱的交谈中

那是你发觉在自个儿的小说中

每每出现的东西。以及这种

纯属有时的元素。全体那些

何以转化成销量。

自家凝视着房间的七个角落。

一晃儿,小编又重返十陆虚岁

和五多个傻小子

驾着一辆五十年间的Dodge小汽车

在雪地里横冲直撞。向别的一些东西

伸出中指,他们喊话着,

用雪球,砂砾,枯枝朝着大家的汽车

扔掉。我们疾驰离开,叫骂着。

筹划就到此结束。

但自己的车窗降下了三英寸。

唯有三英寸。小编叫喊出

末段一句下流话。看见那多少个东西

挥手双手希图扔掉。从那几个有利地方

近来,笔者揣度笔者看见它飞过去了。看见它

穿过空气急迅提升。小编望着它,

就好像上个世纪前半期的

那个士兵望着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而她们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但眼看自家没看见。作者已转过头

和自家的友人们说笑。

出人意外某种东西猛地撞击作者尾部旁边,

作者的耳膜震破了,耳垂

掉下来,完整无缺。一个紧实的

冰雪球。疼痛是钻心的。

耻辱也是。

真难过,笔者起来哭泣,

在那多少个粗鲁的家伙日前,而他们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

老大扔雪球的实物,不得不装出惊愕,

忘其所以的表情,当别的人朝他大吵大闹,

拍拍她的肩膀意味着褒奖。

她可能在裤子上擦了擦手。

还要在返乡吃晚餐前

多闲荡了少时。长大后

他分明遭到他的倒闭,境遇

她生命中的失利,正如笔者同一。

她再未有想过

可怜清晨,为啥要想啊?

其余要想的事总是如此多。

何以要记得那辆呆头呆脑的车

沿着路滑行,然后转头拐角

随着消失?

小编们在室内雅致地举起杯盏。

四个忽地有个别其他什么进来了的房屋。


参谋资料:

翻译 | Raymond Carver / The Projectile – for Haruki
Mu…