八水西安 – 李超华诗文馆

作者/[意]库尔齐奥·马拉帕尔特 Curzio Malaparte
译者/李代桃

是泥巴，中国是由晒干的泥巴造来的。

就中国的这一块[2]，一切皆造自泥土：
房屋，城市的诸墙，以及乡村，
散落在村郊的坟墓。
还有人。

底下的群山，宛如堆积的土墩
要被日头晒个干，袒露着，
无草无木。
它们蜂涌于尘寰之上
就像是一团团发胀的肠脏
被屠户扔在店外的地上
慢慢地撑开。

我们有时候飞得很低，都差点碰到它们了。

继尔，我看到，风卷起
把某些图案捏进土里：用泥巴写就的
奇奥的字母表，
费力地表达着某种确切的存在。
但那不是某种动物
或是下际这黄色沙漠之上的人。

或者一条村落。

俄忽，我们到了：西安，
这中国版图的中心，
就在黄河的摇篮里，
孕育了中华之文明。

在航站的前方，
三个孩子在玩着一团泥土：
他们被包得严严实实，夹克
和印花棉裤。
我陪他们玩了起来
直到一个年轻姑娘从航站楼走出来
叫我去用晚餐。
一个孩子抓住我的大衣，
不肯让我离开。
另外两个，也缠着我，
求我不要走。

那位年轻的姑娘又走出来，
训斥着不让胡闹。

他们放手，很是失落。
我转身离开，其中一个叫道：
快点回来呀！[3]

我们很快吃完了，准备飞向兰州。
我的三个新朋友向我招手道别。最小的那个
给我送了礼物：卵石，
一份珍贵的馈赠。
在中国的这一块没有石头。
你要去卡累利阿才能找到石头，
非常遥远的北方，或者高加索;
或去西伯利亚南部，沿着帕米尔的高坡，
从中亚的草原斜走下去。

我把卵石放进口袋里，
带回家，好炫耀这件珍贵的礼物
是一位中国小姑娘送我的：这块卵石
来自中华文明的摇篮。

一个由泥土塑成的文明，
一个没有骨骼的文明，
更无形骸之所在。
一个用各种习俗拼凑起来的文明，
又突然间分离，
融进万千种的不同手势，
万千种的书法字块，
万千种的气味，色泽，菜式，
万千种的影子。进而，就这样，骤然，
它们再次凝合为传统，记忆，习性。

不需要石头，不需要坚固耐磨的材料
中国就是如此的天工之物。
一切都可证明：
难以想像之多的运动，
制度，思想，憧憬，
我们看到它的无数次重现，
但没法看到起源物。

原件早被摧毁了很久。

这就是创造中国的四大元素：
土壤，木材，瓷器，丝绸。
最耐久的是的丝绸。

我要补上第五个元素：诗歌，
它最耐得住打磨。[4]

译注：

[1]八水西安：西安城周围有八条河流：渭河、泾河、沣河、涝河、潏河、滈河、浐河、灞河。题目化自“八水绕长安”；

[2]一块：原文只是一个很普通的单词, a part of，译为“一块”，因为块字本身有土石之义，译者想增加诗歌的尘土气息，其余也有表现；

[3]斜体表示引用与诗文使用语言不同的话语；

[4]与原文句式和句意略有改动，使用打磨一词是译者试图对全诗的进行整合和一种程度上的再创造。

作者简介：

库尔齐奥·马拉帕尔特（Curzio Malaparte）(1898 – 1957)，意大利记者，戏剧家，短篇散文家，小说家，外交官。1918年起开始记者生涯，1922年曾加入墨索里尼旗下，二战结束后加入意大利共产党。 1949年，在中国建国后对毛主义产生了兴趣，曾来华访问一段时间，后因身体欠恙返国。1957年因肺癌去世。
作品简介：

《八水西安（Xian of Eight Rivers）》收录于2012年出版的英译本诗集《吞掉笼子的鸟儿（The Bird That Swallowed Its Cage）》，此书由美国电影《教父：第二部》的制片人、奥斯卡奖多项得主沃尔特·默尔奇(Walter Murch）根据其散文而重译为诗歌。

附1：原文

Xian of Eight Rivers

By Curzio Malaparte

Translated By Walter Murch

China is made of earth, of sun-dried mud.

In this part of China everything is made from the earth:

the houses, the walls around cities, and villages,

the tombs scattered over the countryside.

Even the people.

There are hills below that appear to be piles of mud

set out to dry in the sun, naked,

without a single tree or bush.

They crowd around the landscape

like the coils of bulging intestines

tossed on the ground outside butchers’ shops,

slowly unraveling.

Sometimes we fly so low that we almost touch them.

And then I notice that the wind has brushed

some kind of pattern into the earth: a mysterious alphabet

written in the mud,

struggling to communicate something precise.

But there is not a single animal

or human being in the yellow desert below.

Not a single village.

Suddenly we are landing: Xian,

the geographic center of China,

where Chinese civilization was born,

in the cradle of the Yellow River.

In front of the terminal,

three children are playing with a lump of earth:

they are bundled up in jackets

and brightly printed cotton trousers.

I join them in their game

until a young woman comes out of the terminal

to call me in for dinner.

One of the children grabs me by my overcoat,

to keep me from leaving.

So do the other two, clinging to me,

asking me not to go.

The young woman comes out again,

and yells at them to stop.

They let go, disappointed.

One of them calls to me as I turn away:

Come back soon!

We eat quickly and then prepare to take off for Lanchow.

My three new friends wave goodbye to me. The littlest one

gives me a present: a pebble,

a precious gift.

In this part of China there are no stones.

You have to go to Karelia to find stone,

very far north; or to the Caucasus;

or to southern Siberia, along the slopes of the Pamir,

slanting toward the steppes of Central Asia.

I put the pebble in my pocket,

to take back home, to show what a precious gift

I was given by a little Chinese girl: a pebble

from the cradle of Chinese civilization.

A civilization made of earth,

a civilization without bones,

without a skeleton for support.

A civilization of assembled customs,

which suddenly unravel,

dissolving into thousands of separate gestures,

thousands of calligraphic icons,

thousands of smells, colors, flavors,

thousands of different shades. And then just as suddenly

they solidify again into tradition, memory, habit.

It is this absence of stone, of solid, durable material,

which makes China such an exquisite thing.

Everything is reflected:

an unimaginable number of movements,

of patterns, thoughts, images,

of which we see the copies in immense numbers,

but never the originals.

The originals were destroyed long ago.

Here are the four elements out of which China is made:

Earth, Wood, Porcelain, Silk.

The most durable of these is Silk.

I should add a fifth element: Poetry,

which is the most durable of all.

Source: The Bird That Swallowed Its Cage (Counterpoint Press, 2012)

原作链接：http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/245724

附2：相关图书

Xian of Eight Rivers

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