过半是由于村上太喜欢卡佛了

他通过翻译卡佛的作品,)

不论是在诗词依然在随笔里,用常常但可信赖的语言,去写普通的事物,并给予那么些平时的东西

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,依旧一块石头,或女子的耳环——以周围而惊心动魄的力量,那是能够完毕的。写一句表面上看起来无伤大雅的寒暄,并随之传递给读者冷彻骨髓的寒意,那是能够产生的。

A fateful literary meeting: Raymond Carver and Haruki Murakami

图片 1

图片 2

新近多看小说短篇,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「RaymondCarver:
美利哥全体公民的讲话」。在这之中缘由,多半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的文章中,也可看到卡佛的印痕,语言平实,用词简练,多为未有结束的截止。卡佛的创作被评价为极具极简主义的美学,就算她协和并不欣赏那几个标签。

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

1九捌三年,在卡佛在美利坚合众国还未持有巨大声誉之时,村上突发性在壹本选聚焦读到了卡佛的壹篇题为《脚下流淌的深河》(So
Much 沃特er so Close to
Home)的随笔,继而相当受感动,便左思右想把卡佛的具有文章都翻译,并介绍到了东瀛。卡佛小说的饱满内涵根植于她前半生所受的波折,他无处阶层(即工人阶级或中私下产阶层)所处的苦处和无奈,和她所观看到的愈来愈真正的United States。日本的读者喜欢卡佛,大约是因为他俩和美利坚合众国的中产阶级同样,是隔绝和窝火的。在她们生命中,大概有像样羞愧的事物在里头作梗,不管印尼人照旧西班牙人都以如出1辙。

图片 3

一玖八三年夏,村上夫妇去了在华盛顿州奥林匹亚半岛,登门拜访卡佛夫妇,他们的家建在山丘上,取了三个“sky house”
的雅名,当时卡佛正忙着写作,但照旧决定要挤出时间来和村上聊壹聊。译者大老远的从日本跑过来拜访,卡佛也自觉心旷神怡。据卡佛的爱妻说,「Ray
尤其想和村上相会。完全像个子女相同雀跃着,他专程想精晓,本身的稿子是如何把隔绝重洋的四人三番五次到一同的」。午夜村上夫妇达到现在,一同吃了熏三文鱼,喝了些花茶,村上和卡佛走到户外的阶梯上,哀悼撞上玻璃的鸟类之死,议论着卡佛在扶桑拿到好评的理由。

(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.”

想必是因为你的随笔是由人生中许多的轻微的奇耻大辱而构成的?那样马来西亚人会相比较轻松接受。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

前些天,卡佛依据那段对话,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.

村上在有个别解说会上曾说,讲友爱的小说有点难为情,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,卡佛的文风诚实而轻巧,「推敲细密,把程式化的语言和不要求的修饰整体去除,在这些基础上尽恐怕以『传说』的款式,坦诚而温和地透露本身的真心话,是卡佛追求的工学境界」,那与村上也很为接近。固然二位的创作为主天悬地隔,卡佛的世界集中于人与人里面包车型的士关系和内在的紧张感,而村上的社会风气则是环绕内心的孤寂和数不清的想像。但她如故翻译了卡佛的整整小说。

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.

在那天的晤面中,村上一直不问卡佛翻译的事,也并未有告知她,他骨子里是1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.

自己猜小编应当说的。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,村上那样说。

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.

对此村上来说,翻译其实是兴趣爱好,而非工作,它就像是保龄球同样。他并从未特意地球科学习过翻译,高校也并不是意大利共和国语专门的学业,只是高级中学的时候习贯了读拉脱维亚语原版的书本,储存多量的翻阅之后,大势所趋地,便学会了翻译。他说,小说能够依据本身的主张,天马行空,不过翻译不行,须求尽最大恐怕扼杀本本人(ego),在牵制个中,让翻译中的自个儿谦虚而增添,那样对写随笔也有十分的大的补益。

“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.”

随笔形式是把心里所思所想流畅而轻松的表达出来,翻译情势则是把客人的所思所想对照自个儿的言语转变出来。村上在三10伍年间,交替实行那二种形式,宛如精神上的血液循环一般。他把翻译名称叫「向外张开的窗」,去吧,把团结的观点放到外国去,把本身身处到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为一知半解的危殆。

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

(以上航海用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

大家抿着茶。思忖着

自家的书在你的国度获得成功的

或许的缘故。沉浸在

有关痛楚和侮辱的攀谈中

那是您开采在自家的小说中

屡次出现的事物。以及那种

纯属偶然的因素。全体这一个

什么样转化成销量。

自个儿凝视着房间的一个角落。

壹晃儿,小编又重临15岁

和伍多个傻小子

驾着一辆五拾年间的Dodge小小车

在雪地里横冲直撞。向别的一些钱物

伸出中指,他们喊话着,

用雪球,砂砾,枯枝朝着我们的小车

扔掉。我们疾驰离开,叫骂着。

筹算就到此结束。

但本身的车窗降下了3英寸。

唯有叁英寸。笔者叫喊出

末段一句下流话。看见至极东西

挥手双手图谋扔掉。从这些便利地方

今后,小编估计自个儿看见它飞过去了。看见它

穿越空气快速发展。笔者望着它,

就像是上个世纪前半期的

那多少个士兵看着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而他们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但眼看本人没瞧见。笔者已转过头

和自家的同伴们说笑。

蓦然某种东西猛地撞击作者底部旁边,

本身的耳膜震破了,耳垂

掉下来,完整无缺。三个紧实的

冰雪球。疼痛是钻心的。

耻辱也是。

真哀痛,小编起来哭泣,

在那多少个粗鲁的玩意前边,而他们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

1二分扔雪球的玩意儿,不得不装出惊愕,

自负的神色,当其余人朝她大吵大闹,

拍拍她的双肩意味着嘉许。

她大概在裤子上擦了擦手。

再便是在返乡吃晚饭前

多闲荡了1会儿。长大后

他迟早受到他的波折,境遇

他生命中的退步,正如作者一样。

她再未有想过

相当深夜,为何要想吧?

别的要想的事总是那样多。

缘何要记得那辆呆头呆脑的车

沿着路滑行,然后转头拐角

跟着消失?

咱俩在屋子里高雅地举起保健杯。

二个黑马有些其他什么进来了的房间。


参考资料:

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