多数是由于村上太喜欢卡佛了

无论在诗词照旧在小说里,用平时但规范的语言,去写普通的东西,并予以这几个普普通通的东西

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,依然一块石头,或女性的耳环——以大规模而惊心动魄的能力,那是能够形成的。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,那是能够成功的。

A fateful literary meeting: Raymond Carver and Haruki Murakami

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近日多看小说短篇,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:
United States国民的口舌」。个中原因,多半是由于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的创作中,也可知到卡佛的印痕,语言平实,用词简练,多为未有甘休的了断。卡佛的著述被评论为极具极简主义的美学,固然她协调并不爱好那么些标签。

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

1玖八3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集中读到了卡佛的一篇题为《脚下流淌的深河》(So
Much 沃特er so Close to
Home)的小说,继而相当受感动,便苦思冥想把卡佛的富有小说都翻译,并介绍到了日本。卡佛文章的振奋内涵根植于他前半生所受的败诉,他随地阶层(即工人阶级或中国和亚洲法产阶层)所处的痛楚和无奈,和他所观望到的愈发实际的美利坚联邦合众国。东瀛的读者喜欢卡佛,大约是因为她俩和U.S.A.的中产阶级一样,是割裂和烦躁的。在她们生命中,只怕有近似羞愧的事物在其间作梗,不管菲律宾人还是法国人都以1样。

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壹九83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,但还是决定要抽出时间来和村上聊1聊。译者大老远的从东瀛跑过来拜访,卡佛也自觉热情洋溢。据卡佛的婆姨说,「Ray
尤其想和村上会晤。完全像个孩子一样雀跃着,他尤其想明白,自个儿的稿子是怎么着把远隔重洋的三个人延续到共同的」。清晨村上夫妇到达今后,1起吃了熏北野草鱼,喝了些黑茶,村上和卡佛走到屋外的台阶上,哀悼撞上玻璃的小鸟之死,谈论着卡佛在日本获得好评的理由。

(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.”

莫不是因为您的小说是由人生中许多的轻微的耻辱而结成的?那样新加坡人会相比不难接受。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

明天,卡佛依照那段对话,写了1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.

村上在局地演讲会上曾说,讲和谐的小说有点难为情,不过讲讲翻译是足以的,因为是人家写的小说。他透过翻译卡佛的作品,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要求的修饰全体去除,在那么些基础上尽大概以『故事』的款式,坦诚而温和地揭破本身的真心话,是卡佛追求的工学境界」,那与村上也很为接近。即使3位的创作为主截然分歧,卡佛的世界聚焦于人与人以内的涉嫌和内在的紧张感,而村上的世界则是围绕内心的独身和无尽的想像。但他还是翻译了卡佛的上上下下作品。

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,村上未有问卡佛翻译的事,也未尝告知她,他实在是一个大手笔。

“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.

自个儿猜笔者应当说的。但本身没悟出,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.

对于村上而言,翻译其实是兴趣爱好,而非工作,它仿佛保龄球壹样。他并从未特意地球科学习过翻译,高校也并不是乌克兰(УКРАЇНА)语专业,只是高级中学的时候习惯了读克罗地亚语原版的书本,积累大量的阅读之后,放任自流地,便学会了翻译。他说,小说能够遵照自身的想法,天马行空,但是翻译不行,要求尽最大恐怕扼杀本作者(ego),在牵制在那之中,让翻译中的自身谦虚而充实,那样对写随笔也有一点都不小的益处。

“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.”

小说情势是把内心所思所想流畅而随意的抒发出来,翻译格局则是把客人的所思所想对照本人的语言转换出来。村上在三十5年间,交替进行那二种形式,宛如精神上的血液循环1般。他把翻译名叫「向外打开的窗」,去啊,把自己的理念放到国外去,把温馨置身到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为夏虫语冰的权利险。

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

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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.

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And we were gonna leave it at that.

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But my window was down three inches.

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Three inches. I hollered out

(以上海体育场所片均源于于互连网。)

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

自笔者的书在你的国家获得成功的

恐怕的原因。沉浸在

至于痛心和侮辱的交谈中

那是你发未来本身的小说中

频仍出现的东西。以及那种

纯属偶然的因素。全体那个

怎么转化成销量。

本身凝视着房间的七个角落。

壹转眼,作者又重临15虚岁

和5多个傻小子

驾着1辆五10年间的Dodge小汽车

在雪地里横冲直撞。向另外1些实物

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。大家疾驰离开,叫骂着。

打算就到此甘休。

但自笔者的车窗降下了三英寸。

唯有三英寸。作者叫喊出

最后一句下流话。看见极度东西

挥手单手准备扔掉。从那个便利地点

近年来,我推断本人看见它飞过去了。看见它

越过空气神速升高。小编望着它,

就像上个世纪前半期的

那多少个士兵望着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而他们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但马上本身没看见。小编已转过头

和自小编的同伴们说笑。

蓦然某种东西猛地撞击作者尾部旁边,

本身的耳膜震破了,耳垂

掉下来,完整无缺。3个紧实的

冰雪球。疼痛是钻心的。

耻辱也是。

真难熬,小编开首哭泣,

在这一个粗鲁的玩意儿前面,而她们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

不行扔雪球的东西,不得不装出惊愕,

自负的神色,当别的人朝她大吵大闹,

拍拍她的肩膀意味着表彰。

她可能在裤子上擦了擦手。

再者在回村吃晚饭前

多闲荡了1会儿。长大后

他肯定遭到他的曲折,遭逢

他生命中的退步,正如笔者同样。

她再未有想过

格外上午,为何要想吧?

其余要想的事总是这么多。

为什么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?

大家在房间里高雅地举起茶杯。

3个陡然某些其他什么进来了的房间。


参考资料:

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

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