佩索亚作品

◎董继平译

悲伤的插曲

包括那没让我厌倦的事物在内，一切都让我厌倦。我的幸福痛苦得就像我的痛苦。

但愿我能成为一个孩子，在农场上的蓄水池里行驶纸船，顶棚是一个纵横交叉的格架，充满乡野气息，葡萄藤把阳光的方格图案和绿色阴影投射到那发光、幽暗的浅水表面。

在我与生活之间，有一层薄薄的玻璃。无论我多么清楚地看见并理解生活，我也无法触及它。

把我的悲伤合理化？如果合理化尽心费力，又是为了什么呢？悲伤的人无法尽力。

我甚至无法弃绝我如此憎恶的生活中的那些陈腐行为。弃绝就是努力，我并没让它在我的内心做任何努力。

我多么频繁地后悔没有成为那辆小车的司机或者那辆马车的车夫！或者成为任何在想象中陈腐的另一个人——他的生活，因为不属于我，用对它的欲望美妙地充满了我，也用它的相异性充满了我！如果我是他们当中的一员，我就不会像惧怕一件事物那样惧怕生活，把生活当成总体来思考，不会压碎我的思考的肩头。

我的梦是一个愚蠢的庇护之处，就像迎着闪电的雨伞。

我如此倦怠，如此可怜，如此缺少手势和行为。

无论我多么深入探究自己，我所有的梦之路都通往忧虑的林间空地。

有些时候，做梦甚至也回避我，一个着迷的梦者，然后我看见事物栩栩如生的细节。那我在其中避难的雾霭消散。每一片看得见的刀锋都切割我灵魂的皮肤。我看见的每一件粗糙的事物创伤我的一部分，我的那一部分辨认出它的粗糙。每个物体看得见的重量沉甸甸地重压在我的灵魂里面。

这就相当于我的生活仿佛遭到它鞭笞。

DOLOROUS INTERLUDE

Everything wearies me，including what doesn’t weary me.My happiness is as painful as my pain.

If only I could be a child sailing paper boats in a cistern on the farm，with a rustic canopy of criss-crossing trellis vines projecting chequers of sunlight and green shade on the shiny dark surface of the shallow water.

There’s a thin sheet of glass between me and life.However clearly I see and understand life，I can’t touch it.

Rationalize my sadness?What for，if rationalization takes effort?Sad people can’t make an effort.

I can’t even renounce those banal acts of life that I so abhor.To renounce is an effort，and I don’t have it in me to make any effort.

How often I regret not being the driver of that car or the coachman of that carriage!Or any imaginary banal Other whose life，because it’s not mine，deliciously fills me with desire for it and fills me with its otherness!If I were one of them，I wouldn’t dread life like a Thing，and the thought of life as a Whole wouldn’t crush the shoulders of my thinking.

My dreams are a stupid shelter，like an umbrella against lightning.

I’m so listless，so pathetic，so short on gestures and acts.

However deeply I delve into myself，all of my dreams’pathslead to clearings of anxiety.

There are times when dreaming eludes even me，an obsessive dreamer，and then I see things in vivid detail.The mist in which I take refuge dissipates.And every visible edge cuts the skin of my soul.Every harsh thing I see wounds the part of me that recognizes its harshness.Every object’s visible weight weighs heavy inside my soul.

It’s as if my life amounted to being thrashed by it.

插曲

生活开始之前，我就退出了生活，因为我甚至在梦中也不曾发现它吸引人。梦幻本身让我厌倦，而这就给我带来了一种虚假的外部感觉，就像是来到了一条无限之路的尽头的感觉。我从自身中满溢而出，意外地到达我不熟悉的地方，那是我徒劳地停滞不前之处。我是我曾经做过的某种事物。我从来不在我感觉我在的地方，如果我寻找自己，我就不知道谁在寻找我。我对万事万物的厌倦已经让我麻木。我从灵魂深处感到被放逐。

我观察自己。我是我自己的观众。在我不知道我为什么凝视之前，我的感觉就像外部事物而逝去。无论我做什么，我都让自己厌烦。一切事物，深及它们植于神秘中的根，都有我的厌烦的颜色。

时间给予我的花朵已经枯萎了。我能做的唯一事情就是慢慢拔下它们的花瓣。这样做，预示着老年！

最轻微的活动就像英雄业绩重压在我身上。仅仅想到一个手势就让我厌倦，仿佛那是我确实想到过要去做的事情。

我并不渴求什么。生活伤害我。在我所在的地方，还在我能想到我在的别的任何地方，我都不太好。

那理想的事物，就是别再有什么行动，仅仅是喷泉虚假的行动——为了落在同一个地方而升起，在太阳下毫无意义地闪闪发光，在夜间的寂静中发出声音，因此无论谁在做梦，都会想起他梦中的河流，健忘地微笑。

INTERLUDE

I bowed out of life before it began，for not even in dreams did I find it attractive.Dreams themselves wearied me，and this brought me a false，external sensation，as of having come to the end of an infinite road.I overflowed from myself to end up I don’t know where，and that’s where I’ve uselessly stagnated.I’m something that I used to be.I’m never where I feel I am，and if I seek myself，I don’t know who’s seeking me.My boredom with everything has numbed me.I feel banished from my soul.

I observe myself.I’m my own spectator.My sensations pass，like external things，before I don’t know what gaze of mine.I bore myself no matter what I do.All things，down to their roots in mystery，have the colour of my boredom.

The flowers Time gave me were already wilted.The only thing I can do is pluck their petals slowly.And this is so fraught with old age!

The slightest action weighs on me like a heroic deed.The mere idea of a gesture wearies me，as if it were something I actually thought of doing.

I aspire to nothing.Life hurts me.I’m not well where I am nor anywhere else I can think of being.

What would be ideal is to have no more action than the false action of a fountain-to go up so as to fall down in the same place，pointlessly shimmering in the sun and making sound in the silence of the night so that whoever dreams would think of rivers in his dream and smile forgetfully.