但她依旧翻译了卡佛的整套小说

任凭在诗词依然在散文里,用一般但规范的语言,去写普通的东西,并予以这么些普通的东西

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,依旧一块石头,或女人的耳环——以常见而摄人心魄的技艺,那是能够产生的。写一句表面上看起来无伤大雅的寒暄,并进而传递给读者冷彻骨髓的寒意,这是可以完毕的。

A fateful literary meeting: Raymond Carver and Haruki Murakami

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前段时间多看小说短篇,翻开卡佛的短篇集《大教堂》的率先页,明明是中译本,前言却是村上春树所写,篇名「雷MondCarver:
米利坚平民的话语」。个中缘由,多半是由于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的创作中,也可看出卡佛的划痕,语言平实,用词简练,多为未有截至的扫尾。卡佛的著述被评价为极具极简主义的美学,即使她协调并反感那个标签。

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

1982年,在卡佛在美利坚同盟国还未持有巨大声誉之时,村上一时在一本选聚集读到了卡佛的一篇题为《脚下流淌的深河》(So
Much Water so Close to
Home)的随笔,继而相当受感动,便狼狈周章把卡佛的兼具小说都翻译,并介绍到了东瀛。卡佛小说的振作振作内涵根植于她前半生所受的波折,他所在阶层(即工人阶级或中非法产阶层)所处的切肤之痛和无可奈何,和他所观望到的愈加真实的花旗国。东瀛的读者喜欢卡佛,大致是因为她们和美利坚联邦合众国的中产阶级同样,是与世隔膜和烦恼的。在他们生命中,或者有类似羞愧的东西在里边作梗,不管马来西亚人依然奥地利人都是一模一样。

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一九八三年夏,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,取了叁个“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。译者大老远的从日本跑过来拜访,卡佛也乐得开心。据卡佛的妻妾说,「Ray
非常想和村上会见。完全像个男女同一雀跃着,他专程想精通,本身的篇章是哪些把远离重洋的五人三番五次到手拉手的」。中午村上夫妇达到以后,一齐吃了熏马哈鱼,喝了些白茶,村上和卡佛走到室外的台阶上,哀悼撞上玻璃的小鸟之死,研讨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.”

只怕是因为您的小说是由人生山西中国广播集团大的细微的屈辱而结成的?那样马来人会相比较轻便接受。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

前几天,卡佛依据这段对话,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.

村上在部分演讲会上曾说,讲友爱的小说有一点点难为情,可是讲讲翻译是可以的,因为是外人写的随笔。他经过翻译卡佛的小说,亦雕琢出来村上作风的文体,卡佛的文风诚实而轻巧,「推敲细密,把程式化的语言和不供给的梳洗全体剔除,在这么些基础上竭尽以『传说』的款型,坦诚而温柔地透露本人的真心话,是卡佛追求的文化艺术境界」,那与村上也很为临近。固然二位的作品为主天壤之隔,卡佛的社会风气聚集于人与人里面包车型大巴关系和内在的恐慌感,而村上的社会风气则是环绕内心的孤独和数不胜数的想像。但她如故翻译了卡佛的全体作品。

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.

在那天的拜候中,村上一直不问卡佛翻译的事,也未有告知她,他骨子里是贰个女小说家。

“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.

本身猜笔者应当说的。但自己没悟出,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.

对此村上来讲,翻译其实是兴趣爱好,而非专门的学业,它就疑似保龄球同样。他并未特意地球科学习过翻译,大学也并非葡萄牙共和国语职业,只是高级中学的时候习贯了读立陶宛共和国(Republic of Lithuania)语原版的图书,积攒大批量的翻阅之后,放任自流地,便学会了翻译。他说,小说能够遵照自个儿的主见,天马行空,不过翻译不行,要求尽最大大概扼杀本笔者(ego),在牵制当中,让翻译中的自身谦虚而扩充,那样对写随笔也许有极大的益处。

“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.”

随笔形式是把内心所思所想流畅而随便的公布出来,翻译情势则是把客人的所思所想对照自个儿的语言转换出来。村上在三十四年间,交替举办那三种方式,仿佛精神上的血液循环一般。他把翻译名字为「向外打开的窗」,去啊,把自身的眼光放到国外去,把温馨位于到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为一知半解的危险。

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

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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

(以上海教室片均源于于网络。)

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

作者们抿着茶。思忖着

我的书在你的国度获得成功的

可能的案由。沉浸在

关于忧伤和侮辱的攀谈中

这是您发觉在自小编的小说中

往往出现的事物。以及这种

纯属临时的成分。全部这个

如何转化成销量。

本身凝视着房间的二个角落。

须臾间,我又赶回十五周岁

和五多少个傻小子

驾着一辆五十时代的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,枯枝朝着大家的小车

扔掉。我们疾驰离开,叫骂着。

策动就到此停止。

但自己的车窗降下了三英寸。

独有三英寸。小编叫喊出

聊到底一句下流话。看见这些东西

挥手双手打算扔掉。从这一个有利地点

近日,笔者估算作者看见它飞过去了。看见它

通过空气火速进步。小编瞅着它,

就好像上个世纪前半期的

那些士兵看着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而他们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但当下自笔者没看见。小编已转过头

和本身的小同伙们说笑。

蓦地某种东西猛地撞击小编头部旁边,

自身的耳膜震破了,耳垂

掉下来,完整无缺。二个紧实的

冰雪球。疼痛是钻心的。

耻辱也是。

真痛楚,小编起来哭泣,

在这些粗鲁的玩意儿前面,而她们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

十二分扔雪球的东西,不得不装出惊愕,

骄傲的神色,当别的人朝她大吵大闹,

365体育网址,拍拍她的肩膀意味着嘉许。

她或许在裤子上擦了擦手。

何况在返乡吃晚饭前

多闲荡了一会儿。长大后

他料定受到他的波折,遭受

她生命中的失利,正如笔者同样。

她再未有想过

十二分深夜,为啥要想啊?

其余要想的事总是这么多。

何以要记得那辆呆头呆脑的车

沿着路滑行,然后转头拐角

跟着消失?

咱俩在屋家里雅致地举起双耳杯。

二个爆冷门有一点点别的什么进来了的屋家。


参谋资料:

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

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