她通过翻译卡佛的创作

任凭在随想照旧在小说里,用平日但可信的言语,去写普通的事物,并给与那一个常见的事物

─管它是椅子,窗帘,叉子,照旧一块石头,或女孩子的耳钉——以科学普及而动魄惊心的力量,那是足以完毕的。写一句表面上看起来何足挂齿的寒暄,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

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近期多看小说短篇,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「雷MondCarver:
美国平民百姓的语句」。此中缘由,多半是出于村上太喜欢卡佛了,在村上春树的作品中,也可知到卡佛的印痕,语言平实,用词简练,多为未有终结的甘休。卡佛的创作被评价为极具极简主义的美学,固然她和睦并不欣赏那么些标签。

bet36体育在线,Originally published June 25, 2017 at 7:00 am Updated June 25, 2017 at
3:59 pm

1985年,在卡佛在美利哥还未有持有庞大声望之时,村上不常在一本选聚集读到了卡佛的意气风发篇题为《脚下流淌的深河》(So
Much Water so Close to
Home)的小说,进而非常受感动,便搜索枯肠把卡佛的具有小说都翻译,并介绍到了东瀛。卡佛小说的旺盛内涵根植于她前半生所受的倒闭,他无处阶层(即工人阶级或中国和亚洲法产阶层)所处的苦楚和万般无奈,和他所观察到的越来越真正的U.S.A.。东瀛的读者喜欢卡佛,大概是因为她俩和美利坚合众国的中产阶级相通,是与世隔阂和烦躁的。在他们生命中,恐怕有相像羞耻的东西在里面作梗,不管印尼人依然西班牙人都是均等。

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1982年夏,村上夫妇去了在Washington州奥林匹亚半岛,登门寻访卡佛夫妇,他们的家建在山丘上,取了八个“sky house”
的雅名,那时候卡佛正忙着写作,但要么调节要腾出时间来和村上聊生龙活虎聊。译者大老远的从东瀛跑过来拜访,卡佛也乐得欢腾。据卡佛的妻子说,「Ray
特别想和村上拜会。完全像个男女同样雀跃着,他特意想知道,自身的稿子是怎样把远离重洋的几个人连连到一齐的」。晚上村上夫妇达到以往,一齐吃了熏北红眼棒,喝了些黄茶,村上和卡佛走到户外的阶梯上,哀悼撞上玻璃的飞禽之死,商酌着卡佛在扶桑得到美评的说辞。

(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.”

或是是因为您的小说是由人生中好多的分寸的羞辱而结成的?那样日本人会比较容易采取。

By Jeff Baker (Special to The Seattle Times)

今日,卡佛依照这段对话,写了豆蔻年华首诗,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.

村上在风流罗曼蒂克部分演说会上曾说,讲团结的小说有一点难为情,可是讲讲翻译是可以的,因为是别人写的随笔。他经过翻译卡佛的作品,亦雕琢出来村上作风的文娱体育,卡佛的文风诚实而轻松,「推敲细密,把程式化的语言和无需的梳洗全体去除,在这几个基础上竭尽以『有趣的事』的样式,坦诚而温柔地透露自身的心口如一,是卡佛追求的管艺术学境界」,那与村上也很为临近。就算三位的创作为主楚河汉界,卡佛的世界集中于人与人里面的涉嫌和内在的恐慌感,而村上的世界则是围绕内心的孤单和数不尽的虚构。但他长期以来翻译了卡佛的全套文章。

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.

在这里天的会见中,村上尚未问卡佛翻译的事,也未曾告诉她,他实在是多个大小说家。

“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.

自己猜小编应当说的。但本人没悟出,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.

七十年后,村上如此说。

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.

对此村上而言,翻译其实是兴趣爱好,而非工作,它就如保龄球同样。他并不曾非常地上学过翻译,高校也并非西班牙语专门的工作,只是高级中学的时候习贯了读葡萄牙语原版的书本,储存大量的阅读之后,束手待毙地,便学会了翻译。他说,随笔可以依照本人的主张,驰骋驰骋,可是翻译不行,供给尽最大可能扫除本本人(ego),在裁断当中,让翻译中的自身虚心而充实,那样对写小说也会有一点都不小的补益。

“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.”

小说形式是把心里所思所想流畅而即兴的表述出来,翻译形式则是把客人的所思所想对照自个儿的言语转变出来。村上在四十二年间,交替进行那三种方式,犹如精气神上的血液循环日常。他把翻译名称叫「向外展开的窗」,去吗,把自身的见识放到海外去,把温馨放在到世界中间去,如此方能免了成为坐井窥天的安危。

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

(以上海教室片均出自于网络。)

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

咱俩抿着茶。思忖着

自己的书在您的国家获得成功的

大概的缘故。沉浸在

关于忧伤和欺侮的攀谈中

那是您发觉在自己的小说中

频繁现身的事物。以致这种

纯属有的时候的元素。全体那些

怎么样转产生销量。

笔者凝视着房间的叁个角落。

转眼,作者又回去十七岁

和五多个傻小子

驾着大器晚成辆七十年间的Dodge小汽车

在雪地里扬威耀武。向此外一些东西

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。大家疾驰离开,叫骂着。

准备就到此停止。

但自己的车窗降下了三英寸。

独有三英寸。小编叫嚣出

末段一句下流话。看到那几个东西

挥手双臂准备扔掉。从那些有利地方

近日,我预计小编看到它飞过去了。见到它

穿越空气急忙进步。笔者望着它,

好似上个世纪前半期的

那个士兵望着霰弹

朝他们飞来,

而他们呆立着,因可怕的迷怔

挪不动半步。

但立刻自身没瞧见。作者已转过头

和本身的友大家说笑。

出人意料某种东西猛地撞击小编底部旁边,

本人的耳膜震破了,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。

真痛楚,小编起来哭泣,

在那多个粗鲁的钱物面前,而他们

大叫,笨蛋。怪物。

千年不遇!

不行扔雪球的玩意儿,一定要装出焦灼,

自负的神色,当别的人朝她大呼小叫,

拍拍她的双肩意味着歌唱。

他或者在裤子上擦了擦手。

还要在归家吃晚餐前

多闲荡了生龙活虎阵子。长大后

她必然受到他的退步,碰到

她生命中的退步,正如作者同样。

他再未有想过

十三分早晨,为何要想吧?

别的要想的事总是那样多。

为啥要记得那辆笨头笨脑的车

沿着路滑行,然后转头拐角

跟着消失?

大家在屋家里高雅地举起保温杯。

二个爆冷门有一点点别的什么进来了的屋家。


参照他事他说加以考察资料:

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

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