韩素音青年翻译大赛汉译英

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韩素音青年翻译大赛汉译英

周蕴仪 2013-11-26 天之聪教育 1235次

原文：

蜗居在巷陌的寻常幸福

    隐逸的生活似乎在传统意识中一直被认为是幸福的至高境界。但这种孤傲遁世同时也是孤独的，纯粹的隐者实属少数，而少数者的满足不能用来解读普世的幸福模样。

    有道是小隐隐于野，大隐隐于市。真正的幸福并不隐逸，可以在街市而不是丛林中去寻找。

   晨光，透过古色古香的雕花窗棂，给庭院里精致的盆景慢慢地化上一抹金黄的淡妆。那煎鸡蛋的“刺啦”声袅袅升起，空气中开始充斥着稚嫩的童音、汽车启动的节奏、夫妻间甜蜜的道别，还有邻居们简单朴素的问好。巷陌中的这一切，忙碌却不混乱，活泼却不嘈杂，平淡却不厌烦。

   巷尾的绿地虽然没有山野的苍翠欲滴，但是空气中弥漫着荒野中所没有的生机。微黄的路灯下，每一张长椅都写着不同的心情，甜蜜与快乐、悲伤与喜悦，交织在一起，在静谧中缓缓发酵。谁也不会知道在下一个转角中会是怎样的惊喜，会是一家风格独特食客不断的小吃店？是一家放着爵士乐的酒吧？还是一家摆着高脚木凳、连空气都闲散的小小咖啡馆？坐在户外撑着遮阳伞的木椅上，和新认识的朋友一边喝茶，一边谈着自己小小的生活，或许也是一种惬意。

    一切，被时间打磨，被时间沉淀，终于形成了一种习惯，一种默契，一种文化。

    和来家中做客的邻居朋友用同一种腔调巧妙地笑谑着身边的琐事，大家眯起的眼睛都默契地闪着同一种狡黠；和家人一起围在饭桌前，衔满食物的嘴还发着含糊的声音，有些聒噪，但没人厌烦。

    小巷虽然狭窄，却拉不住快乐蔓延的速度。随着城市里那些密集而冰冷的高楼大厦拔地而起，在拥堵的车流中，在污浊的空气里，人们的幸福正在一点点地破碎，飘零。大家住得越来越宽敞，越来越私密。自我，也被划进一个单独的空间里，小心地不去触碰别人的心灵，也不容许他人轻易介入。可是，一个人安静下来时会觉得，曾经厌烦的那些嘈杂回想起来很温情很怀念。

    比起高楼耸立的曼哈顿，人们更加喜欢佛罗伦萨红色穹顶下被阳光淹没的古老巷道；比起在夜晚光辉璀璨的陆家嘴，人们会更喜欢充满孩子们打闹嬉笑的万航渡路。就算已苍然老去，支撑起梦境的应该是老房子暗灰的安详，吴侬软语的叫卖声，那一方氤氲过温馨和回忆的小弄堂。

    如果用一双细腻的眼眸去观照，其实每一片青苔和爬山虎占据的墙角，都是墨绿色的诗篇，不会飘逸，不会豪放，只是那种平淡的幸福，简简单单。

    幸福是什么模样，或许并不难回答。幸福就是一本摊开的诗篇，关于在城市的天空下，那些寻常巷陌的诗。

    夜幕笼罩，那散落一地的万家灯火中，有多少寻常的幸福正蜗居在巷陌……

这是初步译文。完成后，与李长栓老师讨论并修改。翻译完全是出于兴趣，不是为提供范本。可取的地方应该不多，错误的地方一定不少。...周蕴仪

译文：
Snail Shells, Inner Sanctum
Translated by Chow Wan Ee,
Edited by Li Changshuan

Conventional credence considers an idyllic secluded life sublime bliss; but detachment and removal from social intercourse is a lonely enterprise. As few actually live completely withdrawn from society, gratification of a mere handful is no faithful measure of general wellness.

The old saying “A lesser recluse lives in nature; a great recluse dwells amid bustle” is telling. True bliss is not consecrated to hideaways and found not amid dense groves, but exists in a city’s alleys and streets; in an inner sanctum.

When rays of dawn slip through rustic carved windows along an alleyway, casting a slow and stately champagne splendour on immaculately pruned bonsais set in courtyards as fried eggs sizzle forth, the morning air begins to crackle with innocent chirrups of little children, rhythmic revving rumble of car engines starting, affectionate goodbyes between man and wife, and no-frills neighbourly greetings. Busy, but not messy; lively, but not rowdy; mundane, but not vexing.

The green parcel at the end of the alley has not the plush verdure of nature’s wild; but suffused in the surrounding air is a whiff of life absent in the country. Under the faint amber gleam of every street lamp is a bench that narrates a different story: of sweetness and joy, of sorrow and delight; stories that would mingle and melt into one blend and brewed amid the still of the night.

No one knows what pleasant surprise is waiting at the next turn of corner. An unusual and always-crowded eatery? A pub that lives and breathes jazz music? A little coffee joint with wooden bar stools and an atmosphere of languorous leisure? Perhaps sitting outdoors on a timber chair under a parasol chatting with new-found friends over a cup of tea is pleasure.

Things, when shaped and sedimented by time, conciliate into habits, intuitive knowing, and culture.

When neighbours and friends who come by banter about petty matters and all with the same cunning wit, their squinting eyes would sparkle with wicked glints of intuitive knowing; at the dinner table, family members mouths muzzled with food cackling indistinguishable utterances may be a little loud, but no one takes offence.

Alleys may be narrow, but narrowness cannot stall the spread of happiness; yet, as cold concrete jungles emerge, bliss is slowly devoured and taken apart by traffic congestion and polluted air. Homes are bigger and privacy better; and Self is now confined to a solitary enclosure, carefully avoiding infringing the inner world of another, and jealously guarding its own. But during quiet moments of solitude, the once deplored clamour would be dearly missed and fondly reminisced.

Compared to Manhattan high-rises, people prefer the sun-basked ancient streets traversing under the massive red dome of the Duomo of Florence; compared to the nightly resplendence of Lujiazui, people prefer the romp and stomp of children’s play at Wanhangdu Road. As our years wither away, dreams would return to find the sombre calm of old houses, the soft choruses of street vendors, and that little alley that had dowered endearing recollections.

Discernment would reveal, in every corner inhabited by wisps of moss and vines of ivy, genuine poetry and prose that are neither graceful nor spirited, but that offer mundane bliss. Simple and easy bliss.

What is bliss? This may not be a difficult question after all. Bliss is an open book of poetry about common alleys sauntering under city skies.
As urban homes glitter and shimmer under the moon-lit expanse, one wonders how much mundane bliss lies within those “snail shells”, that inner sanctum…

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来源：周蕴仪博客http://blog.sina.com.cn/chowwanee