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序曲
一 冬天的黄昏沉落下来， 带着甬道中煎牛排的气味。 六点钟。 呵，冒烟的日子省下的烟尾。 而现在，凄风夹着阵雨， 裹着泥污的 枯叶一片片吹送到你脚边， 并把空地上的报纸席卷。 雨总拍打着 破损的百叶窗和烟囱管， 而在街道的拐角，孤单地 一辆驾车的马在喷沫和踢蹄， 接着是盏盏灯光亮起。 二 清晨醒来而意识到了 轻微的啤酒酸腐味 发自那被踏过有锯木屑的街道， 因为正有许多泥污的脚 涌向清早开张的咖啡摊。 随着其它一些伪装的戏 被时光重又演出， 你不禁想到那许多只手 它们正把脏黑的帘幕拉起 在成千带家具的出租房。 三 你从床头拉下一床毯子， 你仰面朝天躺着，并且等待； 你打个盹，看到黑夜展开 那构成了你的灵魂的 成千个肮脏的意象， 它们对着天花板闪光。 而当整个世界转回来， 从百叶窗隙又爬进了光亮， 你听见麻雀在阴沟聒噪， 坐在床沿上，你取下了 你那卷头发的纸条， 或者以脏污的双手握着 你那脚板磨得发黄的脚， 这时你对大街有一种幻觉， 那大街对此不会知道。 四 他的灵魂被紧张地扯过 那一排楼房后隐没的天空， 或者被固执的脚步践踏着， 在四点、五点和六点； 还有装烟斗的短粗的指头， 还有晚报和那些眼睛 对某些坚定的事物如此肯定， 一条染黑的街道的良心 急不可待地要接管世界。 我深深有感于那些幻想 缠绕着这些意象，而且抱紧； 我还想到某种无限温柔 和无限痛苦着的生命。 用手抹一抹嘴巴而大笑吧； 众多世界旋转着好似老妇人 在空旷的荒地捡拾煤渣。 （查良铮 译） Preludes T.S. Eliot I THE WINTER evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps. II The morning comes to consciousness Of faint stale smells of beer From the sawdust-trampled street With all its muddy feet that press To early coffee-stands. With the other masquerades That time resumes, One thinks of all the hands That are raising dingy shades In a thousand furnished rooms. III You tossed a blanket from the bed, You lay upon your back, and waited; You dozed, and watched the night revealing The thousand sordid images Of which your soul was constituted; They flickered against the ceiling. And when all the world came back And the light crept up between the shutters, And you heard the sparrows in the gutters, You had such a vision of the street As the street hardly understands; Sitting along the bed’s edge, where You curled the papers from your hair, Or clasped the yellow soles of feet In the palms of both soiled hands. IV His soul stretched tight across the skies That fade behind a city block, Or trampled by insistent feet At four and five and six o’clock; And short square fingers stuffing pipes, And evening newspapers, and eyes Assured of certain certainties, The conscience of a blackened street Impatient to assume the world. I am moved by fancies that are curled Around these images, and cling: The notion of some infinitely gentle Infinitely suffering thing. Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh; The worlds revolve like ancient women Gathering fuel in vacant lots. （1920） |
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