Carson McCullers, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter (1940)讀後
自大學以來，斷斷續續讀外國文學也算有數年；從未遇過一位作者，是能像她那樣將「孤獨」寫得如此用心、透徹的。若單論書的頭兩章，恐怕是我暫時在英語文學裏讀過最完美的文字（是的，哪怕是James Joyce或海明威，大抵亦無過於此）。或如《紐時》某位評者謂：「She dignifed the individual, especially life's losers... She reflected the lonely heart with a golden hand.」「授予尊嚴」（dignified），不是指要演繹某種理想的人性假定；而是在於對人性缺陷一筆一捺的如實勾勒，以及對其一次又一次的扶正。而若說我在John Steinbeck的文字處仍時會感受到一點昔日的、左翼精神的餘痕，則McCullers在此書中顯現的，無疑已是種超越了純粹政治界限，且更為寬諒、平等和慈悲的目光了。
補：中譯來說，劉勇軍的譯文明顯臻屬上乘，不少言文細節亦翻得忠實，故值得破例推薦。
2/8/2024
書摘：
//He stood before the mirror and rubbed his cheek meditatively. He was sorry he had talked to Alice. With her, silence was better. Being around that woman always made him different from his real self. It made him tough and small and common as she was... Alice was almost asleep again, and through the mirror he watched her with detachment. There was no distinctive point about her on which he could fasten his attention, and his gaze glided from her pale brown hair to the stumpy outline of her feet beneath the cover.//
//The black night sky was beginning to lighten and turn a deep blue with the new morning. There were but a few weak, silvery stars. The street was empty, silent, almost cool. Singer carried the suitcase with his left hand, and with his free hand he supported Blount. He nodded good-bye to Biff and they started off together down the sidewalk. Biff stood watching them. After they had gone half a block away only their black forms showed in the blue darkness — the mute straight and firm and the broad-shouldered, stumbling Blount holding on to him. When he could see them no longer, Biff waited for a moment and examined the sky. The vast depth of it fascinated and oppressed him. He rubbed his forehead and went back into the sharply lighted restaurant. He stood behind the cash register, and his face contracted and hardened as he tried to recall the things that had happened during the night. He had the feeling that he wanted to explain something to himself... The door opened and closed several times as a sudden spurt of customers began to come in. The night was over. Willie stacked some of the chairs up on the tables and mopped at the floor... The place was still not crowded—it was the hour when men who have been up all night meet those who are freshly wakened and ready to start a new day. The sleepy waitress was serving both beer and coffee. There was no noise or conversation, for each person seemed to be alone... The bank building across the street was very pale in the dawn. Then gradually its white brick walls grew more distinct. When at last the first shafts of the rising sun began to brighten the street, Biff gave the place one last survey and went upstairs.//
//He had wanted to talk to somebody about it, because maybe if he told all the facts out loud he could put his finger on the thing that puzzled him. The poor son-of-a-bitch talking and talking and not ever getting anybody to understand what he meant. Not knowing himself, most likely. And the way he gravitated around the deafmute and picked him out and tried to make him a free present of everything in him.
Why?
Because in some men it is in them to give up everything personal at some time, before it ferments and poisons — throw it to some human being or some human idea.//
自大學以來，斷斷續續讀外國文學也算有數年；從未遇過一位作者，是能像她那樣將「孤獨」寫得如此用心、透徹的。若單論書的頭兩章，恐怕是我暫時在英語文學裏讀過最完美的文字（是的，哪怕是James Joyce或海明威，大抵亦無過於此）。或如《紐時》某位評者謂：「She dignifed the individual, especially life's losers... She reflected the lonely heart with a golden hand.」「授予尊嚴」（dignified），不是指要演繹某種理想的人性假定；而是在於對人性缺陷一筆一捺的如實勾勒，以及對其一次又一次的扶正。而若說我在John Steinbeck的文字處仍時會感受到一點昔日的、左翼精神的餘痕，則McCullers在此書中顯現的，無疑已是種超越了純粹政治界限，且更為寬諒、平等和慈悲的目光了。
補：中譯來說，劉勇軍的譯文明顯臻屬上乘，不少言文細節亦翻得忠實，故值得破例推薦。
2/8/2024
書摘：
//He stood before the mirror and rubbed his cheek meditatively. He was sorry he had talked to Alice. With her, silence was better. Being around that woman always made him different from his real self. It made him tough and small and common as she was... Alice was almost asleep again, and through the mirror he watched her with detachment. There was no distinctive point about her on which he could fasten his attention, and his gaze glided from her pale brown hair to the stumpy outline of her feet beneath the cover.//
//The black night sky was beginning to lighten and turn a deep blue with the new morning. There were but a few weak, silvery stars. The street was empty, silent, almost cool. Singer carried the suitcase with his left hand, and with his free hand he supported Blount. He nodded good-bye to Biff and they started off together down the sidewalk. Biff stood watching them. After they had gone half a block away only their black forms showed in the blue darkness — the mute straight and firm and the broad-shouldered, stumbling Blount holding on to him. When he could see them no longer, Biff waited for a moment and examined the sky. The vast depth of it fascinated and oppressed him. He rubbed his forehead and went back into the sharply lighted restaurant. He stood behind the cash register, and his face contracted and hardened as he tried to recall the things that had happened during the night. He had the feeling that he wanted to explain something to himself... The door opened and closed several times as a sudden spurt of customers began to come in. The night was over. Willie stacked some of the chairs up on the tables and mopped at the floor... The place was still not crowded—it was the hour when men who have been up all night meet those who are freshly wakened and ready to start a new day. The sleepy waitress was serving both beer and coffee. There was no noise or conversation, for each person seemed to be alone... The bank building across the street was very pale in the dawn. Then gradually its white brick walls grew more distinct. When at last the first shafts of the rising sun began to brighten the street, Biff gave the place one last survey and went upstairs.//
//He had wanted to talk to somebody about it, because maybe if he told all the facts out loud he could put his finger on the thing that puzzled him. The poor son-of-a-bitch talking and talking and not ever getting anybody to understand what he meant. Not knowing himself, most likely. And the way he gravitated around the deafmute and picked him out and tried to make him a free present of everything in him.
Why?
Because in some men it is in them to give up everything personal at some time, before it ferments and poisons — throw it to some human being or some human idea.//
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