重溫著名作家史鐵生經典散文《我與地壇》

著名作家史鐵生於2010年12月30號下午16點，因突發腦溢血，之後經搶救無效，在12月31號3點46分離開人世。依史鐵生生前自己多次重申的意願，將不舉行遺體告別。

生平簡介：
史鐵生，1951年生於北京，1967年畢業於清華附中，1969年去延安一帶插隊。因雙腿癱瘓於1972年回到北京。後來又患腎病並發展到尿毒症，需要靠透析維持生命。自稱是“職業是生病，業餘在寫作”。2002年獲華語文學傳媒大獎年度傑出成就獎。寫有着名散文《我與地壇》鼓勵了無數的人 。

《我與地壇》選段英譯賞析：

我在好幾篇小說中都提到過一座廢棄的古園，實際就是地壇。許多年前旅遊業還沒有開展，園子荒蕪冷落得如同一片野地，很少被人記起。
In a number of my stories, I’ve referred to an antiquated park: in fact, this is the Temple of Earth Park. Some years ago, before tourism had developed much, it was as desolate and neglected as a wasteland. People seldom gave it a thought.

地壇離我家很近。或者說我家離地壇很近。總之，只好認爲這是緣分。地壇在我出生前四百多年就坐落在那兒了，而自從我的祖母年輕時帶着我父親來到北京，就一直住在離它不遠的地方——五十多年間搬過幾次家，可搬來搬去總是在它周圍，而且是越搬離它越近了。我常覺得這中間有着宿命的味道：彷彿這古園就是爲了等我，而歷盡滄桑在那兒等待了四百多年。
The Temple of Earth wasn’t far from my home, or perhaps it’s better to say my home wasn’t far from it. All in all, I felt I was related to it by fate. It had reposed there for four hundred years before my birth, and ever since, when my grandmother was a young woman, she had taken my father to live in Beijing, my family had lived near it: in more than fifty years, my family had moved several times, but always to a place in its vicinity. Each time, we moved closer to it. I often felt this was something foreordained—as if this old park were waiting especially for me: it seemed it had been waiting for four hundred years—through all the tumultuous changes of those centuries.

它等待我出生，然後又等待我活到最狂妄的年齡上忽地殘廢了雙腿。四百多年裏，它剝蝕了古殿檐頭浮誇的琉璃，淡褪了門壁上炫耀的硃紅，坍圮了一段段高牆又散落了玉砌雕欄，祭壇四周的老柏樹愈見蒼幽，到處的野草荒藤也都茂盛得自在坦蕩。這時候想必我是該來了。十五年前的一個下午，我搖着輪椅進入園中，它爲一個失魂落魄的人把一切都準備好了。那時，太陽循着亙古不變的路途正越來越大，也越紅。在滿園瀰漫的沉靜光芒中，一個人更容易看到時間，並看見自己的身影。
It had waited for me to be born, and then it had waited for me to be suddenly crippled in both legs during my wildly ambitious youth. In those four hundred years, it had been denuded of the colored glazes on the eaves of its old temple, the glorious vermilion of its gates and walls had faded, the high walls had collapsed, pieces of jade inlaid into the pillars had loosened and scattered, yet old dark green cypress trees surrounding the altar had become more and more serene, and everywhere, weeds and vines flourished with abandon. It was about the right time for me to come here. When the park was finally ready for me—a man at loose ends—I maneuvered my wheelchair into the park for the first time. The sun—on its ancient, unchanged path—was just growing bigger, and redder. In the still rays of light suffusing the park, it was easy for a person to see the time, and easy to see his own shadow.

自從那個下午我無意中進了這園子，就再沒長久地離開過它。我一下子就理解了它的意圖。正如我在一篇小說中所說的：“在人口密聚的城市裏，有這樣一個寧靜的去處，像是上帝的苦心安排。
”Beginning with that afternoon when I happened to go to this park, I’ve never been away from it for long. I understood at once why it was there. As I said in one story, “In a densely populated city, it’s as if God painstakingly arranged for a place as serene as this.”

兩條腿殘廢後的最初幾年，我找不到工作，找不到去路，忽然間幾乎什麼都找不到了，我就搖了輪椅總是到它那兒去，僅爲着那兒是可以逃避一個世界的另一個世界。我在那篇小說中寫道：“沒處可去我便一天到晚耗在這園子裏。跟上班下班一樣，別人去上班我就搖了輪椅到這兒來。園子無人看管，上下班時間有些抄近路的人們從園中穿過，園子裏活躍一陣，過後便沉寂下來。”“園牆在金晃晃的空氣中斜切下一溜蔭涼，我把輪椅開進去，把椅背放倒，坐着或是躺着，看書或者想事，撅一杈樹枝左右拍打，驅趕那些和我一樣不明白爲什麼要來這世上的小昆蟲。”“蜂兒如一朵小霧穩穩地停在半空；螞蟻搖頭晃腦捋着觸鬚，猛然間想透了什麼，轉身疾行而去；瓢蟲爬得不耐煩了，累了祈禱一回便支開翅膀，忽悠一下升空了；樹幹上留着一隻蟬蛻，寂寞如一間空屋；露水在草葉上滾動，聚集，壓彎了草葉轟然墜地摔開萬道金光。”“滿園子都是草木競相生長弄出的響動，窸窸窣窣片刻不息。”這都是真實的記錄，園子荒蕪但並不衰敗。
The first few years after I was crippled, I couldn’t find work: I had no future; all of a sudden, it was almost as though I couldn’t find anything. And so I wheeled myself to the park almost every day: it was another world, one where I could escape this world. I wrote in one story, “With no place to go, I used to spend the whole day in the park every day: other people went to work; I went to the park. It was an abandoned park. When it was time to go to work or time to go home, people took shortcuts through the park, and it became animated for a while. Afterwards, it was still.” “In the dazzling golden sunlight, the park’s wall provided shade: I wheeled myself over there, put the back of the wheelchair down, and—either sitting or lying down—I read or thought. I would break off a cypress twig and drive away the insects who didn’t know any better than I did why they had been born in this world.” “A bee like a tiny piece of mist hung on in midair; an ant was deep in thought, its head wagging and its antennae quivering, and then, all of a sudden, it must have come up with the right answer, for it turned back and scudded off; the ladybug climbed around wearily, stopped to pray for a while, and then, flapping its wings, suddenly soared to the sky; on the tree trunk there was one cicada, as lonely as an empty room; dew rolled around on the leaves of weeds, and then coalesced, weighing the leaves down until they broke into thousands of rays of golden light.” “The whole park was astir with the sound of weeds, bushes, and trees growing, all shattering ceaselessly.” This was all true: the park was a wasteland, but far from going downhill.

除去幾座殿堂我無法進去，除去那座祭壇我不能上去而只能從各個角度張望它，地壇的每一棵樹下我都去過，差不多它的每一米草地上都有過我的車輪印。無論是什麼季節，什麼天氣，什麼時間，我都在這園子裏呆過。有時候呆一會兒就回家，有時候就呆到滿地上都亮起月光。記不清都是在它的哪些角落裏了，我一連幾小時專心致志地想關於死的事，也以同樣的耐心和方式想過我爲什麼要出生。這樣想了好幾年，最後事情終於弄明白了：一個人，出生了，這就不再是一個可以辯論的問題，而只是上帝交給他的一個事實；上帝在交給我們這件事實的時候，已經順便保證了它的結果，所以死是一件不必急於求成的事，死是一個必然會降臨的節日。這樣想過之後我安心多了，眼前的一切不再那麼可怕。比如你起早熬夜準備考試的時候，忽然想起有一個長長的假期在前面等待你，你會不會覺得輕鬆一點？並且慶幸並且感激這樣的安排？
Aside from some buildings that I had no way to enter, aside from the altar that I had no way to reach but could only gaze at from every possible vantage point, I had been under every tree in the park, and my chair’s wheel-prints were left on almost every meter of grass. I had spent time in this park in all seasons, all kinds of weather, and all times of the day. Sometimes, I stayed only a short time and then went home; sometimes, I stayed until the entire ground was alight with moonbeams. I don’t remember which corners of the park I was in then. For several hours in a row, I was totally absorbed in thinking about death, and just as patiently, I pondered why I had to be born. This kind of thinking went on for quite a few years until I finally understood: a person’s birth isn’t a question for debate, but is the reality handed to him by God. When God hands us this reality, he has already incidentally assured its end, so death is something one needn’t be anxious to bring about; death is a festival that is sure to befall you. After thinking this through, I felt greatly relieved: nothing would ever be so frightening again. Let me put it this way: just think, when you get up early and stay up late preparing for an exam, and suddenly it occurs to you that—just ahead—a long vacation is waiting for you, don’t you feel a little better? And aren’t you happy and grateful for this arrangement?

剩下的就是怎樣活的問題了，這卻不是在某一個瞬間就能完全想透的、不是一次性能夠解決的事，怕是活多久就要想它多久了，就像是伴你終生的魔鬼或戀人。所以，十五年了，我還是總得到那古園裏去，去它的老樹下或荒草邊或頹牆旁，去默坐，去呆想，去推開耳邊的嘈雜理一理紛亂的思緒，去窺看自己的心魂。十五年中，這古園的形體被不能理解它的人肆意雕琢，幸好有些東西是任誰也不能改變它的。譬如祭壇石門中的落日，寂靜的光輝平鋪的一刻，地上的每一個坎坷都被映照得燦爛；譬如在園中最爲落寞的時間，一羣雨燕便出來高歌，把天地都叫喊得蒼涼；譬如冬天雪地上孩子的腳印，總讓人猜想他們是誰，曾在哪兒做過些什麼、然後又都到哪兒去了；譬如那些蒼黑的古柏，你憂鬱的時候它們鎮靜地站在那兒，你欣喜的時候它們依然鎮靜地站在那兒，它們沒日沒夜地站在那兒，從你沒有出生一直站到這個世界上又沒了你的時候；譬如暴雨驟臨園中，激起一陣陣灼烈而清純的草木和泥土的氣味，讓人想起無數個夏天的事件；譬如秋風忽至，再有一場早霜，落葉或飄搖歌舞或坦然安臥，滿園中播散着熨帖而微苦的味道。味道是最說不清楚的，味道不能寫只能聞，要你身臨其境去聞才能明瞭。味道甚至是難於記憶的，只有你又聞到它你才能記起它的全部情感和意蘊。所以我常常要到那園子裏去。
All that’s left is the question of how to live, but this is not something you can think through in an instant, not something that you can solve once and for all: you have to think about it your whole life, however long that is. It’s a demon or a lover who is your lifelong companion. And so, for fifteen years, I had to go to this old park, go under the old trees or next to the neglected weeds or beside the dilapidated walls, sit in silence or think blankly, break through the feelings of chaotic disarray that were all around me, and peep at my soul. In fifteen years, people who didn’t understand this old park had wantonly altered some of its design and structure. Fortunately, there were some things that no one could change about it—for example, when the setting sun moves to the spot inside the stone arch of the altar, its rays spread across the ground and each rough spot on the ground is resplendent in the sunshine; or at the loneliest time in the park, a flock of swallows comes out and sings, their desolate song filling the space between heaven and earth; or the footprints children make in the snow in the wintertime, always leading people to wonder who they are, what they are doing there, and where they are going; for example, the dark old cypresses: when you’re feeling melancholy, they are standing there sedately, and when you’re feeling happy, they are still standing there sedately—they’ve stood there since before you were born and will go on standing there until you are no longer in this world; or a sudden rainstorm in the park touches off a pure green and muddy earth scent, giving rise to memories of countless summer occurrences; or the autumn wind suddenly arrives, and there is an early frost, and falling leaves or tottering singing and dancing or calm and quiet sleep: the park is pervaded with an atmosphere of tranquility and a little bitterness. Atmosphere is the most difficult thing to explain. My words can’t convey this atmosphere; you have to be there and smell it for yourself. It’s hard to remember, too: only when you smell it again will it bring back all the feelings connected with it. And so I must often go back to this park.