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“Tea at the Palaz of Hoon”, Wallace Stevens

October 06, 2019

七月底翻译了这一首。当时感到译得很生硬,与原诗相比时感到很强的挫败感。不过现在过了一段时间回头看,或许也有作为译文以外的价值。

Not less because in purple I descended
The western day through what you called
The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?
What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?
What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,
And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.
I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw
Or heard or felt came not but from myself;
And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

不更少因为在紫色中我降下
西方的天空,穿过你所称为
最孤单的空气,不更少是我自己。

是什么油膏洒上我胡须?
是什么赞歌在我耳边嗡鸣?
是什么海的浪潮在那里扫过我?

从我心中金色的油膏如雨落下,
我的耳朵造出呼啸的赞歌并听见。
我自己即是海的界限:

我是我行走在其中的世界,我所看到
或听见或触碰到的仅来自我自己;
而在那里我发现自己更真实也更奇异。

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