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1 写在麦当劳广告纸的背后

新内容写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
在网上看到村上春树一篇登在《纽约客》上的文章,当然是翻译成英文的,感觉极其陌生。这就是村上春树?看上去和别的人有什么不同?

于是再次深信了,翻译后的东西不可信,情节或许还是原作者的,可文笔早已经是译者的了。于是才有赖明珠的村上,和林少华的村上,当然还有别的人的村上。

那天下午在麦当劳,一时兴起,自己照着英文翻了一小段。当时手边没有字典,只是取了文中的意境,随手乱翻,错漏之处很多。还有很多细节不耐烦翻,通通删减了。就这样也没有翻完。或许这就是我自己的村上吧。

--------
飞机,飞

男女二人对坐在桌前,屋里全是静。外面偶然传来通勤车开过的声音,屋内却更静了。

女的拿眼看着桌,转而又抬了眼,踌躇许久,方是问他:“你可是一直就有自言自语的习惯?”

四月间的天气,男的觉得脚下的地板渗上来些许寒意。他不知该怎么回答这个问题,只是不做声。咖啡杯底残存的液体渐渐凝结变浓,活象稀泥汤。

男的方二十,女的却足是二十有七了,结了婚,又有个孩子。这样的生活对他来讲,根本是月亮的暗面,看不到也感觉不到。

女的丈夫在什么旅行社工作,一个月倒有十五天不在家。这不出现的丈夫喜欢歌剧,书架上三四排全是歌剧唱片,按作曲家名姓分列着。男的从不听这等玩艺,他全家上下也从没人喜欢过歌剧,或许这世界上的确有一种东西叫歌剧,而且聆听的人也会喜欢吧,但这架唱片背后藏着的男人,便是这男的对歌剧的唯一所知。

女的态度无所谓些,只说,“歌剧倒也不讨厌,只是太长了。”

紧挨着书架的是一套相当繁复的豪华音响,相当特别的样子。只要走进屋,就不能不注意到它。但他从未听见它发出过什么声响来。女的根本找不到这音响的开关,而男的也不怎么想摆弄这东西,连碰碰都不想。

女的常常对男的说,“生活很好,不错,丈夫对我好,我也爱孩子。”男的嗤之以鼻,心说,“若如此何苦和我上床来呢。”但他要是当真说了这话,她是绝对、绝对会哭起来的。

女的顶顶能哭,悄无声息的,哭上老长时间。男的从没弄明白女的怎么就哭起来,他只知她是开了头就没个尾的哭。

等女的哭完了,两人大约会做爱。有时她也会拒绝他的求欢,不发一言的摇头:那时她的眼色像是深黑天空里一抹月的白。之后他们坐在桌旁。

男与女均非健谈者,似乎也无甚话题可供交流,就只是坐着。

-----
翻到这里,广告纸白的背面写完了。也就没再翻下去。

07-03-2002 19:15:36

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
英文原文如下:

AIRPLANE
by HARUKI MURAKAMI
Issue of 2002-07-01
Posted 2002-06-24

That afternoon she asked him, "Is that an old habit, the way you talk to yourself?" She raised her eyes from the table and put the question to him as if the thought had just struck her, but it had obviously not just struck her. She must have been thinking about it for a while. Her voice had that hard but slightly husky edge it always took on at times like this. She had held the words back and rolled them around on her tongue again and again before she let them out of her mouth.

The two were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table. Aside from the occasional commuter train running on a nearby track, the neighborhood was quiet—almost too quiet at times. Tracks without trains passing over them have a mysterious silence all their own. The vinyl tile of the kitchen floor gave his bare feet a pleasant chill. He had pulled his socks off and stuffed them into his pants pocket. The weather was a bit too warm for an April afternoon. She had rolled up the sleeves of her pale checked shirt as far as the elbows, and her slim white fingers toyed with the handle of her coffee spoon. He stared at the moving fingertips, and the workings of his mind went strangely flat. She seemed to have lifted the edge of the world, and now she was loosening its threads little by little—perfunctorily, apathetically, as if she had to do it no matter how long it might take.

He watched and said nothing. He said nothing because he did not know what to say. The few sips of coffee left in his cup were cold now, and muddy-looking.

He had just turned twenty, and she was seven years older, married, and the mother of one. For him, she might as well have been the far side of the moon.

Her husband worked for a travel agency that specialized in trips abroad, and so he was away from home nearly half of every month, in places like London or Rome or Singapore. He obviously liked opera. Thick three- and four-record albums lined the shelves, arranged by composer—Verdi, Puccini, Donizetti, Richard Strauss. The long rows looked less like a record collection than a symbol of a world view: calm, immovable. He looked at the husband's records whenever he was at a loss for words or for something to do; he would let his eyes wander over the album spines—from right to left, from left to right—and read the titles aloud in his mind: "La Bohème," "Tosca," "Turandot," "Norma," "Fidelio" . . . He had never once listened to music like that, had never had the chance to hear it. Not one person among his family, friends, or acquaintances was an opera fan. He knew that a music called opera existed, and that certain people liked to listen to it, but the husband's records were his first actual glimpse of such a world.

She herself was not particularly fond of opera. "I don't hate it," she said. "It's just too long."

Next to the record shelves stood a very impressive stereo set. Its big, foreign-made tube amp hunched down heavily, waiting for orders like a well-trained crustacean. There was no way to prevent it from standing out among the room's other, more modest furnishings. It had a truly exceptional presence. One's eyes could not help fixing on it. But he had never once heard it producing sound. She had no idea where to find the power switch, and he never thought to touch the thing.

"There's nothing wrong at home," she told him—any number of times. "My husband is good to me, I love my daughter, I think I'm happy." She sounded calm, even serene, as she said this, without a hint that she was making excuses for her life. She spoke of her marriage with complete objectivity, as though discussing traffic regulations or the International Date Line. "I think I'm happy, there's nothing wrong."

So why the hell is she sleeping with me? he wondered. He gave it lots of thought but couldn't come up with an answer. What did it even mean for there to be "something wrong" with a marriage? He sometimes thought of asking her directly, but he didn't know how to start. How should he say it? "If you're so happy, why the hell are you sleeping with me?" Should he just come out with it like that? He was sure it would make her cry.

She cried enough as it was. She would cry for a long, long time, making tiny sounds. He almost never knew why she was crying. But, once she started, she wouldn't stop. Try to comfort her though he might, she would not stop until a certain amount of time had gone by. In fact, he didn't have to do anything at all—once that time had gone by her crying would come to an end. Why were people so different from one another? he wondered. He had been with any number of women, all of whom cried, or got angry, but each in her own special way. They had points of similarity, but those were far outnumbered by their differences. It seemed to have nothing to do with age. This was his first experience with an older woman, but the difference in age didn't bother him as much as he had expected it to. Far more meaningful than age differences, he felt, were the different tendencies that each individual possessed. He couldn't help thinking that this was an important key for unlocking the riddle of life.

After she finished crying, usually, the two of them would make love. Only then would she be the one to initiate it. Otherwise, he had to be the one. Sometimes she would refuse him, without a word, shaking her head. Then her eyes would look like white moons floating at the edge of a dawn sky—flat, suggestive moons that shimmered at the single cry of a bird at dawn. Whenever he saw her eyes looking like that, he knew there was nothing more he could say to her. He felt neither anger nor displeasure. "That's how it goes," he thought. Sometimes he even felt relieved. They would sit at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, chatting quietly. They spoke in fragments most of the time. Neither was a great talker, and they had little in common to talk about. He could never remember what it was that they had been saying, just that it had been in little pieces. And all the while one commuter train after another would go past the window.

Their lovemaking was hushed and tranquil. It had nothing that could properly be called the joys of the flesh. Of course, it would be false to say that they knew none of the pleasure that obtains when a man and a woman join their bodies, but mixed with this were far too many other thoughts and elements and styles. It was different from any sex he had experienced before. It made him think of a small room—a nice, neat room that was a comfortable place to be. It had strings of many colors hanging from the ceiling, strings of different shapes and lengths, and each string, in its own way, sent a thrill of enticement through him. He wanted to pull one, and the strings wanted to be pulled. But he didn't know which one to pull. He felt that he might choose a string and have a magnificent spectacle open up before his eyes, but that, just as easily, everything could be ruined. And so he hesitated, and while he did, another day would end.

The strangeness of this situation was almost too much for him. He believed that he had lived his life with his own sense of values. But when he was in this room, hearing the trains go by and holding the silent older woman in his arms, he couldn't help feeling confused. Again and again he would ask himself, "Am I in love with her?" But he could never reach an answer with complete conviction.

When their lovemaking ended, she would glance at the clock. Lying in his arms, she would turn her face slightly and look at the black clock radio by the head of the bed. In those days, clock radios didn't have lighted digital displays but little numbered panels that flipped over with a tiny click. When she looked at the clock, a train would pass the window. It was like a conditioned reflex: she would look, a train would go by.

She was checking the clock to make sure it was not time for her four-yearold daughter to be coming home from kindergarten. He had happened to catch a glimpse of the girl exactly once, and she seemed like a sweet child. That was the only impression she left him with. He had never seen the opera-loving husband who worked for a travel bureau. Fortunately.

It was an afternoon in May when she first asked him about his talking to himself. She had cried that day—again. And then they had made love—again. He couldn't recall what had made her cry. He sometimes wondered if she had become involved with him just so that she could cry in someone's arms. Maybe she can't cry alone, and that's why she needs me.

That day she locked the door, closed the curtains, and brought the telephone next to the bed. Then they joined their bodies. Gently, quietly, as always. The doorbell rang, but she ignored it. It seemed not to startle her at all. She shook her head as if to say, "Never mind, it's nothing." The bell rang several more times, but soon whoever it was gave up and went away. Nothing, just as she had said. Maybe a salesman. But how could she know? A train rumbled by now and then. A piano sounded in the distance. He vaguely recognized the melody. He had heard it once, long ago, in music class, but he couldn't recall it exactly. A vegetable seller's truck clattered by out front. She closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and he came—with the utmost gentleness.

He went to the bathroom for a shower. When he came back, drying himself with a bath towel, he found her lying face down in bed with her eyes closed. He sat down next to her and, as always, caressed her back as he let his eyes wander over the titles of the opera records.

Soon, she left the bed, got properly dressed, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. It was a short time later that she asked him, "Is that an old habit, talking to yourself like that?"

"Like what?" She had taken him off guard. "You mean, while we're . . .. ?"

"No, no. Not then. Just anytime. Like when you're taking a shower, or when I'm in the kitchen and you're by yourself, reading the newspaper, that kind of thing."

"I had no idea," he said, shaking his head. "I've never noticed. I talk to myself?"

"You do. Really," she said, toying with his lighter.

"It's not that I don't believe you," he said, the discomfort of it affecting his voice. He put a cigarette in his mouth, took the lighter from her hand, and used it to light up. He had started smoking Seven Stars a short time earlier. It was her husband's brand. He had always smoked Hope regulars. Not that she had asked him to switch to her husband's brand; he had thought of taking the precaution himself. It would just make things easier, he'd decided. Like on the TV melodramas.

"I used to talk to myself a lot, too," she said. "When I was little."

"Oh, really?"

"But my mother made me stop. 'A young lady does not talk to herself,' she used to say. And whenever I did it she got so angry! She'd lock me in a closet—which, for me, was about the worst place I could imagine—dark and moldy-smelling. Sometimes she'd smack me in the knees with a ruler. But it worked. And it didn't take very long. I stopped talking to myself completely. Not a word."

He couldn't think of anything to say to this, and so he said nothing. She bit her lip.

"Even now," she said, "if I feel I'm about to say something I just swallow my words. It's like a reflex. But what's so bad about talking to yourself? It's natural. It's just words coming out of your mouth. If my mother were still alive, I think I'd ask her, 'What's so bad about talking to yourself?' "

"She's dead?"

"Uh-huh. But I wish I'd gotten it straight. I wish I'd asked her, 'Why did you do that to me?' "

She was playing with her coffee spoon. She glanced at the clock on the wall. The moment she did that, a train went by outside.

She waited for the train to pass. Then she said, "I sometimes think that people's hearts are like deep wells. Nobody knows what's at the bottom. All you can do is imagine by what comes floating to the surface every once in a while."

Both of them thought about wells for a little while.

"What do I talk about when I talk to myself?" he asked. "For example."

"Hmm," she said, slowly shaking her head a few times, almost as if she were discreetly testing the range of movement of her neck. "Well, there's airplanes . .. . "

"Airplanes?"

"Uh-huh. You know. They fly through the sky."

He laughed. "Why would I talk to myself about airplanes, of all things?"

She laughed, too. And then, using her index fingers, she measured the length of an imaginary object in the air. This was a habit of hers. One that he had picked up.

"You pronounce your words so clearly, too. Are you sure you don't remember talking to yourself?"

"I don't remember a thing."

She picked up the ballpoint pen lying on the table, and played with it for a few seconds, but then she looked at the clock again. It had done its job: in the five minutes since her last look, it had advanced five minutes' worth.

"You talk to yourself as if you were reciting poetry."

A hint of red came into her face as she said this. He found this odd: why should my talking to myself make her turn red?

He tried out the words in rhythm: "I talk to myself / Almost as if / I were reciting / Po-e-try."

She picked up the pen again. It was a yellow plastic ballpoint pen with a logo marking the tenth anniversary of a certain bank branch.

He pointed at the pen and said, "Next time you hear me talking to myself, take down what I say, will you?"

She stared straight into his eyes. "You really want to know?"

He nodded.

She took a piece of notepaper and started writing something on it. She wrote slowly, but she kept the pen moving, never once resting or getting stuck for a word. Chin in hand, he looked at her long eyelashes the whole time. She would blink once every few seconds, at irregular intervals. The longer he looked at them—these lashes which, until a few moments ago, had been wet with tears—the less he understood: what did his sleeping with her really mean? A sense of loss overtook him, as if one part of a complex system had been stretched and stretched until it became terribly simple. I might never be able to go anywhere else again. When this thought came to him, the horror of it was almost more than he could bear. His being, his very self, was going to melt away. Yes, it was true: he was as young as newly formed mud, and he talked to himself as if reciting poetry.

She stopped writing and thrust the paper toward him across the table. He reached out and took it from her.

In the kitchen, the afterimage of some great thing was holding its breath. He often felt the presence of this image when he was with her: the afterimage of a thing he had lost. But what had he lost?

"I know it all by heart," she said. "This is what you were saying."

He read the words aloud:

Airplane
Airplane flying
I, on the airplane
The airplane
Flying
But still, though it flew
The airplane's
The sky?


"All of this?!" He was stunned.

"Uh-huh, the whole thing," she said.

"Incredible! I can't believe I said all this to myself and don't remember any of it."

She flashed a tiny smile. "You did, though, just like that."

He let out a sigh. "This is too weird. I've never once thought about airplanes. I have absolutely no memory of this. Why, all of a sudden, would an airplane come popping out?"

"I don't know, but that is exactly what you were saying, before, in the shower. You may not have been thinking about airplanes, but somewhere deep in a forest, far away, your heart was thinking about them."

"Who knows? Maybe somewhere deep in a forest I was making an airplane."

With a small thunk, she set the ballpoint pen on the table, then raised her eyes and stared at him.

They remained silent for some time. The coffee in their cups clouded up and grew cold. The Earth turned on its axis while the moon's gravity imperceptibly shifted the tides. Time moved on in silence, and trains passed over the rails.

He and she were thinking about the very same thing: an airplane. The airplane that his heart was making deep in the forest. How big it was, and its shape, and the color of its paint, and where it was going, and who would board it.

She cried again soon after that. This was the very first time that she cried twice in the same day. It was also the last. It was a special thing for her. He reached across the table and touched her hair. There was something tremendously real about the way it felt—hard and smooth, and far away.

(Translated, from the Japanese, by Jay Rubin.)

07-03-2002 19:17:02

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
Tim你可真是大刀阔斧,删了减了略了好多!
07-03-2002 19:40:40

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
讲到做爱就不翻了。这不象Tim的风格。
莫非这又太软,不入你的眼?
07-03-2002 19:47:43

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
没有字典又怕翻错了,只有大笔的删了减了。那些衬衣啊领子拉,歌剧的名字啦,我拿不准,而且翻了的话,难免语言又不流畅了。

做爱那段,正高兴的想翻,第一,纸没有了。第二,她说要走了。第三,后来我又想翻来着。
发现很难找到词汇来翻。难不成学林少华说,“跟妻困了觉?”还是学翻渡边淳一的译者的“推拉顶磨”?

07-03-2002 19:54:44

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
翻译是带着镣铐跳舞噢,和自己乱写是不同的。
翻到“男女做爱,静而又静。很难发现些许‘肉体的欢愉’的痕迹。”
已经感觉要死掉了。

所以确切的是在这句话上停下来的。

阿朗你把我当成什么了?

07-03-2002 20:03:54

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
我觉得呢,整体感觉是对了的,我的读来跟你的差不多。
挑一个小剔:
说那个音响的时候,繁复豪华?要是我,就用“颇为抢眼”。
其实呢,也就是唬人的。也许只是我,impressive在这读起来,是
满口的刻薄。

还有the hell这,the hell那的语气,你怎么也给略/删了呢?我倒
是觉得这些语气词,很传神的日本男人德性。

07-03-2002 20:04:36

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
Tim,我把你当Tim。
07-03-2002 20:06:01

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
说音响“繁复豪华”,还不够刻薄?:J

我是觉得村上笔下的男人,hell来hell去就没味道了。

07-03-2002 20:16:49

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
不过兴许是我读林少华多了些,他的村上是不hell的。
07-03-2002 20:18:35

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
如果原文里就是hell来hell去的,怕还是要跟他才对。
不然就是,如你说,某某的村上了。

还是impressed by你的勇气和耐性。要我翻译这么长的东西,简直
,不如,让我去有人抽烟的酒吧。

07-03-2002 20:21:40

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
可天知道日文里是哪个词对着这个Hell?

不要如此刻毒嘲笑我了,我坐在那里百无聊赖,看着文章又不长,一下来了力气,觉得应该咻咻的就搞定。谁知道一个多小时过去了……,那菜已经睡醒了几觉。

07-03-2002 20:27:07

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
Tim,我没有嘲笑你的意思。我两、三年前还把《童女之舞》翻成英
了英文呢( !)只不过现在没力气搞那些了。
07-03-2002 20:31:32

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
啊哈!两三年前我还有个朋友打算把《红杜鹃》翻译成中文呢!
07-03-2002 20:33:43

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
可见年轻人和中年人是不同的了。

10年前我抽烟,还要要装模作样地吐烟圈,
开口闭口讲英文,还要拿英文写日记。

呵呵

不过呢,Tim你早熟。

07-03-2002 20:39:14

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
哇呀,十年前,算算,二十出头嘛,大家都是那样啊。
二十岁的时候我非常的爱学习,在图书馆看大厚的英文书,还只看女权的。
抽烟,最次的那种。喝酒,一天灌几瓶。二十岁的整个夏天都是昏乎乎的。

对了,我还没有发育哈。太晚熟才对。你知道我说哪里。

07-03-2002 20:45:58

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
Tim,我哪知道你说的是哪里!

酒我倒是很少喝,过去或现在。烟早就不沾了。我既不喜欢酒吧,
亦不喜欢烟。所以我说,要我去烟雾撩绕的酒吧不啻于要我翻译
——都是那么受罪的事情。

07-04-2002 10:34:56

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) shafu
春天在哪里?TIM恐怕你要像我一样做好永远不熟的准备了。
这么大段的英文,你们真够恐怖的。昨天我买到了《girls who like girls》,讲从前的lesbain经典三级片的,里面的翻译破绽百出,可我要自己听懂也不是那么容易,为了看好片,懂好文,我下定决心好好学英文。最好是寓教于乐。二十岁整天只顾玩乐,没有学习的后果,要三十岁的中妇来承担,惨啊。
07-04-2002 11:17:14

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿土33
刚刚好今天看了这文章,定纽约客的杂志有一段时间了,很多时候在地铁上看,看着看着就容易睡着.

当时在想,这是不是村上的东西,惭愧惭愧,到现在才知道那英文的名字是村上.

年初的时候,有另一篇村上的东西也被译成英文发在纽约客上,有关一个中产的丈夫,妻子去世之后要求自己的私人助理着自己太太的衣服.

最近也才刚刚读过村上的"国境之南日落之西"后来在朋友谈到时候,她说,村上写的那些性爱场面,多是不忍读,似乎有性焦虑症之嫌.:J

关于那音响,我同意阿朗,要我,就翻成"扎眼":J

07-08-2002 10:22:03

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
扎眼这个词好,合适,妥帖。

说来惭愧,要不是先知道那一串名字是村上的英文,我肯定看不出来这是村上的东西。

说村上的性爱场面糟,我觉得拜翻译所赐。英文读起来,感觉上没那么糟糕嘛。

林少华翻译早期的村上春树,遇到“性”,有这样的翻法:“今晚和她困了觉。”——好奇他是不是绍兴人。
后来翻的,困觉总算是不用了,但用的是“今晚抱了妻”。

哐当。

早期的村上比近期的好看。喜欢《1973年的弹子球》那样的东西。读到《人造卫星情人》的时候,已经觉得他老了,矫柔造作起来。

对了,还有一个村上,就是村上龙,好像国内还没有他的书,在网上看了觉得不太过瘾。有一天去买书,发现一本书上赫然有“村上龙”三个字。细看书名:《家庭投资指南》,还是漫画版。

今天,我的生死任务终于完成啦。

07-08-2002 12:35:41

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
Tim,我有一个纸的东西寄给你,请来妹儿确认地址。
07-08-2002 13:21:39

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿朗.
"扎眼"不错.
07-08-2002 14:23:15

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 阿土.
当时读这篇英文,想起我提过的另一篇,立即就知道是同一个人,我通常记不住日本人名字英文写法,好象完全没有关连.

读第一篇的时候,觉得,这应该是女作家的手笔,细腻流畅,而且似乎刻划女性的心理敏感而贴切.也许,东方文字翻作英文过后,的确有种特别的细致.无怪乎我觉得那是女作家的东东.也许就让TIM觉得陌生了吧.

村上春树的作品里面,性的描写很具体,具体得让我觉得整篇都是阳具,以及它的感受.

觉得有点好奇,假如从日文翻成中文,那个"impressive"会给翻成什么.

07-09-2002 09:35:36

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 二世祖,
村上龙的作品国内有出过
好像叫:接近无限透明的蓝?
07-09-2002 17:11:11

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 夏日草香
日本作家村上龙的小说《近似无限透明的蓝》,我在深圳看过的,是个中长篇小说集,感觉很不错,某种程度上我觉得比村上春树要好,最后一个长篇有写到女同性恋,我觉得有马尔克斯的魔幻现实主义影子。
07-09-2002 21:34:36

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) lamp
档案
哈哈哈!“推拉顶磨”~~~~
我看我还是去学日文好了。
08-10-2002 13:29:27

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) chyi
读过村上龙的ibiza,后面有一段关于女同性恋的,不知道是不是夏日香草所说的长篇。不过还不错的,可以读一读。可是……忘记了是在哪里下载的了。大约是在http://www.book8.com/里找到的。
08-11-2002 19:08:18

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 水和天
《白鸟》是村上龙那本书的LES故事,我以为写得通透。亦凡也可以下得到,很短的一篇。

村上龙厉害,做爱写得极仔细且要言不烦,尤以IBIZA为最。我们都曾憧憬过去IBIZA渡假,后来知道那里是真正世界巨富的聚会就打消了念头。

也就是从村上龙,我看到了中国当代作者的贫乏,都要写性都写不实,难得写实的又难看得很。不过,村上龙一定是毛片的FANS,只有毛片才能看得细还不会湿,方能潜心观察。反正,日本人做事都要做尽啦,你看拍性事的电影那么多,法国那么多奇奇怪怪的性电影(此处特指文艺片),有谁赶得上《感官世界》的?难得拍出个搞个不停的《亲密》又奇怪得要命。

《赤桥春水》只看完简介,觉得好笑得很,那女人一边鞠躬一边气喘吁吁地说“嘿!拜托不要把水的秘密告诉别人!嘿!”,然后那男的一边整理衣服一边鞠躬“嘿!知道了!请放心!”

08-28-2002 12:06:25

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) 水和天
忘了,提木提醒要同一主题才可用回复的嘛,赶紧转回来,我很不喜欢林少华的译笔,尤其是写到自然风景,译笔真是鸡皮直起,你看森林开始的一处写直子走在什么草地上的,差点让我同村上失之交臂。(欢迎商榷)
08-28-2002 12:13:54

新内容RE:写在麦当劳广告纸的背后 (编辑了 0 次) tim.
林少华嘛,呵呵,来点艺术青年,我并不很介意的。翻译村上的几个译手,各有高低,赖明珠翻得比较活泼,还有的,翻译得,更贴切村上那种速度。不过,在文字风格上,都不及林少华。因为只有林的翻译,彻底的把村上的文章变成了一种所谓“村上体”的东西。

——不过因为是“体”,就有规律可循,就可以模仿了——我在网上看到村上迷写的村上体,或者那个叫小资的写手的村上体,那才叫鸡皮疙瘩串起。

08-28-2002 12:27:32

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