米斯特拉尔作品

董继平 译

乌龟

傻瓜在每一次关于前进的交谈中影射它，批评那种可爱的缓慢。

它在这个正方形的天井中生活了40 年，那里只有一棵茉莉花树和一个干涸的水盆。相比一段鲑鱼能在8 天游过的距离，它再也不了解上帝的世界。

在它那个地方，他们到处铺撒了锃亮的沙子；它用胸脯触及沙子。沙子美妙地吱嘎作响，像缓流的水滑行。

它从那个小海滩走向一个微不足道的短草的广场，它就像熟悉沙子那样熟悉那个广场。这两种生物——沙子和短草，在它看来就像是两个惬意的神祇。

它从水洼中无声地饮水。它看着那好像落进水里的天空。天空似乎像它那样宁静。它听见茉莉花树中的风声。一些黄叶飘落，触摸它的背，在它的外壳下，某种凉爽的东西进入它。然后它缩回去。

一只老旧的手给它带来食物；另一只新颖的手用鹅卵石击中它的外壳……

聪明的手把愚蠢的手移走。

在某个时候，沙子闪耀，水闪烁。然后地面的颜色跟它一样，于是它就睡着了。这个寂静者了解世界，非常了解世界。

所有其他东西都干什么事情；水盆滴水，草丛长起。在它内心，好像一切都没改变。没有改变？即使它并不知道，它的外壳也会增厚；如果它知道，它就会震惊。

最终它死了。整整一天都没人注意到什么；它仅仅好像更缓慢……它的脑袋进入它那小小的棺材；它的脚缩进它的盒子。沙子意识到它又萎缩了一点。

他们让它在空气中风干。后来，他们又把它掏空。现在桌子上有一个宽敞的外壳，一个旧铁瓮，充满沉默。

THE TORTOISE

Fools allude to her in every conversation about progress，critiquing that lovely slowness.

She has lived for forty years in this square patio，which has only one jasmine tree and one dry water basin.She knows no more of God' s world than the distance a salmon can swim in eight days.

Throughout her place they have spread a polished sand;she touches it and touches it with her breast.The sand creaks sweetly and slides like slow water.

She walks from the little beach to a square of insignificant short grass that is as familiar to her as the sand is.These two creatures，sand and short grass，seem to her like two sweet gods.

Soundlessly，she drinks from the puddle.She looks at the sky，which seems fallen in the water.The sky seems tranquil，like her.She hears the wind in the jasmine.Some yellow leaves fall;they touch her back，and something cool enters her，under her shell.Then she draws back.

An old hand brings her food;another new one hits her on the shell with pebbles……The intelligent hand takes the foolish one away.

The sand shines intensely at a certain time，and the water glitters.Then the ground is the same color as she is，and so she falls asleep.The still one knows the world，knows it very well.

All the other things do something;the basin drips，and the grass rises.In her，it seems，nothing changes.Doesn' t change?Even though she doesn' t know it，her shell thickens;she would be astounded if she knew this.

At last she has died.For a whole day no one noticed anything;she only seemed slower……Her head entered her little casket;her feet went into her case.The sand realized she had shrunk a little more.

They let her dry out in the air.Later they emptied her.Now on the table there is a spacious shell，an urn of old iron，filled with silence.

面粉

面粉发光，光滑而又重要。

清晰的米粉，像精美的丝绸沙沙作响；被称为玉米淀粉的面粉，清新如雨雪，舒缓烧伤。从谦卑的土豆中，面粉滑溜如银。如此光滑的面粉！

沉重的面粉，用稻米或黑麦谷粒的悲伤制成，沉重如泥土，那能为无辜生物创造银河的泥土本身。

光滑的面粉，比水更沉默地滑行，能在一个赤裸的孩子身上撒过，也不会把他惊醒。

面粉清晰，光滑而又重要。

母亲般的面粉，乳汁真正的姐妹，几乎是一个女人，一位中产阶级家庭的母亲，一头白发，乳房丰满，坐在阳光明媚的门口。她就是那创造孩子肉体的人。她完全具有女性气质，就像橡胶或白垩那样阴性；如果你对她哼唱一支摇篮曲，她就会辨识出来；她理解一切具有女性气质的东西。

她被独自留在世界上，用浑圆的乳房喂养这颗行星。

她还能把自己变成一座乳汁的山，一座平缓的山，所有的孩子都从上面翻滚又翻滚而下。

母亲面粉也是一位永恒的少女，在稻田的褶皱中来回摆动，一个小女孩，无形的风没有看见她就跟她嬉戏，没让她意识到就抚摸她的脸。

清晰的面粉。一个人可以把它撒在贫穷、幽暗、古老的大地上，而她会予以回报，生长出一片片宽阔的雏菊地，或者用霜降来打扮。

面粉清晰，光滑而又重要。

如果她行走，没有人会听见它那棉花般的脚重重落在泥土中的声音；如果她要跳舞，她那沉甸甸的手臂就会落下；如果她想歌唱，歌声就会寄存在她那粗壮的喉咙中。但她并没行走，或跳舞，或歌唱。如果她想要名字，那么我们就得给她发明一个包含着三个B 的或者三个M 的名字。

FLOUR

Flour is luminous，smooth，and weighty.

Clear rice flour，which rustles like fine silk;the one that's called cornstarch，as fresh as sleet and that eases burns.From the humble potato，flour as slippery as silver.Such smooth flours!

Heavy flour，made from the grief of the grains of rice or rye，is as heavy as the earth，the earth itself that can make Milky Ways for guiltless creatures.

Smooth flour，sliding more silently than water，can sift across a naked child without waking him.

Flour is clear，smooth，and weighty.

Maternal flour，milk's true sister，almost a woman，a middle-class domestic mother with white hair and full breast，seated in a sunny doorway.She is the one who creates the flesh of children.She is completely womanly，as female as rubber or chalk;she recognizes a lullaby if you hum it to her;she understands all womanly things.

Left alone with the world，she would feed the planet with her round breasts.

She can also turn herself into a mountain of milk，a gentle mountain down which all the children tumble and tumble.

The mother-flour is also an eternal girl，rocked in the great folds of the rice paddies，a little girl with whom the invisible winds play without seeing her，stroking her face without her realizing it.

Clear flour.One could dust it over the poor，dark，ancient earth，and she would yield back wide fields of daisies，or she' d dress it in frost.

Flour is clear，smooth，and weighty.

If she walked，no one would hear her cottony feet as they sank，weightily，into the earth;if she were to dance，her heavy arms would fall;if she wanted to sing，the song would lodge in her thick throat.But she doesn' t walk，or dance，or sing.If she wanted a name，we' d have to invent a name for her containing three B' s or three gentle M' s.