圣-琼·佩斯作品

◎董继平 译

鸟

大海上的人， 在空气中感觉到正午， 对着这样的奇观抬头：一只在天上展开的白色鸥鸟， 犹如灯火前女人的手， 在日光中提升一个圣体粉红色的半透明度， 一块圣饼的洁白……

从默默驶入这个和平与统一之地的真实事物的悲剧的海岸，就像驶入一个中点或“核心”， 尽管如此， 那只从其第三维被减去的鸟， 一点也没忘记它曾经在它的强夺者手里的体积。 穿越画家的内心距离， 它跟随他走向一个新世界， 丝毫未曾中断与它的起源之地、 它更早的环境和它更深的亲缘的联系。 一个非常相同的诗意空间确保这种连续性。 因为布拉克①画的这只鸟， 这就成了他的“生态学” 秘密的力量。

人重新汇入了野兽的天真， 画在猎人眼里的那只鸟变成野兽眼里的猎人本身， 就像在爱斯基摩人的艺术中一样。 野物和人一起越过第四维的津渡。 从存在的困难到热爱的轻松， 他们最终同步移动， 两个成双成对的真正的生物。

既然解放的时辰已经来临， 这里就有不止一队飞起的鸟： 这是画出的伟大形象沉默地起飞， 就像下水船道上的船只……更确切地说， 在一阵阵风的玫瑰的三十二个点中间， 在水手的罗盘那不朽的眼睛上， 把它们看作是类似于在它那蓝钢色的枢轴上恍惚的磁针。

布拉克那只简洁的鸟根本不是简单的主题。 它不是日子的这一页上面的水印， 甚至也不是留在墙壁黏泥上新鲜的手印……它活着， 它传播， 它燃烧——完全集中于存在和持久存在上面。 它像植物畅饮光芒的活力， 它如此热切， 因此在太阳光谱中， 既看不见蓝紫色也看不见蓝色……它完全凭借灵魂的力量， 挣脱它的引力之线。 它的影子在地面上解散……这是一种行动的诗， 在这里被带着激情而进入。

啊， 幸福的鸟儿， 但愿它们朝着我们延伸， 从一片海岸延伸到天空海洋的另一片海岸， 那将帮助并围绕我们画下的翅膀的巨大弧线！ 但愿它们在我们中间， 用灵魂的力量承载它十足的荣誉！

在天与海的半空中， 在永恒的上下水域之间， 清理永恒之路，对于我们， 它们是斡旋者， 用它们所有的存在努力地追求最大限度的存在……

这就是乔治·布拉克的鸟， 不管是海鸟还是干草原上的鸟、 沿海的鸟， 抑或是海洋中央的鸟……布拉克， 你把神圣的物种播撒在西方的空间。

忽视那见过我们大家诞生的最伟大之梦的球体， 它们把我们留给我们城市的传说……它们的飞翔是知识， 空间是它们的异化。

它们在人类伟大的夜晚缄默， 高飞。 然而它们在黎明时朝我们降临下来， 降临的陌生者： 身披黎明的那些颜色——在沥青和白霜之间——那正是人类深处的颜色……从那个清新的黎明， 就像从一场很纯洁的圣水礼中， 它们为我们保存了创造之梦的某种东西。

注： ①即乔治·布拉克（1882-1963）， 法国现代派画家。

BIRDS

A man at sea， feeling noon in the air， lifts his head at this wonder: a white gull opened on the sky， like a woman's hand before the flame of a lamp， elevating in daylight the pink translucence of a host， a wafer's whiteness....

俞敏杰是顾晓琳在学习上的竞争对手。两个人学习上谁也不服谁，第一名的成绩轮流坐庄。不过，顾晓琳现在糟糕的家庭状况让俞敏杰为她担心起来，如果这种状况持续下去，她的成绩肯定要下降，可是如果因为这个原因成全自己在班里第一名的地位，自己好像有点儿胜之不武。

From the tragic shores of the real drawn silently to this place of peace and unity， as into a median point or “locus，” the bird subtracted from his third dimension is nevertheless far from forgetting the volume he once had in the hand of his ravisher.Crossing into the interior distance of the painter， he follows him towards a new world without breaking any ties with the land of his origin， his earlier surroundings， and his deeper affinities.One very same poetic space assures this continuity.Such， for the bird painted by Braque， is the secret strength of his “ecology.”

Man has rejoined the innocence of the wild creature， and the bird painted in the hunter's eye becomes the hunter himself in the eye of the creature， as it does in Eskimo art.Wild thing and hunter together cross the ford of a fourth dimension.From the difficulty of being to the ease of loving they move in step at last， two real beings who form a pair.

We are a long way now from decoration.Here is knowledge pursued as a research of the soul， and nature finally joined by spirit after surrendering all to spirit.A moving and long meditation has rediscovered here the immensity of space and time where the naked bird displays his length， elliptically shaped like the red cells of his blood.

Now that the hour of liberation has come， here is more than a rising flight of birds: it is a silent launching of great painted images，like ships on their launching ways...Consider them rather， amid the thirty-two points of the rose of the winds， on the incorruptible eye of the mariner's compass， as resembling the magnetic needle in trance on its pivot of blue steel.

Braque's succinct bird is not at all a simple motif.He is not a watermark on the page of day， nor even the fresh imprint of a hand on the clay of a wall...He lives， he takes wind， he burns—all concentration on being and constancy in being.He drinks like a plant the energy of light， and so avid is he that in the solar spectrum he sees neither violet nor blue...By sheer force of soul he breaks his thread of gravitation.His shadow on the ground is dismissed...It is a poetry of action that is entered with passion here.

Happy birds， ah， may they extend towards us， from one shore to the other of heaven's ocean， that huge arc of painted wings that will assist and encircle us! May they bear the full honour of it among us by strength of soul!

At mid-height between sky and sea， between the upper and lower waters of eternity， clearing the way of eternity， they are mediators for us and strive with all their being to the utmost of being...

Such are the birds of Georges Braque， whether sea birds or birds of the steppe， coastal birds， or birds of mid-ocean...Braque，you are sowing the space of the West with holy species.

Passing over the globe of the greatest Dream， which has seen the birth of us all， they leave us to our tales of cities...Their flight is knowledge， space is their alienation.

Mute they are， and high in flight， in the great night of man.

But at dawn they come down to us， strangers descending:

Robed in those colours of dawn—between bitumen and hoarfrost—that are the very colours of the depths of man...

And from that dawn of freshness， as from a very pure aspersion， they have preserved for us something of the dream of creation.