2007年10月23日星期二

里尔克——《给一个青年诗人的十封信》/ Rainer Maria Rilke


里尔克,《给一个青年诗人的十封信》 (冯至 译)(北京:三联书店,1994年重印)。



  第八封信


  亲爱的卡卜斯先生,我想再和你谈一谈,虽然我几乎不能说对你有所帮助以及对你有一些用处的话。你有过很多大的悲哀,这些悲哀都已过去了。你说,这悲哀的过去也使你非常苦恼。但是,请你想一想,是不是这些大的悲哀并不曾由你生命的中心走过?当你悲哀的时候,是不是在你生命里并没有许多变化,在你本性的任何地方也无所改变?危险而恶劣的是那些悲哀,我们把它们运送到人群中,以遮盖它们的声音;像是敷敷衍衍治疗的病症,只是暂时退却,过些时又更可怕地发作; 他 们聚集在体内,成为一种没有生活过、被摈斥、被遗弃的生命,能以此使我们死去。如果我们能比我们平素的知识所能达到的地方看得更远一点,稍微越过我们预感的前哨,那么也许我们将会以比担当我们的欢悦更大的信赖去担当我们的悲哀。因为它们(悲哀)都是那些时刻,正当一些新的,陌生的事物侵入我们生命;我们的 情感蜷伏于怯懦的局促的状态里,一切都退却,形成一种寂静,于是这无人认识的就立在中间,沉默无语。

  我想信几乎我们一切的悲哀都是紧张的瞬间,这时我们感到麻木,因为我们不再听到诧异的情感生存。因为我们要同这生疏的闯入者独自周旋;因为我们平素所信 任的与习惯的都暂时离开了我们;因为我们正处在一个不能容我们立足的过程中。可是一旦这不期而至的新事物迈进我们的生命,走进我们的心房,在心的最深处化为无有,溶解在我们的血液中,悲哀也就因此过去了。我们再也经验不到当时的情形。这很容易使我们相信前此并没有什么发生;其实我们却是改变了,正如一所房子,走进一位新客,它改变了。我们不能说,是谁来了,我们望后也许不知道,可是有许多迹象告诉我们,在未来还没有发生之前,它就以这样的方式潜入我们的生命,以便在我们身内变化。所以我们在悲哀的时刻要安于寂寞,多注意,这是很重要的:因为当我们的未来潜入我们的生命的瞬间,好像是空虚而枯僵, 但与那从外边来的、为我们发生的喧嚣而意外的时刻相比,是同生命接近得多。我们悲哀时越沉静,越忍耐,越坦白,这新的事物也越深、越清晰地走进我们的生命,我们也就更好地保护它,它也就更多地成为我们自己的命运;将来有一天它发生了(就是说:它从我们的生命里出来向着别人走进),我们将在最内心的地方感到我们同它亲切而接近。并且这是必要的。是必要的,——我们将渐渐地向那方面发展,——凡是迎面而来的事,是没有生疏的,都早已属于我们了。人们已经变换过这么多运转的定义,将来会渐渐认清,我们所谓的命运是从我们里出来,并不是从外边向着我们走进。只因为有许多人,当命运在他们身内生存时,他们不曾把它吸收,化为己有,所以他们也认不清,有什么从他们身内出现;甚至如此生疏,他们在仓皇恐惧之际,以为命运一定是正在这时走进他们的生命, 因为他们确信自己从来没有见过这样类似的事物。正如对于太阳的运转曾经有过长期的蒙惑那样,现在人们对于未来的运转,也还在同样地自欺自蔽。其实未来站得很稳,亲爱的卡卜斯先生,但是我们动转在这无穷无尽的空间。

  我们怎么能不感觉困难呢?

  如果我们再谈到寂寞,那就会更明显,它根本不是我们所能选择或弃舍的事物。我们都是寂寞的。人能够自欺,好像并不寂寞。只不过如此而已。 但是,那有多么好呢,如果我们一旦看出,我们都正在脱开这欺骗的局面。在期间我们自然要发生眩昏;因为平素我们的眼睛看惯了的一切这时都忽然失去,再也没 有亲近的事物,一切的远方都是无穷地旷远。谁从他的屋内没有准备,没有过程,忽然被移置在一脉高山的顶上,他必会有类似的感觉;一种无与伦比的不安被交付给无名的事 物,几乎要把他毁灭。他或许想像会跌落,或者相信会被抛掷在天空,或者粉身碎骨;他的头脑必须发现多么大的谎话,去补救、去说明他官感失迷的状态。一切的距离与尺度对于那寂寞的人就有了变化;从这些变化中忽然会有许多变化发生。跟在山顶上的那个人一样,生出许多非常的想像与稀奇的感觉,它们好像超越了一切能够担当的事体。但那是必要的,我们也体验这种情况。我们必须尽量广阔地承受我们的生存;一切,甚至闻所未闻的事物,都可能在里边存在。根本那是我们被要 求的惟一的勇气;勇敢地面向我们所能遇到的最稀奇、最吃惊、最不可解的事物。就因为许多人在这意义中是怯懦的,所以使生活受了无限的损伤;人们称作的那些体验、所谓幽灵世界、死,以及一切同我们相关联的事物,它们都被我们日常的防御挤出生活之外,甚至我们能够接受它们的感官都枯萎了。关于,简直就不能谈论了。但是对于不可解的事物的恐惧,不仅使个人的生存更为贫乏,并且人与人的关系也因之受到限制,正如从有无限可能性的河床里捞出来,放在一块荒芜不毛的的岸上。因为这不仅是一种惰性,使人间的关系极为单调而陈腐地把旧事一再重演,而且是对于任何一种不能预测、不堪胜任的新的生活的畏缩。但是如果有人对于一切有了准备,无论什么甚至最大的哑谜,也不置之度外,那么他就会把同别人的关系,当作生动着的事物去体验,甚至充分理解自己的存在。正如我们把各个人的存在看成一块较大或较小的空间,那么大部分人却只认识了他们空间的一角、一块窗前的空地,或是他们走来走去的一条窄道。这样他们就 有一定的安定。可是那危险的不安定是更人性的,它能促使亚仑·坡 的故事里的囚犯摸索他们可怕的牢狱的形状,而熟悉他们住处内不可言喻的恐怖。但我们不是囚犯,没有人在我们周围布置了陷阱,没有什么来恐吓我们,苦恼我 们。我们在生活中像是在最适合于我们的原素里,况且我们经过几千年之久的适应和生活是这样地相似了,如果我们静止不动,凭借一种成功的模拟,便很难同我们 周围的一切有所区分。我们没有理由不信任我们的世界,因为它并不敌对我们。如果它有恐惧,就是我们的恐惧;它有难测的深渊,这深渊是属于我们的;有危险, 我们就必须试行去爱这些危险。若是我们把我们的生活,按照那叫我们必须永远把握艰难的原则来处理,那么现在最生疏的事物就会变得最亲切、最忠实的了。我们 怎么能忘却那各民族原始时都有过的神话呢;恶龙在最紧急的瞬间变成公主的那段神话;也许我们生活中一切的恶龙都是公主们,她们只是等候着,美丽而勇敢地看 一看我们。也许一切恐怖的事物在最深处是无助的,向我们要求救助。

  亲爱的卡卜斯先生,如果有一种悲哀在你面前出现,它是从未见过地那样广大,如果有一种不安,像光与云影似地掠过你的行为与一切工作,你不 要恐惧。你必须想,那是有些事在你身边发生了;那是生活没有忘记你,它把你握在手中,它永不会让你失落。为什么你要把一种不安、一种痛苦、一种忧郁置于你 的生活之外 呢,可是你还不知道,这些情况在为你做什么工作?为什么你要这样追问,这一切是从哪里来,要向哪里去呢?可是你要知道,你是在过渡中,要愿望自己有所变 化。如果你的过程里有一些是病态的,你要想一想,病就是一种方法,有机体用以从生疏的事物中解放出来;所以我们只须让它生病,使它有整个的病发作,因为这才是进步。亲爱的卡卜斯先生,现在你自身内有这么多的事发生,你要像一个病人似地忍耐,又像一个康复者似地自信;你也许同时是这两个人。并且你还须是看护自己的医生。但是在病中常常有许多天,医生除了等候以外,什么事也不能做。这就是(尽你是你的医生的时候),现在首先必须做的事。

  对于自己不要过甚地观察。不要从对你发生的事物中求得很快的结论,让它们单纯地自生自长吧。不然你就很容易用种种(所谓道德的)谴责回顾你的过去,这些过去自然和你现在遇到的一切很有关系。凡是从你童年的迷途、愿望、渴望中在你身内继续影响着的事,它们并不让你回忆,供你评判。一个寂寞而孤单的童年非常的情况是这样艰难,这样复杂,受到这么多外来的影响,同时又这样脱开了一切实生活的关联,纵使在童年有罪恶,我们也不该简捷了当地称作罪恶。对于许多名称,必须多多注意;常常只是犯罪的名称使生命为之破碎,而不是那无名的、个人的行为本身,至于这个行为也许是生活中规定的必要,能被生活轻易接受的。因为你把胜利估量得过高,所以你觉得力的消耗如此巨大;胜利并不是你认为已经完成的伟大,纵使你觉得正确;伟大是你能以把一些真的、实在的事物代替欺骗。不然你的胜利也不过是一种道德上的反应,没有广大的意义,但是它却成为你生活的一个段落。亲爱的卡卜斯先生,关于我的生活,我有很多的愿望。你还记得吗,这个生活是怎样从童年里出来,向着伟大渴望?我看着,它现在又从这些伟大前进,渴望更伟大的事物。所以艰难的生活永无止境,但因此生长也无止境。

  如果我还应该向你说一件事,那么就是:你不要相信,那试行劝慰你的人是无忧无虑地生活在那些有时对你有益的简单而平静的几句话里。他的生活有许多的辛苦与悲哀,他远远地专诚帮助你。不然,他就绝不能找到那几句话。

  你的:莱内·马利亚·里尔克1904812;瑞典,弗拉底,波格比庄园


2007年10月21日星期日

Foucault’s “Recipes”/ 福柯的配方


Michel de Certeau, Heterologies: Discourse on the Other (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986).


Chapter 13, Micro-Techniques and Panoptic Discourse

[Page 190]

...

As in cooking, here we find subtle “recipes” to get theories of practices. Yet in the same way that a cooking recipe is punctuated with a certain number of action imperatives (blend, baste, bake, etc.), so also the theoretical operation can be summed up in two steps: extract, and then turn over; first the “ethnological” isolation of some practices for obtaining a scientific “object,” then the logical inversion of this obscure object into an enlightening center of the theory.

The first step is a “découpe”: it isolates a design of some practices from a seamless web, in order to constitute these practices as a distinct and separate corpus, a coherent whole, which is nonetheless alien to the place in which theory is produced. It is the case for Foucault’s panoptical procedures, isolated from a multitude of other practices. By this way, they receive an ethnological form. Meanwhile, the particular genre thereby isolated is taken to be the metonymy of the whole species: a part, observable because it has been circumscribed, is used to represent the undefinable totality of practices in general. To be sure, this isolation is used to make sense out of the specific dynamics of a given technology. Yet it is an ethnological and metonymic “découpage.”

In the second step, the unity thus isolated is reversed. What was obscure, unspoken, and culturally alien becomes the very element that throws light on the theory and upon which the discourse is founded. In Foucault, procedures embodied in the surveillance systems at school, in the army, or in hospitals, micro-apparatuses without discursive legitimacy techniques utterly foreign to the Aufklärung, all become the very ordering principle that makes sense of our own society just as they provide the rationale of our “human sciences.” Because of them, and in them, as in a mirror, Foucault sees everything and is able to elucidate everything. They allow his discourse itself to be theoretically panoptical in its turn. This strange operation consists in transforming secret and aphasic practices into the central axis of a theoretical discourse, and making this nocturnal corpus over into a mirror in which the decisive reason of our contemporary history shines forth.

[Page 192]

On a first Level, Foucault’s theoretical text is still organized by the panoptical procedures it elucidates. But on a second level, this panoptical discourse is only a stage where a narrative machinery reverses our triumphant panoptical epistemology. Thus, there is in Foucault’s book an internal tension between his historical thesis (the triumph of a panoptical system) and his own way of writing (the subversion of a panoptical discourse). The analysis pretending to efface itself behind an erudition and behind a set of taxonomies it busily manipulates is like a ballet dancer disguised as a librarian. And so, a Nietzschean laughter meanwhile runs through the historian’s text.

Two short propositions may be an introduction to a debate, and may take the place of a conclusion:

1) Procedures are not merely the objects of a theory. They organize the very construction of theory itself. Far from being external to theory, or from staying on its doorstep, Foucault’s procedures provide a field of operations within which theory is itself produced. With Foucault we get another way of building a theory, a theory which is the literary gesture of those procedures themselves.

2) In order to clarify the relationship of theory with those procedures that produce it as well with those that are its objects of study, the most relevant way would be a storytelling discourse. Foucault writes that he does nothing but tell stories (“récits”). Stories slowly appear as a work of displacements, relating to a logic of metonymy. Is it not then time to recognize the theoretical legitimacy of narrative, which is then to be looked upon not as some ineradicable remnant (or a remnant still to be eradicated) but rather as a necessary form for a theory of practices? In this hypothesis, a narrative theory would be indissociable from any theory of practices, for it would be its precondition as well as its production.


Chapter 14, The Laugh of Michel Foucault

[Page 196]

This optical style may seem strange. Did not Foucault find the panoptic machine to be at the very heart of the system of surveillance that spread from the prison to all the social disciplines by means of a multiplication of techniques allowing one to “see without being seen”? Moreover, he exhumed and pursued, following them into the most peaceful regions of knowledge, all the procedures that are based on confession and productive of truth, in order to pinpoint the technology by means of which visibility transforms space into an operator of power. In fact, the visible becomes for him the arena of the new stakes of power and knowledge. Already a major locus for Merleau-Ponty, the visible constitutes for Foucault the contemporary theater of our fundamental options.


2007年10月18日星期四

丰子恺的画(十二):春昼

Sinology 1964/ 汉学1964

Joseph R. Levenson, “The Humanistic Disciplines: Will Sinology Do?” Journal of Asian Studies, Volume 23, Issue 4 (Aug., 1964), 507-512.

[Page 512]

Conclusion

The sum of the matter is this: the world is a world, not the sum of –ological areas. Sinology as a conception will not do, not because China ought to be bleached out of its individual significance, but because, as an individual, China belongs now in a universal world of discourse. The sinologist is entitled to be very reserved about easy universal analogies, but he should entertain comparisons, if only to give his particular field a universal context. Only then, when the creative life of China is studied in something more than the Sinological spirit, will Chinese civilization seem not just historically significant. A purely “Sinological” form of admiration of Chinese culture may amount to denigration. significant but historically

For when “Sinology” came to be the sum of Western interest in Chinese civilization, then its historical significance was “mere.” From Western sources, on the other hand, Chinese were indulging an interest in all the other-ologies, the sciences (in the broadest sense) that have no historical boundaries. The vital quest was for knowledge in the abstract, not knowledge of Western thought. In a world where a “Congress of Orientalists” would regularly convene, the idea of a “Congress of Occidentalists” had the force of whimsical paradox.

It was whimsy, but not a joke. It was no joke, first, because China indeed had once been able to conceive the idea of “barbarian experts,” much as the modern West conceives of its “China experts”; that was a time when China could still be thought of, at least at home, as the kind of world to which Europeans like the philosophes applied, not in the “Sinological” spirit, but in search of answers to universal questions. And it was not a joke, too, because it was anything but funny. Lu Hsün, for one (and he spoke for more than one) would not see himself as a happy antique. He could not bear to see China as a vast museum. History had to be made there again, and the museum consigned to the dead, as a place of liberation for the living, not a “Sinological” mausoleum for the modern dead-alive.


2007年10月2日星期二

苏曼殊的“拜轮”(拜伦)

好诗和天才的诗人都是通灵的。我赞叹:苏曼殊和拜伦是凡人还是仙人?译事之难,在这儿变成了风格的交相辉映——古风的苍凉与英格兰的冷峻。


柳亚子编,《苏曼殊全集》(北京:中国书店据北新书局
1927本影印,1985),第一册75-78(苏曼殊译诗),94-97(拜伦原诗)。


译拜轮去国行


行行去故国 濑远苍波来
鸣湍激夕风 沙鸥声凄其
落日照远海 游子行随之
须臾与尔别 故国从此辞


日出几刹那 明日瞬息间
海天一清啸 旧乡长弃捐
吾家已荒凉 炉灶无余烟
墙壁生蒿藜 犬吠空门边


童仆尔善来 恫哭亦胡为
岂惧怒涛怒 抑畏狂风危
涕泗勿滂沱 坚船行若飞
秋鹰宁为疾 此去乐无涯


童仆前致辞 敷衽白丈人
风波宁足惮 我心谅苦辛
阿翁长别离 慈母平生亲
茕茕谁复愿 苍天与丈人


阿翁祝我健 殷勤尚少怨
阿母沉哀恫 嗟尤来无远
童子勿复道 泪注盈千万
我若效童愚 流涕当无算


火伴尔善来 尔颜胡惨白
或惧法国仇 抑被劲风赫
火伴前致辞 吾生岂惊迫
念独闺中妇 顗容定枯瘠


贱子有妻孥 随公局泽边
儿啼索阿爹 阿母心熬煎
火伴勿复道 悲苦定何言
而我薄行人 狂笑去悠然


谁复信同心 对人阳太息
得新以弃旧 媚目生颜色
欢乐去莫哀 危难宁吾逼
我心绝悽怆 求泪反不得


悠悠仓浪天 举世无与忻
世既莫吾知 吾岂叹离群
路人饲吾犬 哀声或狺狺
久别如归来 啮我腰间褌


帆樯女努力 横赶幻泡漦
此行任所适 故乡不可期
欣欣波涛起 波涛行尽时
欣欣荒野窟 故国从此辞


My Native Land—Good Night.

(From “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage”)


Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew,
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native Land - Good Night!


A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.


“Come hither, hither, my little page;
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billows’ rage,
Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scares can fly
More merrily along.”


“Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind:
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee - and One above.


My father bless’d me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.
” -
“Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry.”


“Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman!
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman?
Or shiver at the gale?” -
“Deem’st thou I tremble for my life?
Sir Childe, I’m not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife
Will blanch a faithful cheek.


My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call;
What answer shall she make?” -
“Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.”


For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feares will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming e’er.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave
No thing that claims a tear.


And now I’m in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again
He’d tear me where he stands.


With thee, my bark, I’ll swiftly go
Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear’st me to,
So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves!
And when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves!
My native Land - Good Night!

Byron.