小说翻译（一）

第三单元　小说翻译（一）

教学目标

本单元教学目标为：一、让学生了解第一次世界大战后西方现代主义和现实主义英语小说的特点；二、熟悉现代英语小说汉译的原则；三、体会英语小说汉译的相关策略和方法。

课文

The Killers

—Ernest Hemingway

The door of Henry’s lunchroom opened and two men came in.They sat down at the counter.

“What’s yours?” George asked them.

“I don’t know，” one of the men said.“What do you want to eat，Al?”

“I don’t know，” said Al.“I don’t know what I want to eat.”

Outside it was getting dark.The streetlight came on outside the window.The two men at the counter read the menu.From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched them.He had been talking to George when they came in.

“I’ll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes，” the first man said.

“It isn’t ready yet.”

“What the hell do you put it on the card for?”

“That’s the dinner，” George explained.“You can get that at six o’clock.”

George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter.

“It’s five o’clock.”

“The clock says twenty minutes past five，” the second man said.

“It’s twenty minutes fast.”

“Oh，to hell with the clock，” the first man said.“What have you got to eat?”

“I can give you any kind of sandwiches，” George said.“You can have ham and eggs，bacon and eggs，liver and bacon，or a steak.”

“Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes.”

“That’s the dinner.”

“Everything we want’s the dinner，eh? That’s the way you work it.”

“I can give you ham and eggs，bacon and eggs，liver—”

“I’ll take ham and eggs，” the man called Al said.He wore a derby hat and a black overcoat buttoned across the chest.His face was small and white and he had tight lips.He wore a silk muffler and gloves.

“Give me bacon and eggs，” said the other man.He was about the same size as Al.Their faces were different，but they were dressed like twins.Both wore overcoats too tight for them.They sat leaning forward，their elbows on the counter.

“Got anything to drink?” Al asked.

“Silver beer，bevo，ginger-ale，” George said.

“I mean you got anything to drink?”

“Just those I said.”

“This is a hot town，” said the other.“What do they call it?”

“Summit.”

“Ever hear of it?” Al asked his friend.

“No，” said the friend.

“What do they do here nights?” Al asked.

“They eat the dinner，” his friend said.“They all come here and eat the big dinner.”

“That’s right，” George said.

“So you think that’s right?” Al asked George.

“Sure.”

“You’re a pretty bright boy，aren’t you?”

“Sure，” said George.

“Well，you’re not，” said the other little man.“Is he，Al?”

“He’s dumb，” said Al.He turned to Nick.“What’s your name?”

“Adams.”

“Another bright boy，” Al said.“Ain’t he a bright boy，Max?”

“The town’s full of bright boys，” Max said.

George put the two platters，one of ham and eggs，the other of bacon and eggs，on the counter.He set down two side dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket into the kitchen.

“Which is yours?” he asked Al.

“Don’t you remember?”

“Ham and eggs.”

“Just a bright boy，” Max said.He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs.Both men ate with their gloves on.George watched them eat.

“What are you looking at?” Max looked at George.

“Nothing.”

“The hell you were.You were looking at me.”

“Maybe the boy meant it for a joke，Max，” Al said.

George laughed.

“You don’t have to laugh，” Max said to him.“You don’t have to laugh at all，see?’

“All right，” said George.

“So he thinks it’s all right.” Max turned to Al.“He thinks it’s all right.That’s a good one.”

“Oh，he’s a thinker，” Al said.They went on eating.

“What’s the bright boy’s name down the counter?” Al asked Max.

“Hey，bright boy，” Max said to Nick.“You go around on the other side of the counter with your boy friend.”

“What’s the idea?” Nick asked.

“There isn’t any idea.”

“You better go around，bright boy，” Al said.Nick went around behind the counter.

“What’s the idea?” George asked.

“None of your damned business，” Al said.“Who’s out in the kitchen?”

“The nigger.”

“What do you mean the nigger?”

“The nigger that cooks.”

“Tell him to come in.”

“What’s the idea?”

“Tell him to come in.”

“Where do you think you are?”

“We know damn well where we are，” the man called Max said.“Do we look silly?”

“You talk silly，” A1 said to him.“What the hell do you argue with this kid for? Listen，” he said to George，“tell the nigger to come out here.”

“What are you going to do to him?”

“Nothing.Use your head，bright boy.What would we do to a nigger?”

George opened the slit that opened back into the kitchen.“Sam，” he called.“Come in here a minute.”

The door to the kitchen opened and the nigger came in.“What was it?” he asked.The two men at the counter took a look at him.

“All right，nigger.You stand right there，” Al said.

Sam，the nigger，standing in his apron，looked at the two men sitting at the counter.“Yes，sir，” he said.Al got down from his stool.

“I’m going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy，” he said.“Go on back to the kitchen，nigger.You go with him，bright boy.” The little man walked after Nick and Sam，the cook，back into the kitchen.The door shut after them.The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George.He didn’t look at George but looked in the mirror that ran along back of the counter.Henry’s had been made over from a saloon into a lunch counter.

“Well，bright boy，” Max said，looking into the mirror，“why don’t you say something?”

“What’s it all about?”

“Hey，Al，” Max called，“bright boy wants to know what it’s all about.”

“Why don’t you tell him?” Al’s voice came from the kitchen.

“What do you think it’s all about?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you think?”

Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking.

“I wouldn’t say.”

“Hey，Al，bright boy says he wouldn’t say what he thinks it’s all about.”

“I can hear you，all right，’’Al said from the kitchen.He had propped open the slit that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle.“Listen，bright boy，” he said from the kitchen to George.“Stand a little further along the bar.You move a little to the left，Max.”He was like a photographer arranging for a group picture.

“Talk to me，bright boy，” Max said.“What do you think’s going to happen?”

George did not say anything.

“I’ll tell you，” Max said.“We’re going to kill a Swede.Do you know a big Swede named Ole Anderson?”

“Yes.”

“He comes here to eat every night，don’t he?”

“Sometimes he comes here.”

“He comes here at six o’clock，don’t he?”

“If he comes.”

“We know all that，bright boy，” Max said.“Talk about something else.Ever go to the movies?”

“Once in a while.”

“You ought to go to the movies more.The movies are fine for a bright boy like you.”

“What are you going to kill Ole Anderson for? What did he ever do to you?”

“He never had a chance to do anything to us.He never even seen us.”

“And he’s only going to see us once，” Al said from the kitchen.

“What are you going to kill him for，then?” George asked.

“We’re killing him for a friend.Just to oblige a friend，bright boy.”

“Shut up，” said Al from the kitchen.“You talk too goddamn much.”

“Well，I got to keep bright boy amused.Don’t I，bright boy?”

“You talk too damn much，” Al said.“The nigger and my bright boy are amused by themselves.I got them tied up like a couple of girl friends in the convent.”

“I suppose you were in a convent.”

“You never know.”

“You were in a kosher convent.That’s where you were.”

George looked up at the clock.

“If anybody comes in you tell them the cook is off，and if they keep after it，you tell them you’ll go back and cook yourself.Do you get that，bright boy?”

“All right，” George said.“What you going to do with us afterward?”

“That’ll depend，” Max said.“That’s one of those things you never know at the time.”

George looked up at the dock.It was a quarter past six.The door from the street opened.A streetcar motorman came in.

“Hello，George，” he said.“Can I get supper?”

“Sam’s gone out，” George said.“He’ll be back in about half an hour.”

“I’d better go up the street，” the motorman said.George looked at the dock.It was twenty minute，past six.“That was nice，bright boy，” Max said.“You’re a regular little gentleman.”

“He knew I’d blow his head off，” Al said from the kitchen.

“No，” said Max.“It ain’t that.Bright boy is nice.He’s a nice boy.I like him.”

At six fifty-five George said： “He’s not coming.”

Two other people had been in the lunchroom.Once George had gone out to the kitchen and made a ham-and-egg sandwich “to go” that a man wanted to take with him.Inside the kitchen he saw Al，his derby hat tipped back，sitting on a stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge.Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner，a towel tied in each of their mouths.George had cooked the sandwich，wrapped it up in oiled paper，put it in a bag，brought it in，and the man had paid for it and gone out.

“Bright boy can do everything，’’Max said.“He can cook and everything.You’d make some girl a nice wife，bright boy.”

“Yes?” George said，“Your friend，Ole Anderson，isn’t going to come.”

“We’ll give him ten minutes，” Max said.

Max watched the mirror and the dock.The hands of the dock marked seven o’clock，and then five minutes past seven.

“Come on，Al，” said Max.“We better go.He’s not coming.”

“Better give him five minutes，” Al said from the kitchen.

In the five minutes a man came in，and George explained that the cook was sick.

“Why the hell don’t you get another cook?” the man asked.“Aren’t you running a lunch-counter?” He went out.

“Come on，Al，” Max said.

“What about the two bright boys and the nigger?”

“They’re all right.”

“You think so?”

“Sure.We’re through with it.”

“I don’t like it，” said Al.“It’s sloppy.You talk too much.”

“Oh，what the hell，” said Max.“We got to keep amused，haven’t we?”

“You talk too much，all the same，” Al said.He came out from the kitchen.The cut-off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too tight-fitting overcoat.He straightened his coat with his gloved hands.

“So long，bright boy，” he said to George.“You got a lot of luck.”

“That’s the truth，” Max said.“You ought to play the races，bright boy.”

The two of them went out the door.George watched them，through the window，pass under the arc-light and across the street.In their tight overcoats and derby hats they looked like a vaudeville team.George went back through the swinging door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook.

“I don’t want any more of that，” said Sam，the cook.“I don’t want any more of that.”

Nick stood up.He had never had a towel in his mouth before.“Say，” he said.“What the hell?” He was trying to swagger it off.

“They were going to kill Ole Anderson，” George said.“They were going to shoot him when he came in to eat.”

“Ole Anderson?”

“Sure.”

The cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs.

“They all gone?” he asked.

“Yeah，” said George.“They’re gone now.”

“I don’t like it，” said the cook.“I don’t like any of it at all”

“Listen，” George said to Nick.“You better go see Ole Anderson.”

“All right.”

“You better not have anything to do with it at all，” Sam，the cook，said.“You better stay way out of it.”

“Don’t go if you don’t want to，” George said.

“Mixing up in this ain’t going to get you anywhere，” the cook said.“You stay out of it.”

“I’ll go see him，” Nick said to George.“Where does he live?” The cook turned away.

“Little boys always know what they want to do，” he said.

“He lives up at Hirsch’s rooming-house，” George said to Nick.

“I’ll go up there.”

Outside the arc-light shone through the bare branches of a tree.Nick walked up the street beside the car-tracks and turned at the next arc-light down a side-street.Three houses up the street was Hirsch’s rooming-house.Nick walked up the two steps and pushed the bell.A woman came to the door.

“Is Ole Anderson here?”

“Do you want to see him?”

“Yes，if he’s in.”

Nick followed the woman up a flight of stairs and back to the end of a corridor.She knocked on the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s somebody to see you，Mr.Anderson，” the woman said.

“It’s Nick Adams.”

“Come in.”

Nick opened the door and went into the room.Ole Anderson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on.He had been a heavyweight prizefighter and he was too long for the bed.He lay with his head on two pillows.He did not look at Nick.

“What was it?” he asked.

“I was up at Henry’s，” Nick said，“and two fellows came in and tied up me and the cook，and they said they were going to kill you.”

It sounded silly when he said it.Ole Anderson said nothing.

“They put us out in the kitchen，” Nick went on.“They were going to shoot you when you came in to supper.”

Ole Anderson looked at the wall and did not say anything.

“George thought I better come and tell you about it.”

“There isn’t anything I can do about it，” Ole Anderson said.

“I’ll tell you what they were like.”

“I don’t want to know what they were like，” Ole Anderson said.He looked at the wall.“Thanks for coming to tell me about it.”

“That’s all right.”

Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.

“Don’t you want me to go and see the police?”

“No，” Ole Anderson said.“That wouldn’t do any good.”

“Isn’t there something I could do?”

“No.There ain’t anything to do.”

“Maybe it was just a bluff.”

“No.It ain’t just a bluff.”

Ole Anderson rolled over toward the wall.

“The only thing is，” he said，talking toward the wall，“I just can’t make up my mind to go out.I been here all day.”

“Couldn’t you get out of town?”

“No，” Ole Anderson said.“I’m through with all that running around.”

He looked at the wall.

“There ain’t anything to do now.”

“Couldn’t you fix it up some way?”

“No，I got in wrong.” He talked in the same flat voice.“There ain’t anything to do.After a while I’ll make up my mind to go out.”

“I better go back and see George，” Nick said.

“So long，” said Ole Anderson.He did not look toward Nick.“Thanks for coming around.”

Nick went out.As he shut the door he saw Ole Anderson with all his clothes on，lying on the bed looking at the wall.

“He’s been in his room all day，” the landlady said downstairs.“I guess he don’t feel well.I said to him： ‘Mr.Anderson，you ought to go out and take a walk on a nice fall day like this，’but he didn’t feel like it.”

“He doesn’t want to go out.”

“I’m sorry he don’t feel well，” the woman said.“He’s an awfully nice man.He was in the ring，you know.”

“I know it.”

“You’d never know it except from the way his face is，” the woman said.

They stood talking just inside the street door.“He’s just as gentle.”

“Well，good night，Mrs.Hirsch，” Nick said.

“I’m not Mrs.Hirsch，” the woman said.“She owns the place.I just look after it for her.I’m Mrs.Bell.”

“Well，good night，Mrs.Bell，” Nick said.

“Good night，” the woman said.

Nick walked up the dark street to the corner under the arc-light，and then along the car-tracks to Henry’s eating-house.George was inside，back of the counter.“Did you see Ole?”

“Yes，” said Nick.“He’s in his room and he won’t go out.”

The cook opened the door from the kitchen when he heard Nick’s voice.

“I don’t even listen to it，” he said and shut the door.

“Did you tell him about it?” George asked.

“Sure.I told him but he knows what it’s all about.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“They’ll kill him.”

“I guess they will.”

“He must have got mixed up in something in Chicago.”

“I guess so，” said Nick.

“It’s a hell of a thing！”

“It’s an awful thing，” Nick said.

They did not say anything.George reached down for a towel and wiped the counter.

“I wonder what he did?” Nick said.

“Double-crossed somebody.That’s what they kill them for.”

“I’m going to get out of this town，” Nick said.

“Yes，” said George.“That’s a good thing to do.”

“I can’t stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he’s going to get it.It’s too damned awful.”

“Well，” said George，“you better not think about it.”

参考译文

杀　人　者

欧内斯特·海明威

亨利那家供应快餐的小饭馆的门一开，就进来了两个人。他们挨着柜台坐下。

“你们要吃什么？”乔治问他们。

“我不知道，”其中一个人说。“你要吃什么，艾尔？”

“我不知道，”艾尔说。“我不知道我要吃什么。”

外边，天快断黑了。街灯光打窗外漏进来。坐在柜台边那两个人在看菜单。尼克·亚当斯打柜台另一端瞅着他们。刚才他们两人进来的时候，尼克正在同乔治谈天。

“我要一客烤猪里脊加苹果酱和马铃薯泥，”头一个人说。

“烤猪里脊还没准备好。”

“那你干吗把它写上菜单呢？”

“那是晚餐的菜，”乔治解释说，“六点钟有得吃。”

乔治瞄一眼挂在柜台后面墙上的那只钟。

“五点啦。”

“钟面上是五点二十分，”第二个人说。

“它快二十分钟。”

“浑蛋钟，”头一个人说。“那么，你们有些什么吃的？”

“我可以供应你们随便哪一种三明治，”乔治说。“你们可以要火腿蛋，熏肉蛋，肝加熏肉，或者牛排。”

“给我来客炸仔鸡饼，配上青豆，奶油生菜和马铃薯泥。”

“那是晚餐的菜。”

“我们要的，样样都是晚餐的菜，是吗？你们就是这么做生意的。”

“我可以供应你们火腿蛋，熏肉蛋，肝——”

“我要火腿蛋，”那个叫做艾尔的人说。他戴顶常礼帽，穿一件横排纽扣的黑大衣。他那张脸又小又白，绷紧着嘴，围一条丝围巾，戴着手套。

“给我熏肉蛋，”另一个人说。他身材同艾尔差不多。他们的面孔不一样，穿得却像是一对双胞胎。两人都穿着绷得紧紧的大衣。他们坐在那儿，身子前倾，胳膊肘搁在柜台上。

“有啥可喝的？”艾尔问道。

“啤酒，葡萄酒，姜汁酒，”乔治说。

“我是说你有啥好喝的？”

“就是我刚才说的那些。”

“这个小城可呱呱叫啊，”另一个人说。“人们管它叫什么来着？”

“顶峰。”

“听说过吗？”艾尔问他的朋友。

“没有，”那个朋友说。

“你们这儿晚上干什么？”艾尔问道。

“人们来吃晚饭，”他的朋友说，“人们全都到这里来吃正餐。”

“对，”乔治说。

“你也认为对吗？”艾尔问乔治。

“当然。”

“你是个相当聪明的小伙子，可不是吗？”

“当然，”乔治说。

“唔，你不是，”另一个小个子说，“他是吗，艾尔？”

“他是个哑子，”艾尔说。他转身向尼克说。“你叫什么名字？”

“亚当斯。”

“又是个聪明小伙子，”艾尔说，“难道他不是个聪明小伙子吗，麦克斯？”

“这个城尽是些聪明小伙子，”麦克斯说。

乔治把两盆东西放在柜台上，一盆是火腿蛋，另一盆是熏肉蛋。他又放下两碟装着炸马铃薯的添菜，然后关上通向厨房那扇便门。

“哪一盆是你的？”他问艾尔。

“你不记得吗？”

“火腿蛋。”

“真是个聪明小伙子，”麦克斯说，他探身向前拿了火腿蛋。两个人都戴着手套吃饭。乔治在一旁瞅着他们吃。

“你在看什么？”麦克斯望着乔治说。

“不看什么。”

“浑蛋，你是在看我。”

“也许这小伙子是闹着玩的，麦克斯，”艾尔说。

乔治哈哈一笑。

“你不用笑，”麦克斯对他说。“你根本就不用笑，懂吗？”

“懂，懂，”乔治说。

“他认为懂了，”麦克斯对艾尔说，“他认为懂了。好样的。”

“啊，他是个思想家，”艾尔说。他们继续在吃。

“柜台那头那个聪明小伙子叫什么名字？”艾尔问麦克斯。

“嗨，聪明小伙子，”麦克斯对尼克说，“你同你那个朋友一起到柜台另一边去。”

“什么意思？”尼克说。

“没啥意思。”

“你还是过去吧，聪明小伙子，”艾尔说。尼克走到柜台后面去。

“什么意思？”乔治问道。

“别管闲事，”艾尔说。“谁在厨房里头？”

“一个黑鬼。”

“黑鬼是干什么的？”

“那个黑鬼是厨子。”

“要他进来。”

“什么意思？”

“要他进来。”

“你们以为你们是在哪儿呀？”

“我们在哪儿，我们最清楚不过，”那个叫做麦克斯的人说，“我们看来像傻瓜蛋吗”

“你说傻话，”艾尔对他说。“你干吗要同这小子争辩？听着，”他对乔治说，“要那个黑鬼出来，到这里来。”

“你们打算要怎么对待他？”

“没事儿。聪明小伙子，你想一想。我们会怎么对待一个黑鬼？”

乔治打开通向后边厨房的小门。“萨姆，”他叫道，“进来一会儿。”

通向厨房那扇门一开，那个黑鬼进来了。“什么事？”他问道。柜台边那两个人朝他一看。

“好，黑鬼。你就站在那儿，”艾尔说。

那个黑鬼萨姆，没有解掉围裙就站在那里，眼睛盯着坐在柜台边那两个人看。“是，先生，”他说。艾尔从凳子上下来。

“我同这黑鬼和聪明小伙子一起回到厨房里去，”他说。“回厨房里去，黑鬼。你同他一起走，聪明小伙子。”那个小个子走在尼克和厨子萨姆后面，回到厨房里去。他随手关上门。那个叫做麦克斯的人则和乔治隔着柜台面对面坐在那儿。他眼睛并不看着乔治，而是对着镶在柜台后面那排镜子看。亨利这家快餐小饭馆是由一间酒吧改装起来的。

“唔，聪明小伙子，”麦克斯一边说，一边眼睛望着镜子，“你为什么不开开口？”

“这究竟是怎么回事？”

“嗨，艾尔，”麦克斯高声说，“聪明小伙子要知道究竟是怎么回事。”

“你干吗不告诉他？”艾尔的声音打厨房里传来。

“你认为这是怎么回事？”

“我不知道。”

“你觉得怎样？”

麦克斯在说话的时候，一直望着镜子。

“我说不上来。”

“嗨，艾尔，聪明小伙子说他说不上来究竟是怎么回事。”

“我听到了，行，”艾尔从厨房里说。他用一只番茄汁瓶子把那个小洞口撑开，这个小洞洞是用来递盆子进厨房的。“听着，聪明小伙子，”他打厨房里对乔治说。“站过去点，站到卖酒柜台那边去。你往左边移一移，麦克斯。”他像个摄影师在准备拍团体照那样。

“同我谈谈呀，聪明小伙子，”麦克斯说，“你以为将要发生什么事情啦？”

乔治一言不发。

“我来告诉你，”麦克斯说。“我们准备杀一个瑞典佬。你可认识一个大个子瑞典佬，叫做奥利·安德烈森的？”

“认识。”

“他每天晚上都到这儿来吃晚饭，可不是吗？”

“他有时候到这儿来。”

“他是在六点钟到这儿来的，可不是吗？”

“如果他来的话，是这时间。”

“我们全都知道，聪明小伙子，”麦克斯说。“谈点别的事儿吧。去看过电影吗？”

“偶尔去一趟。”

“你应该多去看看电影。对像你这样一个聪明小伙子来说，看电影真快活。”

“你们干吗要杀奥利·安德烈森？他有什么对不起你们的地方？”

“他从来没有机会对我们怎样过。他连见也从来没有见到过我们。”

“他只是要和我们见一次面，”艾尔从厨房里说。

“那你们为什么要杀他呢？”乔治问道。

“我们是替一个朋友杀他的。只是受一个朋友之托，聪明小伙子。”

“住口，”艾尔从厨房里说。“你他妈的话太多了。”

“唔，我得教聪明小伙子乐一乐。可不是吗，聪明小伙子？”

“你他妈的话太多啦，”艾尔说。“这个黑鬼和我这个聪明小伙子就会自得其乐。我把他们捆得像修道院里一对女朋友那样。”

“我还以为你真是在修道院里呢。”

“你懂个屁。”

“你是在一个清静的修道院里，你就是待在那儿。”

乔治抬头看看时钟。

“如果有什么人进来，你就对他们说，厨子出去啦，如果他们还是赖着不走，你就告诉他们，你可以进去亲自烧给他们吃。懂吗，聪明小伙子？”

“懂，”乔治说，“那么，过后你打算怎么处置我们呢？”

“那得看情况喽，”麦克斯说。“这是你们一时间决不会知道的许多事情之一。”

乔治抬头看看时钟。六点一刻。临街那扇门开开来了。一个市内电车司机进来。

“喂，乔治，”他说。“有晚饭吃吗？”

“萨姆出去啦，”乔治说。“他大约要半个钟头才回来。”

“那我还是上别的地方去吧，”那个司机说。乔治看看时钟。六点二十分。

“真是个呱呱叫的聪明小伙子，”麦克斯说。“你真是个地道的小绅士。”

“他知道我会要他的脑袋瓜子，”艾尔从厨房里说。

“不，”麦克斯说。“不是这么回事。聪明小伙子呱呱叫。他是个呱呱叫的小伙子。我喜欢他。”

到了六点五十五分的时候，乔治说：“他不会来了。”

这期间，小饭馆里已经来过另外两个人。其中一个人要买一客“袋装”的火腿蛋三明治随手带走，乔治曾到厨房里去一会儿，为他准备。他在厨房里看到把常礼帽戴在后脑勺的艾尔坐在便门旁边一只凳子上，一支锯断了的散弹枪枪口搁在架子上。尼克和那厨子背靠背待在角落里，嘴里各塞着一条毛巾。乔治做好了三明治，用油纸包好，放进一只纸袋里，拿了进来，那人付了钱后就走。

“聪明小伙子样样事情都会做，”麦克斯说。“他能烧能煮，样样都行。你一定会使一个姑娘变成个贤妻良母，聪明小伙子。”

“是吗？”乔治说。“你们那个朋友奥利·安德烈森不打算来了。”

“我们再等他十分钟，”麦克斯说。

麦克斯看看镜子，又看看时钟。钟面是七点钟，接着是七点零五分。

“出来，艾尔，”麦克斯说。“我们还是走吧。他不来了。”

“还是再等他五分钟吧，”艾尔打厨房里说。

到了五分钟的时候，有个人进来，乔治说，厨子生病了。

“那你干吗不另找一个厨子？”那人问道。“你不是在开快餐小饭馆吗？”他走了出去。

“出来，艾尔，”麦克斯说。

“这两个聪明小伙子和这个黑鬼怎么样啦？”

“他们没问题。”

“是吗？”

“当然。咱们这就好啦。”

“我不喜欢这玩意儿，”艾尔说。“不干脆。你话太多了。”

“啊，有啥道理，”麦克斯说。“我们总得乐一乐嘛，可不是吗？”

“总之，你话太多了，”艾尔说。他打厨房里出来。那支锯掉了枪筒的散弹枪在他那件太紧的大衣腰部显得有点鼓鼓囊囊的。他用套着手套的手把上衣拉拉挺。

“再见，聪明小伙子，”他对乔治说，“你运气大大的好。”

“这倒是实话，”麦克斯说。“你应该去赌赌赛马，聪明小伙子。”

他们俩走出门去。乔治透过窗门瞅着他们从弧光灯下面走过去，穿过大街。他们穿着那么包紧的大衣，戴着常礼帽，样子真像两个耍杂技的。乔治回身穿过转门，走进厨房，为尼克和那个厨子解绑。

“我可再也不要这玩意儿了，”厨子萨姆说。“我可再也不要这玩意儿了。”

尼克站了起来，他以前嘴里从来没有塞进过毛巾。

“哼，”他说，“啥个道理？”他正想把这事情用豪言壮语打发了。

“他们打算杀死奥利·安德烈森，”乔治说。“他们准备趁他进来吃饭的时候，把他枪杀了。”

“奥利·安德烈森？”

“当然。”

那个厨子用两只拇指摸摸嘴角。

“他们都走啦？”他问道。

“走啦，”乔治说。“他们这会儿都走啦。”

“我可不喜欢这事儿，”那个厨子说。“我可完全不喜欢这事儿。”

“你听好，”乔治对尼克说，“你最好还是去看一下奥利·安德烈森吧。”

“行。”

“你对这事情还是一点也别去插手为好，”厨子萨姆说，

“你最好还是别卷进去。”

“如果你不想去，就别去，”乔治说。

“同这种事情搅在一起，对你并没有什么好处，”那个厨子说，“你别卷进去。”

“我去看他，”尼克对乔治说。“他住在哪儿？”

那个厨子转身就走。

“小孩子也总会知道自己要干什么，”他说。

“他住在赫希的小公寓里，”乔治对尼克说。

“我上他那儿去。”

外面的弧光灯黑过光秃秃的树枝。尼克沿着车轨向街上走去，在另一支弧光灯下拐弯，向一条小街走去。走到街上的第三幢房子就是赫希的小公寓。尼克走上两个踏级，揿一揿铃。一个妇女来开门。

“奥利·安德烈森住在这儿吗？”

“你要看他吗？”

“是呀，如果他在的话。”

尼克跟着那妇女登上楼梯，又折回到走廊的尽头。她敲敲门。

“谁呀？”

“有人要看你，安德烈森先生，”那个妇女说。

“我是尼克·亚当斯。”

“进来。”

尼克打开门，走进房里。奥利·安德烈森和衣躺在床上。他本来是个重量级职业拳击家，他个子长，床太短。他头枕着两只枕头。他并没有朝尼克看。

“怎么啦？”他问道。

“我在亨利小饭铺那儿，”尼克说，“有两个人进来，把我和那个厨子捆了起来，他们说准备杀死你。”

他说这话的时候，听起来有点儿傻里傻气。奥利·安德烈森一言不发。

“他们把我们弄到了厨房里，”尼克继续说下去。“他们打算趁你走进去吃饭的时候，打死你。”

奥利·安德烈森望着墙壁，什么也不说。

“乔治认为还是让我来把这番情况告诉你。”

“这种事情，叫我有什么办法，”奥利·安德烈森说。

“我来说给你听，他们是啥个样子。”

“我不想知道他们是啥个样子，”奥利·安德烈森说。他望着墙壁。“谢谢你来告诉我这番情况。”

“没什么，没什么。”

尼克望着躺在床上的那个大汉。

“你要我去警察局跑一趟吗？”

“不，”奥利·安德烈森说。“去了也没什么用。”

“没有什么事要我帮忙的吗？”

“是呀，没啥好帮的。”

“那也许只是一种恐吓吧。”

“不，那不光光是恐吓。”

奥利·安德烈森翻过身去，面对着墙壁。

“唯一的事情是，”他向着墙壁说。“我就是不能拿定主意出去一下。我整天躺在这儿。”

“你不能离开这个城吗？”

“不能，”奥利·安德烈森说。“这样奔来赶去，我已经跑够了。”

他望着墙壁。

“现在没有什么办法。”

“你不能想个办法，把这事情了结掉吗？”

“不，我已经叫人家不高兴啦。”他用同样起板的声音说。“没有什么办法。再过一会，我会打定主意出去一下。”

“我还是回去看看乔治，”尼克说。

“再见，”奥利·安德烈森说，他眼睛并没有朝尼克那边看，“感谢你跑来一趟。”

尼克出去了。他关门时，看到奥利·安德烈森和衣躺在床上，眼睛望着墙壁。

“他整天待在房里，”女房东在楼下说。“我想他身体不大舒服。我跟他说：‘奥利·安德烈森先生，像这样秋高气爽的日子，你应该出去散散步。’可是，他不喜欢这样做。”

“他不想出去。”

“他身体不大舒服，真叫人难过，”那妇女说，“他是个极好的人。他是吃拳击饭的，你知道。”

“我知道。”

“你除了从他脸上的样子看得出以外，你是决不会知道的，”那个妇女说。他们就站在临街的门廊里谈话。“他实在真和气。”

“好吧，晚安，赫希太太，”尼克说。

“我不是赫希太太，”那妇女说。“这地方是她的。我不过是替她照看房子。我是贝尔太太。”

“啊，晚安，贝尔太太，”尼克说。

“晚安，”那妇女说。

尼克打暗黑的大街走到弧光灯下面的拐角处，然后沿着车轨走到亨利那家小饭馆。乔治在里头，在柜台后面。

“你看到奥利啦？”

“看到了，”尼克说。“他在屋子里，他不愿意出去。”

那个厨子一听到尼克的声音，就打开厨房那扇门。

“这种话我连听也不要听，”他说道，又把门关上了。

“你可把情况都告诉他了吗？”乔治问道。

“当然。我告诉他了，可是，他什么情况都知道了。”

“他打算怎么办？”

“他什么打算也没有。”

“他们要杀他呀。”

“我想是这样。”

“他一定是在芝加哥搅上了什么事情。”

“我也这样想，”尼克说。

“这真是糟糕的事情。”

“这是桩可怕的事情，”尼克说。

他们不再说什么。乔治伸手到下面取了一条毛巾，揩揩柜台。

“我不知道他干了些什么？”尼克说。

“出卖了什么人。因此他们要杀死他。”

“我准备离开这个城市，”尼克说。

“好呀，”乔治说，“这是一桩值得干的好事情。”

“他这样等在屋子里，同时知道自己眼看就要碰上什么事情，我可真不忍心想象这事。这太他妈的可怕了。”

“唔，”乔治说，“你还是别想这事情为好。”

（曹庸　译）

参考译文赏析

欧内斯特·米勒·海明威（Ernest Miller Hemingway，1899年7月21日—1961年7月2日），美国记者和作家，被认为是20世纪最著名的小说家之一。出生于美国伊利诺伊州芝加哥市郊区的奥克帕克的一个乡村医生家庭，从小受父亲影响，喜欢钓鱼、打猎、音乐和绘画，曾作为红十字会车队司机参加第一次世界大战，以后长期担任驻欧记者，并曾以记者身份参加第二次世界大战和西班牙内战。晚年患多种疾病，精神十分抑郁，经多次医治无效，终用猎枪自杀。海明威一生中的感情错综复杂，先后结过四次婚，是美国“迷惘的一代”（Lost Generation）作家中的代表人物，作品中对人生、世界、社会都表现出了迷茫和彷徨。他的早期长篇小说《太阳照样升起》（The Sun Also Rises，1927）、《永别了，武器》（Farewell Arms，1927）成为表现美国“迷惘的一代”的主要代表作。19世纪三四十年代他转而塑造摆脱迷惘、悲观，为人民利益而英勇战斗和无畏牺牲的反法西斯战士形象，代表作剧本《第五纵队》（The Fifth Column，1938），长篇小说《丧钟为谁而鸣》（For Whom the Bell Tolls，1940）。五十年代后，他继续塑造了以桑提亚哥为代表的“可以把他消灭，但就是打不败他”的“硬汉性格”，代表作中篇小说《老人与海》（The Old Man and the Sea，1952）。1953年，《老人与海》一书获得普利策奖；1954年，《老人与海》又为海明威夺得诺贝尔文学奖。在艺术上，海明威的写作风格以简洁著称，他那简约有力的文体和多种现代派手法的出色运用，在美国文学中曾引起过一场“文学革命”，许多欧美作家都明显受到了他的影响。

《杀人者》（The Killers）是海明威的一篇著名短篇小说。两个杀手艾尔和麦克斯闯入亨利快餐店，绑架了伙计尼克和厨子萨姆，并在亨利快餐店设伏，准备枪杀一位常来此店吃饭的顾客——拳击手奥利·安德烈森。不巧的是那位常客没有来，两名暴徒只好悻悻离去。匪徒离开后，尼克立刻前去报信，却意外地发现那位处境危险的拳击手早已知道此事，但并不准备采取任何行动，而是坐以待毙。小说在伙计乔治和尼克的对话中结束。尼克是作品的焦点，他是一个心地善良、乐于助人的男孩，单纯、涉世不深，作者通过他的亲身感受揭露了美国社会的黑暗和残暴。在《杀人者》中，海明威描绘了一个令人毛骨悚然的暴力世界，在这个世界，凶手残暴，受害人却听天由命、不知所措，目击者淳朴善良、胆战心惊，整个小镇都笼罩在阴森恐怖的气氛中。

《杀人者》在美国评论界中被誉为短篇小说之经典，原因在于小说以简练含蓄的文字及对话艺术体现了海明威“冰山原则”（Iceberg Theory）的创作宗旨。海明威曾说：“冰山运动之雄伟壮观，是因为他只有八分之一在水面上。”文学作品中，文字和形象是所谓的“八分之一”，而情感和思想就是所谓的“八分之七”。前两者是具体可见的，后两者是寓于前两者之中的。海明威的创作犹如冰山，只有八分之一展现给读者，其他八分之七则深藏在水底，需要读者自己去体会、去挖掘。《杀人者》中许多思想的表露，作者并没有直说，整个故事简单、平淡，通篇没有震撼人心的场景或扣人心弦的场面，也没有对杀人者凶残、狠毒的描写。没有情节的来龙去脉，也听不见作者的声音。杀手从何而来？为什么要杀那个拳击手？最后杀了没有？这些问题都给读者留下了很大的想象空间。整个故事完全按照事件发生的先后顺序安排，情节的展开全靠人物简短、单调的对话以及作者寥寥数语的描述。小说的语言简洁流畅、清新明快，大多是短句和不带修辞的文字，但在他平淡无奇的描述中却掩盖着人物紧张、不安和无望等各种情绪。对海明威来说，最确切、最达意、最完美的词语是人们最容易想到、最常用到的词汇。而正是这种匠心独运的艺术手法，给读者留下了无尽的蕴意。

［原文］“I’ll have a roast pork tenderloin with apple sauce and mashed potatoes，” the first man said.

“It isn’t ready yet.”

“What the hell do you put it on the card for?”

［译文］“我要一客烤猪里脊加苹果酱和马铃薯泥，”头一个人说。

“烤猪里脊还没准备好。”

“那你干吗把它写上菜单呢？”

［原文］“None of your damn business，” Al said.“Who’s out in the kitchen?”

［译文］“别管闲事，”艾尔说。“谁在厨房里头？”

对话双方是小镇上餐厅的伙计和受雇于人的职业杀手，他们说话不加修饰，喜用俚语和俗语，完全符合他们的身份及所受的教育程度，简直可以说是活生生的人物对话。对于这类语言的翻译，曹先生的做法基本上是选择了不译，省略后的译文有些文绉绉的，没能体现出杀手的嚣张。因此，笔者认为可以选择归化的翻译策略，采用汉语中的粗俗语与之相对应，例如：可以将上面所提到的骂人的语言“hell”和“damn”译成“他妈的”。前者译为：“那你他妈的干吗要写在菜单上？”后者译为：“你他妈的别管闲事，”这不仅符合中国人的语言习惯，而且真切地体现了小说中杀人者的粗俗形象。

［原文］Outside it was getting dark.The streetlight came on outside the window.The two men at the counter read the menu.From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched them.He had been talking to George when they came in.

［译文］外边，天快断黑了。街灯光打窗外漏进来。坐在柜台边那两个人在看菜单。尼克·亚当斯打柜台另一端瞅着他们。刚才他们两人进来的时候，尼克正在同乔治谈天。

海明威的小说《杀人者》几乎没有使用书卷词语（literary words），读者见到的都是口语词语（colloquialism）。作者用近似一种白描的手法，语言通俗明了，因此，小说读来特别流畅。而正是这种仿佛随随便梗、信手写来的风格，造就了似乎不讲究什么风格的特色，恰恰形成了它的艺术魅力。曹先生的翻译通俗、简洁，丝毫不加任何修饰和矫揉造作的成分，给读者强烈的真实感。

［原文］He (Al) wore a derby hat and a black overcoat buttoned across the chest.His face was small and white and he had tight lips.He wore a silk muffler and gloves.

［译文］他（艾尔）戴顶常礼帽，穿一件横排纽扣的黑大衣。他那张脸又小又白，绷紧着嘴，围一条丝围巾，戴着手套。

［原文］He (Max) was about the same size as Al.Their faces were different，but they were dressed like twins.Both wore overcoats too tight for them.

［译文］他（麦克斯）身材同艾尔差不多，他们的面孔不一样，穿得却像是双胞胎。两人都穿着绷得紧紧的大衣。

这是作者对两个杀手的外表进行的描写，着墨不多，却形象鲜明。几个最简单的形容词：“black”，“small”，“white”，“tight”，“different”等与前后反复出现的“dark”，“bare”等词语结合传神的动词给小说营造了一种杀气腾腾的氛围。曹先生的译文忠实原文，运用直译的方法把原文重现在读者面前，语言简练。从对他们的外表描述中，读者脑海里随即会浮现出电影画面里常出现的黑社会的杀人者的形象：他们戴着圆顶礼帽，穿着绷得紧紧的黑大衣，戴着手套，给人一种飞扬跋扈、不可一世的感觉，让人产生来者不善的印象。

［原文］“What’s the idea?” Nick asked.

“There isn’t any idea.”

“You better go around，bright boy，” Al said.Nick went around behind the counter.

“What’s the idea?” George asked.

“None of your damned business，” Al said.“Who’s out in the kitchen?”

“The nigger.”

“What do you mean the nigger?”

“The nigger that cooks.”

“Tell him to come in.”

“What’s the idea?”

“Tell him to come in.”

［译文］“什么意思？”乔治问道。

“别管闲事，”艾尔说。“谁在厨房里头？”

“一个黑鬼。”

“黑鬼是干什么的？”

“那个黑鬼是厨子。”

“要他进来。”

“什么意思？”

“要他进来。”

海明威在短篇小说《杀人者》中运用了较多的重复手段，“What’s the idea?”重复多次，形象地写出乔治了的恐惧，而“Tell him to come in.”则生动地勾勒出杀手的冷酷与无情。曹先生在翻译此类句子时采取了与原文呼应的策略，采用直译，较好地传达了原作的原汁原味。

［原文］“He knew I’d blow his head off，” Al said from the kitchen.

“No，” said Max.“It ain’t that.Bright boy is nice.He’s a nice boy.I like him.”

［译文］“他知道我会要他的脑袋瓜子，”艾尔从厨房里说。

“不，”麦克斯说。“不是这么回事。聪明小伙子呱呱叫。他是个呱呱叫的小伙子。我喜欢他。”

“nice”曹庸先生将其译为“呱呱叫”，比较符合汉语的表达特点。“呱呱叫”是两个杀手在戏弄、讽刺乔治时用的词语，形象地传达了杀手的冷酷和无情。

［原文］George had cooked the sandwich，wrapped it up in oiled paper，put it in a bag，

brought it in，and the man had paid for it and gone out.

［译文］乔治做好了三明治，用油纸包好，放进一只纸袋里，拿了进来，那人付了钱后就走。

海明威的语言风格是很少描写，最擅长使用动词，尤其是动态动词（dynamic verb)，用动词所表述的动作展示人物的内心活动和人物性格特征。海明威把这一连串的动作：“cook”，“wrap”，“put”，“bring”等放在一起，一气呵成，点明此刻George紧张的心情，他动作飞快，无疑是想让顾客赶紧离开是非之地，免遭不测。无须多写，让读者从这一系列的动作中去揣摩人物当时的心理和情境，George善良的性格品质和此刻的心情立刻生动地呈现出来，也符合海明威创作的“冰山原则”。曹庸先生采用直译，用一系列的动词“做”、“包”、“放”、“拿”、“付”、“走”来对照翻译，与海明威的“电报体”风格同出一辙。

［原文］“I don’t like it，” said Al.“It’s sloppy，you talk too much.”

［译文］“我不喜欢这玩意儿，”艾尔说。“不干脆，你话太多了”。

从前文中可以看出两个杀手迥然不同的个性，麦克斯性格外露，多嘴多言，比较莽撞，竟然毫无顾忌地泄露他们的行动计划，甚至告诉乔治他们是受人委托来杀安德烈森的。而艾尔话少，比较谨慎小心和老道。“sloppy”一词的本意是“溅污的”，让人想到不小心的泼溅、污点，含有懈怠、不整洁的意思。这里翻译成“不干脆”，表现了艾尔对麦克斯的话多的不满，也恰当地形容了麦克斯的性格。

［原文］“I don’t want any more of that，” said Sam，the cook.“I don’t want any more of that.”

［译文］“我可再也不要这玩意儿了，”厨子萨姆说。“我可再也不要这玩意儿了。”

重复使用“I don’t want any more of that”形象地表现了萨姆的恐惧，曹先生的翻译“我可再也不要这玩意儿了”在幽默、诙谐的背后让读者感受到的是杀手的残忍、无情以及被绑架人对杀手的恐惧。海明威只是用了一句“I don’t want any more of that”轻轻带过，但留给读者的却是水下的“八分之七”和深深地思虑。曹庸先生的译文“我可再也不要这玩意儿了”给读者留下的感慨和想象与海明威的原文相比可谓相得益彰。

［原文］“You better not have anything to do with it at all，” Sam，the cook said.“You better stay way out of it.”

“I’ll go see him，” Nick said to George.“Where does he live?”

The cook turned away.

［译文］“你对这事情还是一点也别去插手为好，”厨子萨姆说，“你最好还是别卷进去。”

“我去看他，”尼克对乔治说。“他住在哪儿？”

那个厨子转身就走。

这是杀手离开后，乔治马上要尼克去通知安德烈森。尼克年轻单纯、正直善良、乐于助人，觉得很有必要去告诉拳击师，他的回答干脆利落。 厨师萨姆胆小怕事、冷漠无情，生怕惹祸上身。当尼克决心要去拳击师家时，萨姆“转身就走”这一翻译很好地表明了厨师害怕把自己卷进去，怕惹麻烦的心理。海明威不直接吐露人物的思想情绪，而是通过细致的动作描写透露人物的心情。

［原文］Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.

“Don’t you want me to go and see the police?”

“No，” Ole Anderson said.“That wouldn’t do any good.”

“Isn’t there something I could do?”

“No.There ain’t anything to do.”

“Maybe it was just a bluff.”

“No.It ain’t just a bluff.”

Ole Anderson rolled over toward the wall.

“The only thing is，” he said，talking toward the wall，“I just can’t make up my mind to go out.I been here all day.”

“Couldn’t you get out of town?”

“No，” Ole Anderson said.“I’m through with all that running around.”

He looked at the wall.

“There ain’t anything to do now.”

“Couldn’t you fix it up some way?”

“No，I got in wrong.” He talked in the same flat voice.“There ain’t anything to do.After a while I’ll make up my mind to go out.”

［译文］“乔治认为还是让我来把这番情况告诉你。”

“这种事情，叫我有什么办法，”奥利·安德烈森说。

“我来说给你听，他们是啥个样子。”

“我不想知道他们是啥个样子，”奥利·安德烈森说。他望着墙壁。“谢谢你来告诉我这番情况。”

“没什么，没什么。”

尼克望着躺在床上的那个大汉。

“你要我去警察局跑一趟吗？”

“不，”奥利·安德烈森说。“去了也没什么用。”

“没有什么事要我帮忙的吗？”

“是呀，没啥好帮的。”

“那也许只是一种恐吓吧。”

“不，那不光光是恐吓。”

奥利·安德烈森翻过身去，面对着墙壁。

“唯一的事情是，”他向着墙壁说。“我就是不能拿定主意出去一下。我整天躺在这儿。”

“你不能离开这个城吗？”

“不能，”奥利·安德烈森说。“这样奔来赶去，我已经跑够了。”

他望着墙壁。

“现在没有什么办法。”

“你不能想个办法，把这事情了结掉吗？”

“不，我已经叫人家不高兴啦。”他用同样起板的声音说。“没有什么办法。再过一会，我会打定主意出去一下。”

当餐馆的小伙计尼克找到他并告知有人要杀他时，安德烈森的反应却并不像我们所预料的那样充满恐惧和愤怒。“奥利·安德烈森和衣躺在床上。他头枕着两只枕头。他并没有朝尼克看。”他和衣躺在床上，不看尼克，说明他已经知道有人要杀他，但他只是坐以待毙，不愿采取任何行动，“这种事情，叫我有什么办法。”“我已经叫人家不高兴啦，没有什么办法。”他明知道“那不光光是恐吓”，却“不想知道他们是啥样子”，也不愿去找警察“去了（警察局）也没什么用。”也不打算逃离这个地方，他只是躺在床上，望着墙壁，冷漠而麻木地等待着，文中“他望着墙壁”重复了七次，表明他对即将到来的死亡的无奈。等待死亡是海明威众多作品的共同主题，小说中安德烈森就是一个把感情埋在心里，沉默寡言的人，他代表第一次世界大战后整个躁动不安的一代人。在嘈杂的社会中，他知道一切努力都是徒劳的，他“已经跑够了”。他生活孤独，前程绝望，面对着眼前人生的巨大空白，面对异己的力量，个人的力量竟然是如此的渺小，如此的软弱，如此的无奈。他意识到无论他怎么努力，最终都将被打败，这使他产生了一种绝望感。曹先生的翻译把安德烈森的绝望表现得淋漓尽致。

［原文］“I can’t stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he’s going to get it.It’s too damned awful.”

“Well，” said George，“you better not think about it.”

［译文］“他这样等在屋子里，同时知道自己眼看就要碰上什么事情，我可真不忍心想象这事。这太他妈的可怕了。”

“唔，”乔治说，“你还是别想这事情为好。”

这段对话貌似平淡，却是整篇小说的点睛之笔，因为它点出了作品的主题——一个纯真少年对罪恶世界以及法则的失望和抗拒。至此，小说的主题慢慢浮出水面，以前看似零乱不堪、毫无关联的一个个细节像聚光灯一样在篇末聚集起来，形成难以抗拒的能量。这种含蓄简洁的写法正如缓慢移动于海面上的冰山，表面朴实简洁、冷峻肃穆，海面以下却有着难以企及的蕴蓄和深度，涌动动着无以估量的深沉的暗流和漩涡。由此说来，曹先生的翻译则同样让人遐想，给人震撼。

翻译理论学习

一、20世纪后西方小说的发展及特点

1.20世纪现代主义文学

19世纪末20世纪初，欧美主要的资本主义国家先后进入了帝国主义阶段。帝国主义的侵略扩张政策导致了各种社会矛盾的激化，终于在1914年和1939年爆发了两次规模空前的世界大战。人类因此生活在一个动荡不安的环境里，人与自然、人与社会、人与人之间的和谐关系几乎不复存在。在意识形态领域，早在19世纪末就受到怀疑的以决定论和理性主义为基础的西方传统价值观念，到20世纪进一步动摇衰落。除了19世纪流传下来的叔本华、尼采的唯意志主义，柏格森的生命哲学与反理性主义，影响较大的还有弗洛伊德的精神分析学，以海德格尔、萨特为代表的“人是荒诞的，世界也是荒诞的”的存在主义，这些都使20世纪文学染上了非理性主义和悲观主义色彩。20世纪的西方文学纷繁复杂，总的来说，现实主义和现代主义占据西方文学的主潮。现代主义文学一般是指产生于19世纪末20世纪初至20世纪中叶的一种“反传统”（主要是现实主义文学）的文学思潮或流派，是西方社会进入垄断资本主义和现代工业社会时期的产物，是动荡不安的20世纪欧美社会时代精神的反映和表现。它包括诸如后期象征主义、表现主义、未来主义、超现实主义、意识流小说等具体的文学现象和流派。

象征主义是欧美现代主义文学中最早出现的一个流派。它产生于19世纪中叶的法国，然后波及欧洲其它国家，成为前期象征主义。到20世纪20年代，象征主义文学有了进一步的发展，成为很有影响的国际性文学流派，成为后期象征主义，代表人物有爱尔兰诗人威廉·巴特勒·叶芝（William Butler Yeats，1865—1939）、法国诗人瓦雷里（1871—1945）、美国诗人艾兹拉·庞德（Ezra Pound，1885—1972）、英国诗人T.S.艾略特（T.S.Eliot，1888—1965）。后期象征主义继承并发展了前期象征主义的艺术特点，反对肤浅的抒情和直露的说教，主张情与理的统一，通过象征暗示、意象隐喻、自由联想去表现理念世界的美，曲折地表达作者的思想和复杂微妙的情感、感受。象征主义文学作品采用暗示和对应手法，语言常常晦涩难懂，并具有神秘主义色彩。

表现主义是20世纪初至30年代盛行于西方世界的一种文艺思潮。它首先出现在德国，盛行于奥地利，进而在瑞典、波兰、英、法、美等国广为流传。它起于绘画，后来在音乐、戏剧、小说、电影等整个文艺领域中获得发展。诗歌方面的代表人物有奥地利的格奥尔格·特拉克尔（1887—1914）等，戏剧方面的代表人物是瑞典的斯特林堡（1849—1912）和美国的尤金·奥尼尔（Eugene O’Neill，1888—1953），小说领域的代表则是奥地利的卡夫卡。表现主义文学的理论纲领是“艺术是表现不是再现”，主张文学不应再现客观现实，而应表现人的主观精神和内在激情，表现作家透过表象所把握到的事物的本质。斯特林堡的戏剧《到大马士革去》（共三部：第一、二部，1898；第三部，1904），奥尼尔的戏剧《琼斯皇》（1920）、《毛猿》（1921），卡夫卡的小说《城堡》（1915）、《变形记》（1915），都是公认的表现主义代表作。

未来主义是20世纪初在欧洲产生的文学艺术流派和思潮。它兴起于意大利，随后传入俄国，在法国、英国、德国等国也有一定影响，创始人是意大利诗人、戏剧家马里内蒂（1876—1944）。1909年2月20日，马里内蒂在法国《费加罗报》发表《未来主义宣言》，宣告未来主义诞生。翌年，他又发表《未来主义文学宣言》，进一步阐明这一流派的理论主张和文学创作原则。未来主义文学流派始终贯串着一条反传统、反理性、重直觉本能、物质本质的理论路线，适应现代机械文明和现代时空意识的发展，大肆歌颂船坞、工地、工厂、桥梁、飞机和劳动者，赞扬战争和军国主义，文学成就非常有限。

超现实主义是20年代产生于法国的一个文学流派，代表人物有布勒东（1896—1966）、艾吕雅（1895—1952）、阿拉贡（1897—1982）等。布勒东是超现实主义文学的理论家，先后发表三次超现实主义宣言（1924、1929、1942）。超现实主义认为，文学不是再现现实，而是要表现“超现实”，所谓“超现实”是由“梦幻与现实转化生成的‘绝对现实’”，是现实与非现实两种要素的统一物。主张写人的潜意识、梦境，写事物的巧合。认为梦幻是一种认识不受外界影响的绝对自我的方式，最具有启发性。作为超现实的范畴和被压抑世界的象征，梦幻可用来解决人生的主要问题。布勒东特别重视癫狂症，把癫狂看做一种纯粹的“精神锻炼”，有助于把想象和实际综合起来，成为“超现实”。

意识流原来是一个心理学和哲学术语，美国心理学家威廉·詹姆斯（William James，1842—1910）曾把意识比喻为流动的“河流”或“流水”，法国哲学家柏格森也说过“真实”存在于“意识的不可分割的波动之中”。20世纪20年代，欧美一些作家把这种理论直接借用到文学创作上来，认为文学应表现人的意识流动，尤其是表现潜意识的活动，人的意识流动遵循的是“心理时间”，而非物理时间，这就形成了意识流文学。代表作品有法国普鲁斯特（1871—1922）的《追忆逝水年华》（1914—1927），爱尔兰詹姆斯·乔伊斯（James Joyce，1882—1941）的《尤利西斯》（1922），英国弗吉尼亚·沃尔夫（Virginia Woolf，1882—1941）的《达洛威夫人》（1925），美国威廉·福克纳（William Faulkner，1897—1962）的《喧嚣与骚动》（1929）等。“内心独白”、“内心分析”和“自由联想”是意识流作品常用的技巧。在假定没有其他人倾听的情况下，一个人物把自己的所感所思毫无顾忌的直接表露出来，就是“内心独白”，这是意识流文学最常用的技巧。其特点是在独白中完全看不到作者的行迹，纯粹是小说中人物自己的真实意识流露。所谓“内心分析”，是指小说中的叙事人或人物很理智的对自己的思想和感受进行分析追索，并且是在并无旁人倾听的情况下进行的。在“自由联想”中，人物的意识流表现不出任何规律和次序。其意识一般只能在一个问题或一种事物上作短暂逗留，头脑中的事物常因外部客观事物的突然出现而被取代；眼前任何一种能刺激五官的事物都有可能打断人物的思路，激发新的思绪与浮想，释放一连串的印象和感触。因此意识流小说家会有意打破传统时间观念和传统心理小说的顺时序，消除逻辑时间界限，将感觉中的过去、现在和将来拧在一起组成主观心理时间，随人物心理时间的变化结构作品，采用倒时序、循环时序、颠倒时序等方法叙事。

一般而言，现代主义小说具有明显的个人主义、悲观主义和虚无主义倾向，一方面表现了现代西方人的精神危机，另一方面也体现了它对西方传统文化的批判精神。在艺术特征上，现代主义小说强调表现内心世界和心理真实，追求艺术的深度模式；热衷于小说技巧的革新与实验，语言艰涩多样，风格偏离怪诞，这些都给现代主义小说的翻译带来不小的难度。

法国作家罗曼·罗兰，德国的亨利希·曼和雷马克，美国的欧内斯特·海明威（Ernest Hemingway，1899—1961）基本上用现实主义手法进行创作。20世纪西方小说的一个重要主题就是揭露帝国主义和法西斯主义的罪恶，控诉战争灾难，表达强烈的反战情绪，并涌现出了一批以描写战争闻名于世的作家，海明威便是这支大军中的一员。20世纪的现实主义小说无疑受到现代主义思潮的影响，他们的创作明显表现出内化、主观化特征。心理描写的手法更为丰富，不时探索人物的潜意识，反映人物完整的内心世界。此外，对现代主义的其他表现技巧，诸如内心独白、梦幻描写、时序颠倒、象征手法、多层次多角度的描写等，都有所吸收，并从其他艺术形式如电影、电视、新闻报道中借鉴了一些方法。越来越淡化情节，越来越淡化塑造典型人物，更注重心理变态的描写，而不是情节的曲折。这些也都构成了翻译20世纪现实主义小说的困难。

2.后现代主义文学

随着第二次世界大战的爆发和西方后工业化社会的深入发展，西方社会中出现了范围广泛的后现代主义文化倾向。如果说现代主义文学是激烈反传统的，那么后现代主义则把现代主义本来就很激进的反叛精神推向了极端。

后现代主义文学试图对小说、诗歌和喜剧的传统形式乃至“叙述”本身进行解构，是一种无视任何既定规范的、极度自由的“破坏性”文学。后现代主义不再追求任何终极价值，因为在他们看来客观世界和人自身都被异化了，历史失去了方向和意义。后现代主义追求“零度写作”，即写作转向了它自身，作家在语言形式上不断推出花样，享受语言变形和符号游戏带来的快感。因此，后现代主义小说中，结构扑朔迷离，“故事”前后矛盾，语言极其艰涩难懂。比较重要的有存在主义文学，黑色幽默等。

存在主义文学是20世纪30年代末期在存在主义哲学基础上产生的一个文学流派，它是以文学的形式来宣传存在主义哲学思想的。在存在主义作家笔下，世界是荒谬的，人生是痛苦的。他们一方面描写资本主义世界的荒诞性，另一方面又表现人的不幸和毁灭，以及孤独、失望、恐惧的思想情绪。存在主义文学最早产生于法国，随后在欧美各国广泛流行，代表作家有法国的让·保罗·萨特（Jean Paul Sartre，1905—1980）、阿尔伯特·加缪（Albert Camus，1913—1960）和西蒙娜·德·波伏娃（Simone de Beauvoir，1908—1986）等。加缪的成名作《局外人》（1942）和《鼠疫》（1947）是存在主义的代表作。

黑色幽默是兴起于20世纪60年代的美国小说流派，在思想上受存在主义哲学的影响。代表作有约瑟夫·海勒（Joseph Heller，1923—1999）的《第二十二条军规》（1961），库特·冯内古特（Kurt Vonnegut，1922—2007）的《五号屠场》（1969》，托马斯·品钦（Thomas Pynchon，1937—）的长篇小说《万有引力之虹》（1973）等。这一派作品中充斥的讽刺幽默与传统的幽默大不相同：并不表现一种单纯的滑稽情趣，而是带着浓重的荒诞、绝望、阴暗甚至残忍的色彩。作品以一种无可奈何的嘲讽态度表现环境和个人之间的互不协调，并把这种互不协调的现象加以放大，扭曲，变成畸形，使它们显得更加荒诞不经，滑稽可笑，同时又令人感到沉重和苦闷。“黑色”的内涵是绝望、恐怖、残酷和痛苦，面对这一切，人们发出玩世不恭的笑声，用幽默的人生态度拉开与现实的距离，以维护饱受摧残的人的尊严。在艺术上黑色幽默抛弃了传统小说的严谨结构和叙事原则；将不同时间、地点发生的事件剪接在一起，情节富于跳跃性，现实与想象相结合；生活素材被夸张、变形；人物精神世界常常趋于分裂；语言经常打破一般语法规则和固有的词语搭配习惯。

当然在后现代主义占主流的西方社会也不乏用传统手法创作的作家，如犹太作家索尔·贝娄（Saul Bellow，1915—2005）的《洪堡的礼物》、《塞姆勒先生的行星》；杰罗姆•大卫·塞林格（Jerome David Salinger，1919—2010）的《麦田里的守望者》。可以肯定地说，他们虽然继承了现实主义传统，但不可避免地受后现代主义写作手法和“反文化”的影响，而被深深打上了后现代主义的烙印。总的说来，后现代主义文学具有极端偏激、文化否定主义和虚无主义倾向，但在后现代作品表面的冷漠和玩世不恭后面，我们看到的是后现代人精神上的迷茫、紊乱和痛苦。作为一种“颠覆性”思潮，后现代主义文学值得人们做具体、深入地研究分析。

二、风格能不能再现

1.什么是风格

“风格”一词来源于希腊文，有“木堆”、“石柱”、“雕刻刀”的意思。希腊人取其“雕刻刀”的含义并加以引申，表示以文字修饰思想或说服他人的技巧。“风格”最初指人的作风、风度、品格等，后才用于文学创作。在我国，用“风格”来概括人的个性和文学创作的特点，约始于魏晋南北朝时期，这也是中国文学理论批评史上开始形成比较系统的风格理论的时期。我们今天所讲的“风格”是指文学创作中表现出来的一种综合性总体特点，包含作家的思想感情（或精神风貌）和艺术特征。

作家、艺术家由于生活经历、立场观点、艺术素养、个性气质的不同，在处理题材、驾驭体裁、描绘形象、表现主题、运用语言等方面千差万别，这就形成了作品的个人风格。在小说中，文学语言是塑造文学形象、表达作品主题的工具，是形象化、艺术化的语言。老舍先生曾经说过：“文学作品的妙处不仅在于它说了什么，而在于它是怎么说的。假若文学译本仅顾到原著说了什么，而不管怎么说的，读起来便索然寡味。”所谓“怎么说”涉及的就是风格问题。在翻译界有“风格即人”的说法，也就是每个作家都有自己独特的写作风格，亦有其独特的语言风格。不同的作家对同种题材的处理方式千差万别，创作出的作品在读者心中的感觉同样千差万别。不同的作家在布局谋篇与遣词造句等方面有与众不同的写作方式。比如杰克·伦敦（Jack London）的小说选词怪癖，文笔忧郁沉闷，翻译他的小说时就得采用一些非常少用的词语和低沉的格调；又如，马克·吐温（Mark Twain）的小说通俗易懂，幽默风趣，译文则应与之呼应，使人读来妙趣横生。不仅如此，同一作家的不同的作品也有不同的风格。

可见，小说翻译不仅仅是对原文内容的翻译，也是对原文风格的翻译。这就要求译者在把握原文意义的基础上，研究原文的风格，使译文在与源语的对应中力求保持原作的风姿。鲁迅认为，“凡是翻译，必须兼顾着两个方面，一当然是力求其简易，二则保存着原作的风姿。”著名的翻译理论家Eugene A.Nida 对重现原文风格也有精辟的论述，他认为：“Translating consists in reproducing in the receptor language the closest natural equivalent of the source language message，first in terms of meaning and secondly in terms of style”（翻译是指首先从语义上，其次也从文体上用最贴切，最自然的对等语在译文中再现了原文信息）。

因此，在小说翻译中充分体现作者的风格是十分必要的。著名翻译家许渊冲先生将《红与黑》中的法文词“jollie”（美）译为“山清水秀”，将“mourir”（死）译为“魂归离恨天”就是很好的例子。他认为，“美”的小城不能表达原作内容所有的山水之意，“死”也不能表达原作“含恨离去”的意思。再如，《苔丝》第一章里有一句话，“how are the mighty fallen”，张谷若先生并没有把它直译为“巨人是怎么倒下的”，而是发挥汉语的特点，用两个四字格进行创造性翻译，译为“一世之雄，而今安在”。可见，要真实传译小说作品风格，译者需要对原文中每个词的涵义充分了解，对原作独特的句法进行分析，反复推敲，用地道的词语表达适当的意义，体现原文的语言魅力和风格特征。

2.风格为什么可译

那么语言风格到底能否成功地在译作中再现呢？这个问题历来争议很多，大体上有两种意见。

一种观点认为风格是一种模糊性很强的行文气质，它虚无缥缈，只可意会，不能言传，是不可译的。不同的语言难以表达同样的风格，原因是中外语言在构词、语法、修辞和文体等方面都存在巨大甚至是难以逾越的差异。1982年周煦良说过：“严复只提雅，而不提原文风格，我们现在提文学翻译要有风格，也不宜要求译出原文风格：原文风格是无法转译的。……风格离不开语言，不同的语言无法表达同样的风格。”

另一种观点则认为风格是能译的，只要译者具备一定的水平，投入相当的精力，并选用适当的方法，成功的实现风格的转译是完全可能实现的，正如人能模仿别人走路的动作一样。

风格可译，有其哲学上的基础，即所谓“人同此心，心同此理”。就此理解，意与言，原文与译文，应是统一的。风格可译，还在于它不是什么虚无缥缈的东西，是可以看得见、摸得着、感觉得到的。刘宓庆先生也认为风格不是什么“虚无缥缈”的东西，它可以见诸于“形”。

“重神似”的翻译主张和做法是一种不得已而为之的翻译追求，最理想的译作应该是形式与神韵方面都无限地接近，即“形神皆似”，“貌合神合”，正可谓“鱼”和“熊掌”兼得。我们的观点是：不仅可译，而且一定要译。早在1954年，矛盾就明确地指出：“文学作品是用语言创造的艺术，我们要求赋予文学作品的不单单是事物的概念和情节的记叙，而是在这些以外具有能够吸引读者的艺术意境，即通过艺术的形象，使读者对书中人物的思想和行为发生强烈的感情。文学翻译是用另一种语言把原作的艺术意境传达出来，使读者在读译文的时候能够像读原作时一样得到启发、感动和美的感受。这样的翻译，自然不是单纯技术性语言外形的交易，而是要求译者通过原作的语言外形深刻地领会原作者的艺术创造的过程，把握住原作的精神，在自己的思想、感情、生活体验中找到最合适的印证。然后运用适合于原作风格的文学语言，把原作的内容与形式正确无遗地再现出来。这样的翻译过程是把译者和原作者合二为一，好像原作者用另一国文字写自己的作品。这样的翻译既需要译者发挥工作上的创造性，又要完全忠实于原作的意图，好像一个演员必须以自己的艺术修养来创造剧中人物的形象，而创造出来的人物又必须完全符合剧本作家的原来的意图一样。这是一个很困难的工作。但是文学翻译的主要任务，既然在于把原作的精髓、面貌忠实地复制出来，那么这种艺术创造性的翻译就完全是必要的。世界文学翻译中的许多卓越的范例，就证明了这是可能的；在我国，像鲁迅译果戈理的《死魂灵》，瞿秋白译普希金的《茨冈》和高尔基的一些短篇，也证明了艺术创造性的翻译，是完全可能的”。

笔者认为，对文学作品的风格应持“有限可译”这一辩证的观点，即风格不可能完全译出，而只能有限地部分译出。从绝对意义上讲，完全地翻译出原作的风格，这是不可能的。就文学作品来说，一部作品是无法复制的。比如文学界公认的“天书”《尤利西斯》，其作者詹姆斯·乔伊斯就曾公开表明他就是处心积虑要为读者设置难以逾越的障碍。几十年来，其内容尚且争论不休，谁又敢说能完全译出其风格？此外，两种语言和文化之间存在着某些天然的鸿沟，也决定了风格翻译也必然存在局限性。因此，在翻译实践中，译者既要认识到文学作品风格翻译的有限性和难度，又要努力去克服这一困难，突破其限度。译者要充分发挥自己的主观能动性，努力追求风格的完全翻译这一理想，尽可能多地传递原作的风格。

翻译练习

练习一

The Catcher in the Rye (Excerpt)

J.D.Salinger

5

We always had the same meal on Saturday nights at Pencey.It was supposed to be a big deal，because they gave you steak.I’ll bet a thousand bucks the reason they did that was because a lot of guys’parents came up to school on Sunday，and old Thurmer probably figured everybody’s mother would ask their darling boy what he had for dinner last night，and he’d say，“Steak.” What a racket.You should’ve seen the steaks.They were these little hard，dry jobs that you could hardly even cut.You always got these very lumpy mashed potatoes on steak night，and for dessert you got Brown Betty，which nobody ate，except maybe the little kids in the lower school that didn’t know any better—and guys like Ackley that ate everything.

It was nice，though，when we got out of the dining room.There were about three inches of snow on the ground，and it was still coming down like a madman.It looked pretty as hell，and we all started throwing snowballs and horsing around all over the place.It was very childish，but everybody was really enjoying themselves.

I didn’t have a date or anything，so I and this friend of mine，Mal Brossard，that was on the wrestling team，decided we’d take a bus into Agerstown and have a hamburger and maybe see a lousy movie.Neither of us felt like sitting around on our ass all night.I asked Mal if he minded if Ackley came along with us.The reason I asked was because Ackley never did anything on Saturday night，except stay in his room and squeeze his pimples or something.Mal said he didn’t mind but that he wasn’t too crazy about the idea.He didn’t like Ackley much.Anyway，we both went to our rooms to get ready and all，and while I was putting on my galoshes and crap，I yelled over and asked old Ackley if he wanted to go to the movies.He could hear me all right through the shower curtains，but he didn’t answer me right away.He was the kind of a guy that hates to answer you right away.Finally he came over，through the goddam curtains，and stood on the shower ledge and asked who was going besides me.He always had to know who was going.I swear，if that guy was shipwrecked somewhere，and you rescued him in a goddam boat，he’d want to know who the guy was that was rowing it before he’d even get in.I told him Mal Brossard was going.He said，“That bastard...All right.Wait a second.” You’d think he was doing you a big favor.

It took him about five hours to get ready.While he was doing it，I went over to my window and opened it and packed a snowball with my bare hands.The snow was very good for packing.I didn’t throw it at anything，though.I started to throw it.At a car that was parked across the street.But I changed my mind.The car looked so nice and white.Then I started to throw it at a hydrant，but that looked too nice and white，too.Finally I didn’t throw it at anything.All I did was close the window and walk around the room with the snowball，packing it harder.A little while later，I still had it with me when I and Brossard and Ackley got on the bus.The bus driver opened the doors and made me throw it out.I told him I wasn’t going to chuck it at anybody，but he wouldn’t believe me.People never believe you.

Brossard and Ackley both had seen the picture that was playing，so all we did，we just had a couple of hamburgers and played the pinball machine for a little while，then took the bus back to Pencey.I didn’t care about not seeing the movie，anyway.It was supposed to be a comedy，with Cary Grant in it，and all that crap.Besides，I’d been to the movies with Brossard and Ackley before.They both laughed like hyenas at stuff that wasn’t even funny.I didn’t even enjoy sitting next to them in the movies.

It was only about a quarter to nine when we got back to the dorm.Old Brossard was a bridge fiend，and he started looking around the dorm for a game.Old Ackley parked himself in my room，just for a change.Only，instead of sitting on the arm of Stradlater’s chair，he laid down on my bed，with his face right on my pillow and all.He started talking in this very monotonous voice，and picking at all his pimples.I dropped about a thousand hints，but I couldn’t get rid of him.All he did was keep talking in this very monotonous voice about some babe he was supposed to have had sexual intercourse with the summer before.He’d already told me about it about a hundred times.Every time he told it，it was different.One minute he’d be giving it to her in his cousin’s Buick，the next minute he’d be giving it to her under some boardwalk.It was all a lot of crap，naturally.He was a virgin if ever I saw one.I doubt if he ever even gave anybody a feel.Anyway，finally I had to come right out and tell him that I had to write a composition for Stradlater，and that he had to clear the hell out，so I could concentrate.He finally did，but he took his time about it，as usual.After he left，I put on my pajamas and bathrobe and my old hunting hat，and started writing the composition.

The thing was，I couldn’t think of a room or a house or anything to describe the way Stradlater said he had to have.I’m not too crazy about describing rooms and houses anyway.So what I did，I wrote about my brother Allie’s baseball mitt.It was a very descriptive subject.It really was.My brother Allie had this left-handed fielder’s mitt.He was left-handed.The thing that was descriptive about it，though，was that he had poems written all over the fingers and the pocket and everywhere.In green ink.He wrote them on it so that he’d have something to read when he was in the field and nobody was up at bat.He’s dead now.He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine，on July 18，1946.You’d have liked him.He was two years younger than I was，but he was about fifty times as intelligent.He was terrifically intelligent.His teachers were always writing letters to my mother，telling her what a pleasure it was having a boy like Allie in their class.And they weren’t just shooting the crap.They really meant it.But it wasn’t just that he was the most intelligent member in the family.He was also the nicest，in lots of ways.He never got mad at anybody.People with red hair are supposed to get mad very easily，but Allie never did，and he had very red hair.I’ll tell you what kind of red hair he had.I started playing golf when I was only ten years old.I remember once，the summer I was around twelve，teeing off and all，and having a hunch that if I turned around all of a sudden，I’d see Allie.So I did，and sure enough，he was sitting on his bike outside the fence—there was this fence that went all around the course—and he was sitting there，about a hundred and fifty yards behind me，watching me tee off.That’s the kind of red hair he had.God，he was a nice kid，though.He used to laugh so hard at something he thought of at the dinner table that he just about fell off his chair.I was only thirteen，and they were going to have me psychoanalyzed and all，because I broke all the windows in the garage.I don’t blame them.I really don’t.I slept in the garage the night he died，and I broke all the goddam windows with my fist，just for the hell of it.I even tried to break all the windows on the station wagon we had that summer，but my hand was already broken and everything by that time，and I couldn’t do it.It was a very stupid thing to do，I’ll admit，but I hardly didn’t even know I was doing it，and you didn’t know Allie.My hand still hurts me once in a while when it rains and all，and I can’t make a real fist any more—not a tight one，I mean—but outside of that I don’t care much.I mean I’m not going to be a goddam surgeon or a violinist or anything anyway.

Anyway，that’s what I wrote Stradlater’s composition about.Old Allie’s baseball mitt.I happened to have it with me，in my suitcase，so I got it out and copied down the poems that were written on it.All I had to do was change Allie’s name so that nobody would know it was my brother and not Stradlater’s.I wasn’t too crazy about doing it，but I couldn’t think of anything else descriptive.Besides，I sort of liked writing about it.It took me about an hour，because I had to use Stradlater’s lousy typewriter，and it kept jamming on me.The reason I didn’t use my own was because I’d lent it to a guy down the hall.

It was around ten-thirty，I guess，when I finished it.I wasn’t tired，though，so I looked out the window for a while.It wasn’t snowing out any more，but every once in a while you could hear a car somewhere not being able to get started.You could also hear old Ackley snoring.Right through the goddam shower curtains you could hear him.He had sinus trouble and he couldn’t breathe too hot when he was asleep.That guy had just about everything.Sinus trouble，pimples，lousy teeth，halitosis，crumby fingernails.You had to feel a little sorry for the crazy sonuvabitch.

翻译提示

《麦田里的守望者》是美国作家杰罗姆·大卫·塞林格（J.D.Salinger）唯一的一部长篇小说，虽然只有十几万字，它却在美国社会上和文学界产生了巨大影响，被誉为美国二十世纪文学的“现代经典成长小说”。1951年，这部小说一问世，立即引起轰动。第二次世界大战后美国出现反正统文化运动，是战后美国青年在思想和文化领域对传统的主流价值标准的反叛和挑战，也是对于战后美国社会道德认同的一种冲击。《麦田里的守望者》这部作品经典地艺术地再现了战后美国青年的精神状态，在故事中，对未来有着幻想的主人公霍尔顿总是与他的老师、父母或社会格格不入。他总是逃课来躲避老师和考试，于是他便成了一个生活中的边缘人。五门课中有四门课不及格的霍尔顿在被学校开除之后，担心回家后会被父母亲责骂，不愿回家，便开始了在纽约街道的流浪生活并遇到了种种冒险和危险。他惊叹于外面世界人们的反复无常和这个城市的繁华虚幻。于是，霍尔顿开始厌恶成人世界的腐败，并决心寻找一个完美的世界。在这个世界里，他要做一个麦田里的守望者，保护那些在麦田里玩耍的纯真的孩子们。主人公的经历和思想在青少年中引起强烈共鸣，受到读者，特别是大中学生的热烈欢迎。从表面上，我们看到主人公霍尔顿读书不用功，身穿风衣，倒戴红色鸭舌帽，满口粗话，张口“他妈的”，闭口“混账”。读书不用功，还抽烟、酗酒、搞女人等。实际上他的这些行为反映了处于青少年危机之中的霍尔顿内心的困顿和压抑。霍尔顿既是社会的叛逆者又是受害者，他的成长经历以及精神蜕变即使在当代也对青少年的健康成长具有深刻而长远的影响和意义。

《麦田里的守望者》的成功之处还在于它准确地真实地描写了战后美国反正统文化青年的语言习惯，个性化和典型化的语言风格使作品自成一体。霍尔顿说话口气随便，缺乏规范，不假思索，信口开河，与周围那矫揉造作的语言形成鲜明的反差。霍尔顿故意用肮脏粗俗的口语调侃现实世界的假模假式，粉面雕琢。他的粗俗语言和奇言怪句是他对虚伪的社会现实的嘲讽以及玩世不恭的心理状态，同时宣泄内心的积怨。小说中霍尔顿的语言里包含了大量俚语，还使用了大量的诅咒词，如“damn”、“hell”、“goddam”等，翻译时应特别注意。

练习二

The Sound and the Fury (Excerpt)

William Faulkner

June Second，1910

When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight o’clock and then I was in time again，hearing the watch.It was Grandfather’s and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire； it’s rather excruciatingly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father’s.I give it to you not that you may remember time，but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it.Because no battle is ever won he said.They are not even fought.The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair，and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.

It was propped against the collar box and I lay listening to it.Hearing it，that is.I don’t suppose anybody ever deliberately listens to a watch or a clock.You don’t have to.You can be oblivious to the sound for a long while，then in a second of ticking it can create in the mind unbroken the long diminishing parade of time you didn’t hear.Like Father said down the long and lonely light-rays you might see Jesus walking，like.And the good Saint Francis that said Little Sister Death，that never had a sister.

Through the wall I heard Shreve’s bed-springs and then his slippers on the floor hishing.I got up and went to the dresser and slid my hand along it and touched the watch and turned it face-down and went back to bed.But the shadow of the sash was still there and I had learned to tell almost to the minute，so I’d have to turn my back to it，feeling the eyes animals used to have in the back of their heads when it was on top，itching.It’s always the idle habits you acquire which you will regret.Father said that.That Christ was not crucified： he was worn away by a minute clicking of little wheels.That had no sister.

And so as soon as I knew I couldn’t see it，I began to wonder what time it was.Father said that constant speculation regarding the position of mechanical hands on an arbitrary dial which is a symptom of mind-function.Excrement Father said like sweating.And I saying All right.Wonder.Go on and wonder.

If it had been cloudy I could have looked at the window，thinking what he said about idle habits.Thinking it would be nice for them down at New London if the weather held up like this.Why shouldn’t it? The month of brides，the voice that breathed She ran right out of the mirror， out of the banked scent.Roses.Roses.Mr and Mrs Jason Richmond Compson announce the marriage of.Roses.Not virgins like dogwood，milkweed.I said I have committed incest，Father I said.Roses.Cunning and serene.If you attend Harvard one year，but don’t see the boat-race，there should be a refund.Let Jason have it.Give Jason a year at Harvard.

Shreve stood in the door，putting his collar on，his glasses glinting rosily，as though he had washed them with his face.“You taking a cut this morning?”

“Is it that late?”

He looked at his watch.“Bell in two minutes.”

“I didn’t know it was that late.” He was still looking at the watch，his mouth shaping.“I’ll have to hustle.I cant stand another cut.The dean told me last week—” He put the watch back into his pocket.Then I quit talking.

“You’d better slip on your pants and run，” he said.He went out.

I got up and moved about，listening to him through the wall.He entered the sitting-room，toward the door.

“Aren’t you ready yet?”

“Not yet.Run along.I’ll make it.”

He went out.The door closed.His feet went down the corridor.Then I could hear the watch again.I quit moving around and went to the window and drew the curtains aside and watched them running for chapel，the same ones fighting the same heaving coat-sleeves，the same books and flapping collars flushing past like debris on a flood，and Spoade.Calling Shreve my husband.Ah let him alone，Shreve said，if he’s got better sense than to chase after the little dirty sluts，whose Business.In the South you are ashamed of being a virgin.Boys.Men.They lie about it.Because it means less to women，Father said.He said it was men invented virginity not women.Father said it’s like death： only a state in which the others are left and I said，But to believe it doesn’t matter and he said，That’s what’s so sad about anything： not only virginity and I said，Why couldn’t it have been me and not her who is unvirgin and he said，That’s why that’s sad too； nothing is even worth the changing of it，and Shreve said if he’s got better sense than to chase after the little dirty sluts and I said Did you ever have a sister? Did you? Did you?

Spoade was in the middle of them like a terrapin in a street full of scuttering dead leaves，his collar about his ears，moving at his customary unhurried walk.He was from South Carolina，a senior.It was his club’s boast that he never ran for chapel and had never got there on time and had never been absent in four years and had never made either chapel or first lecture with a shirt on his back and socks on his feet.About ten o’clock he’d come in Thompson’s，get two cups of coffee，sit down and take his socks out of his pocket and remove his shoes and put them on while the Coffee cooled.About noon you’d see him with a shirt and collar on，like anybody else.The others passed him running，but he never increased his pace at all.After a while the quad was empty.

A sparrow slanted across the sunlight，onto the window ledge，and cocked his head at me.His eye was round and bright.First he’d watch me with one eye，then flick！ And it would be the other one，his throat pumping faster than any pulse.The hour began to strike.The sparrow quit swapping eyes and watched me steadily with the same one until the chimes ceased，as if he were listening too.Then he flicked off the ledge and was gone.

It was a while before the last stroke ceased vibrating.It stayed in the air，more felt than heard，for a long time.Like all the bells that ever rang still ringing in the long dying light-rays and Jesus and Saint Francis talking about his sister.Because if it were just to hell； if that were all of it.Finished.If things just finished themselves.Nobody else there but her and me.If we could just have done something so dreadful that they would have fled hell except us.I have committed incest I said Father it was I it was not Dalton Ames And when he put Dalton Ames.Dalton Ames.Dalton Ames.When he put the pistol in my hand I didn’t.That’s why I didn’t.He would be there and she would and I would.Dalton Ames.Dalton Ames.Dalton Ames.If we could have just done something so dreadful and Father said That’s sad too people cannot do anything that dreadful they cannot do anything very dreadful at all they cannot even remember tomorrow what seemed dreadful today and I said，You can shirk all things and he said，Ah can you.And I will look down and see my murmuring bones and the deep water like wind，like a roof of wind，and after a long time they cannot distinguish even bones upon the lonely and inviolate sand.Until on the Day when He says Rise only the flat-iron would come floating up.It’s not when you realise that nothing can help you—religion，pride，anything—it’s when you realise that you dont need any aid.Dalton Ames.Dalton Ames.Dalton Ames.If I could have been his mother lying with open body lifted laughing，holding his father with my hand refraining，seeing，watching him die before he lived.One minute she was standing in the door.

I went to the dresser and took up the watch，with the face still down.I tapped the crystal on the corner of the dresser and caught the fragments of glass in my hand and put them into the ashtray and twisted the hands off and put them in the tray.The watch ticked on.I turned the face up，the blank dial with little wheels clicking and clicking behind it，not knowing any better.Jesus walking on Galilee and Washington not telling lies.Father brought back a watch-charm from the Saint Louis Fair to Jason： a tiny opera glass into which you squinted with one eye and saw a skyscraper，a ferris wheel all spidery，Niagara Falls on a pinhead.There was a red smear on the dial.When I saw it my thumb began to smart.I put the watch down and went into Shreve’s room and got the iodine and painted the cut.I cleaned the rest of the glass out of the rim with a towel.

I laid out two suits of underwear，with socks，shirts，collars and ties，and packed my trunk.I put in everything except my new suit and an old one and two pairs of shoes and two hats，and my books.I carried the books into the sitting-room and stacked them on the table，the ones I had brought from Home and the ones Father said it used to be a gentleman was known by his books； nowadays he is known by the ones he has not returned and locked the trunk and addressed it.The quarter hour sounded.I stopped and listened to it until the chimes ceased.

翻译提示

威廉·福克纳（William Faulkner，1897—1962）美国作家，生于美国密西西比州新奥尔巴尼的一个庄园主家，南北战争后家道中落。第一次世界大战期间，福克纳在空军服过役。战后入大学，其后从事过各种职业并开始写作。1925年，福克纳去了新奥尔良，结识了有名的小说家舍伍德·安德森，在他的帮助下出版了第一部小说《士兵的报酬》（Soldier’s Pay，1926）。1929年《沙多里斯》（Sartoris）问世之后，福克纳的创作进入高峰期。福克纳一共写了十九部长篇小说与七八十篇短篇小说，其中十五部长篇与绝大多数的短篇的故事都发生在约克纳帕塔法县，人们给福克纳的这一部分的作品起了“约克纳帕塔法世系”这样一个名称。长篇小说《喧哗与骚动》（The Sound and the Fury）和《在我弥留之际》（As I Lay Dying，1930）、《八月之光》（Light in August，1932）、《押沙龙，押沙龙》（Absalom！ Absalom！，1936）等都是属于这一世系的代表小说，也是现代文学的经典之作。1949年，“因为他对当代美国小说作出了强有力的和艺术上无与伦比的贡献”，福克纳获诺贝尔文学奖。

在艺术上，福克纳受弗洛伊德的影响，大胆地进行实验，采用意识流手法以及象征隐喻等手段表现暴力、凶杀、性变态心理等。他的作品风格千姿百态、扑朔迷离，读者须下大工夫才能感受其特有的审美情趣。《喧哗与骚动》是福克纳第一部成熟的作品，也是他花费心血最多、本人最喜欢的小说。小说讲述的是南方没落地主康普生一家的家族悲剧。老康普生游手好闲、嗜酒贪杯，整天醉醺醺，唠唠叨叨地发些愤世嫉俗的空论，把悲观失望的情绪传染给大儿子昆丁。康普生太太自私冷酷、怨天尤人、无病呻吟。凯蒂可以说是全书的中心，但她从“南方淑女”的规约下冲出来，走过了头，成了一个轻佻放荡的女子。她与男子幽会，有了身孕，不得不与另一男子结婚。婚后丈夫发现隐情，抛弃了她。长子昆丁绝望地抱住南方所谓的旧传统不放，因妹妹凯蒂风流成性、失去贞洁，有辱南方淑女身份而恨疚交加，竟至溺水自杀。次子杰生冷酷贪婪，三子班吉则是个白痴，三十三岁时只有三岁小儿的智能。小昆丁是凯蒂寄养在母亲家的私生女，康普生太太的冷漠与杰生的残酷虐待使小昆丁在这个家里再也待不下去。于是，小昆丁取走了杰生的不义之财，与一位流浪艺人私奔了。小说通过这三个儿子的内心独白，围绕凯蒂的堕落展开，最后则由黑人女佣迪尔西对前三部分的“有限视角”作一补充，归结全书。小说运用多视角叙述方法及意识流手法，是意识流小说乃至整个现代派小说的经典名著。

文章节选的是“昆丁的部分”，发生在1910年6月2日，这部分一方面交代昆丁当天的所见所闻和他的活动，同时又通过他的思想活动，写凯蒂的沉沦与昆丁自己的绝望。这部分有一个非常重要的意象，就是钟表。表和钟是用来说明时间的，而时间又是具有毁灭性的。表是昆丁部分出现最多的意象，达61次之多。一开头就是康普生先生关于时间的毁灭性的虚无主义言论。昆丁的那块表是祖父的，又由父亲传给他，这块表因而既象征时间（变化），又象征传统（过去）。福克纳研究专家肖明翰先生认为，通过这个意象可以看出正是因为昆丁处于传统与变革的夹击中，毫无逃脱的希望，以致最后跳河自杀。实际上，表也象征着死亡。昆丁把表打碎，是打碎自己所有的希望，从容走向死亡，翻译时应注意这个意象和意识流小说的语言特点（意识流文学的特点参看本单元翻译理论学习）。