注册 登录  
 加关注
   显示下一条  |  关闭
温馨提示!由于新浪微博认证机制调整,您的新浪微博帐号绑定已过期,请重新绑定!立即重新绑定新浪微博》  |  关闭

兔灰灰的小窝

每天进步一点点

 
 
 

日志

 
 

The Lover  

2012-12-10 19:45:49|  分类: 原著欣赏 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

  下载LOFTER 我的照片书  |

The Lover

               By  Marguerite Duras

The Lover - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝
   

Very early in my life it was too late. It was already too late when I was eighteen.

 But I believe I’ve heard of the way time can suddenly accelerate on people when they’re going through even the most youthful and highly esteemed stages of life. 

What I’m doing now is both different and the same. Before, I spoke of clear periods, those on which the light fell. Now I’m talking about the hidden stretches of that same youth, of certain facts, feelings, events that I buried.  

Drink accomplished what God did not. It also served to kill me; to kill. I acquired that drinker’s face before I drank. Drink only confirmed it. 

I already know a thing or two. I know it’s not clothes that make women beautiful or otherwise, nor beauty care, nor expensive creams, nor the distinction or costliness of their finery. I know the problem lies elsewhere. I don’t know where. 

In the misty sun of the river, the sun of the hot season, the banks have faded away, the river seems to reach to the horizon. It flows quietly, without a sound, like the blood in the body. No wind but that in the water. 

You always went home with the feeling of having experienced a sort of empty nightmare, of having spent a few hours as the guest of strangers with other guests who were strangers too, of having lived through a space of time without and consequences and without any cause, human or other. 

Dresses that were neutral, plain, very light in color, white, like summer in the middle of winter. 

My memory of men is never lit up and illuminated like my memory of women.  

She goes along the street still, above the history of such things however terrible. 

That’s her kind of beauty, tattered, chilly, plaintive and in exile, nothing shits her, everything’s too big, and yet it looks marvelous. 

He’s very pale. Between his lashes, the beginning of tears. 

The light fell from the sky in cataracts of pure transparency, in torrents of silence and immobility. The air was blue, you could hold it in your hand. Blue. The sky was the continual throbbing of the brilliance of the light. The night lit up everything, all the country on either bank of the river as far as the eye could reach. 

It’s in this valor, human, absurd, that I see true grace. 

My younger brother. Dead. At first it’s incomprehensible, and then suddenly, from all directions, from the ends of the earth, comes pain.  

People ought to be told of such things. Ought to be taught that immortality is mortal, that it can die, it’s happened before and it happens still. It doesn’t ever announce itself as such----it’s duplicity itself. It doesn’t exist in detail, only in principle. 

Immortality is not a matter of more of less time, it’s not really a question of immortality but of something else that remains unknown. 

For centuries, because of the ships, journeys were longer and more tragic than they are today. A voyage covered its distance in a natural span of time. People were used to those slow human speeds on both land and sea, to those delays, those waitings on the wind or fair weather, to those expectations of shipwreck, sun, and death.

 

 

  评论这张
 
阅读(135)| 评论(2)
推荐 转载

历史上的今天

评论

<#--最新日志,群博日志--> <#--推荐日志--> <#--引用记录--> <#--博主推荐--> <#--随机阅读--> <#--首页推荐--> <#--历史上的今天--> <#--被推荐日志--> <#--上一篇,下一篇--> <#-- 热度 --> <#-- 网易新闻广告 --> <#--右边模块结构--> <#--评论模块结构--> <#--引用模块结构--> <#--博主发起的投票-->
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

页脚

网易公司版权所有 ©1997-2017