Philip Larkin--"Aubade"

前陣子讀到這首Philip Larkin的〈晨歌〉，非常喜歡，不過虛無到難以承受。

第一次嘗試譯詩，可能抓不到詩的語感，請見諒。

工作了整天，一夜半醉的我
在無聲的夜裡醒轉，我瞪著
即將透出光芒的窗簾縫隙
終於看清事實：
永無休止的死亡，又逼近了一天。
我無法可想，只能忖度我將
以何種方式、在何處、何時死去。
苦楚地反覆問自己，但那對死去、
死亡的恐懼
如此清晰地閃過，佔據、驚駭著我。

登時內心空白一片，並非懊悔於
應做卻未做之善行、未竟的愛、消逝
追不回的時間，亦不沈痛
因為只有生命才能如此漫長
踏著起初即在的錯誤或無望
繼續前行，直到無盡的虛無。
我們走向遺世孤絕。不在此地，
不在任何地方，
很快地，再也沒有什麼更可怕、更真實。

這是一種恐懼的特殊方式。
不像宗教曾試著驅散魔咒
那華美、已遭蟲蛀的教堂錦鍛
讓人假裝可得永生；
或者自詡有理的論調宣稱
理性者不該懼怕看不見摸不著的事物，
但這正是我們恐懼的—無形、無聲、
無法觸摸、嗅聞、無法想像、
無法去愛或與之連結
像接受麻醉之後束手無策。

它就在那裡，模糊可見
一片失焦的迷霧、一道寒意
把每個衝動都化為猶疑不定。
有許多事永遠不會發生，它卻為必然，
理解這一點
焦灼的畏懼猛然升起，
在無依無靠、乾渴時勇氣不足恃，
只為降低憂慮。表現勇敢
不會讓人脫離墳墓。
嚎哭或起而反抗都改變不了死亡的事實

晨光逐漸明朗，顯像後的房間宛如
空蕩的衣櫃，如我們知曉、
熟悉的那般，無法逃離
卻也無法承受。只有唯一的選擇。
而現在，躺臥的電話就要響起，
封閉的辦公室和這個冷酷、
繁複、租來的世界等著啟動。
天空如黏土般慘白，沒有陽光。
工作必須完成。
郵差就像醫生，造訪家家戶戶。

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.

The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
-- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear -- no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.