下载掌阅APP，畅读海量书库
立即打开
作品选读
By Kahlil Gibran
Then said Almitra, speak to us of Love .
And he raised his head and looked upon the people, and there fell a stillness upon them. And with a great voice he said:
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred fire, that you may become sacred bread for …’s sacred feast.
All these things shall love do unto you that you may know the secrets of your heart, and in that knowledge become a fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, “… is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in the heart of ….”
And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfil itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love’s ecstacy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.
By Kahlil Gibran
And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty.
And he answered:
Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her unless she herself be your way and your guide?
And how shall you speak of her except she be the weaver of your speech?
The aggrieved and the injured say, “Beauty is kind and gentle.
Like a young mother half-shy of her own glory she walks among us.”
And the passionate say, “Nay, beauty is a thing of might and dread.
Like the tempest she shakes the earth beneath us and the sky above us.”
The tired and the weary say, “Beauty is of soft whisperings. She speaks in our spirit. Her voice yields to our silences like a faint light that quivers in fear of the shadow.”
But the restless say, “We have heard her shouting among the mountains,
And with her cries came the sound of hoofs, and the beating of wings and the roaring of lions.”
At night the watchmen of the city say, “Beauty shall rise with the dawn from the east.”
And at noontide the toilers and the wayfarers say, “We have seen her leaning over the earth from the windows of the sunset.”
In winter say the snow-bound, “She shall come with the spring leaping upon the hills.”
And in the summer heat the reapers say, “We have seen her dancing with the autumn leaves, and we saw a drift of snow in her hair.” All these things have you said of beauty,
Yet in truth you spoke not of her but of needs unsatisfied,
And beauty is not a need but an ecstasy.
It is not a mouth thirsting nor an empty hand stretched forth,
But rather a heart enflamed and a soul enchanted.
It is not the image you would see nor the song you would hear,
But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears.
It is not the sap within the furrowed bark, nor a wing attached to a claw,
But rather a garden for ever in bloom and a flock of angels for ever in flight.
People of Orphalese, beauty is life when life unveils her holy face.
But you are life and you are the veil. Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in a mirror.
But you are eternity and you are the mirror.
作者简介
埃特尔·阿德南 （Etel Adnan，1925—2021），美国黎巴嫩裔诗人、散文家和画家，出生于贝鲁特（Beirut）。她曾就读于贝鲁斯高等文学学院（Ecole Supérieure de Lettres de Beyrouth），在那里她创作了她的第一首诗。阿德南还曾在巴黎大学（Sorbonne）、加州大学伯克利分校（UC Berkley）和哈佛大学（Harvard University）学习哲学。
黎巴嫩内战开始后，阿德南移居巴黎，在那里她写出了首部法语小说《西特·玛丽·罗斯》( Sitt Marie Rose ，1977），获得了法国–阿拉伯友谊大奖（the France-Pays Arabes Award）。这部小说是阿德南最为著名的作品，集中体现了她政治批评、女性主义和文学实验相结合的创作特点，并被翻译成多种语言，为作者带来了世界声誉。1979年，阿德南回到美国加利福尼亚。
阿德南的大部分诗歌作品用英语写就。受法国诗人兰波（Rimbaud）、美国女诗人琳·海基尼安（Lyn Hejinian）和黎巴嫩作家贾拉勒·陶菲克（Jalal Toufic）的影响，阿德南的诗歌融合了超现实主义意象和强大的隐喻跳跃，以及基于语言和形式的实验，使用意想不到的实验技巧来洞察流亡、政治、社会和性别不公正的本质。她的许多诗集包括《转移沉默》（ Shifting the Silence ，2020）、格里芬诗歌奖获奖作品《时间》（ Time ，2019）、《奔涌》（ Surge ，2018）、《夜晚》（ Night ，2016）、《四季》（ Seasons ，2008）、《那里：在自我与他人的光明与黑暗中》（ There: In the Light and the Darkness of the Self and the Other ，1997）、《春天的花朵和航行的表现》（ The Spring Flowers Own and the Manifestations of the Voyage ，1990）、《印第安人从来没有马》（ The Indian Never Had a Horse ，1985）和《登月》（ Moonshots ，1966）。
阿德南一生曾获有多项文学大奖，除了法语小说《西特·玛丽·罗斯》获得法国–阿拉伯友谊大奖之外，2020年，阿德南凭借其英语故事集《日蚀大师》（ Master of the Eclipse ，2009）获得年度美国阿拉伯裔图书奖（The Arab American Book Award）；2013年，她的诗集《海与雾》（ Sea and Fog, Nightboat Books ，2012）获得美国加州诗歌图书奖（The California Book Award for Poetry）。她还获得了美国阿拉伯裔作家终身成就奖（RAWI Lifetime Achievement Award from the Radius of Arab-American Writers）。2003年，阿德南被学术期刊《美国多民族文学》（ MELUS ）评为“当今最著名、最有成就的阿拉伯裔作家”。
除了文学作品外，阿德南还在各种媒体上创作了视觉作品，如油画、电影和挂毯，这些作品已在世界各地的画廊展出。
本书节选诗歌《我死后的早晨》（ The Morning After My Death ）和《我童年的未竟事业》（ This Unfinished Business of My Childhood ）均选自诗集《春天的花朵和航行的表现》。这两首诗充分体现了阿德南所主张的诗歌和哲学之间的连续性，她不回避自我审视，其诗歌感觉像是一种大声思考，她在这两首诗中热切地接受并表述抽象概念，如爱、死亡、“别处”、痛苦、精神信仰或思考本身。
作品选读
By Etel Adnan
The morning after
my death
we will sit in cafés
but I will not
be there
I will not be
*
There was the great death of birds
the moon was consumed with
fire
the stars were visible
until noon.
Green was the forest drenched
with shadows
the roads were serpentine
A redwood tree stood
alone
with its lean and lit body
unable to follow the
cars that went by with
frenzy
a tree is always an immutable
traveller.
The moon darkened at dawn
the mountain quivered
with anticipation
and the ocean was double-shaded:
the blue of its surface with the
blue of flowers
mingled in horizontal water trails
there was a breeze to
witness the hour
*
The sun darkened at the
fifth hour of the
day
the beach was covered with
conversations
pebbles started to pour into holes
and waves came in like
horses.
*
The moon darkened on Christmas eve
angels ate lemons
in illuminated churches
there was a blue rug
planted with stars
above our heads
lemonade and war news
competed for our attention
our breath was warmer than
the hills.
*
There was a great slaughter of
rocks of spring leaves
of creeks
the stars showed fully
the last king of the Mountain
gave battle
and got killed.
We lay on the grass
covered dried blood with our
bodies
green blades swayed between
our teeth.
*
We went out to sea
a bank of whales was heading
South
a young man among us a hero
tried to straddle one of the
sea creatures
his body emerged as a muddy pool
as mud
we waved goodbye to his remnants
happy not to have to bury
him in the early hours of the day
We got drunk in a barroom
the small town of Fairfax
had just gone to bed
cherry trees were bending under the
weight of their flowers:
they were involved in a ceremonial
dance to which no one
had ever been invited.
*
I know flowers to be funeral companions
they make poisons and venoms
and eat abandoned stone walls
I know flowers shine stronger
than the sun
their eclipse means the end of
times
but I love flowers for their treachery
their fragile bodies
grace my imagination’s avenues
without their presence
my mind would be an unmarked
grave.
*
We met a great storm at sea
looked back at the
rocking cliffs
the sand was going under
black birds were
leaving
the storm ate friends and foes
alike
water turned into salt for
my wounds.
*
Flowers end in frozen patterns
artificial gardens cover
the floors
we get up close to midnight
search with powerful lights
the tiniest shrubs on the
meadows
A stream desperately is running to
the ocean
By Etel Adnan
This unfinished business of my
childhood
this emerald lake
from my journey’s other
side
haunts hierarchies of heavens
a palm forest
fell overnight
to make room for an unwanted
garden
ever since
fevers and swellings
turn me into a river
the streets were steep
winds were running ahead
of ships ...
There was indeed the death of birds
the moon had passed away.
*
The morning after his death
pursuing him beyond his bitter end
his mother came to
his grave:
she removed his bones out of
their pattern
and ditched them into mud:
women came at night
and claimed Rimbaud their own
that night there was much
thunder it was awesome
*
Laurels and lilacs
bloom around my head
because I stood up to the sun
You see the Colorado River runs
between flowered banks
I repeat my journeys to seek the
happiness that overcame
your absence
I was happy not to love you anymore
until the sunset reached
the East
and broke my raft apart
there were other rivers underground
covered with dead flowers
it was cold it was cold yes it was
cold.
*
Under a combination of pain
and machine-gun fire
flowers disappeared
they are in the same
state of non-being
as Emily Dickinson
We the dead have conversation
in our gardens
about our lack of
existence.
*
The gardener is planting
blue and white
flowers
some angel moved in with me
to flee the cold
temperature on earth are
rising
but we wear upon us some
immovable frost
everyone carries his dying as
a growing shadow.
*
I left the morning paper
by the coffee cup
the heat was 85 like the
year
and I went to the window to find
that flowers had bloomed overnight
to replace the bodies
felled in the war
the enemy had come with fire
and ruse
to stamp the names of the dead
in the gardens of Yohmor
It is not because spring
is too beautiful
that we’ll not write what
happens in the dark.
*
A butterfly came to die
between two stones
at the foot of the Mountain
the mountain shed shadows
over it
to cover the secret of
death.
*