西苏论画201

西苏论画 201
圣痕
赫伦娜、西苏

WITHOUT END, NO, STATE OF
DRAWINGNESS, NO, RATHER: THE
EXECUTIONER’S TAKING OFF

没有结束,不,昏睡的状态,不,而是:
侩子手的起飞

Translated by Catherine A.F.MacGillivray

‘Sans Arrêt, non, Etat de Dessination, non, plutôt: Le Décollage du Bourreau’ was first
published in Repentirs (Réunion des musées nationaux, 1991):55–64; this translation first
appeared in New Literary History 24, 1, 1993 (Winter): 90–103.

‘I want the beforehand of a book.’ I just wrote this sentence, but before this sentence, I
wrote a hundred others, which I’ve suppressed, because the moment for cutting short had
arrived. It’s not me, it’s necessity which has cut the text we were on the way to writing.
Because the text and I, we would continue on our way.

「我想要这本书的先前。」我仅仅写下这个句子,但是在这个句子之前,我写下上百个其他句子。我曾经压制,这些句子,因为缩短的时刻已经到达。那并不是我,那是我们正在写作的途中删除文本的必要性。因为文文与我,我们将继续我们的途中。

‘I’ve learned to tear up nothing of what I write,’ Clarice Lispector tells me. But then
comes the time for separation. The time for publication.
I would like so much this unknown untorn page. Everything we read: remains.

「我曾经学会撕碎我所写的东西。」克拉瑞斯、李思佩特告诉我。但是然后就是分离的时刻。出版的时刻。
我如此想要这个不为人所知的没有被撕掉的纸页。每样我们阅读过的东西:始终保留。

I want the forest before the book, the abundance of leaves before the pages, I love the
creation as much as the created no, more. I love the Kafka of the Journals, the
executioner-victim, I love the process a thousand times more than the Trial process (no, a
hundred times more). I want the tornados in the atelier.

我想要书本之前的森林,在这些书页之前的丰富的叶子。我爱创造,如同被创造物,不仅如此。我爱日志中的卡夫卡,侩子手-受害者。我爱这个过程,超过「审判」的过程一千倍。(不,超过一百倍)。我想要地窖的飓风。

And what I love best are Dostoevsky’s notebooks, the crazy and tumultuous forge,
where Love and Hate embrace, rolling around on the ground in convulsions which thwart
all calculation and all hope: no one knows who will be born of this possessed belly, who
will win, who will survive.

我最爱的是杜斯妥也夫斯基的笔记,这种疯狂而骚乱的火炉。在那里,爱与恨拥抱。抗拒各种计算与一切希望的痉挛地在地上滚动。没有人知道,从这个被著魔的肚子会生出怎样的人,谁会赢,谁会存活。

I want the world of pulses, before destiny, I want the prenatal and anonymous night. I
want (the arrival) to see arriving.

我想要脉搏悸动的世界,在命运之前。我想要这个胎前与匿名的夜晚。我想要(这个到达)看见到达。

Acts of birth, potency, and impotency mingled are what I’m passionate about. The tobe-
in-the-process of writing or drawing. (Mais pourquoi avons-nous perdu le gérondif en
français? Le vrai temps de ce texte est le gérondif.)

诞生的行动,被混合的无能为力,就是我为之激情奔放的东西。写作或绘画的「生成过程」。

There is no end to writing or drawing. Being born doesn’t end. Drawing is a being
born. Drawing is born.
– When do we draw?
– When we were little. Before the violent divorce between Good and Evil. All was
mingled then, and no mistakes. Only desire, trial, and error. Trial, that is to say, error.
Error: progression.

写作或绘画没有止境。被诞生没有止境。绘画是生命被诞生。绘画诞生。
—我们绘画什么?
—当我们小时候。在善与恶猛烈的分离之前。当时一切都混淆。没有错误。仅有欲望,尝试与错误。换句话说,错误。错误:进展。

As soon as we draw (as soon as, following the pen, we advance into the unknown,
hearts beating, mad with desire) we are little, we do not know, we start out avidly, we’re
going to lose ourselves.

当我们一绘画(跟随着笔,我们一进入这个未知,心脏跳动,因为欲望而疯狂,)我们就变得渺小,我们并不知道,我们热情渴望地出发,我们将要迷失我们自己。

Drawing, writing, what expeditions, what wanderings, and at the end, no end, we
won’t finish, rather time will put an end to it. (N.B. I’m saying writing-or-drawing, because these are often twin adventures, which
depart to seek in the dark, which do not find, do not find, and as a result of not finding
and not understanding, (draw) help the secret beneath their steps to shoot forth.)
I write this accompanied by seeking drawings.

绘画,写作,怎样的历险,怎样的漫游。结果,没有止境,我们将不会完成。代替的,我们将结束它。(注:我正在说的是,写作或绘画,因为这些经常是孪生的冒险。出发是为了在黑暗中寻找;没有找到,没有找到;由于没有找到,没有理解的结果,(画出)帮助它们的台阶底下的秘密,为了发射出去。)
我写下这些,伴随着寻求绘画。

It is the dead of night. I sense I am going to write. You, whom I accompany, you sense
you are going to draw. Your night is waiting.

那是夜晚的沉寂。我感觉我将要书写。你,我伴随你,你感觉你将要绘画。你的夜晚等待着。

The figure which announces itself, which is going to make its appearance, the poet-of drawings
doesn’t see it. The model only appears to be outside. In truth it is invisible, but
present, it lives inside the poet-of-drawings. You who pray with the pen, you feel it, hear
it, dictate. Even if there is a landscape, a person, there outside—no, it’s from inside the
body that the drawing-of-the-poet rises to the light of day. First it exists at the torment
state in the chest, under the waist. See it now as it precipitates itself in spasms, in waves,
the length of the arm, passing the hand, passing the pen. Eyes open wide in the night,
staring wide-eyed with hope, the one who draws follows the movement. S/he obeys.
Ecstasy: technique. Because not seeing doesn’t impede the pen from noting. To the
contrary.

宣佈它自己的这个人物,它将要出场。图画中的诗人并没有看见它。这个模式似乎是在外面。实际上,它是不可见的。但是在场,它生活在图画里的诗人里面。用笔祈求的你,你感觉它,听见它,记录下来。即使有风景,有人,在外面那里—不,从身体里面,诗人的绘画上升到白天的亮光。首先,它存在于胸膛的折磨状态,在腰部底下。请你们现在看见它,当它投掷自己进入痉挛当中,于波浪当中,于手臂的长度,经过手,经过笔。眼睛在夜晚当中睁得大大的,眼睛因为希望而睁大凝视。绘画者跟随这个动作。他或她服从。狂喜:技术。因为没有看见并没有妨碍笔没有记载。相放地。

I write before myself by apprehension, with noncomprehension, the night vibrates, I
see with my ears, I advance into the bosom of the world, hands in front, capturing the
music with my palms, until something breathes under the pen’s beak.
(I’ve just written these lines eyelids closed as usual, because the day and its huge light
keeps us from seeing what is germinating.)

我在我自己的前面书写,带着焦虑,带着茫然不解,夜晚起伏震动,我用我的耳朵看见。我前进进入世界的胸膛,双手放前面,用我的手掌捕捉音乐,直到某件东西在我的笔尖呼吸。(我刚刚写下这几行,像平常那样闭着眼皮,因为白天与它的巨大的光让我们看不见什么正在长出蓓蕾。

Now we turn on the lights, and lean over to see the work born. Then, surprise before
what, passing through us, was drawn; and if it is I who drew this unknown child then who
are I?

现在,我们转开电灯,倾靠过来,为了看见作品诞生。然后,被绘画的东西,在我身上通过的这种惊喜,假如这是我在绘画这个未知的小孩,那么这个我是谁?

The drawing is without a stop. I mean to say the true drawing, the living one—because
there are dead ones, drawn-deads. Look and you shall see.

这个绘画并没有停顿。我意图要说的是:真实的绘画,活生生的绘画—因为有死去的绘画,被绘画的死物。你们瞧一下,你们就会看出。

雄伯译
32hsiung@pchome.com.tw
https://springhero.wordpress.com

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