Archive for the ‘Cixous’ Category

西苏论画 205

April 11, 2014

西苏论画 205

To come back to what escapes: we want to draw the instant. That instant which strikes
between two instants, that instant which flies into bits under its own blow, which has
neither length, nor duration, only its own shattering brilliance, the shock of the passage
from night to light. Here, the instant is the height which this executioner’s arm takes (a
single double arm), grand high gesture, extremely fine and rapid line of extreme actuality.
The instant is a drama without a stage.

回到所逃避的东西:我们想要绘画这个瞬间。打击在两个瞬间的瞬间,飞逃进入它自己打击之下的碎片的瞬间,既没有长度,也没有期间的瞬间,仅有它自己震撼的灿烂,从夜晚到光明的过程的震撼。这个瞬间是这位侩子手的手臂伸出的高度(单一的双重手臂),辉煌的崇高姿态,极端现实性的极端精致而快速的线条。瞬间是没有舞台的戏剧。

I wanted to call this text: ‘For the Instant,’ or ‘At the Instant,’ but I changed my mind.
The instant, see how it’s just fallen, between St John: the body is still living, but
already the head is dead. It’s this instant: the cut-off between life and death.
This is what we draw, tripping, because, instead of throbbing, we trace. We want to
throw ourselves ahead and we go backwards. Do you see these footprints? We are
advancing backwards.

我想要称这个文本为:「为了瞬间」或「在瞬间」。但是我改变我的心意。请你们瞧一下它刚刚如何坠落。在圣约翰的瞬间:身体依据还活着,但是头已经死掉。就是这个瞬间:生命与死亡之间的切割。这就是我们所绘画的东西,绊倒,因为我们追踪痕迹,而不是悸动。我们想要将自己抛向前,然后我们后退。你们看见这些足印吗?我们向后前进。

How to draw speed?

如何绘画速度?

Thinking about ‘repentance’ is extremely tiring. It’s as though I were trying to think
about the skin of thought with the skin of thought. One must think faster than oneself.
Observing it from very very close up very very fast, thought doesn’t go straight ahead,
as we think, but in a frenetic movement, invisible to the naked-eye-of-thought, it goes
straight ahead of itself like lightning and almost simultaneously returns backwards on its
own streak to step on it and erase it and almost simultaneously shoots forward like a
rocket—if only I could draw one thought!—if I could photograph it—then we would see
that thought is not a sentence at all, but, after several explosions, a fallout in words,
or else take the photograph of a dream!

思维关于「悔恨」是极端令人疲惫。好像我正在尝试用思想的皮肤,来思维思想的皮肤。我们比起自己思维得更快。从非常非常靠近,非常非常快速来观察它,思想并没有直接向前行,如同我们以为的,而是以狂乱的运动,思想到裸眼看不见,思想直接前行到它自己前面,就像光。几乎同时地,它凭借自己的闪光,倒退回了,践踏在它上面,抹除它,几乎同时地,它像火箭一般,向前喷射—但愿我能够绘画出一道思想!–但愿我能够摄影它—然后我们将会看见,思想根本就不是一个句子,而是,经过好几次爆炸之后,文字的塵爆。要不然,你们将梦摄影下来看看!

I want to draw the present, say da Vinci? Picasso, Rembrandt, the fools for truth. How
to make the portrait of lightning? At what speed draw speed? We have all cried out stop!
to the instant. We who are the immoderate, through our slowness rapidity passes, through
our narrow head the lightning of a thought passes.

The truth is approaching.

我想要绘画目前,达文西说。毕卡索,林布兰,追求真理的这些傻瓜。如何让光成为肖像?以怎样的速度来绘画?我们都大声对瞬间喊出:停!我们我们不採中庸之道,通过缓慢,迅速通过,通过我们窄小的头脑,一道思想的光通过。

真理正在靠近。

Arrives the Vision that neither we, nor even the saint, can predict. Be careful! It’s
coming…! Salvation! What agony! We fall like a dead body.

奇迹景象来临,那是我们无法预测,即使圣者也无法预测。请小心!奇迹景象来临、、、!救赎!何得的痛苦!我们像死亡的身体般掉落。

We don’t have salvation: it is dealt us like a blow, we faint. We awake with a start,
quick a pencil, and take down the ultimate glimmer of illumination, however much we
say: ‘what’s the difference, we’ve seen our vision already,’ we never resign ourselves.
At a gallop, the snail! We scribble while crawling in the wake of God.

我们没有救赎:救赎给予我们,像是打击,我们晕倒。我们惊吓地清醒,削尖铅笔,记下最后的启蒙之。无论我们怎么说:

We live more quickly than ourselves, the pen doesn’t follow. To paint the present
which is passing us by, we stop the present.

我们的生命比我们自己更快,铅笔跟不上。为了绘画正在经过我们的目前,我们将目前停顿。

One cannot after all write a book with only one stroke, of only one page, and yet we
should.
But we are born for lateness.
Time, the body, are our slow vehicles, our chariots without wheels.

毕竟我们无法用一个笔画就写完仅有一页的一本书。可是,我们应该。
但是我们的诞生就是延迟。
时间,身体,都是我们缓缓地交通工具,我们没有轮子的战车。

Stigmata 26

Look, I’ve just this instant ‘seen’ a book—now I’m going to need two years and two
hundred pages in order to recount it with my hands, with my staggering feet, and my
breath harnessed to my chest, and from forward to backward and inversely.

This is why we desire so often to die, when we write, in order to see everything in a
flash, and at least once shatter the spine of time with only one pencil stroke. And with
only one word draw God…

圣痕 26

请你们瞧!我刚刚拥有这个瞬间,刚刚看见一本书—现在,我将需要两年,两百页,为了用我们的双手描述它,用我踉跄的脚,我的呼吸跟我的胸膛连挂一块。向前再向后,向后再向前。

这就是为什么我们如此渴望死亡,当我们书写,为了要在闪光当中看见一切。至少有一次,仅用铅笔的一次笔划,粉碎时间的脊椎。仅用一个字绘画上帝、、、

N.B. There is not one single sentence in this text which I didn’t write twenty times—
As soon as I said the word ‘Repentance,’ it jumped on to my page, it spread everywhere,
however much I denied it. One says this word and that’s it.

注释:在这个文本里,没有一个句子,我没有书写二十遍—当我一说出「悔恨」这个字,它就跳跃到我的页面,它扩散到每个地方,无论我多么否认它。我们说出这个字,那就是它。

N.B. N.B. Because after all that which they call Repentance is no one other than the
demon of writing.

注释:因为毕竟人们所谓的「悔恨」,实实在在就是书写的恶魔。

N.B.
And now, what to call this essay?
– ‘Without End’—No.—‘The Executioner’s Taking Off’—No. Rather:
Oh no, enough already, it’s time! No more repenting! Not another word!

注释:
现在,这篇散文的标题是什么?
–「没有止境」—不—「侩子手段起飞」–不。相反地:哦,不,已经足够,那是时间!不再悔恨!不再有另外一个字!

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

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西苏论画 204

April 7, 2014

西苏论画 204

Stigmata 24
圣痕 24

What was the first stroke of the pen? And before the first line there were many others.
In truth the first line is the survivor of the mêlée: everything starts in the middle.
One must jump into the middle of the sheet of paper, fell the quill, as soon as the race
begins, or else it’s battle.

画笔的第一次画下的是什么?在第一线条之前,有许多的其他的线条。事实上,第一个线条是这个激烈战斗的存活者。每样东西都从中间开始。我们必须跳进这张纸的中央,砍下画笔,当競塞开始,否则那是一场战斗。

And now I see what the Woman Ironing, the Executioner, the Saint, the little boy,
have in common: it’s Violence. It’s about combat.

现在,我看见那位熨烫衣服的女人,侩子手,圣者,小男孩,他们有什么共通的地方。那就是暴力。那是关于战斗。

Drawings of combat, these drawings which, fatally, touch me, wounded though they
are, and therefore similar to us.

战斗的图画,这些图画,感动我,虽然它们致命地受伤。因为跟我们一样同病相怜。

Drawings par excellence: because every drawing (is) combat(s) itself. Drawing is the
emblem of all our hidden, intestine combats. There we see the soul’s entrails.
What is the page of a book? What remains of a sheet of paper becomes a field of battle
on which we, writing, drawing, have killed each other ourselves. A flagstone of paper
under which a carnage effaces itself. In writing, all is disputed, and sacrificed. As soon as
Kafka took his pen in his right hand, his left hand jumped on it (on his right) and the
combat raged. This made for such drafts that, in the inability to give reason to the one
hand or the other, Kafka dreamed of dragging into the fire, with himself, the innumerable
traces of his hostilities. And if he didn’t do it himself that’s just because he tried to
repent. We try to repent, but we never repent. One doesn’t repent. One doesn’t manage.
One makes essays.

特别优秀的图画:因为每幅图画都是战斗的本身。图画就是所有我们隐藏与内部的战斗的标志。在那里。我们看见灵魂的内脏。书的这一页是什么?一张画纸剩余的东西,变成战斗的领域。在这个领域,我们书写与绘画,彼此互相杀戮。在画纸的石板底下,大屠杀抹除它自己。在书写中,一切都被争议,都被牺牲。当卡夫卡用他的右手拿起笔,他的左手就跳上它(跳上他的右手),然后战斗猛烈进行。这就形成这些草稿。由于没有能力给出理由,给右手或左手,卡夫卡梦见把他的敌意的无数的痕迹,连他自己,拖进火里。假如他自己没有这样做,那是因为他尝试悔恨。我们尝试悔恨。但是我们永远没有悔恨。我们没有处理。我们写作散文。

When Rembrandt wanted to draw The Beheading of St John the Baptist there was an
explosion, and the two men, the executioner and the victim, fought one another for the
paper with ferocity, Rembrandt, the executioner, the victim, moaned with long cutting
wails. What was drawing itself between himself is the decapitation exploding in the body
of the executioner. The pen has captured the transfer, the brutal and rapid explosion in the
process of instantaneously transforming the two adversaries. Everything, drawn from the
point of view of the executor. The drawing was called: The Executioner’s Taking Off, but
subsequently this name was crossed out and replaced… N.B. And precisely in this scene
where Rembrandt became an executioner, no repentance. I mean to say: no Christian
repentance. (The executioner is searching for his accomplishment, and in a few strokes,
becomes the incarnation of the cutting blade.)

当林布兰想要绘画「洗礼者圣约翰先知的被砍头」,爆炸发生,这两个人,侩子手与受害者,因为长期的砍伤的哀叫悲叹着。在他自己之间绘画它自己的东西,就是侩子手的身体爆炸的砍头。画笔捕捉这种转移,这种残酷与迅速的爆炸,瞬间转换两个敌人的过程。每样东西,都从侩子手段观点来绘画。这幅图画的标题是:「侩子手的起飞」。但是随后,这个标题诶删掉,然后被更换。N.B. 确实就是这个场景,林布兰成为一位侩子手,没有悔恨。我意图要说:没有基督教徒的悔恨。(侩子手正在寻找他的成就。然后,用几个笔触,他成为这个砍切的刀刃的具体化身。)

Because our soul has no firm footing.

因为我们的灵魂没有坚固的立足点。

Agitation reigns in these drawings. This is perhaps why painters draw? Because drawing
is the right to tumult, to frenzy. The right to: no. The drawing cries out. But painting,
even frenetic, even Van Gogh, paints all the same after the tempest. It takes a little time.

激情统辖这些图画。这或许是为什么画家绘画。因为绘画是进入骚乱,进入疯狂的权利。通往:否定的权利。绘画喊叫出来。但是图画,即使是狂乱,即使梵谷,在暴风雨后,仍然绘画。它需要一点时间。

But the drawing is: essay: before. ‘Work in which the author treats his or her matter
without pretending to say the last word…’ We don’t have the last word: truth always has
the word before, and we run out of breath at its heels. In the essay entitled ‘Of
Repentance’ Montaigne recounts how he always in fact guarded against all (Christian)
repentance, while at the same time giving himself up to the Essay, the only form of
writing faithful to the truth, the desirable unseizable. ‘If my mind could gain a firm
footing, I would not make essays, I would make decisions,’ but it is always ‘in
apprenticeship and on trial.’ Our soul never has its footing on this earth. Graze the paper
with the soul’s foot, and immediately the foot slips. It’s always this same story of the foot
and the ground, one and the other in motion, the one missing the other. How then to draw a firm footing, when our soul is merely a staggering? Our drawings, our books and us, we all go along at the same pace, with an uncertain foot. This is why it is the legs above all which, in our drawings, are the most agitated.

但是这幅图画是散文:以前。「作者处理他或她的事情的工作,没有伪装要说出最后的话语、、、」我们并没有最后的话语:真理总是拥有先前的话语,我们跟着真理的脚跟后面,上气不接下气。在标题是「谈悔恨」的这篇散文,蒙田描述他实际上如何总是防所有的(基督徒)的悔恨。同时,他陶醉于书写散文。这是唯一忠实于真理的书写的形式,渴望中的无可掌握的东西。「假如我的心灵能够获得坚固的立足点,我将不会写作散文,我将会做决定。」但是我的灵魂总是在充当学徒,在尝试当中。」我们的灵魂在大地从来没有它的立足点。假如用灵魂的脚跋涉这些纸张,脚立即会滑倒。这总是脚与场地的相同的故事。前者与后者的运动,前者错过后者。因此如何绘画一个坚固立足点,当我们的灵魂仅是蹒珊而行。我们的图画,我们的书,与我们,我们总是用相同的步伐前行,脚履不稳定。这就是为什么尤其重要的是脚,在我们的图画里,脚总是最激情的。

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

西苏论画 203

April 6, 2014

西苏论画 203

Figure 2.1 Leonardo da Vinci, Vierge
à l’Enfant. Paris, Musée du Louvre.

图画2.1
李奥纳多、达文西“婴孩”
巴黎、罗孚宫

The drawing wants to draw what is invisible to the naked eye. It’s very difficult. The
effort to write is always beyond my strength. What you see here, these lines, these
strokes, are rungs on the ladder of writing, the steps which I have cut with my fingernails
in my own wall, in order to hoist myself up above and beyond myself.

这幅图画想要绘画出肉眼看不见的东西。这很困难。书写的努力总算非我的力量所及。你们在此看见的东西,这些线条,这些笔画,都是书写的楼梯的台阶,用我的手指甲,我从我自己的墙壁上挖出这些台阶。为了支撑我自己,高过于我自己,超越我自己。

Stigmata 20
And drawing ‘the living of life’ (what else is there to want to draw?)—is maddening;
it’s exactly what none knows how to draw, the quick of life. But it’s not impossible.
It’s something small, precise—I’m guessing—it must be red, it’s, I’m guessing, the
fire speck—or the blood speck—it’s—I’m searching—the point which nails this drawing,
this page, this verse, in our memory, the unforgettable stroke—the needle planted in the
heart of eternity—I’m searching—a minuscule fatality, a point which hurts my heart and
hurts the world’s heart, it’s no bigger than the red spider which continues on while
Stavroguine thinks about the crime, thinks about the crime, and doesn’t repent…
(—I’m advancing, I’m approaching, be careful because if I see what it is, just as
quickly I won’t see anymore—)

圣痕 20
这幅图画,「生命的生活者」,(除外,还有什么想要绘画?)–令人疯狂。那确实是没有人知道如何去画的东西—生命的敏锐脉动。但是,这并非不可能。那是某件微小,确实的东西—我猜想—那一定是红色的。我正在猜想—那是火的火花—或是血的火花—我正在寻求—那是这个时刻,将这幅图画,这页纸,这首诗,钉牢在我们的记忆,这难忘的笔触的时刻。针被安置在永恒的核心—我正在寻求—微型的致命性,伤害我的心,与伤害世界的心的时刻。它跟红蜘蛛一样的微小。红蜘蛛继续存活,当史塔罗巾尼正在思考犯罪,打算犯罪而没有悔恨、、、(我正在前进,我正在靠近,请你们小心,因为我看见那是什么,正如很快地,我将什么都看不见—)

The trace of the quick of life hidden beneath the rounded appearances of life, life
which remains hidden because we wouldn’t bear seeing it as it is, in all the brilliance of
horror that it is, it is without pity, like the drawing must be.

生命的敏锐脉动的痕迹,隐藏在生命的圆融的表象之下。这是始终隐藏的生命,因为我们将无法忍受看见它,依照它真实的样子,当它令人骇惧的辉煌灿烂。好像绘画就必须像这个样子,没有怜惜。

This morning in the museum, I was passing in front of the drawings, in the slight
alarm of the reading which doesn’t know from where the blow will come, and I was
looking, distracted, at these morsels of worry, these stuttered avowals of nothing, nothing
clearly delivered.

在博物馆的这个早上,我正在经过这些图画,在阅读的轻微警示里。这种阅读并被是知道,打击将从何而来。我正在观看这些微微的焦虑,心神不宁地,空无的这些吞吞吐吐的宣称,没有一样东西清楚地被传递。

It was then that the blow came from whom I wasn’t expecting it at all. What is this
moment called when we suddenly recognize what we have never seen? And which gives
us a joy like a wound? This is the woman who did that to me: the Woman Ironing.

就在那时,打击来自于我根本就没有预期它的人那里。这个时刻被称为什么,当我们突然体认出我们从来没有看见的东西?它给予我们一种像是伤害的欢乐?这就是对我这样做的这位女人:正在熨烫衣服的女人。

Figure 2.2 Pablo Picasso, Etude pour
‘La Repasseuse.’ Paris, Musée Picasso.

图画2.2 毕卡索:「正在熨烫衣服的女人」
巴黎,罗孚宫

This Woman Ironing hurts us. Because the drawing catches ‘the secret’ in its (contrary)
enmeshed threads. ‘The thing,’ that sharp thing, ‘life.’ We thought we were drawing a
Woman Ironing. But it’s worse. This Woman Ironing is a tragedy. A needle blow right in
the middle of eternity’s chest. But in order to pull the needle out, to strike the blow, one
had to scribble furiously. We struggled. Against what or whom?

「正在熨烫衣服的这个女人」伤害到我们。因为这幅图画捕获住这个「秘密」,在它的(矛盾的)纠缠的脉络里。那个「物象」,那个敏锐的物象,「生命」。我们认为我们正在绘画一幅「正在熨烫衣服的女人」。但是,这样更加糟糕。「正在熨烫衣服的女人」是个悲剧。就在永恒的胸膛的中央刺上一根针。但是为了将这根针拔出,为了给予这个打击,我们必须愤怒地胡乱书写。我们奋斗,对抗什么?对抗谁?

Against the idea of Woman Ironing. The drawing carries traces of blows, of bruises
and even of blood. She’s tumefied.

对看「正在熨烫的女人」的这个「观念」。这幅图画带着各种打击的痕迹,瘀伤累累的痕迹,甚至是流血的痕迹。她受到惊吓。

By dint of passing and ironing over the body of the woman ironing, what ended up
appearing—is—one would say a crime. From the body broken and streaked with strokes
comes the body hidden in the body of the woman ironing, or more precisely the soul’s
head, and, neck exposed, she bellows.

凭借着经过并且熨烫正在熨烫衣服的女人的身体。结果出现的东西—是—我们估且说是犯罪。从被伤害,伤痕累累的身体,随之而来的是隐藏在正在熨烫的女人的身体里面的身体。更确实地说,就是灵魂的头,颈项裸露,她呼吁著。

I don’t want to draw the idea, I don’t want to write being, I want what happens in the
Woman Ironing, I want the nerve, I want the Revelation of the broken Woman Ironing.

我不想要绘画这个观念,我不想要书写生命实存。我想要在这幅「正在熨烫衣服的女人」所发生的东西。我想要这个勇气。我想要这位受到伤害的正在熨烫衣服的女人的启示。

And I want to write what passes between us and the Woman Ironing, the electric current.
The emotion. Because as a result of drawing her with my eyes, I felt: it’s death that is
passing through the Woman Ironing, our mortality in person. I want to draw our
mortality, this quiver.

我想要书写在我们与「正在熨烫衣服的女人」之间,经过的东西,这个电流。情感。因为由于我的眼睛绘画她的结果,我感觉到它的「死亡」正在经过这幅「正在熨烫衣服的女人」,我们处于肉身的有限生命。我想要绘画我们的有限生命,这种颤栗。

The emotion is born at the angle of one state with another state. At the passing, so
brusque. Accident. Instant of alteration that takes us by surprise. And the body which
expresses itself before the word. First the cry, then the words.

情感诞生于一种状态跟另外一种状态的「角度」。在经过时,如此的突兀。意外。让我们大吃一惊的轮替的瞬间。在字之前表达它自己的身体。首先是呼叫,然后是文字。

When it’s not entirely clear, what is being felt or being thought in the body—of Christ,
of the woman ironing—that’s the moment we seek to draw. Are we going to die? Kill?
The hand rises, the head, the pen falls once more.
The drawing feels death passing.

虽然它并没有完全清楚,在身体,正在被感觉或正在被思想的东西—在耶稣基督的身体,在正在熨烫衣服的女人的身体。那就是我们尝试要绘画的时刻。我们即将会死亡吗?即将要杀戮吗?
手举起,头,笔再一次落下。
这幅图画感觉死我经过。

We believe we’re drawing (going to) the Beheading of St John the Baptist. But it’s
worse. At the moment of Beheading, suddenly, there’s been a change of heart. Or rather
of life. Something unpredictable has happened between the two characters during the
drawing. We were bending over the saint in horror, and at the moment we contemplated
his body with curiosity, that is to say the two parts of his body, suddenly so contrary
Our entire attention was diverted and carried away in the opposite direction by the
executioner. Because, at the moment the drawing wanted to draw the body’s pain and the head’s mourning, there was a sudden rise of life in the executioner, which the drawing was unable to resist.

我们相信,我们正在绘画(将有绘画)圣者约翰,耶稣的洗礼先知的被砍头。但是这更加糟糕。在被砍头的时刻,突然地,心灵已经发生改变。或者说,生命发生改变。某件无法预测的东西曾经发生在这两位人物之间,就在绘画的过程。我们骇惧地俯视这位圣者。就在我们好奇地沉思他的身体之际,换句话说,沉思他的身体的两个部分。突然地,如此相反的两个部分。我们整个的注意力被转移,被带走,朝向相反的方向,被这位侩子手。因为,在这幅图画想要绘画身体的痛苦与头的哀悼的这个时刻,在侩子手,生命突然上升出来。这幅绘画无法抗拒的生命的突然上升。

Figure 2.3 Rembrandt, Décollation de
Saint Jean Baptiste. Paris, Musée du
Louvre.

The executioner’s joy burst out. This couldn’t have occurred before the drawing executed the saint. Because the saint had to have been properly beheaded in order for the executioner to have
suddenly been transfigured, and become one, on the spot, body with saber.

侩子手段欢乐突然奔放出来。在这幅绘画将圣者执行砍头之前,这是不可能发生的事情。因为圣者必须恰如其份地被砍头,为了让侩子手突然地被转变升华。然后跟刀斧成为一体,就在当场。

At the instant
we were describing the saint’s collapse, (and at the sight of the decapitated body trying to
get up, pushing with its arms), the executioner straightened up like a spring, I mean the
pen, and with a grand full stroke signed the executioner’s strong and sudden jubilation.
We want to write the torment, and we write the joy. At the same time. At each
moment I am another myself. The one in and on the other.

就在我们正在描述圣者崩溃的瞬间(当我们一看就被砍头的身体正在尝试站立起来,用它的双手推著),侩子手像弹簧般挺直站立。我的意思是,笔站立起来。用辉煌的充分的笔画,传递侩子手段强烈而突然的欢乐。我们想要画出这个折磨,我们书写这种欢乐。同时地。在我成为另外一个我的每个时刻。在他者里面与上面的这个我。

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

西苏伦画 202

April 4, 2014

西苏伦画 202

Barely traced—the true drawing escapes. Rends the limit. Snorts. Like the world,
which is only a perennial movement, the drawing goes along, befuddled and staggering,
with a natural drunkenness.

真实的图画逃走—勉强被追踪。撕裂这个限制。打鼾。喜欢这个世界。这是一个永久的运动,绘画向前行,酩酊而摇晃,自然地陶醉。

All that exists is naturally drunk: the boat, the Egyptian pyramids, the executioner’s
coldness, the iron. Who said that? If it’s not Rembrandt or Rimbaud, it’s one Montaigne
or the other.

所有存在的东西自然都是陶醉。船隻,埃及金字塔,侩子手段冷酷,铁条。是谁这样说?那不是林布兰或蓝波。那是蒙田或是某人。

To think there are those who seek the finished. Those who seek to portray cleanly, the
most properly!

想想看,有些人在寻找这个被完成的作品。他们尝试清楚地描述,最适当的方式描述。

But some portray passing. The truth. The passing (of the) truth. This is what gives to
their drawing that panting and unstable allure.

但是某个描述经过。真理。真理的经过。这是给予他们的绘画,给予那种喘气与不稳定的诱惑。

Look at the child barely seated on his mother’s knees: on the one hand the little arms
are in the drawing, in the circle, but on the other hand the legs sketch the escapade. This
little one doesn’t stay put.

请你们观看这位仅是坐在母亲的膝盖上的小孩。一方面,双隻小小的手臂在图画里,在圆圈里,但是另一方面,双脚描绘这种逃避。这位小孩并没有保存静止不动。
You will recognize the true drawing, the live one: it’s still running. Look at the legs.
I’ll come back to that.

你们将体认出这幅真实的图画,活生生的图画。它依旧在运转。请观看这双脚。我将回头谈论它。

For the moment, I am, following, the error, without fear but with respect. To what
extent we need error which is the promise of truth, to what extent we can’t do without the
silvery burst of error, which is the sign, all those who go by pen don’t cease to marvel at
this in a similar way, from century to century. Felix culpa, St Augustine calls it, and then portal of discovery, says Joyce, submissão says Clarice Lispector, the writing process is made up of errors… And
before that, ‘naïve and essential submission,’ said our wandering grandfather Montaigne;
and we’re all in agreement, how to draw other than by groping in the night, ‘inquiring
and ignorant.’

暂时,我跟随在这个错误之后,没有恐惧,而是尊敬。我们需要错误到什么程度,这个错误是真理的许诺。到什么程度,我们无法免除错误的炙热爆发,那就讯息,所有那些凭借笔传递的讯息,以同样的方式,不停地对这个产生惊奇,几世纪以来。圣奥古斯丁称它为「幸运的坠落」Felix culpa」。乔伊士则是说,那是发现的前庭。

Necessary error, school mistress, faltering essential companion, we love her, because
she is the only way we have on this earth to feel the truth, which is always a little farther,
exists, a little farther away.

必然的错误,学校的情妇,摇晃的基本的同伴,我们爱她。因为她是我们在世界拥有的唯一的方式,来感觉真理。这个真理总是稍微远一点,存在着,稍微远一点。

And repentance? No repentance. We who draw are innocent. Our mistakes are our
leaps in the night. Error is not lie: it is approximation. Sign that we are on track.
And: to not become gloomy from not ‘attaining.’ We don’t lose anything by erring, to
the contrary.

懊悔?没有懊悔。绘画者的我们是纯真的。我们的错误是我们在夜间到跳跃。错误并不是谎言。错误的近似。我们正在追踪的讯息。然后:为了不要因为没有「获得」就变得忧郁。我们虽然犯错,并没有丧失什么。相反地。

The unhappy thing would be to believe we had found.
As long as we are seeking we are innocent. We are in naïve submission. In prenatality.
I advance error by error, with erring steps, by the force of error. It’s suffering, but it’s
joy.

这种不快乐的事情,将就是相信我们已经找到。
只要我们正在寻找,我们是纯真的。我们处于纯真的顺服。在胎前阶段,我错误连连地前进,犯错好几步,凭借错误的力量。那是令人痛苦,但是那是快乐。

I seek the truth, I encounter error. How do I recognize error? It is obvious, like truth.
Who tells me? My body. Truth gives us pleasure. It makes us burst out laughing,
trembling. Blushing. It’s hot. It’s like this: I grope. I try the word ‘hesitation.’ I taste it.
No pleasure. No taste. I cross out. I try: ‘correction.’ I taste. No. I taste ten words. Finally
I fall on the word: ‘essay.’ Before even trying I already sense a pretaste… I taste. And,
that’s it! Its taste is strong and fine and rich in memories of pleasure.

我寻找真理。我遭遇错误。我如何认出错误?显而易见地,就像真理。谁告诉我?我的身体。真理给予我快乐。真理让我哈哈大笑,颤傈,脸红。那是红热。就像这样:我模索,我尝试「犹豫」这个字。我品尝它。没有快乐。没有品味。我删掉。我尝试:「改正」我品味。我品味十个字。最后,我偶遇这个字「散文」。甚至在尝试之前,我已经感知道一种「前品味」、、、我品味。那就是了!它的品味是强烈,精致,而丰富,在快乐的记忆里。

Truth strikes us. Opens our heart. Our lips. Error makes us sense the absence of taste.
Drops us like a dead person, apathetic tongue, dry eyes. Error really can’t fool us.
We’ve just drawn an executioner. Just a little while ago he was amassing in our
entrails, in our lungs, we felt his storm rumbling. Now we look at him standing on the
paper, and we don’t feel anything. In us the storm is always alive, on paper, no. I submit
myself to the invisible truth of my vision, I obey the strange and foreign voice in my
body.

真理打击我们。打开我们的心。我们的嘴唇。错误让我们感知品味的缺席。抛掉我们,像一个死人。冷漠的舌头,乾燥的眼睛。错误确实不能愚弄我们。我们刚刚绘画一位侩子手。不久之前,他正在我们的内脏里收集,在我们的肺里,我们感知他的暴风雨隆隆而响。现在我们观看他站在纸上。我们没有感觉任何东西。在我们内部,暴风雨总是强烈,在纸上,没有。我将自己顺服于我的景象的不可见的真理。我服从我的身体里的奇怪而陌生的声音。

– A little farther! Go on! Start again! Forward!
– To the right? Shall I draw to the right?
– Try…
– I’m trying.
– I’m still trying.

–稍我深入一点!前进!再次开始!向前行!
–向右边!你要我向右边画?
–请你尝试、、、

See why I guard against effacing my first steps. I need to lean on, to start again from my
error.

请你们瞧,为什么我防卫,不要抹除掉我早先的步痕。我需要依靠,需要从我的错误重新开始。

In order to be able to draw a crime, Dostoevsky began again a hundred times. It was
such a subtle crime, which escaped him, so profound. He felt it. Missed it. Approached it.
The other escaped. The essays accumulated. The scene was turning, the pen, trying, a
door—a victim—Here?—That’s not it—was distancing itself, shall I knock? and if that
wasn’t it, the drawing wouldn’t take, its heart wouldn’t beat, the knife was rising, the
victim was falling—Is that it?—Not yet,

为了能够绘出一种罪行。杜斯妥耶夫斯基重新开始一百次。那是如此微妙的罪行。这个罪行逃避他,是如此的深刻。他感知它。错过它。接近它。他者逃避。这些散文累积起来。场景正在翻转,笔,正在尝试,一道门—一位受害者—在此?–那并不是它—笔正在跟自己拉开距离。我要敲门吗?假如那并不是它,这幅绘画将不会成形,它的心脏将不会跳动,刀子将不会举起,受害者正在倒下—那就是它吗?–还不是。

Then is it in the stairway?—take note, D. told himself, but that wasn’t it, was there
someone behind the door? N.B., D. noted, N.B., N.B., annotating his notes. These
notebooks were a joyous carnage. N.B.—You have to have found the key by midnight

那么,它在楼梯那里吗?–请你们注意,D告诉他自己,但是那并不是它,在门背后有某个人吗?N.B., D.注意到。N.B., N.B.,替他的笔记作注释。这些笔记是欢愉的杀戮。N.B. 你必须在午夜之前找到这把钥匙。

With the result that wanting to discover the invisible heart of his crime before midnight,
he managed to play four books at the same time and one against the other—one barring
the other, one killing the other, one chasing the other, one haunting the other denying—
four books from only one hand, on the same page we go straight to the confession. Three
words later we leave running.
他想要在午夜之前发现,他的罪行的不可见的核心。结果,他成功地同时播放四本书,一本接着另一本。一本阻碍另一本,一本杀死另一本,一本追逐另一本。在相同的页纸,我们直接到告白那里。有三个字,我们后来让它播放着。

These notebooks so many failures! Before the midnight scissors what fecundity.
What do we want to draw?

这些笔记是如此众多的失败!在午夜之前,删剪那些洋洋大观。

What are we trying to grasp between the lines, in between the strokes, in the net that
we’re weaving, that we throw, and the dagger blows?

在字里行间,我们正在尝试理解什么?在那些笔画当中,在我们正在编织的网里,我们投掷,刀刃刺向什么?

Not the person, but the precious in that person, not the Virgin, not the child, but what
is between them in this very moment, linking them—a secret, that which mysteriously
renders those two unforgettable. I sense: it’s not divinity, it’s whim. That little grain of
meanness which makes the little boy. Do you see?

不是那个人,而是那个人身上珍贵的东西。不是「圣母处女受孕」,不是小孩,而是处于他们之间的东西,就在这个时刻,连接它们—一个秘密。神秘地让那两位个难以忘记的东西成形。我感知到:那并不是神性,那是奇异幻想。形成那位小男孩的那点小小的卑下。你们看见吗?

It’s not a question of drawing the contours, but of what escapes the contour, the secret
movement, the breaking, the torment, the unexpected.

问题并不是要绘画出那种轮廓,但是是什么逃避那个轮廓,秘密的运动,这个突破,这个折磨,这个出乎意料之外的东西。

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

西苏论画201

April 3, 2014

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
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西苏论巴斯莎芭沐浴图11

April 1, 2014

23. The ox is dazzling. The ox is pregnant with light.
To the extent that we don’t see the woman’s head—advancing prudently, in a halo of
weak light.
The light seems to be the luminous shadow projected by the flesh.
In ‘reality’ it is doubtless coming from behind the door.
The woman pokes her head in through the doorway, to see? Furtiveness. As if she
were looking at what mustn’t be looked at.
Clandestine glance: curiosity wonders: is it there? Who’s there? What’s hidden there?

23、 公牛令人晕眩。公年孕育着光。
我们甚至没有看见女人的头—谨慎地前进,处于微弱光辉的氛围。
光似乎是肉身投射到惨淡的阴影。
在现实里,无可置疑地,光来自于门背后。
女人经由门口,探出她的头,为了观看?秘密地,好像她正在观看被禁止观看的东西。
秘密的瞥见:好奇心想要知道:它就在那里吗?谁在那里?什么被隐藏在那里?

To one side the powerful body, the incarnation of slaughtered power, hung by its feet.
Why is the ox hung ‘head down’ (the absence of a head down there)?
On the other the small head without a body, the question.
But we don’t see her. The shining of the ox attracts my entire gaze. Attracts us. We are
attracted by the open ox as by the illuminated carriage opening of a palace.
The light calls. We advance. Let’s enter.
Here all is gold and purple.
We are in the breast.

在一边,这个强壮的身体,被屠杀的力量的具体肉身,从脚跟被垂吊,。
为什么公牛被头朝下地被垂吊(在那儿,头是欠缺的)?
在另外一边,有个小头,没有身体,是个疑问。
但是我们没有看见她。公牛的闪亮吸引我整个的凝视。吸引我们。我们被公开的公牛吸引,如同被宫殿的灯火明亮的马车的空地。
光召唤。我们前进。让我们进入。
在此,一切都是黄金与紫色。
我们在乳房。

24. Before me spreads the agitated space with its somber thicknesses of fatty haunted
gold, so it seems, in the purple distances of the canvas, of flayed scarlet stairs in the
geologic matter, the ground sheer like a deep hanging, past upon past, my mines, my
reserve difficult to access, but overflowing if I arrive, with thoughts, with passions, with
kin, before me my personal foreign land: everything in the nearby over there is mine,
everything is strangely foreign to me: everything that, in its night dough, I discern for the
first time, I recognize. The world, before me, so great, is inside, it is the immense
limitless life hidden behind restricted life.
Stigmata 14

24、 在我面前,这个骚动的空间展开,具有它惨淡的厚度,在画布的紫色的各种距离,似乎萦绕著黄金的厚实。剥落斑漆的猩红色楼梯,地质的质料,直接的地面,像深深的垂挂,过去盖上过去,我的矿场,难以接近的我的储藏室,但是假如我到达,带着思想,带着激情,带着亲密,它满溢出来。我个人的陌生的土地,在我面前。在它的夜晚的质料里,我第一次觉察到的每样东西,我体认出来。在我面前,这个世界是多么巨大。这世界在里面,它是广裘的无限生命,隐藏在受到限制的生命背后。

Do you see the steps? To the right, some somber steps tell us we are down below, in
the cellar. Somber descending steps.
But here we climb up. These steps here, the interior gold and purple steps lead us
toward the heights, toward the heart of the temple.
What are we present at? At a mystery. At a solemn representation.
This is not the crucifixion.
This is the Passion according to Rembrandt. Mourning and Transfiguration of the Ox.
It is there in the cellar, that I divine:
What does he seek to paint of Bathsheba?
Her solitude of slaughtered ox.
Bathsheba or the slaughtered ox.

你们看见台阶吗?对着光,某些的惨淡的台阶告诉我们,我们在底下,在地窖。惨淡的往下延伸的台阶。
但是,在此我们攀爬。在此的这些台阶,内部的黄金与紫色的台阶,引导我们朝向高度,朝向庙堂的核心。
我们对着什么呈现?对着神秘。对着严肃的再现表象。
这并不是耶稣基督的十字架。
这是生命激情,依照林布兰「公牛的哀悼与蜕变」。
就在地窖那里。我推测。
对于巴斯莎芭,他尝试画出什么?
被屠杀的公牛队她的孤独。
巴斯莎芭或被屠杀的公牛。

P.S. Reading the big catalogues, I look for The Slaughtered Ox. For example in
Gerson’s beautiful volume on Rembrandt.9 I flip through the index. The author has
classified the work according to rubrics; Portraits: Self-portraits, Portraits of Men,
Portraits of Women, Portraits of Children; Groups…(I’m looking for the Ox),
Landscapes… Finally I find it: it is in Interiors, keeping company with the Philosopher
Meditating.

附记:阅读厚厚的几本目录。我寻找「被屠杀的公牛」。譬如,在乔森论林布兰的美丽的巨册,我翻阅索引。作者将作品依照性质分类:肖像画:自我肖像,男人肖像,女人肖像,小孩肖像;群体画(我正在寻找公牛)。风景画、、、最后,我找到它:它在室内画那里。跟「沉思中的哲学家」放在一块。

雄伯译
32hsiung@pchome.com.tw
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西苏论巴斯莎芭沐浴图 10

March 31, 2014

22. And the Curtain? Or the frame?
To see the ox we must enter into the painting. The ox is framed. The frame is in the
interior of the painting.
The painting has two doors. One in front. One in back. Let’s enter. We enter by the
front door. We’re standing in the cellar. The ox is a lamp, an enormous hanging lamp. It
is the aster of this night. It irradiates.

22、 帘幕?或框架
为了看见公牛,我们进入图画。公牛被局限在框架里。框架在图画的内部。
图画拥有两道门。一道是前面;一道是后面。让我们进入。我们从前门进入。我们站在地窖里。公牛是一盏灯,一盏巨大的垂吊灯。公牛是这个夜晚的萤光。它发出光亮。

The ox is beautiful.
The ox shines in the darkness. Where? Back of a shop? Cellar? Tomb? The ox is a
gigantic ingot of flesh.
The ox is bound. The ox is nude.
Who are we contemplating? Samson’s truth, or Rembrandt’s. The blind, the freed, the
powerful slaughtered. The gazed upon. Who by their magnificent helplessness fill us with
wonder.

公牛是美丽的。
公牛在黑暗中闪亮。在那里?在商店的后面?地窖?坟墓?公牛是巨大的肉身的块状。
公牛被绑住。公牛赤裸裸。
我们正在沉思谁?参森的真理,或林布兰的真理?眼睛被弄瞎者,被解放者,强壮力气者被屠杀。被凝视者。是谁凭借他们的辉煌的无助,让我们惊奇不已?

The Vanquished sparkles. (Vanquished but Strong)
Nothing less ‘realistic.’ To paint this. With what admiration. What love.
The ox is hurled to the bottom. And there are no angels. The huge body is sideways.
Everything adds to the impression that someone has left it all alone.
All of a sudden I see: it’s about our captivity.

被征服者闪耀。(虽然被征服,但是强壮)
这是最为「写实的」。为了绘画这个,用怎样的崇敬,用怎样的爱。
公牛被投掷到底段。没有天使在那儿。巨大的身躯横垂著。
每样东西都增添这个印象: 某个人将它单独留置。
突然地,我看见:那是关于我们的被俘虏。

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

西苏论巴斯莎芭沐浴图 9

March 30, 2014

21. We, we have lost our heads a bit?
For we are on the road to our most violent, most foreign fellow-creature.
The Ox. The Hermit. The Turned Upside Down. The Acrobat. The Paralyzed. The
Ancient Choir. The Truth. You, as I see you when I see you as you really are: and to do
this I have to draw the curtains aside, to slaughter you, to open you up—(with my gaze
only). And then, naturally, it is me that I see, it is us, nude, it is our nuditude,8
magnificent, our power bound, our shining blindness.

21、 我们,我们已经有点迷失了我们的头脑?
因为我们朝向我们最暴力,最陌生的同胞的途中。
牛,隐士。翻转的颠覆。特技表演。麻痹症。古代合唱队。真理。你,如同我看见你,当我看见你,依照你本来的样子。为了这样做,我必须将帘幕拉开一旁。为了屠杀你,为了打开你—(仅是用我的凝视)。然后,自然地,我看见的是我。是我们,赤裸,这是我们的裸身,光辉灿烂,我们被拘束的力量,我们闪亮的盲目。

Why do we adore The Slaughtered Ox? Because without our knowing it or wanting it,
it is our anonymous humanity. We are not Christ, never, Christ…no I will not speak of
this.
Stigmata 12
We are this creature, which ‘even turned upside down and decapitated and hung
beneath the earth—when it is seen with those eyes that don’t reject the below, that don’t
prefer the above—maintains its majesty.

为什么我们崇拜「被屠杀的牛」?因为那是我们自己匿名的人性,即使我们不知道它,不要它。我们并不是耶稣基督,永远不是,耶稣基督、、、不,我将不谈论这个。
圣痕 12
我们就是这个动物,维持它的威严的动物,即使被翻转颠倒,被砍头,被垂吊在地底下。假如人的眼睛不排斥底下,不偏爱上面,他们会看得出来。

Figure 1.3 Rembrandt, The
Slaughtered Ox, 1655. Paris, Musée du
Louvre.

林布兰图画1.3 「被屠宰的牛」,1966年,巴黎,罗孚宫。

Bathsheba or the interior Bible 13
Behold the portrait of our mortality. The being hung (by its shins), turned upside
down, twice decapitated.
What we become under the ax and the slicer.
There is a butcher shop on our life’s path. As children we would pass trembling before
the butcher’s window. Later on we want to forget death. We cut the dead one up into
pieces and we call it meat.

巴斯莎芭或内部的圣经 13。
请你们注意我们作为肉身的这幅肖像。从足胫被垂吊的翻转的生命,被砍头两次。
在斧头与利刃之下,我们变成的样子。
在我们生命成长的途中,存在着一家屠宰店。小孩时,我们经常经过,屠宰点的前面,恐惧战傈。后来,我们想要忘记死亡。我们将死去的牛切成为碎片。我们称它为牛肉。

雄伯译
32hsiung@pchome.com.tw
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西苏论巴斯莎芭沐浴图 8

March 29, 2014

20. I see St Matthew and the Angel
What I love is: the proximity of the invisible.
And the hand on the shoulder. The voice’s hand. Because the mystery of the voice is
this: it is that it touches us. And also this angel so close, so flesh—who is but a head and
a hand: (The body…we imagine it.) The angel, I mean to say the voice, the body is: ‘on
tiptoe.’ It is the tension. Toward the ear we’re aiming for.

20、 我看见圣马太与天使
我所爱的东西是:不可见物的邻近。
手放置在肩膀上。声音的手。因为声音的神秘是这个:那是因为声音碰触我们。这位天使也如此靠近,如此具有肉身—她仅是一个头与一隻手。(身体、、、我们想像它。)天使。我意图要说,这个声音,这个身体是:「躡著脚尖」。这是紧张。朝向我们正在目标向著的耳朵。

I approach: the truth is that the angel is a part of St Matthew. This man has an
enormous square build. He radiates force, ruggedness, the wind. He passes from the road
and the forest to the writing table. His cheeks are struck by the air. Colored by
intemperate weather. One would think an earthly sailor, a woodcutter, a giant tamed by
tenderness. A heavy handsome man touched by grace. The angel is his grace. Rembrandt
paints to the letter: that which was metaphor is made flesh. The voice comes from very
far, very near. With all his weight, with his whole forehead, his whole mane, the man
listens. The voice (of the angel) passes through his throat.

我接近:真理是,天使是圣马太的一部分。这个人拥有魁梧健壮的身躯。他焕发力量,粗旷,风吹。他通过道路与森林,到达写作的书桌。他的脸颊饱经风霜的侵凌与扭曲。我们会认为他是一位大地的水手,伐木人,受到温柔驯化的巨人。一位帅俊魁梧的男人,受到恩典的感动。天使是他的恩典。林布兰绘画得淋漓尽致。隐喻的东西被化成肉身。声音从远处,从近处传来。用他所有的重量,用他整个的前额,整个的头发,这个人倾听着。(天使的)声音通过他的喉咙。

Rembrandt paints this mysterious thing that mobilizes the body: the state of creation.
Writing, thinking, is being in a state of waiting for what is yet to come, but proclaims
itself—Proclamation and imminence—a force stronger than myself comes up behind me.
And—I guess—painting is the same way, with the angel at your shoulder and eyes that
listen and do not see.

林布兰绘画动员身体的这个神秘的东西:创造的状态。写作,思想,就是处于等待的状态,等待将要来临的东西,但是又是宣称它自己的东西—宣称与逼近—一个比我自己更加强烈的力量在我背后出现。然后—我猜想—绘画是同样的方式,天使在你肩膀与眼睛,倾听着,没有看见。

This is also the attitude of the Philosopher Meditating.7 The philosopher is ‘listening.’
He is nothing but an ear. All is audition. Slightly turned away from the light, from the
book—and from the bust. Hence pointed toward the mouth—obscure ear…
What is ‘a philosopher meditating’?
A somber conch.
Meditation takes place at the bottom of the staircase.

这也是「沉思中的哲学家」的态度。哲学家正在「倾听」。他仅是竖耳倾听。一切都是聆听。轻微地。避开光,避开书—避开身躯。因此,指向嘴巴—模糊的耳朵、、、
「沉思中的哲学家」是什么?
一个惨淡的海螺。
沉思发生在楼梯的底端

雄伯译
32hsiung@pchome.com.tw
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西苏论巴斯莎芭沐浴图

March 28, 2014

19. And in order to paint this, one must be dead. He paints like a dead man. Like a
poet. Like a dead man. See why Van Gogh places Rembrandt apart, elsewhere:
‘Rembrandt remains faithful to nature, even when, there too and still, he goes to the
heights, the highest heights, infinite heights, but just the same, Rembrandt could still do
otherwise when he didn’t feel the need to remain faithful, in the literal sense of the word,
like in the portrait, when he could be poet, that is to say creator.’
‘That is what he is in the Jewish Bride.’

19、为了绘画这个,我们必须死掉。他就像一位死人一样地画。像一位诗人。像一位死人。请你们看出,为什么梵谷将林布兰分开放,在别的地方。「林布兰始终忠实于自然,即使当他去到高处,他也是在那里,依旧在那里。最高的高处,永恒的高处。但是尽管如此,林布兰依旧能够做别的事情。当他不觉得有需要始终保持忠实,顾名思义的忠实。就像在肖像里,当他有时是诗人。也就是说,他有时是创造者。

‘– What an immensely profound, noble sentiment. One must die several times in order
to paint like this, now this is a remark one could apply to him.’
‘Rembrandt penetrates so far into the mystery that he says things no language can
express. It is just of us to say of Rembrandt: the Magician… This is not an easy craft.’6
The craft of death isn’t easy. What does that mean?

–「多么宏伟深奥与高贵的情感!为了像这样绘画,我们必须死掉好几次。」现在,这是我们能够运用在他身上的一句评论。

「林布兰如此深运地贯穿进入神秘,以致于他说出没有语言能够表达的东西。我们应该称呼林布兰为:魔术家。这并不是容易的技艺。死亡的技艺并不容易。那是什么意思?

For example this: it isn’t with the appetite of desire that Rembrandt paints Bathsheba.
It is with attentive love for the creature, for the miracle of existing. The profound
amazement, joyous without splendor, almost pious before this invention: the human
being. Nothing royal. Nothing extraordinary. The sober splendor of the ordinary. What is
marvelous: the ordinary metamorphosis: these people are subject to alteration, to time.
Time is at work. And not just time. Everything that endlessly paints us from the inside.
All the blows and messages that knock at the door to the heart, and paint from the inside
the troubled nervous agitation we call soul. (The soul, our capacity to suffer, said
Tsvetaeva.)

譬如这个:林布兰绘画巴斯莎芭,并不是带着欲望的品味。而是带着对于人作为生物的专注的热爱,对于生命实存的奇迹。这种深奥的惊奇,没有辉煌的欢愉,在这种发明之前的近乎虔诚:人类。没有皇家的东西,没有特别的东西。属于普通人的清醒的辉煌。令人叹为观止的东西是: 普通人的蜕变:这些人们隶属于轮换,隶属于时间。时间在运作。不仅是时间。每一样从内部无止境地绘画我们的东西。所有敲打到心扉之门,然后从内部绘画受到骚乱的神经的激动的打击与讯息。我们称它们为灵魂。(灵魂就是我们承受痛苦的能力,茨维塔耶娃说。)

That which wells up in Bathsheba, that which the letter has poured into her body, into
her organs, into her brain, and which is working on her body, her face, her brow, from the
inside.
She’s listening to this: this transformation in herself. Which is still new, mobile,
momentary. She doesn’t know who, shortly, she’ll be.
Traversed.
Traversed, St Matthew too? Transfixed. Cocked. All ears. He paints us listening to
ourselves change.
On the one hand he paints.
The heavy
Silence
of Bathsheba

在巴斯莎芭身上澎湃奔腾的东西,这个信息倾注在她身体的东西,进入她的器官,进入她的脑,在她身上运作的东西,她的脸孔,她的眉毛,从她的内部。
她正在倾听这个:在她身上的转变。依旧是新颖,活动,暂时的东西。她并不知道,不久她将会成为谁。
被经历过。
被经历过,圣马太也被经历过吗?被着魔,被竖起。专注倾听。他绘画我们倾听我们自己改变。
一方面,他绘画。
巴斯莎芭的
沉重的
沉默

On the other he paints the Voice that causes writing.
– The Voice—How to paint the Voice?
– We don’t see the voice.
Rembrandt paints the voice we do not see.
paints what we do not see.
see?
paints what speaks inside…
the word The Angel

在另一方面,他绘画「引起书写的声音」
—声音—如何绘画这个声音?
—我们没有看见这个声音。
林布兰绘画我们没有看见的声音。
绘画我们没有看见的声音。
看见?
绘画在内部言说的声音
在字的内部:天使

雄伯译