有何胜利可言？挺住意味着一切。

作者：xiaoxiao
发表时间：2020-12-23 10:35
来源：未知

这是德国诗人里尔克的一句诗，经常被人引用，今天查了一下，找到了这句诗的英文译本。

这个http://www.myrilke.com/default.asp是唯一找到的介绍里尔克的比较好的地方，有兴趣的朋友可以去看看。

RequiemFor Wolf Graf von KalckreuthR.M.RilkeCan I have never seen you? For my heartfeels you like some too-burdensome beginningone still defers. Oh, could I but beginto tell of you, dead that you are, you gladly,you passionately dead. And was it soalleviating as you supposed, or wasno-more-alive still far from being-dead?You thought you could possess things better therewhere none care for possessions. You supposedthat over there you'd be inside the landscapethat here closed up before you like a picture,would enter the beloved from withinand penetrate through all things, strong and wheeling.Oh, that you may not have too long had causeto tax your boyish error with deception!Loosened within that rush of melancholy,ecstatically and only half-aware,may you, in motion round the distant stars,have found the happiness that you transposedfrom here into that being-dead you dreamt of.How near you were to it, dear friend, even here.How much it was at home here, what you purposed,the earnest joy of your so strenuous longing.When, tired of being happy and unhappy,you mined into yourself and painfullyclimbed with an insight, almost breaking downunder the weight of dark discovery:you carried what you never recognized,you carried joy, you carried through your bloodyour little saviour's burden to the shore.Why did you not wait till the difficultgets quite unbearable: until it turns,and is so difficult because so real?That was perhaps your next allotted moment;it may perhaps have been already trimmingits garland at the door you slammed for ever.Oh that percussion, how it penetrates,when somewhere, through impatience's sharp draught,something wide open shuts and locks itself!Who can deny on oath that in the eartha crack goes springing through the healthy seeds?Who has investigated if tame beastsare not convulsed with sudden lust for killingwhen that jerk shoots like lightning through their brains?Who can deduce the influence leaping outfrom actions to some near-by terminal?Who can conduct where everything's conductive?The fact that you destroyed. That this must berelated of you till the end of time.Even if a hero's coming, who shall tearmeaning we take to be the face of thingsoff like a mask and in a restless ragereveal us faces whose mute eyes have longbeen gazing at us through dissembling holes:this is sheer face and will not be transfigured:that you destroyed. For blocks were lying there,and in the air already was the rhythmof some now scarce repressible construction.You walked around and did not see their order,one hid the other from you; each of themseemed to be rooted, when in passing byyou tried at it, with no real confidencethat you could lift it. And in desperationyou lifted every one of them, but onlyto sling them back into the gaping quarrywherein, being so distended by your heart,they would no longer fit. Had but a womanlaid her light hand on the still mild beginningof this dark rage; had someone occupied,occupied in the inmost of his being,but quietly met you on your dumb departureto do this deed; had even something led youto take your journey past some wakeful workshopwhere men were hammering and day achievingsimple reality; had there been roomenough in your full gaze to let the imageeven of a toiling beetle find admittance:then, in a sudden flash of intuition,you would have read that script whose charactersyou'd slowly graved into yourself since childhood,trying from time to time whether a sentencemight not be formed: alas, it seemed unmeaning.I know; I know: you lay in front and thumbedaway the grooves, like someone feeling outthe insciption on a grave-stone. Anythingthat seemed to give a light you held as lampbefore those letters; but the flame went outbefore you'd understood - your breath, perhaps,perhaps the trembling of your hand; perhapsjust of its own accord, as flames will do.You never read it. And we do not dareto read through all the sorrow and the distance.We only watch the poems that still climb,still cross, the inclination of your feeling,carrying the words that you had chosen. No,you did not choose all; often a beginningwas given you in full, and you'd repeat itlike some commission. And you thought it sad.Ah, would you had never heard it from yourself!Your angel sounds on, uttering the sametext with a different accent, and rejoicingbreaks out in me to hear his recitation,rejoicing over you: for this was yours:that from you every proffered love fell back,that you had recognized renunciationas price of seeing and in death your progress.This was what you possessed, you artist, thesethree open moulds. Look, here is the castingfrom the first: space for your feeling; and look, there,from the second I'll strike out for you the gazethat craves for nothing, the great artist's gaze;and in the third, which you yourself broke uptoo soon, and which as yet the first outrushingof quivering feed from the white-heated hearthad scarce had time to reach, a death was moulded,deepened by genuine labour, that own deathwhich has such need of us because we live it,and which we're nowhere nearer to than here.All this was your possession and your friendship;as you yourself often divined; but thenthe hollowness of those moulds frightened you,you groped within and drew up emptinessand mourned your lot. - O ancient curse of poets!Being sorry for themselves instead of saying,for ever passing judgement on their feelinginstead of shaping it; for ever thinkingthat what is sad or joyful in themselvesis what they know and what in poems may fitlybe mourned or celebrated. Invalids,using a language full of woefulnessto tell us where it hurts, instead of sternlytransmuting into words those selves of theirs,as imperturbable cathedral carverstransposed themselves into the constant stone.That would have been salvation. Had you onceperceived how fate may pass into a verseand not come back, how, once in, it turns image,nothing but image, but an ancestor,who sometimes, when you watch him in his frame,seems to be like you and again not like you: -you would have persevered. But this is petty,thinking of what was not. And some appearanceof undeserved reproach in these comparings.Whatever happens has had such a startof our supposing that we never catch it,never experience what it really looked like.Don't be ashamed, when the dead brush against you,those other dead, who held out to the end.(What, after all, does end mean?) Exchange glancespeacefully with them, as is customary,and have no fear of being conspicuousthrough carrying the burden of our grief.The big words from those ages when as yethappening was visible are not for us.Who talks of victory? To endure is all. from "Selected Poems", Penguin Classics - tr. J.B.Leishman1 August, 1964ISBN: 0140420797