作家的學(xué)徒期
博爾赫斯 黃燦然/譯
詩(shī)人這行業(yè)粪般，作家這行業(yè)，是很奇怪的污桦。切斯特頓說(shuō)：“只需要一樣?xùn)|西——一切亩歹。”對(duì)作家來(lái)說(shuō)凡橱，這個(gè)一切小作，不只是一個(gè)涵括性的字；它確確實(shí)實(shí)是一切稼钩。它代表主要的顾稀、基本的人類(lèi)經(jīng)驗(yàn)。例如坝撑，一位作家需要孤獨(dú)静秆，而他得到他應(yīng)有的那份孤獨(dú)。他需要愛(ài)巡李，而他得到那份被分享和不被分享的愛(ài)抚笔。他需要友情。事實(shí)上侨拦，他需要宇宙殊橙。成為一位作家，在某種意義上也是成為一個(gè)做白日夢(mèng)的人——過(guò)一種雙重生活阳谍。
我很早就出版了我的第一本書(shū)《布宜諾斯艾利斯的熱情》蛀柴。這不是一本贊美布宜諾斯艾利斯的詩(shī)集；而是試圖表達(dá)我對(duì)我這個(gè)城市的感覺(jué)矫夯。我知道鸽疾，我那時(shí)需要很多東西，因?yàn)檠得玻M管我生活在一個(gè)有文學(xué)氣氛的家庭——我父親是個(gè)文人——但是制肮，這還不夠。我還需要點(diǎn)別的東西递沪，而我終于在友情和文學(xué)談話中找到它豺鼻。
一所了不起的大學(xué)應(yīng)提供給青年作家的東西，恰恰是：談話款慨、討論儒飒、學(xué)會(huì)贊同，以及也許是最重要的——學(xué)會(huì)不贊同檩奠。如此桩了，則有朝一日附帽，這位青年作家也許會(huì)覺(jué)得他可以把他的感情變成詩(shī)了。當(dāng)然井誉，他開(kāi)始時(shí)蕉扮，應(yīng)模仿他所喜愛(ài)的作家。作家正是這樣通過(guò)失去自己而變成自己——這是雙重生活的奇怪方式颗圣，既盡可能地生活在現(xiàn)實(shí)中喳钟，同時(shí)又生活在另一種現(xiàn)實(shí)中，那種他必須創(chuàng)造的現(xiàn)實(shí)在岂，他的夢(mèng)的現(xiàn)實(shí)奔则。
這就是哥倫比亞大學(xué)藝術(shù)學(xué)院寫(xiě)作課程的基本目標(biāo)。我是在代表哥大很多青年男女講話洁段，他們都努力想做作家应狱，但還未發(fā)現(xiàn)他們自己的聲音共郭。我最近在這里呆了兩個(gè)星期祠丝，在學(xué)員作家面前講演。我明白這些講習(xí)班對(duì)他們意味著什么除嘹；我明白這些講習(xí)班對(duì)于推動(dòng)文學(xué)有多么重要写半。在我自己的國(guó)家，青年人都沒(méi)有這樣的機(jī)會(huì)尉咕。讓我們想想這些仍然藉藉無(wú)名的詩(shī)人叠蝇、仍然藉藉無(wú)名的作家，他們應(yīng)獲得機(jī)會(huì)聚集在一起年缎，互相扶持悔捶。我相信我們有責(zé)任幫助這些未來(lái)的施惠者，使他們最終發(fā)現(xiàn)自己单芜，創(chuàng)造偉大的文學(xué)蜕该。文學(xué)不只是咬文嚼字；重要的是那未說(shuō)出的東西洲鸠，或字里行間讀到的東西堂淡。如果不是為了這種深刻的內(nèi)在感覺(jué)，文學(xué)就會(huì)變得跟游戲差不多扒腕，而我們大家都知道绢淀，文學(xué)可以遠(yuǎn)遠(yuǎn)不只是游戲。
我們都有作為讀者的種種快樂(lè)瘾腰，但作家也有寫(xiě)作的快樂(lè)和任務(wù)皆的。這不只是奇怪的經(jīng)驗(yàn)，也是回味無(wú)窮的經(jīng)驗(yàn)蹋盆。我們都責(zé)無(wú)旁貸费薄，應(yīng)給青年作家提供聚集在一起的機(jī)會(huì)内狗，贊同和不贊同的機(jī)會(huì)，以及最終掌握寫(xiě)作技巧的機(jī)會(huì)义锥。
The Writer's Apprenticeship
Translated by Norman Thomas di Giovanni
The poet's trade, the writer's trade, is a strange one. Chesterton said: “Only one thing is needful - everything.” To a writer this everything is more than an encompassing word; it is literal. It stands for the chief, for the essential, human experiences. For example, a writer needs loneliness, and he gets his share of it. He needs love, and he gets shared and also unshared love. He needs friendship. In fact, he needs the universe. To be a writer is, in a sense, to be a day-dreamer - to be living a kind of double life.
I published my first book, Fervor de Buenos Aires, way back in 1923. This book was not in praise of Buenos Aires; rather, I tried to express the way I felt about my city. I know that I then stood in need of many things, for though at home I lived in a literary atmosphere - my father was a man of letters - still, that was not enough. I needed something more, which I eventually found in friendships and in literary conversation.
What a great university should give a young writer is precisely that: conversation, discussion, the art of agreeing, and, what is perhaps most important, the art of disagreeing. Out of all this, the moment may come when the young writer feels he can make his emotions into poetry. He should begin, of course, by imitating the writers he likes. This is the way the writer becomes himself through losing himself - that strange way of double living, of living in reality as much as one can and at the same time of living in that other reality, the one he has to create, the reality of his dreams.
This is the essential aim of the writing program at Columbia University's School of the Arts. I am speaking in behalf of the many young men and women at Columbia who are striving to be writers, who have not yet discovered the sound of their own voices. I have recently spent two weeks here, lecturing before eager student writers. I can see what these workshops mean to them; I can see how important they are for the advancement of literature. In my own land, no such opportunities are given young people.
Let us think of the still nameless poets, still nameless writers, who should be brought together and kept together. I am sure it is our duty to help these future benefactors to attain that final discovery of themselves which makes for great literature. Literature is not a mere juggling of words; what matters is what is left unsaid, or what may be read between the lines. Were it not for this deep inner feeling, literature would be no more than a game, and we all know that it can be much more than that.
We all have the pleasures of the reader, but the writer has also the pleasure and the task of writing. This is not only a strange but a rewarding experience. We owe all young writers the opportunity of getting together, of agreeing or disagreeing, and finally of achieving the craft of writing.
《Borges on writing》柳沙，1973
《天涯》雜志，1999年06期
圖片：博爾赫斯在巴黎拌倍，1979 by Louis Monier
