今天John Berger去世了讥脐，翻出一些舊書來遭居，覺得除了作業(yè)之外啼器，自己還要寫點什么。想起那本"A Seventh Man”俱萍。講述遷徙的勞工端壳，跨國遷徙的勞工，幾十年過去枪蘑，回頭看损谦，世界已經(jīng)大變：工廠開始遷徙葛账，建到工人便宜的地方洪鸭，而且有了世界銀行，有了國際貨幣基金組織，有了世貿(mào)......然而工人還在離家赦役，窮人還在更窮。
這本書的名字來源于匈牙利詩人Attila Jozsef的一首詩栅炒，就把這首詩翻譯了吧掂摔。
那第七個
Attila Jozsef
如果你啟程向這個世界進發(fā)
最好讓自己出生七次。
一次赢赊，在一間著火的房子里乙漓，
一次，在冰冷的洪水里释移，
一次叭披，在狂亂的瘋?cè)嗽豪铮?/p>
一次，在成熟的麥田里玩讳，
一次涩蜘，在一個空寂的修道院中，
再一次熏纯，降生在欄里的豬群里同诫。
有六個嬰兒在哭喊了啊，可這不夠：
你樟澜，你自己误窖，必須得是那第七個。
當(dāng)你需要為活下去而奮爭時秩贰，
讓你的敵人看見七個霹俺。
一個，星期天不用做工毒费，
一個丙唧，從周一開始工作，
一個蝗罗，無償?shù)卦诮虝?/p>
一個艇棕，在溺水中學(xué)會游泳蝌戒，
一個，是一座森林的一粒種子沼琉，
還有一個北苟，原始的先父將一直守護，
可所有這些計謀也都不夠：
你打瘪，你自己友鼻，必須得是那第七個。
如果你想找一個女人闺骚，
讓七個男人去追她彩扔。
一個，用心換來幾句話僻爽，
一個虫碉，照顧好自己，
一個胸梆，承認(rèn)自己是個愛做夢的人敦捧，
一個，撩起她的裙子摸到了她碰镜，
一個兢卵，知道那些衣扣和搭褳，
一個绪颖，踩過她的圍巾：
讓他們像蒼蠅一樣繞著她嗡嗡吧秽荤。
你，你自己柠横，必須得是那第七個窃款。
如果你寫作，而且還寫得出來滓鸠，
讓七個男人來寫你的詩吧雁乡。
一個，修建一座大理石村莊糜俗，
一個踱稍，出生在睡夢中，
一個悠抹，丈量天空并且知道答案珠月，
一個，詞語就是他的名字楔敌，
一個啤挎，將自己的靈魂變得完美，
一個，活剖老鼠庆聘。
他們有兩個勇敢的和四個智慧的胜臊；
你，你自己伙判，必須得是那第七個象对。
這樣，如果一切都按照寫下來的這樣進行宴抚，
你會為這七個人而死勒魔。
一個，被輕輕搖晃著接受乳汁菇曲，
一個冠绢，抓著青春的乳房，
一個常潮，將空盤子扔下弟胀，
一個，幫助窮人挺過蕊玷，
一個邮利，一直工作直到自己碎成片弥雹，
一個垃帅，只是盯著月亮。
這個世界將是你的墓碑：
你剪勿，你自己贸诚，必須得是那第七個。
The Seventh (A hetedik)
Attila József, 1905 - 1937
If you set out in this world,
better be born seven times.
Once, in a house on fire,
once, in a freezing flood,
once, in a wild madhouse,
once, in a field of ripe wheat,
once, in an empty cloister,
and once among pigs in sty.
Six babes crying, not enough:
you yourself must be the seventh.
When you must fight to survive,
let your enemy see seven.
One, away from work on Sunday,
one, starting his work on Monday,
one, who teaches without payment,
one, who learned to swim by drowning,
one, who is the seed of a forest,
and one, whom wild forefathers protect,
but all their tricks are not enough:
you yourself must be the seventh.
If you want to find a woman,
let seven men go for her.
One, who gives heart for words,
one, who takes care of himself,
one, who claims to be a dreamer,
one, who through her skirt can feel her,
one, who knows the hooks and snaps,
one, who steps upon her scarf:
let them buzz like flies around her.
You yourself must be the seventh.
If you write and can afford it,
let seven men write your poem.
One, who builds a marble village,
one, who was born in his sleep,
one, who charts the sky and knows it,
one, whom words call by his name,
one, who perfected his soul,
one, who dissects living rats.
Two are brave and four are wise;
You yourself must be the seventh.
And if all went as was written,
you will die for seven men.
One, who is rocked and suckled,
one, who grabs a hard young breast,
one, who throws down empty dishes,
one, who helps the poor win;
one, who worked till he goes to pieces,
one, who just stares at the moon.
The world will be your tombstone:
you yourself must be the seventh.
