There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them.
- Conversations With Joseph Brodsky
- A Poets Journey Through The Twentieth Century
- 《我坐在窗前》等. 金重，王偉慶/譯. 世界文學. 1987年.
- 《從彼得堡到斯德哥爾摩》. 王希蘇、常暉/譯. 灕江出版社. 1992年.
- 《見證與愉悅》. 黃燦然/譯. 天津市: 百花文藝出版社. 1999年.
- 《赫伯特/布羅茨基/赫伯特》. 李魁賢/譯. 台北市: 桂冠. 2002年.
- 《文明的孩子：布羅茨基論詩和詩人》. 劉文飛、唐烈英/譯. 北京市: 中央編譯. 2007年.
- 《布羅茨基談話錄》. 馬海甸等人/編譯. 北京: 東方. 2008年.
- 《布羅茨基詩選》. 金重，譯. 世界文學. 2013年.
談詩 不懂俄文 沒法真正欣賞
不過對於"文化"之論述和見解 都很值得參 考
譬如說 為什麼 威尼斯是上選 為什麼要冬天去
Wikipedia article "Joseph Brodsky".
Joseph Brodsky: Conversations
作者 / Brodsky, Joseph/ Haven, Cynthia L.
出版社 ／ UNIVERSITY PRESS OF MISSISSIPPI
出版日期 ／ 2003/11/13
Joseph Brodsky: Conversations (Literary Conversations Series) (Paperback) by Joseph Brodsky (Author), Cynthia L. Haven (Author), Richard Avedon (Author) "In 1970 Ms. Labinger was a brilliant student and utterly reliable researcher at Mount Holyoke College, where I continue to teach Russian history in the..." (more)
Gennady Smakov, 48, Translator and Author
LEAD: Gennady Smakov, a scholar, translator and author of two books on dance, died Sunday at his home in Manhattan. He was 48 years old. Mr. Smakov died of a brain tumor, according to a friend, Joseph Brodsky.這是為朋友諱
Gennady Smakov, a scholar, translator and author of two books on dance, died Sunday at his home in Manhattan. He was 48 years old. Mr. Smakov died of a brain tumor, according to a friend, Joseph Brodsky.
Born in Sverdlovsk, U.S.S.R., Mr. Smakov was educated at Leningrad State University and was a lecturer at the Institute of Theater, Music and Cinema in Leningrad. He wrote about the theater, opera and film and translated into Russian the works of ancient, Renaissance and modern European authors before emigrating to the United States in 1975. In addition to writing for emigre publications on the works of Russian poets of the 20th century, Mr. Smakov wrote articles about theater and dance for American periodicals.
Mr. Smakov was the author of ''Baryshnikov: From Russia to the West,''這書的故事更複雜 令人扼腕 published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux in 1981, and ''The Great Russian Dancers,'' published by Alfred A. Knopf in 1984. He also served as editor作者 for ''A Dance Autobiography'' by Natalia Makarova. He had recently been at work on a Russian translation of the collected poems of Constantine Cavafy and a biography of the choreographer Marius Petipa.
Mr. Smakov is survived by a son, Kyril.
A memorial service will be held at 6 P.M. on Sept. 14 at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home, 1076 Madison Avenue, at 81st Street.
Joseph Brodsky (1940–1996) was a Russian poet and essayist. Born in Leningrad, Brodsky moved to the United States when he was exiled from Russia in 1972. His poetry collections include A Part of Speech andTo Urania; his essay collections include Less Than One, which won the National Book Critics Circle Award, andWatermark. In 1987, he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. He served as US Poet Laureate from 1991 to 1992.
Ladies and gentlemen of the class of 1984:
No matter how daring or cautious you may choose to be, in the course of your life you are bound to come into direct physical contact with what’s known as Evil. I mean here not a property of the gothic novel but, to say the least, a palpable social reality that you in no way can control. No amount of good nature or cunning calculations will prevent this encounter. In fact, the more calculating, the more cautious you are, the greater is the likelihood of this rendezvous, the harder its impact. Such is the structure of life that what we regard as Evil is capable of a fairly ubiquitous presence if only because it tends to appear in the guise of good. You never see it crossing your threshold announcing itself: “Hi, I’m Evil!” That, of course, indicates its secondary nature, but the comfort one may derive from this observation gets dulled by its frequency.
A prudent thing to do, therefore, would be to subject your notions of good to the closest possible scrutiny, to go, so to speak, through your entire wardrobe checking which of your clothes may fit a stranger. That, of course, may turn into a full-time occupation, and well it should. You’ll be surprised how many things you considered your own and good can easily fit, without much adjustment, your enemy. You may even start to wonder whether he is not your mirror image, for the most interesting thing about Evil is that it is wholly human. To put it mildly, nothing can be turned and worn inside out with greater ease than one’s notion of social justice, public conscience, a better future, etc. One of the surest signs of danger here is the number of those who share your views, not so much because unanimity has a knack of degenerating into uniformity as because of the probability—implicit in great numbers—that noble sentiment is being faked.
By the same token, the surest defense against Evil is extreme individualism, originality of thinking, whimsicality, even—if you will—eccentricity. That is, something that can’t be feigned, faked, imitated; something even a seasoned impostor couldn’t be happy with. Something, in other words, that can’t be shared, like your own skin—not even by a minority. Evil is a sucker for solidity. It always goes for big numbers, for confident granite, for ideological purity, for drilled armies and balanced sheets. Its proclivity for such things has to do presumably with its innate insecurity, but this realization, again, is of small comfort when Evil triumphs.
Which it does: in so many parts of the world and inside ourselves. Given its volume and intensity, given, especially, the fatigue of those who oppose it, Evil today may be regarded not as an ethical category but as a physical phenomenon no longer measured in particles but mapped geographically. Therefore the reason I am talking to you about all this has nothing to do with your being young, fresh, and facing a clean slate. No, the slate is dark with dirt and it’s hard to believe in either your ability or your will to clean it. The purpose of my talk is simply to suggest to you a mode of resistance which may come in handy to you one day; a mode that may help you to emerge from the encounter with Evil perhaps less soiled if not necessarily more triumphant than your precursors. What I have in mind, of course, is the famous business of turning the other cheek.
I assume that one way or another you have heard about the interpretations of this verse from the Sermon on the Mount by Leo Tolstoy, Mahatma Gandhi, Martin Luther King, and many others. In other words, I assume that you are familiar with the concept of nonviolent, or passive, resistance, whose main principle is returning good for evil, that is, not responding in kind. The fact that the world today is what it is suggests, to say the least, that this concept is far from being cherished universally. The reasons for its unpopularity are twofold. First, what is required for this concept to be put into effect is a margin of democracy. This is precisely what 86 percent of the globe lacks. Second, the common sense that tells a victim that his only gain in turning the other cheek and not responding in kind yields, at best, a moral victory, i.e., quite immaterial. The natural reluctance to expose yet another part of your body to a blow is justified by a suspicion that this sort of conduct only agitates and enhances Evil; that moral victory can be mistaken by the adversary for his impunity.
There are other, graver reasons to be suspicious. If the first blow hasn’t knocked all the wits out of the victim’s head, he may realize that turning the other cheek amounts to manipulation of the offender’s sense of guilt, not to speak of his karma. The moral victory itself may not be so moral after all, not only because suffering often has a narcissistic aspect to it, but also because it renders the victim superior, that is, better than his enemy. Yet no matter how evil your enemy is, the crucial thing is that he is human; and although incapable of loving another like ourselves, we nonetheless know that evil takes root when one man starts to think that he is better than another. (This is why you’ve been hit on your right cheek in the first place.) At best, therefore, what one can get from turning the other cheek to one’s enemy is the satisfaction of alerting the latter to the futility of his action. “Look,” the other cheek says, “what you are hitting is just flesh. It’s not me. You can’t crush my soul.” The trouble, of course, with this kind of attitude is that the enemy may just accept the challenge.
Twenty years ago the following scene took place in one of the numerous prison yards of northern Russia. At seven o’clock in the morning the door of a cell was flung open and on its threshold stood a prison guard who addressed its inmates: “Citizens! The collective of this prison’s guards challenges you, the inmates, to socialist competition in cutting the lumber amassed in our yard.” In those parts there is no central heating, and the local police, in a manner of speaking, tax all the nearby lumber companies for one tenth of their produce. By the time I am describing, the prison yard looked like a veritable lumber yard: the piles were two to three stories high, dwarfing the onestoried quadrangle of the prison itself. The need for cutting was evident, although socialist competitions of this sort had happened before. “And what if I refuse to take part in this?” inquired one of the inmates. “Well, in that case no meals for you,” replied the guard.
Then axes were issued to inmates, and the cutting started. Both prisoners and guards worked in earnest, and by noon all of them, especially the always underfed prisoners, were exhausted. A break was announced and people sat down to eat: except the fellow who asked the question. He kept swinging his axe. Both prisoners and guards exchanged jokes about him, something about Jews being normally regarded as smart people whereas this man…and so forth. After the break they resumed the work, although in a somewhat more flagging manner. By four o’clock the guards quit, since for them it was the end of their shift; a bit later the inmates stopped too. The man’s axe still kept swinging. Several times he was urged to stop, by both parties, but he paid no attention. It seemed as though he had acquired a certain rhythm he was unwilling to break; or was it a rhythm that possessed him?
To the others, he looked like an automaton. By five o’clock, by six o’clock, the axe was still going up and down. Both guards and inmates were now watching him keenly, and the sardonic expression on their faces gradually gave way first to one of bewilderment and then to one of terror. By seven-thirty the man stopped, staggered into his cell, and fell asleep. For the rest of his stay in that prison, no call for socialist competition between guards and inmates was issued again, although the wood kept piling up.
I suppose the fellow could do this—twelve hours of straight cutting—because at the time he was quite young. In fact, he was then twenty-four. Only a little older than you are. However, I think there could have been another reason for his behavior that day. It’s quite possible that the young man—precisely because he was young—remembered the text of the Sermon on the Mount better than Tolstoy and Gandhi did. Because the Son of Man was in the habit of speaking in triads, the young man could have recalled that the relevant verse doesn’t stop at
but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also
but continues without either period or comma:
And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thycloak also.And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.
Quoted in full, these verses have in fact very little to do with nonviolent or passive resistance, with the principles of not responding in kind and returning good for evil. The meaning of these lines is anything but passive for it suggests that evil can be made absurd through excess; it suggests rendering evil absurd through dwarfing its demands with the volume of your compliance, which devalues the harm. This sort of thing puts a victim into a very active position, into the position of a mental aggressor. The victory that is possible here is not a moral but an existential one. The other cheek here sets in motion not the enemy’s sense of guilt (which he is perfectly capable of quelling) but exposes his senses and faculties to the meaninglessness of the whole enterprise: the way every form of mass production does.
Let me remind you that we are not talking here about a situation involving a fair fight. We are talking about situations where one finds oneself in a hopelessly inferior position from the very outset, where one has no chance of fighting back, where the odds are overwhelmingly against one. In other words, we are talking about the very dark hours in one’s life, when one’s sense of moral superiority over the enemy offers no solace, when this enemy is too far gone to be shamed or made nostalgic for abandoned scruples, when one has at one’s disposal only one’s face, coat, cloak, and a pair of feet that are still capable of walking a mile or two.
In this situation there is very little room for tactical maneuver. So turning the other cheek should be your conscious, cold, deliberate decision. Your chances of winning, however dismal they are, all depend on whether or not you know what you are doing. Thrusting forward your face with the cheek toward the enemy, you should know that this is just the beginning of your ordeal as well as that of the verse—and you should be able to see yourself through the entire sequence, through all three verses from the Sermon on the Mount. Otherwise, a line taken out of context will leave you crippled.
To base ethics on a faultily quoted verse is to invite doom, or else to end up becoming a mental bourgeois enjoying the ultimate comfort: that of his convictions. In either case (of which the latter with its membership in well-intentioned movements and nonprofit organizations is the least palatable) it results in yielding ground to Evil, in delaying the comprehension of its weaknesses. For Evil, may I remind you, is only human.
Ethics based on this faultily quoted verse have changed nothing in post-Gandhi India, save the color of its administration. From a hungry man’s point of view, though, it’s all the same who makes him hungry. I submit that he may even prefer a white man to be responsible for his sorry state if only because this way social evil may appear to come from elsewhere and may perhaps be less efficient than the suffering at the hand of his own kind. With an alien in charge, there is still room for hope, for fantasy.
Similarly in post-Tolstoy Russia, ethics based on this misquoted verse undermined a great deal of the nation’s resolve in confronting the police state. What has followed is known all too well: six decades of turning the other cheek transformed the face of the nation into one big bruise, so that the state today, weary of its violence, simply spits at that face. As well as at the face of the world. In other words, if you want to secularize Christianity, if you want to translate Christ’s teachings into political terms, you need something more than modern political mumbo-jumbo: you need to have the original—in your mind at least if it hasn’t found room in your heart. Since He was less a good man than divine spirit, it’s fatal to harp on His goodness at the expense of His metaphysics.
I must admit that I feel somewhat uneasy talking about these things: because turning or not turning that other cheek is, after all, an extremely intimate affair. The encounter always occurs on a one-to-one basis. It’s always your skin, your coat and cloak, and it is your limbs that will have to do the walking. To advise, let alone to urge, anyone about the use of these properties is, if not entirely wrong, indecent. All I aspire to do here is to erase from your minds a cliché that harmed so many and yielded so little. I also would like to instill in you the idea that as long as you have your skin, coat, cloak, and limbs, you are not yet defeated, whatever the odds are.
There is, however, a greater reason for one to feel uneasy about discussing these matters in public; and it’s not only your own natural reluctance to regard your young selves as potential victims. No, it’s rather mere sobriety, which makes one anticipate among you potential villains as well, and it is a bad strategy to divulge the secrets of resistance in front of the potential enemy. What perhaps relieves one from a charge of treason or, worse still, of projecting the tactical status quo into the future, is the hope that the victim will always be more inventive, more original in his thinking, more enterprising than the villain. Hence the chance that the victim may triumph.
The Resurrection of Joseph Brodsky
December 1, 2015 | by Linda Kinstler
Mikhail Baryshnikov’s new “anti-ballet.”
At the New Riga Theatre, before a recent performance of Mikhail Baryshnikov’s new one-man show, Brodsky / Baryshnikov, women combed their hair and adjusted their furs in the yellow lobby’s mirror-paneled walls. Some had camped out overnight for tickets when they first went on sale in September; seats sold out almost immediately and promptly began circulating on the black market for many hundreds of euros. Wealthy Russians jetted in from Moscow and Saint Petersburg for the event—the director Alvis Hermanis and Baryshnikov are both persona non-grata in Russia, so the entirely Russian-language performance will not stop in Russia during its upcoming international tour.
The well-heeled crowd greeted one another with “Ciao, ciao” before slipping into their native tongues, the theater a burble of Latvian, Russian, English, and French. They were all there to see the return of “their” prodigal son, but the performance they witnessed was something more akin to the return of the prodigal son as old man. Mikhail Baryshnikov is, after all, sixty-seven years old. He is no longer a prodigy, but emeritus.
“Those who expect the typical Baryshnikov pirouettes and splits … are likely to be disappointed,” Latvian critic Undine Adamaite wrote in Diena, a Latvian daily.
Indeed, Brodsky / Baryshnikov, which begins its international tour in Tel Aviv this winter before debuting in New York, in spring 2016, is far closer to theater than ballet, a meditation, in part, on aging and death. “It's anti-ballet, it's anti-choreography,” Hermanis said. “What Misha does with the body … it’s just like spontaneous electricity.” Hermanis and Baryshnikov did not hire a choreographer for the performance, which relies on improvisation. “These things are not fixed—each evening they’re slightly different … It’s not the possibility of dance, but the impossibility of dance.” There’s even a script, a departure from the ballets of Baryshnikov’s youth. This one is composed entirely of the poetry of Joseph Brodsky, Baryshnikov’s good friend, who died in 1996. The two could be said to star together inBrodsky / Baryshnikov, even if only one man enters the theater.
The audience took a collective breath when Baryshnikov first appeared on stage. He looks not the athlete he once was but a gaunt, bedraggled traveler, suitcase in hand, seated on a wooden bench below the broken fuse of a dilapidated Art Deco apartment with large, dusty window panes. He doesn’t speak. He makes the audience wait, Jim Wilson’s operatic “God’s Chorus of Crickets” playing in the background. Baryshnikov opens his suitcase, pulls out an alarm clock, some poetry books, and a bottle of Jameson (Brodsky’s favorite). He picks up a book, starts flipping through, whispering to himself, as if trying to pick one to read aloud. He finds one, and takes a swig.
Brodsky couldn’t remember the first time he met Baryshnikov. “We had a few rather close friends in common in Leningrad,” he said in conversation with Solomon Volkov at his apartment on Morton Street in the late seventies. Baryshnikov was also a close friend of Brodsky’s daughter, a fellow dancer; he even drove her home from a Leningrad hospital after she gave birth. But the two men only met many years later, in New York, after Baryshnikov defected from the USSR in 1974.
For Baryshnikov, the memory of their first meeting is all too clear: one evening in 1974, the composer Mstislav Rostropovich organized a party in New York in honor of the visiting Soviet writer Alexander Galich, and took the recently defected Baryshnikov, then in his midtwenties, along. Brodsky was there. “He was sitting, smoking, very red, very handsome. He looked at me, smiled, and said, Mikhail, take a seat, we have a lot to talk about,” Baryshnikov recalled in a Russian-language interview with a Riga magazine in October. “He gave me a cigarette, my hands were trembling … For me, he was a legend.”
After dinner, the two men went on a long walk through the West Village, found a Greek restaurant open late to continue their conversation. They exchanged numbers. Soon, they were talking nearly every day. Brodsky gave Baryshnikov reading assignments, introduced him to his friends—Czeslaw Milosz, Stephen Spender, Susan Sontag. “He kind of put me on my feet,” Baryshnikov recalled. “That was my university.”
Brodsky dedicated several of his poems to Baryshnikov, who carries his friend’s work with him, and resurrects their dialogue on stage. Hermanis, who began developing the idea for the production fifteen years ago, described it to Latvian public media as a “spiritist séance.” He and Hermanis were both born in Riga, and it wasn’t by accident that they chose that city for the debut run of what Baryshnikov has called “the most private and important work I’ve done in my life.”
“Riga is becoming like a Hong Kong for Russian culture,” Hermanis said. Over the past few years, several prominent Russian journalists and artists have emmigrated to the Baltic country to escape state censorship at home. There’s always a stir when Baryshnikov comes to town—the Latvian press laps up the “prodigal-son motif, the return-home motif, the ancestral-roots motif,” as Joan Acocella put it in her 1998 account of Baryshnikov’s first trip back to his hometown since his defection. Back then, Baryshnikov didn’t harbor any affection for the city. (“The minute I stepped again on Latvian land, I realized this was never my home. My heart didn’t even skip one beat,” he told Acocella, describing his Russian parents as “occupiers.”) In the intervening years, something seems to have changed. This summer, his personal art collection was exhibited as part of the cultural program of Latvia’s presidency of the European Union, and Baryshnikov described himself as a “Russian Latvian” in a recent interview with a Riga magazine.
“You returned home—so what? / Look around, to whom are you still needed? / Who are your friends now?” the bedraggled Baryshnikov reads in Russian at the start of the performance, hunched over on a wooden bench. “How good, as you hurry home, to realize your words are not truthful, and how hard it is for the soul to change.” He flips through a book of Brodsky poems, whispering, and looks up at the audience. Baryshnikov reads on, sometimes rocking back in forth, as if in prayer, gaze toward the ceiling. On the bench across from him, a radio begins playing a recording of Brodsky reciting: “There’s someone wandering the ruins, shuffling the leaves. Or maybe the wind has come back like a prodigal son, and all its letters were delivered at once.”
There’s dancing, yes, but only in the sense that Baryshnikov displays his talent for “pure body metaphysics,” as Brodsky told Volkov he so admired. Baryshnikov embodies his friend’s poems; his hands shake as they did on the day they met. And once more, Brodsky gets Baryshnikov back on his feet. He stands up, hand fluttering, “spinning like a shaman in the room,” as he convenes the séance, Brodsky’s words booming through the theater. At about thirty minutes into the show, Baryshnikov is no longer content to channel his old friend. As he recites Brodsky’s poem “May 24, 1980” —his fortieth birthday; “Life has been long, and sorrowful—but until I die, I’ll be nothing but grateful for it”—the radio on the opposite bench starts to play. Brodsky’s voice fills the theater, overtaking that of Baryshnikov. It’s a somber reunion.
“Greetings to my old age!” Baryshnikov recites. He takes off his jacket, rolls up his pants, unbuttons his vest, revealing a chest and arms and legs that do not look like the youthful body he had when he left Riga as a teenage prodigy. “My breath stinks and my joints creak; we’re not yet talking about my shroud, but the future pallbearers are at the door.” After investigating his reflection in the set’s glass windows as the poem plays on, Baryshnikov begins perhaps the most elegant zombie dance ever performed, his hands stiffly stretched, knees bent, eyes rolling.
“Life—is the sum of tiny movements,” he reads toward the end of the performance. Laughing, Baryshnikov breaks the script. “Oh, da.” And just before he takes leave of the stage, he pauses to address the audience. “One last poem. 1957. Written when Joseph was seventeen years old,” Baryshnikov says. “Farewell, and don’t judge me too harshly. Burn my letters, like a bridge … Be strong and fight. I’m happy for those who may travel along the way with you.”
The audience gave him a standing ovation, but the chattering ladies who had arrived so full of glee were quiet. A grave silence rolled over them as they filed out of their seats.
Linda Kinstler is a Marshall Scholar at the University of Cambridge.