策蘭詩選 德漢對照 台北:傾向 2011
2009/2/17
Celan之「死亡賦格一 保爾 策蘭 專輯」當代(177) 吳建廣 , 台北, 2002, May,
策蘭傳
【內容簡介】中文世界唯一的策蘭生平及詩作研究傳記。
近十年來，詩人保羅‧策蘭的詩作和生平成為世界文學中最為注目的焦點。本書由貝嶺從不同語種的策蘭傳記中選定，由德文中譯。
保羅‧策蘭（Paul Celan），二戰之後最重要的德語詩人。原名保羅‧安策爾（Paul Antschel）， 1920年生於布科維納的切爾諾維茨（今屬烏克蘭）一個德語猶太裔家庭，自幼即有極高的語言與文學賦才。1942年，其父母相繼於納粹集中營中被害身亡。1944年，策蘭僅攜帶《德法辭典》與《英德辭典》走上流亡之途，經布加勒斯特、維也納，最後在巴黎棲居了二十年，。1952年，策蘭因〈死亡賦格〉一詩在德國引起震撼。他一生著譯並豐，有九百餘首詩作與七部詩集出版。1970年，他自沉於巴黎塞納河。
【作者簡介】沃夫岡‧埃梅里希（Wolfgang Emmerich）1941年生於德國薩克森州（Sachsen）西部的開姆尼茨（Chemnitz），1978年起任德國不萊梅大學（Universität Bremen）近代文學與
(書名：勘誤表－審視後的生命
作者：喬治‧史坦納
譯者：李根芳
台北：行人 出版 2007 / 08
這本書的譯注還是缺近百來個待補
有的多注言不及義 譬如說 George Orwell 關於英文語文的著作 才是作者要談的
我還懷疑她對某詩人(策蘭.....)名字翻譯多名稱......)
詩人北島這本文集《時間的玫瑰》，小有名氣，
北島《時間的玫瑰》香港：牛津大學出版社，2005
北島《時間的玫瑰》（或：《北島隨筆：時間的玫瑰》 ）北京：中國文史出版社，2005
本書曾在 上海《收穫 》雜誌以《世紀之鏈》專欄發表【網路可讀部分】— 我猜，所謂《世紀之鏈》意思是北島認為 20世紀 詩歌輝煌，尤其以上半世紀為最。所謂「《世紀之鏈》」
案：「北島隨筆」說法，容易令人誤解，因為這本書是北島之「
北島在本書談些詩人生平與時代，也談他的詩人圈際遇，
關於「策蘭：是石頭要開花的時候了」可參考 Martin Heidegger: Between Good and Evil by Rudiger Safranski, N Person - Trans. E. Osers. Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 1998 之翻譯本：呂迪格爾.薩弗蘭斯基 著『海德格爾傳— 來自德國的大師』靳希平譯，北京: 商務印書館， 1999。中文本也許多缺點，不過直接翻譯德文本。注意副標題，
書中九位西方文學大師 ： 洛爾加 （Lorca ）、 里爾克 （Rilke ）、 策蘭（ Celan） 、 帕斯捷爾納克（ Pasternak）、特拉克爾（Trakel） 等等 ， answers.com等都有簡介。譬如說，曼德爾思塔姆：
一句話，本書值得一讀。去年2008又有全集之翻譯
*****
紐約時報資料庫不少可參考
A LOVE AFFAIR WITH SILENCE
LAST POEMS By Paul Celan. Translated by Katharine Washburn and Margret Guillemin. 212 pp. San Francisco: North Point Press. $20. COLLECTED PROSE By Paul Celan. Translated by Rosmarie Waldrop. 67 pp. New York: P.N. Review/Carcanet. $14.95.
IT was the peculiar genius of Paul Celan to be able to strip language of its normal socioeconomic occasions without cutting the lines that lead language to the heart. For all the celebrated difficulty of Celan's poems - dense constellations of morphemes, word elements packed like molecules - they are hard only when you try to think about them. At first touch (what William Carlos Williams called, in a noble phrase, the poem's ''intention to impress'') Celan's poems come to us from a warm sense of life, of paying attention and taking care.
It is unlikely that any translator could match the subtlety of Paul Celan's stock of words; a few words recur again and again, at times with severely different ranges of association. We can ask the translator to be conscious of Celan's own lexicon, his idiolect, and make us aware of it. The translators of these two volumes are generous with their understanding, and guide us through the sensuous intricacy of Celan's vocabulary.
It is the delight and torment of the translator to try to develop structures that will accommodate the deft hallucinations of Celan's assemblages. Celan's ability to touch us and penetrate to the core of language, where it continually arises to guide, cajole, mislead and console us, produces a poetry of immense expressiveness. The notorious clenched hieroglyphic abstruseness of Celan's poetry is not so much a product of poetic theory as an irreducible consequence of his way of attending to the world. He disparages a certain sense of artifice, saying in a 1960 piece from ''Collected Prose'': ''There are exercises - in the spiritual sense. . . . And then there are, at every lyrical street corner, experiments that muck around with the so-called word-material. Poems are also gifts, gifts to the attentive.'' Celan is famous above all as the poet of exile, for whom exile was not only linear displacement or geographic event, but a multidimensional domain from which he could never free himself. Born in Rumania (in 1920), speaking Rumanian and Yiddish, he came to be the greatest German poet of midcentury, while all the years of his celebrity were spent living in Paris. Fleeing war and concentration camp, the permanent anguish of the Holocaust, Celan turned to language with an immensely lyrical skepticism; the speech he gave when he was awarded the Bremen Prize for German literature is often quoted: ''Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss. But it had to go through its own lack of answers, through terrifying silence, through the thousand darknesses of murderous speech. It went through.''
He died an exile's death in 1970 - abandoning the element of our common lives, he committed suicide by drowning himself in the Seine. That death by water (we remember Virginia Woolf and Hart Crane and John Berryman) makes us recall anew his odd remark in ''Backlight,'' translated in ''Collected Prose'': '' 'All things are aflowing': this thought included - and does that not bring everything to a halt?''
The three books Celan left unfinished at his death have been collected in ''Last Poems,'' a handsome bilingual edition, translated by Katharine Washburn and Margret Guillemin. They are ''Force of Light,'' ''Snow-Part'' and ''Farmstead of Time.'' Ms. Washburn's sensitive, informative introduction, written with a grace that readies us to read the poems, is dotted with typographical errors, which have the strange effect of increasing the alertness of the already wary reader. Is this a deliberate tactic?
Anyone fortunate enough to read German will have fun praising and deploring any translator's solutions. Ms. Washburn and Ms. Guillemin are by no means fond of the obvious. And where an impromptu translation might follow pretty much the word order of the original, it is their tendency (a translator's right) to prefer more complicated patterns. Sometimes this produces unnecessary, perhaps unintentional ambiguity. Thus one poem begins literally: The escaped gray parrots say Mass in your mouth. Ms. Washburn and Ms. Guillemin enlarge: Having escaped the gray parrots recite Mass in your mouth.
Now ''recite'' seems to become an imperative addressed to someone who has just escaped from suddenly menacing parrots. My point here is that there is much to be said for keeping faithful whenever possible to the order in which ideas and their words occurred to the author. Such adherence helps to reveal the mind of the poet as it articulates the world. At the same time, the Washburn-Guillemin impulse toward complexity is part of the very sensibility that makes them such good translators of Celan.
So there will be quarrels with some versions, but they will be family quarrels, nuances among friends. In general, these two translators do a satisfying job of making strong English poems. There are pieces in the book that will read their way right into the anthologies. Gone into the night, complicit, a star- porous leaf for a mouth: something remains for wild wasting, treeward. These are poems from the culmination of Celan's career; a measure of hope and even a joyous, imperiled playfulness return. To say Celan is the most important German poet since Rilke is not to maroon him off on Comp Lit Island. His greatness reaches into English and American poetry, leaving its mark on our poetry; it's hard to think of any contemporary foreign poet who has cast such a spell on our sense of what a poem is.
A fitting and most useful companion to any reading of Celan's verse is his ''Collected Prose.'' The slimness of the book tells its own story of Celan's love affair with silence. It is one of the wellsprings of his work, and of his influence. Silence is a dominant issue in modern poetics - silence as elision of speech (Celan, Anne-Marie Albiach, the American ''Language'' school), or silence as a strategy of music (Robert Creeley, the Black Mountain poets, John Cage). The addresses and responses that make up this volume are translated by the poet Rosmarie Waldrop, whose German is native. Her English (now her working language) has an idiomatic adroitness that catches the pauses and suspensions in Celan's breath - his prose often seems breathed rather than thought into place. WHEREAS Ms. Washburn's introduction guides us to the man, persuasively arguing autobiographical readings of Celan's poetic imagery, Mrs. Waldrop directs us to a sense of a more reserved, hidden-hearted poet, tormented by questions he asks in the hope of being delivered (O hope of Jews and Christians) from this perishable self to some enduring Other. It is a fresh way of seeing Celan, I think, and while I'm not so convinced of it as I'd like to be, there is evidence in ''The Meridian,'' the longest yet most tentative of Celan's theoretical writings, presented here in an effective translation.
The collection includes the haunting prose dialogue ''Conversation in the Mountains,'' which appears as well in ''Last Poems'' - two translations are none too many for this important extravaganza of language, inventing characters who turn out to be memorably real. Celan's ''Conversation,'' for all its appeal (like ''The Meridian'') to the work and example of Georg Buchner, will remind us of the dialogic form that his hated and loved Martin Heidegger restored to modern philosophy; it bears here on the inextricable knot of Jewishness and the word. We recall that the dialectic is rooted not only in the Platonic dialogue but in the Mishna.
In our time, poets have taken up philosophieren -doing (not studying) philosophy. Celan is the loftiest of them, surely, teaching poetry to fashion awareness out of ''words which seem,'' he says in ''The Meridian,'' ''something that listens, not without fear, for something beyond itself, beyond words.''
****
EXCERPT
Selected Poems and Prose of Paul Celan
Translated by JOHN FELSTINER
W. W. Norton
TODESFUGE
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken sie abends
wir trinken sie mittags und morgens wir trinken sic nachts
wir trinken und trinken
wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften da liegt man nicht eng
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar
Margarete
er schreibt es und tritt vor das Haus und es blitzen die Sterne er pfeift
seine Rüden herbei
er pfeift seine Juden hervor lässt schaufeln ein Grab in der Erde
er befiehlt uns spielt auf nun zum Tanz
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich morgens und mittags wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
Ein Mann wohnt im Haus der spielt mit den Schlangen der schreibt
der schreibt wenn es dunkelt nach Deutschland dein goldenes Haar
Margarete
Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith wir schaufeln ein Grab in den Lüften
da liegt man nicht eng
Er ruft stecht tiefer ins Erdreich ihr einen ihr andern singet und spielt
er greift nach dem Eisen im Gurt er schwingts seine Augen sind blau
stecht tiefer die Spaten ihr einen ihr andern spielt weiter zum Tanz auf
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags und morgens wir trinken dich abends
wir trinken und trinken
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith er spielt mit den Schlangen
* * *
Er ruft spielt süsser den Tod der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
er ruft streicht dunkler die Geigen dann steigt ihr als Rauch in die Luft
dann habt ihr ein Grab in den Wolken da liegt man nicht eng
Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau
er trifft dich mit bleierner Kugel er trifft dich genau
ein Mann wohnt im Haus dein goldenes Haar Margarete
er hetzt seine Rüden auf uns er schenkt uns ein Grab in der Luft
er spielt mit den Schlangen und träumet der Tod ist ein Meister aus
Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith
DEATHFUGUE
Black milk of daybreak we drink it at evening
we drink it at midday and morning we drink it at night
we drink and we drink
we shovel a grave in the air where you won't lie too cramped
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair
Margareta
he writes it and steps out of doors and the stars are all sparkling he
whistles his hounds to stay close
he whistles his Jews into rows has them shovel a grave in the ground
he commands us play up for the dance
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at morning and midday we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
A man lives in the house he plays with his vipers he writes
he writes when it grows dark to Deutschland your golden hair
Margareta
Your ashen hair Shulamith we shovel a grave in the air
where you won't lie too cramped
He shouts dig this earth deeper you lot there you others sing up and play
he grabs for the rod in his belt he swings it his eyes are so blue
stick your spades deeper you lot there you others play on for the dancing
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday and morning we drink you at evening
we drink and we drink
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margareta
your aschenes Haar Shulamith he plays with his vipers
* * *
He shouts play death more sweetly this Death is a master from
Deutschland
he shouts scrape your strings darker you'll rise up as smoke to the sky
you'll then have a grave in the clouds where you won't lie too cramped
Black milk of daybreak we drink you at night
we drink you at midday Death is a master aus Deutschland
we drink you at evening and morning we drink and we drink
this Death is ein Meister aus Deutschland his eye it is blue
he shoots you with shot made of lead shoots you level and true
a man lives in the house your goldenes Haar Margarete
he looses his hounds on us grants us a grave in the air
he plays with his vipers and daydreams der Tod ist ein Meister aus
Deutschland
dein goldenes Haar Margarete
dein aschenes Haar Sulamith
MIT WECHSELNDEM SCHLUSSEL
Mit wechselndem Schlüssel
schliesst du das Haus auf, darin
der Schnee des Verschwiegenen treibt.
Je nach dem Blut, das dir quillt
aus Aug oder Mund oder Ohr,
wechselt dein Schlüssel.
Wechselt dein Schlüssel, wechselt das Wort,
das treiben darf mit den Flocken.
Je nach dem Wind, der dich fortstösst,
ballt um das Wort sich der Schnee.
WITH A CHANGING KEY
With a changing key
you unlock the house where
the snow of what's silenced drifts.
Just like the blood that bursts from
your eye or mouth or ear,
so your key changes.
Changing your key changes the word
that may drift with the flakes.
Just like the wind that rebuffs you,
packed round your word is the snow.
ZÜRICH, ZUM STORCHEN
Vom Zuviel war die Rede, vom
Zuwenig. Von Du
und Aber-Du, von
der Trübung durch Helles, von
Jüdischem, von
deinem Gott.
Da-
von.
Am Tag einer Himmelfahrt, das
Münster stand drüben, es kam
mit einigem Gold übers Wasser.
Von deinem Gott war die Rede, ich sprach
gegen ihn, ich
liess das Herz, das ich hatte,
hoffen:
auf
sein höchstes, umröcheltes, sein
haderndes Wort —
Dein Aug sah mir zu, sah hinweg,
dein Mund
sprach sich dem Aug zu, ich hörte:
Wir
wissen ja nicht, weisst du,
wir
wissen ja nicht,
was
gilt.
ZURICH, AT THE STORK
Our talk was of Too Much, of
Too Little. Of Thou
and Yet-Thou, of
clouding through brightness, of
Jewishness, of
your God.
Of
that.
On the day of an ascension, the
Minster stood over there, it came
with some gold across the water.
Our talk was of your God, I spoke
against him, I let the heart
I had
hope:
for
his highest, death-rattled, his
wrangling word —
Your eye looked at me, looked away,
your mouth
spoke toward the eye, I heard:
We
really don't know, you know,
we
really don't know
what
counts.
PSALM
Niemand knetet uns wieder aus Erde und Lehm,
niemand bespricht unsern Staub.
Niemand.
Gelobt seist du, Niemand.
Dir zulieb wollen
wir blühn.
Dir
entgegen.
Ein Nichts
waren wir, sind wir, werden
wir bleiben, blühend:
die Nichts-, die
Niemandsrose.
Mit
dem Griffel seelenhell,
dem Staubfaden himmelswüst,
der Krone rot
vom Purpurwort, das wir sangen
über, o über
dem Dorn.
PSALM
No one kneads us again out of earth and clay,
no one incants our dust.
No one.
Blessed art thou, No One.
In thy sight would
we bloom.
In thy
spite.
A Nothing
we were, are now, and ever
shall be, blooming:
the Nothing-, the
No-One's-Rose.
With
our pistil soul-bright,
our stamen heaven-waste,
our corona red
from the purpleword we sang
over, O over
the thorn.
WO?
In den Lockermassen der Nacht.
Im Gramgeröll und-geschiebe,
im langsamsten Aufruhr,
im Weisheitsschacht Nie.
Wassernadeln
nähn den geborstenen
Schatten zusammen — er kämpft sich
tiefer hinunter,
frei.
WHERE?
At night in crumbling rockmass.
In trouble's rubble and scree,
in slowest tumult,
the wisdom-pit named Never.
Water needles
stitch up the split
shadow — it fights its way
deeper down,
free.
(C) 2001 John Felstiner All rights reserved. ISBN: 0-393-04999-X
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