本帖最后由 ヮ成熟、羙° 于 2013-9-20 20:30 编辑
生命不堪承受之轻
荷叶/译
如果永久的回归是最沉重的负担，那我们的生命以其华美的轻松而引人注目。但沉重真的那样糟，轻松真得那样好吗？沉重的负担压垮了我们，我们在重负下沉沦，它把我们压在地上。因此，生命的重负就是一生中最想实现的愿望。负担越重，生命越真实坦诚。
相反，重负的完全缺失会导致一个人比空气还轻，飞上云宵，离开地球，脱离肉体，变得半真半幻，来去自由，无足轻重。
那我们该选择什么呢，是沉重还是轻松？
多年来我一直在思考托马斯的事，只有在这种考虑下，我才把他看明白。我看见他站在自己公寓的窗前，看着院子对面的墙壁，不知该怎么做。
三周前，在捷克的一个小镇上，他第一次遇到特丽莎，在一起呆了不足一小时，她陪他去车站，等着他上了火车。十天后，她来看他。他们在一起了。当天晚上她感冒发烧，在他的公寓里住了整整一周。他对这个几乎完全陌生的人产生了不可思议的爱。她就像是一个孩子，被人装进篮子，放进码头，一路颠簸，随波逐流，来到了河岸，也就是托马斯的床上。
他跪在她旁边。因为发烧她呼吸急促，发出微弱的呻吟。他的脸紧挨着她的脸轻声安慰她，直到入睡。他突然认为他俩在一起很多年了，她就要死去。他突然清醒地意识到他救不了她。他想躺在她旁边陪她一起死。他把自己的脸嵌入枕头，挨着她的头，很久很久。
现在他站在窗前，思考着刚才的一幕。如果爱情没有自我表白会是什么样子？那是爱情吗？想陪她去死当然是夸张了，在此之前他只见过她一次。这是不是只是一个男人的歇斯底里呢？他意识到自己内心深处没有爱的天赋却自我欺骗冒充一下呢？他的潜意识如此懦弱以致于他为这一小小喜剧选择的最佳玩伴竟然是一个一生无缘进入他的生活，来自外省的一个悲惨的女招待。
他在生自己的气，直到他意识到无所适从其实很正常。我们永远也不会知道该做什么，因为生命只有一次，既不能和过去的生活比对，也不能使未来更加完美。
没法测试哪个决定更好，因为没有比较的标准。我们顺其自然地生活，没有预警，正如一个演员没有排练就上场一样。如果第一次排练就是生活本身，那生活的价值是什么呢？
“Einmal ist keinmal”托马斯自言自语，正如一句德国格言所说的，只发生过一次的事情有可能根本没有发生过。如果我们只有一次生命，很可能我们根本没有活过。
附：原文
If eternal return is the heaviest of burdens, then our lives can stand out against it in all their splendid lightness. But, is heaviness truly deplorable and lightness splendid? The heaviest of burdens crushes us. We sink beneath it. It pins us to the ground. The heaviest of burdens is, therefore, simultaneously an image of life’s most intense fulfillment. The heavier the burden, the closer our lives come to the earth; the more real and truthful they become. Conversely, the absolute absence of a burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into the heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant. What then shall we choose; weight or lightness? I have been thinking about Tomas for many years. But only in the light of these reflections did I see him clearly. I saw him standing at the window of his flat and looking across the courtyard at the opposite walls, not knowing what to do. He had first met Tereza about three weeks earlier in a small Czech town. They had spent scarcely an hour together. She had accompanied him to the station and waited with him until he boarded the train. Ten days later she paid him a visit. They made love the day she arrived. That night she came down with a fever and stayed a whole week in his flat with the flu. He had come to feel an inexplicable love for this all but complete stranger. She seemed a child to him, a child someone had put in a bulrush basket docked with pitch and sent downstream for Tomas to fetch under the riverbank of his bed. He knelt down next to her. Her feverous breath quickened and she gave out a weak moan. He pressed his face to hers and whispered calming words into her sleep. And all at once he fancied she had been with him for many years and was dying. He had a sudden clear feeling that he would not survive her death. He would lie down beside her and want to die with her. He pressed his face into the pillow beside her head and kept it there for a long time. Now he was standing at the window trying to call that moment to account. What could it have been if not love declaring itself to him? But was it love? The feeling of wanting to die beside her was clearly exaggerated; he had seen her only once before in his life. Was it simply the hysteria of a man who, aware deep down of his inaptitude for love, felt the self-deluding need to simulate it? His unconscious was so cowardly that the best partner he could choose for his little comedy were this miserable provincial waitress with practically no chance at all to enter his life. He remained annoyed with himself until he realized that not knowing what he really wanted was actually quite natural. We can never know what to want because, living only one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives nor perfect it in our lives to come. There is no means of testing which decision is better because there is no basis for comparison. We live everything as it comes, without warning, like an actor going on cold. And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life is life itself? “Einmal ist keinmal”, says Tomas to himself. What happens but once, says the German adage, might as well not have happened at all. If we have only one life to live, we might as well not have lived at all. | 
发表于 2013-9-20 13:39:36
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发表于 2013-9-23 23:14:50
