-

匆

匆

朱自清

[ 1]

燕子去了，有再来的时候；杨柳枯了，有再青的时候；桃花谢了，有再开的时候。但 是，

聪明的，你告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？

——

是有人偷了他们罢：那是谁？又藏在

何处呢？是他们自己逃走了 罢：现在又到了那里呢？

[2]

我不 知道他们给了我多少日子；但我的手确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着，八千多日

子已经 从我手中溜去；像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在时间的流里，没有声音，也没

有影子。我不禁头涔涔而泪潸潸了。

[3]

< br>去的尽管去了，来的尽管来着；去来的中间，又怎样地匆匆呢？早上我起来的时候

,

小屋

里射进两三方斜斜的太阳。太阳他有脚啊，轻轻悄悄地挪 移了；我也茫茫然跟着旋转。于是

——

洗手的时候，日子从水盆 里过去；吃饭的时候，日子从饭碗里过去；默默时，便从凝然的双眼前

过去。我觉察他去 的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽时，他又从遮挽着的手边过去，天黑时，我躺在床上，

他便伶伶俐 俐地从我身上跨过，从我脚边飞去了。等我睁开眼和太阳再见，这算又溜走了一日。

我掩 着面叹息。但是新来的日子的影儿又开始在叹息里闪过了。

[ 4]

在逃去如飞的日子里，在千门万户的世界里的我能做些什么呢？只有徘徊罢了，只有 匆

匆罢了；在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢？过去的日子如轻烟，被微风 吹散了，

如薄雾，被初阳蒸融了；我留着些什么痕迹呢？我何曾留着像游丝样的痕迹呢？ 我赤裸裸来到这

世界，转眼间也将赤裸裸的回去罢？但不能平的，为什么偏要白白走这一 遭啊？

[5]

你聪明的，告诉我，我 们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？

（写于

1922

年

3

月

18

日）

朱自清《踪迹》

，

1924

：

68- 70

上海：亚东图书馆

【译文一】

Haste

[1] The swallows may go, but they will return another day; the willows may wither, but they will turn

green again; the peach blossoms may fade and fall, but they will bloom again. Y

ou who are wiser than I,

tell me, then: why is it that the days, once gone, never again return? Are they stolen by someone? Then, by

whom? And where are they hidden? Or do they run away by themselves? Then, where are they now?

[2] I do not know how many days I

’

ve been given, yet slowly but surely my supply is diminishing.

Counting silently to myself, I can see that more than 8,000 of them have already slipped through my

fingers, each like a drop of water on the head of a pin, falling into the ocean. My days are disappearing

into the stream of time, noiselessly and without a trace; uncontrollably, my sweat and tears stream down.

[3] What

’

s gone is gone, and what is coming cannot be halted. From what is gone to what is yet to

come, why must it pass so quickly? In the morning when I get up there are two or three rays of sunlight

slanting into my small room. The sun, does it have feet? Stealthily it moves along, as I too, unknowingly,

follow its progress. Then as I wash up the day passes through my washbasin, and at breakfast through my

rice bowl. When I am standing still and quiet my eyes carefully follow its progress past me. I can sense

that it is hurrying along, and when I stretch out my hands to cover and hold it, it soon emerges from under

my hands and moves along. At night, as I lie on my bed, agilely it strides across my body and flies past

my feet. And when I open my eyes to greet the sun again, another day has slipped by. I bury my face in

1

my hands and heave a sigh. But the shadow of the new day begins darting by, even in the midst of my

sighing.

[4] During these fleeting days what can I, only one among so many, accomplish? Nothing more than

to pace irresolutely, nothing more than to hurry along. In these more than 8,000 days of hurrying what

have I to show but some irresolute wanderings? The days that are gone are like smoke that has been

dissipated by a breeze, like thin mists that have been burned off under the onslaught of the morning sun.

What mark will I leave behind? Will the trace I leave behind be so much as a gossamer thread? Naked I

came into this world, and in a twinkling still naked I will leave it. But what I cannot accept is: why should

I make this journey in vain?

[5] Y

ou who are wiser than I, please tell me why it is that once gone, our days never return.

(

481 words

)

(Translated by

Howard Goldblatt

. Lau & Goldblatt,

1995

: 625-626)

(Translated

by

Howard

Goldblatt

.

Joseph

S.

M.

Lau

&

Howard

Goldblatt

(eds.).

The

Columbia

Anthology of Modern Chinese Literature

. New Y

ork: Columbia University Press, 1995: 625-626)

【译者简介】

Howard Goldblatt

, Research Professor of Chinese at the University of Notre Dame, USA., has taught modern

Chinese literature and culture for more than a quarter of a century. He obtained his BA from Long Beach State College in

1961, MA from San Francisco State University in 1971, and PhD from Indiana University in 1974. As the foremost translator

of modern and contemporary Chinese literature in the West, he has published English translations of over 40 volumes of

Chinese fiction in translation to his name, including

Mo Y

an’s

Red Sorghum,

as well as several memoirs and a volume of

poetry in translation. Goldblatt was awarded the Translation Center Robert Payne A

ward (1985) and

“Translation of the Y

ear”

(1999) given by the American Translators Association. He is also the founder and editor of the scholarly journal

Modern

Chinese Literature

, and has contributed essays and articles to

The W

ashington Post

,

The Times

of London,

TIME Magazine

,

W

orld Literature T

oday

, and

The Los Angeles Times

.

【译文二】

Transient Days

[1] If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn green again. If

peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why should our days go by never

to return? Perhaps they have been stolen by someone. But who could it be and where could he hide them?

Perhaps they have just run away by themselves. But where could they be at the present moment?

[2]

I don’t know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of them is und

oubtedly

wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8,000 days have already slipped away through

my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping

into the stream of time without leaving a trace. At the thought of this, sweat oozes from my forehead and

tears trickle down my cheeks.

[3] What is gone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the transition in between! When

I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or three squarish patches of light into my small room.

The sun has feet too, edging away softly and stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in its

revolution. Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands; vanishes in the rice bowl

when I have my meal; passes away quietly before the fixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie.

2

A

ware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my outstretched hands. In the

evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body and flits past my feet. By the time when I

open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day is already gone. I heave a sigh, my head buried in my

hands. But, in the midst of my sighs, a new day is flashing past.

[4] Living in this world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but waver and

wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8,000 fleeting days except wavering

and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps of smoke, have been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like

thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, not even

gossamer-like traces. I have come to this world stark naked, and in the twinkling of an eye, I am to go

back as stark naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass

through this world for nothing at all?

[5] O you the wise, would you tell me please: why should our days go by never to return?

(

475 words

)

（张培基译

,1999:75-77)

（

张培基译，

《英译中国现代散文选（汉、英对照）