玻璃随笔（第三部分）
安·卡森/著
昨非/译
桌旁坐着三个沉默的女人。
母亲的厨房又小又暗，可窗外
是荒原，冰雪让它瘫痪，
连绵数里的平坦土地，一直延伸至
坚实、阴郁的白色天边。
母亲和我在小心地咀嚼生菜。
墙上的挂钟发出沙哑的低鸣，
每过一分钟，在十二点那儿跳动一次。
我把《艾米丽·勃朗特文选》支在糖罐上，翻至第216页，
一边儿悄悄观察母亲。
有一千个问题从内部撞击我的双目，
母亲还在琢磨她的莴苣，
我将书翻到第217页。
"当我飞身跑过厨房，撞到了哈利顿，
他正把一窝小狗
挂到门廊的椅背......"
就像我们被放置到玻璃氛围的低处，
不时有某句话从玻璃划过。
后院也要收税。这瓜不好，
现在食用，太早了。
自从镇上的理发师找到上帝，每星期二闭店。
收纳茶巾的抽屉里再次发现老鼠，
到处是它们啃下的纸巾
边角小颗粒。如果老鼠知道
如今的纸巾有多贵，那就好了。
今晚有雨。
明天也有雨。
菲律宾的火山再次喷发。她叫什么名字来着？
过世的是安德森，不是雪莉，
那个歌剧女演员，一个黑人，
死于癌症。
你不吃配菜？也不喜欢甜椒？
窗外，我看见枯叶在地上翻滚，
积雪的残渣被污浊的松针伤害。
在荒原中部，
地面凹陷处，
冰块开裂，
黑水涌出，
如愤怒翻腾。母亲突然问：
那个心理疗法对你不起作用？
你就是不能把他忘掉！
我的母亲总是善于总结。
她从未喜欢过洛。
她只在意我有一个男人，并继续生活。
他只知道攫取，你只会给予，希望这能行得通。
她第一次见到他，就下了这样的结论。
可在当时，攫取和给予对我来说
仅是一些词语，那是我第一次坠入爱情，
就像轮子从山坡滚下。
今天一大早，母亲还在睡觉，
我在楼下读到《呼啸山庄》这一幕，
暴风雨中，希斯克利夫抓住窗棂，大声哭喊：
进来吧，进来吧，对着窗外他深爱的幽灵（凯瑟琳）。
我不禁在地毯上下跪，失声痛哭。
她知道怎样把小狗挂好，
那个艾米丽。
毕竟，这有别于服用阿斯匹林，我弱声答道。
悲伤是一个漫长的过程，霍大夫说。
她皱着眉头：你回忆过去
能有什么好处？
哦——我摊开双手，说——
我取胜了，一边看着她的眼睛。
她笑了：是的，你获胜了。
THREE
excerpt from Glass, Irony and God
by Anne Carson
Three silent women at the kitchen table.
My mother’s kitchen is dark and small but out the window
there is the moor, paralyzed with ice.
It extends as far as the eye can see
over flat miles to a solid unlit white sky.
Mother and I are chewing lettuce carefully.
The kitchen wall clock emits a ragged low buzz that jumps
once a minute over the twelve.
I have Emily p. 216 propped open on the sugarbowl
but am covertly watching my mother.
A thousand questions hit my eyes from the inside.
My mother is studying her lettuce.
I turn to p. 217.
“In my flight through the kitchen I knocked over Hareton
who was hanging a litter of puppies
from a chairback in the doorway. . . .”
It is as if we have all been lowered into an atmosphere of glass.
Now and then a remark trails through the glass.
Taxes on the back lot. Not a good melon,
too early for melons.
Hairdresser in town found God, closes shop every Tuesday.
Mice in the teatowel drawer again.
Little pellets. Chew off
the corners of the napkins, if they knew
what paper napkins cost nowadays.
Rain tonight.
Rain tomorrow.
That volcano in the Philippines at it again. What’s her name
Anderson died no not Shirley
the opera singer. Negress.
Cancer.
Not eating your garnish, you don’t like pimento?
Out the window I can see dead leaves ticking over the flatland
and dregs of snow scarred by pine filth.
At the middle of the moor
where the ground goes down into a depression,
the ice has begun to unclench.
Black open water comes
curdling up like anger. My mother speaks suddenly.
That psychotherapy’s not doing you much good is it?
You aren’t getting over him.
My mother has a way of summing things up.
She never liked Law much
but she liked the idea of me having a man and getting on with life.
Well he’s a taker and you’re a giver I hope it works out,
was all she said after she met him.
Give and take were just words to me
at the time. I had not been in love before.
It was like a wheel rolling downhill.
But early this morning while mother slept
and I was downstairs reading the part in Wuthering Heights
where Heathcliff clings at the lattice in the storm sobbing
Come in! Come in! to the ghost of his heart’s darling,
I fell on my knees on the rug and sobbed too.
She knows how to hang puppies,
that Emily.
It isn’t like taking an aspirin you know, I answer feebly.
Dr. Haw says grief is a long process.
She frowns. What does it accomplish
all that raking up the past?
Oh—I spread my hands—
I prevail! I look her in the eye.
She grins. Yes you do.
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