《異鄉人》/《局外人》（L'Étranger）； The Myth of Sisyphus By Albert Camus and A. Gide .Looking for The Stranger: Albert Camus and the Life of a Literary Classic By Alice Kaplan
叛教者的信仰
〈蕩婦〉（The Adulterous Woman）
〈叛教者〉（The Renegade）
〈工作中的畫家〉（The Artist At Work）
〈生長中的石頭〉（The Growing Stone）
〈沉默的人們〉（The Silent Men）
〈客人〉（The Guest）
六篇，其中〈叛教者〉一篇可說是本書中最佳，同時也是最晦澀費解的。
作者以虛無思想和理性的衝突為主題，不斷沉溺在死亡、毁滅等幻想裡，但他的理性卻在尋求事實的真相與真理，從而反斥他的幻想，致使結局有點糢糊不清。
故事是敍述一位傳教士，因着狂熱的宗教意識，不理會教會的勸告，而隻身到泰卡沙的殘酷野蠻民族的鹽城去傳教，意欲尋求殉教者的精神。起先他是充滿信心的：
我要使那些折磨別人的人承認我，使他們跪在地上膜拜
，使他們說：「啊，主啊，這就是你的勝利。
然而，當他到了那裡，他吃盡了苦頭，給泰卡沙人磨折得死去活來，甚至連舌頭也給割掉，被迫做了守物神廟宇的奴隸。
經過這許多冒犯和困苦，他仍未能使泰卡沙人信仰他的宗教，於是他對自己的神產生了懷疑，終於歸依了拜物教，崇拜了那以暴戾、冷酷、憎恨和兇殘為主的物神。
他說：「……我向他祈禱，我信仰他，摒棄我以前的信仰。萬歲！他是權力和力量……萬歲！他是主人，唯一的主宰……唯有惡的統治沒有缺陷……我要信仰我的主人所崇奉的宗教，不錯，我是一個奴隸。但是，如果我也變成獰惡，那麼雖然我的腳上鎖着腳鐐，嘴裡没有舌頭，我也不再是個奴隸……」
於是，傳教士變了叛教者，我們把他起先時的狂熱宗教意識與後來受到暴力而改變的思想一比較，就可以發現，原來人是如此善變的。後來泰卡沙人卻接受了官方的䢖議，接受了他們派來的另一位傳教士。叛教者聽到這個消息，非常恐懼，擔心泰卡沙人對他不利，他決心去殺死那位新來的傳教士。
他從廟宇出來，到路上去守候，但泰卡沙人卻以為他想背叛他們，於是再向他施以酷刑，把他折磨至死，而他卻認為為物神犧牲是值得的。在他臨終時，有一把聲音說：「如果你願意為憎恨和暴力而死，那麼誰將寬恕我們呢？
」叛教者似乎又恢復了他原來的信仰，而發自心底的話便盪迴耳際。
然而最令人費解的卻是文末的一句：「一把鹽堵塞了那個饒舌的奴隸的嘴。」饒舌的奴隸就是那個叛教者，而鹽似乎應該是代表泰卡沙鹽城，亦即是殘酷邪惡的象徵。這裡說的把鹽塞進了他的口，又似乎是說他仍忠於物神的拜物教？
若是以叛教者恢復信仰為終，而我們可以說是善良的勝利；但若以叛教者接受物神為終，則暗示了邪惡的勝利。
卡繆原意如何，一時難以猜透。
――1969年9月刊於《中報周刊》
Looking for The Stranger: Albert Camus and the Life of a Literary Classic By Alice Kaplan
2013.11.3 無意間在網路看到Albert Camus死後約11年才發表的處女小說: A HAPPY DEATH : Wikipedia簡介它是The Stranger or The Outsider, 的原本
http://hcbooks.blogspot.tw/…/stranger-or-outsider-letranger…
“Alice Kaplan . . . has written the life of a book, its birth. . . . A renewed journey to rediscover The Stranger.”
2013.11.3 無意間在網路看到Albert Camus死後約11年才發表的處女小說: A HAPPY DEATH : Wikipedia簡介它是The Stranger or The Outsider, 的原本
http://hcbooks.blogspot.tw/…/stranger-or-outsider-letranger…
“Alice Kaplan . . . has written the life of a book, its birth. . . . A renewed journey to rediscover The Stranger.”
Kamel Daoud, Le Point
Albert Camus and the Life of a Literary Classic
Alice Kaplan
https://www.press.uchicago.edu/pressReleases/2018/April/1803kaplanprs0.html
*****
此粉絲團每天都有不同的照片和摘要，真可參考。我尤其喜歡這張：Google的翻譯：
"Life continues and I, some mornings, tired of the noise, discouraged before the endless work to continue, sick of this madness of the world also who assails you to get up in the newspaper, sure finally that I will not suffice and that I will disappoint everyone, I just want to sit down and wait for the evening to come in. I have this desire, and sometimes I give in ".
---- Albert Camus, Carnets III (1951-1959)
"La vie continue et moi, certains matins, lassé du bruit, découragé devant l'œuvre interminable à poursuivre, malade de cette folie du monde aussi qui vous assaille au lever dans le journal, sûr enfin que je ne suffirai pas et que je décevrai tout le monde, je n'ai que l'envie de m'asseoir et d'attendre que le soir arrive. J'ai cette envie, et j’y cède parfois".
---- Albert Camus, Carnets III (1951-1959)
The Stranger [ 1946 ] a novel by Albert Camus (V-2, a Vintage Book ...
台灣《異鄉人》的翻譯版本可能超過5~10本。
絕對忠實於自己的感受，乃至打破社會定義的人性，不遵從道德，體制，宗教，是法國著名作家加繆在“局外人”當中刻畫的莫爾索的形象。無論是離經叛道抑或深情於自由，莫爾索這個爭議形象最終死於與現世的“消極對抗”。這是一場由楊婷工作室本年度帶來阿維尼翁戲劇節的作品，由中國名演員趙陽主演。以下視頻是對趙陽的專訪。
我寫這則筆記，已快滿65歲了，對於The Myth of Sisyphus 的體會，雖然欲道還休，當然不比他倆淺。
江山代代有譯才：比較台灣 (1974)、中國 (1987)的【獻詞】第一段，你一定會認為翻譯自兩本書......幸虧台灣 (2017，大塊)的新譯，清楚多了，可惜，太通順了，.....這是不懂法文之悲哀！
由英譯本可知， Albert Camus 行文很樸實，很樂觀。上述兩本中文，對【群魔】中的
Alexei Nilych Kirilov，都沒註解。
紀德1916年10月15日的【日記】中的Sisyphus 則是陰鬱的 (轉引 克洛德 馬丹【紀德】李建森譯，北京：三聯：2002，pp. 138-39)
：
The Myth of Sisyphus Albert Camus
The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to another tradition, however, he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the underworld. To begin with, he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their secrets. Egina, the daughter of Esopus, was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He, who knew of the abduction, offered to tell about it on condition that Esopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld. Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his deserted, silent empire. He dispatched the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of her conqueror.
It is said that Sisyphus, being near to death, rashly wanted to test his wife's love. He ordered her to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the underworld. And there, annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love, he obtained from Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. But when he had seen again the face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. Recalls, signs of anger, warnings were of no avail. Many years more he lived facing the curve of the gulf, the sparkling sea, and the smiles of earth. A decree of the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and, snatching him from his joys, lead him forcibly back to the underworld, where his rock was ready for him.
You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward tlower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Edipus, like Dostoevsky's Kirilov*, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.
One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. "What!---by such narrow ways--?" There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd. Discovery. It happens as well that the felling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.
All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is a thing. Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
*
昨天，令人厭惡的再度墮落使我的身心瀕臨絕望、自殺和瘋狂...... Sisyphus的石頭重新滾落到山腳下，他曾竭盡全力想把石頭推向山頂，石頭卻帶著他一起滾下。石頭輾過他的身體，以它至人死命的重量拖著他，再度把它拋入泥潭。難道他還要重新開始這種可悲的努力，直到生面的結束？
The Myth of Sisyphus By Albert Camus
http://dbanach.com/sisyphus.htm
The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain, whence the stone would fall back of its own weight. They had thought with some reason that there is no more dreadful punishment than futile and hopeless labor.
If one believes Homer, Sisyphus was the wisest and most prudent of mortals. According to another tradition, however, he was disposed to practice the profession of highwayman. I see no contradiction in this. Opinions differ as to the reasons why he became the futile laborer of the underworld. To begin with, he is accused of a certain levity in regard to the gods. He stole their secrets. Egina, the daughter of Esopus, was carried off by Jupiter. The father was shocked by that disappearance and complained to Sisyphus. He, who knew of the abduction, offered to tell about it on condition that Esopus would give water to the citadel of Corinth. To the celestial thunderbolts he preferred the benediction of water. He was punished for this in the underworld. Homer tells us also that Sisyphus had put Death in chains. Pluto could not endure the sight of his deserted, silent empire. He dispatched the god of war, who liberated Death from the hands of her conqueror.
It is said that Sisyphus, being near to death, rashly wanted to test his wife's love. He ordered her to cast his unburied body into the middle of the public square. Sisyphus woke up in the underworld. And there, annoyed by an obedience so contrary to human love, he obtained from Pluto permission to return to earth in order to chastise his wife. But when he had seen again the face of this world, enjoyed water and sun, warm stones and the sea, he no longer wanted to go back to the infernal darkness. Recalls, signs of anger, warnings were of no avail. Many years more he lived facing the curve of the gulf, the sparkling sea, and the smiles of earth. A decree of the gods was necessary. Mercury came and seized the impudent man by the collar and, snatching him from his joys, lead him forcibly back to the underworld, where his rock was ready for him.
You have already grasped that Sisyphus is the absurd hero. He is, as much through his passions as through his torture. His scorn of the gods, his hatred of death, and his passion for life won him that unspeakable penalty in which the whole being is exerted toward accomplishing nothing. This is the price that must be paid for the passions of this earth. Nothing is told us about Sisyphus in the underworld. Myths are made for the imagination to breathe life into them. As for this myth, one sees merely the whole effort of a body straining to raise the huge stone, to roll it, and push it up a slope a hundred times over; one sees the face screwed up, the cheek tight against the stone, the shoulder bracing the clay-covered mass, the foot wedging it, the fresh start with arms outstretched, the wholly human security of two earth-clotted hands. At the very end of his long effort measured by skyless space and time without depth, the purpose is achieved. Then Sisyphus watches the stone rush down in a few moments toward tlower world whence he will have to push it up again toward the summit. He goes back down to the plain.
It is during that return, that pause, that Sisyphus interests me. A face that toils so close to stones is already stone itself! I see that man going back down with a heavy yet measured step toward the torment of which he will never know the end. That hour like a breathing-space which returns as surely as his suffering, that is the hour of consciousness. At each of those moments when he leaves the heights and gradually sinks toward the lairs of the gods, he is superior to his fate. He is stronger than his rock.
If this myth is tragic, that is because its hero is conscious. Where would his torture be, indeed, if at every step the hope of succeeding upheld him? The workman of today works everyday in his life at the same tasks, and his fate is no less absurd. But it is tragic only at the rare moments when it becomes conscious. Sisyphus, proletarian of the gods, powerless and rebellious, knows the whole extent of his wretched condition: it is what he thinks of during his descent. The lucidity that was to constitute his torture at the same time crowns his victory. There is no fate that can not be surmounted by scorn.
If the descent is thus sometimes performed in sorrow, it can also take place in joy. This word is not too much. Again I fancy Sisyphus returning toward his rock, and the sorrow was in the beginning. When the images of earth cling too tightly to memory, when the call of happiness becomes too insistent, it happens that melancholy arises in man's heart: this is the rock's victory, this is the rock itself. The boundless grief is too heavy to bear. These are our nights of Gethsemane. But crushing truths perish from being acknowledged. Thus, Edipus at the outset obeys fate without knowing it. But from the moment he knows, his tragedy begins. Yet at the same moment, blind and desperate, he realizes that the only bond linking him to the world is the cool hand of a girl. Then a tremendous remark rings out: "Despite so many ordeals, my advanced age and the nobility of my soul make me conclude that all is well." Sophocles' Edipus, like Dostoevsky's Kirilov*, thus gives the recipe for the absurd victory. Ancient wisdom confirms modern heroism.
One does not discover the absurd without being tempted to write a manual of happiness. "What!---by such narrow ways--?" There is but one world, however. Happiness and the absurd are two sons of the same earth. They are inseparable. It would be a mistake to say that happiness necessarily springs from the absurd. Discovery. It happens as well that the felling of the absurd springs from happiness. "I conclude that all is well," says Edipus, and that remark is sacred. It echoes in the wild and limited universe of man. It teaches that all is not, has not been, exhausted. It drives out of this world a god who had come into it with dissatisfaction and a preference for futile suffering. It makes of fate a human matter, which must be settled among men.
All Sisyphus' silent joy is contained therein. His fate belongs to him. His rock is a thing. Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to its silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory. There is no sun without shadow, and it is essential to know the night. The absurd man says yes and his efforts will henceforth be unceasing. If there is a personal fate, there is no higher destiny, or at least there is, but one which he concludes is inevitable and despicable. For the rest, he knows himself to be the master of his days. At that subtle moment when man glances backward over his life, Sisyphus returning toward his rock, in that slight pivoting he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under his memory's eye and soon sealed by his death. Thus, convinced of the wholly human origin of all that is human, a blind man eager to see who knows that the night has no end, he is still on the go. The rock is still rolling.
I leave Sisyphus at the foot of the mountain! One always finds one's burden again. But Sisyphus teaches the higher fidelity that negates the gods and raises rocks. He too concludes that all is well. This universe henceforth without a master seems to him neither sterile nor futile. Each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of that night filled mountain, in itself forms a world. The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.
*
沒有留言:
張貼留言