非诚勿扰2015年全集:雪莱《论爱》（双语）

雪莱《论爱》（双语）

(2011-09-06 15:14:27) 标签：

文学

雪莱

杂谈

分类： 英文大讲堂    

     什么是爱？要回答这个问题，让我们先问那些活着的人，什么是生活？问那些虔诚的教徒，什么是上帝？

     我不知其他人的内心结构，也不知你们——我正与之讲话的你们的内心；我看到在有些外在属性上，别人同我相象；或于这种形似，当我诉诸某些应当共通的情感并向他们吐露灵魂深处的心声时，我发现我的话语遭到了误解，仿佛它是一个遥远而野蛮的国度的语言。人们给我体验的机会越多，我们之间的距离越远，理解与同情也就愈离我而去。带着无法承受这种现实的情绪，在温柔的颤栗和虚弱中，我在海角天涯寻觅知音，而得到的却只是憎恨与失望。

     你垂询什么是爱吗？当我们在自身思想的幽谷中发现一片虚空，从而在天地万物中呼唤、寻求与身内之物的通感对应之时，受到我们所感、所惧、所企望的事物的那种情不自禁的、强有力的吸引，就是爱。倘使我们推理，我们总希望能够被人理解；倘若我们遐想，我们总希望自己头脑中逍遥自在的孩童会在别人的头脑里获得新生；倘若我们感受，那末，我们祈求他人的神经能和着我们的一起共振，他人的目光和我们的交融，他人的眼睛和我们的一样炯炯有神；我们祈愿漠然麻木的冰唇不要对另一颗心的火热、颤抖的唇讥诮嘲讽、这就是爱，这就是那不仅联结了人与人而且联接了人与万物的神圣的契约和债券。我们降临世间．我们的内心深处存在着某种东西，自我们存在那一刻起，就渴求着与它相似的东西。也许这与婴儿吮吸母亲乳房的奶汁这一规律相一致。这种与生俱来的倾向随着天性的发展而发展。在思维能力的本性中，我们隐隐绰绰地看到的仿佛是完整自我的……个缩影，它丧失了我们所蔑视、嫌厌的成分，而成为尽善尽美的人性的理想典范。它不仅是一帧外在肖像，更是构成我们天性的最精细微小的粒子组合。它是一面只映射出纯洁和明亮的形态的镜子；它是在其灵魂固有的乐园外勾画出一个为痛苦、悲哀和邪恶所无法逾越的圆圈的灵魂。这一精魂同渴求与之相像或对应的知觉相关联。当我们在大干世界中寻觅到了灵魂的对应物，在天地万物中发现了可以无误地评估我们自身的知音(它能准确地、敏感地捕捉我们所珍惜、并怀着喜悦悄悄展露的一切)，那末，我们与对应物就好比两架精美的竖琴上的琴弦，在一个快乐的声音的伴奏下发出音响，这音响与我们自身神经组织的震颤相共振。这就是爱所要达到的无形的、不可企及的目标。正是它，驱使人的力量去捕捉其淡淡的影子；没有它，为爱所驾驭的心灵就永远不会安宁，永远不会歇息。因此，在孤独中，或处在一群毫不理解我们的人群中(这时，我们仿佛遭到遗弃)，我们会热爱花朵、小草、河流以及天空。就在蓝天下，在春天的树叶的颤动中，我们找到了秘密的心灵的回应：无语的风中有一种雄辩；流淌的溪水和河边瑟瑟的苇叶声中，有一首歌谣。它们与我们灵魂之间神秘的感应，唤醒了我们心中的精灵去跳一场酣畅淋漓的狂喜之舞，并使神秘的、温柔的泪盈满我的眼睛，又如心爱的人为你独自歌唱之音。因此，斯泰恩说，假如他在沙漠，他会爱上柏树枝的。爱的需求或力量一旦死去，人就成为一个活着的墓穴，苟延残喘的只是一副躯壳。



WHAT is Love? Ask him who lives, what is life; ask him who adores, what is God?

I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even thine, whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes they resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have thought to appeal to something in common, and unburthen my inmost soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill fitted to sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness, I have everywhere sought sympathy, and have found only repulse and disappointment.

Thou demandest what is Love. It is that powerful attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to awaken in all things that are, a community with what we experience within ourselves. If we reason, we would be understood; if we imagine, we would that the airy children of our brain were born anew within another's; if we feel, we would that another's nerves should vibrate to our own, that the beams of their eyes should kindle at once and mix and melt into our own; that lips of motionless ice should not reply to lips quivering and burning with the heart's best blood. This is Love. This is the bond and the sanction which connects not only man with man, but with every thing which exists. We are born into the world, and there is something within us which, from the instant that we live, more and more thirsts after its likeness. It is probably in correspondence with this law that the infant drains milk from the bosom of its mother; this propensity developes itself with the developement of our nature. We dimly see within our intellectual nature a miniature as it were of our entire self, yet deprived of all that we condemn or despise, the ideal prototype of every thing excellent and lovely that we are capable of conceiving as belonging to the nature of man. Not only the portrait of our external being, but an assemblage of the minutest particles of which our nature is composed;* a mirror whose surface reflects only the forms of purity and brightness; a soul within our own soul that describes a circle around its proper Paradise, which pain and sorrow and evil dare not overleap. To this we eagerly refer all sensations, thirsting that they should resemble or correspond with it. The discovery of its antitype; the meeting with an understanding capable of clearly estimating our own; an imagination which should enter into and seize upon the subtle and delicate peculiarities which we have delighted to cherish and unfold in secret; with a frame whose nerves, like the chords of two exquisite lyres, strung to the accompaniment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibrations of our own; and of a combination of all these in such proportion as the type within demands; this is the invisible and unattainable point to which Love tends; and to attain which, it urges forth the powers of man to arrest the faintest shadow of that, without the possession of which there is no rest nor respite to the heart over which it rules. Hence in solitude, or in that deserted state when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, the grass, the waters, and the sky. In the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in the flowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them, which by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and bring tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone. Sterne says that if he were in a desert he would love some cypress. So soon as this want or power is dead, man becomes the living sepulchre of himself, and what yet survives is the mere husk of what once he was.