07 毛姆

《总结》

作者:  [英] W. Somerset Maugham
出版社: 译林出版社
副标题: 毛姆写作生活回忆
译者: 孙戈
出版年: 2012-7

2016-08-21 13:39:33


本书既非自传,亦非回忆录。我已经通过各种方式,将生命历程中发生的种种写入我的作品。有时一段经历可做主题,我就虚构一系列的事件来表现这个主题;更为常见的是,我会把浅交或近友作为自己作品中人物塑造的原型。在我的书里,事实和虚构相互交织以至于现在回过头去看,我很难将二者区分开来。即使能记起那些事实,我也没有兴趣把他们记录下来,因为我已经将它们派作更好的用途了。(1)

他们无法经艺术加工后还显得真实。而普通人才是作家更为肥沃的土壤。他们的出人意料、独一无二和变化无穷,都是取之不尽的素材。伟人通常是始终如一的,而小人物则是各种对立矛盾的集合体。(6)

我讨厌以自己的身份表达自己的想法,…,但我是以一个小说家的身份从事创作的,因此在某种意义上我能够将自己视为故事中的一个角色。(7)

清晰、简洁、悦耳。

我想作者最好就是具有比读者更强的厌倦机能,这样就能在读者之前体察到厌倦了。(41)

人们应当用属于其所处时期的方式进行写作。语言是生动且变化着的;努力像身处遥远过去的作家们那样写作,只能导致不自然。

我情愿一个作家很世俗,也不希望他矫揉造作;因为生活就是世俗的,作家追求的就是生活。

只有通过不断接触与自己所处相去不远的年代的作品,人们才能做到这一点。这样人们才能形成一种标准,用以检验自己的文风,也才能形成一个理想模型,让他们以现代方式可以朝其努力。(44)

大多数人过着受变幻莫测的命运所掌控的随遇而安的生活。很多人受迫于其出生的境遇和生活的必需而保持一条笔直且狭窄的生活道路,在这条路上,没有向左转或者向右转的可能。生活的模式就是在这条道路上形成的。生活本身逼迫着他们。…不过艺术家处于一个享受特权的位置。我用“艺术家”这个字眼,并不意味着要衡量他所创作作品的价值,而只是用来指专心于艺术的人。…用“创造者”有些自负,而且要求的独创性似乎很少能够得到确证。“工匠”显得不够。木匠是工匠,尽管他可能算是狭义的艺术家,却没有通常说来最无能的三流文人、最蹩脚的拙劣画师都能自主掌握的行动自由。艺术家能在特定的限度内将自己喜爱的变为自己的生活。在其他行业,比方说医药或法律行业,你可以自由选择要不要这些客户;但一旦你选定了,你就不再自由了。你会受到职业规范的束缚,你身上也会被加上一种行为标准。模式是预定好的 。只有艺术家,或许还有罪犯,才能制定自己的生活模式。(48)

我想,人类最让我印象深刻的地方主要在于他们缺乏一贯性。(55)

幽默教会人容忍;带着微笑——还可能带着叹息——的幽默家,更可能耸耸肩,而不是发出谴责。他不说教,而满足于理解;真的,理解就是同情和宽恕。(65)

当小说家开始揭示发现于自身或他人身上的多样性时,人们就指控他们诋毁了人类。(66)

我将自己置身于每个似乎能提供机会获取自己所向往经验的变迁当中,只要是能到手的书我都读。(71)

在我看来,天才是各种假造性天赋共同造就的,这种天赋还伴随着一种特质,这种特质能使其拥有者从个人角度在制高点观察世界。有了这样的普遍性,他的吸引力不仅指向一类人,而是所有人。他的私人世界就是普通人的私人世界,不过更为丰富,更简洁凝练。他的交流是普世的,尽管人们未必能够确切地指出其指示的内容,但他们能感觉到它很重要。他极度正常。通过愉快的天赋机遇,他用人类普遍采用的健康方式,以似乎处于极高能量状态的巨大活力看待充满无穷多样性的生活。用马修阿诺德的话来说,他稳定而整体地看待生活。(74)

对于艺术家,幻想不像对其他人那样是对现实的逃避,而是他进入现实的方式。(80)

文化的价值在于其对性格的影响。如果它不能使人的品性高贵并且增强其力量,则一无用处。其所用在于人生,其目的不在美而在善。…读一千本书并不比犁过一千片地更有价值。能够正确描述一幅画也不比找出熄火的汽车毛病出在哪里更有功用。每个行业都有专门的知识。股票经纪人也有他的知识,技工也是如此。知识分子愚蠢的偏见在于认为只有他们的知识才是起作用的。真、善、美并非那些上费用昂贵的学校、泡在图书馆或经常出入博物馆的人的特权。艺术家没有借口认为自己高人一等,艺术家如果以为自己的知识比别人的知识更重要,那他就是傻瓜;如果他不能以平等的立场愉快地面对别人,那他就是个笨蛋。(84)

我把书籍放到一边,只是因为意识到时光流逝,而生活才是我的正事。我进入这个世界,因为若要获得写作不可或缺的经验,这是必需的;但我进入这个世界也是因为想获取经验本身。…但这只是种努力,最终我总是回归到书本当中,与自己为伴,如释重负。(87)

作家只有自我更新才能做到多产,而要自我更新,他的灵魂就需要新鲜的体验不断加以丰富;而没有什么比对过去那些伟大文学进行迷人的探险更丰富的源泉了。

因为艺术作品的诞生并非奇迹的结果,它要求事先的准备。土壤想要永远肥沃,必需施肥。艺术家必须通过深思熟虑、辛勤努力,扩大、加深以多样化自己的个性。然后土壤必须休耕。这时的艺术家就像基督的新娘,等待着将带来新的灵命的启示。(92)

艺术,为了艺术的艺术,是这世界上唯一重要的事情;艺术家凭一己之力赋予这荒谬的世界以意义。政治、商业、博学的职业——从绝对的立场看,它们又代表什么呢?(96)

我喜欢生活,也想享受生活。我想从中获取可能得到的一切。一小班文人的欣赏并不能让我满足。我怀疑他们的资质。…我想要的不是这样的观众,而是伟大的公众。而且我很穷,如果能避免的话,我不想住在阁楼里啃面包皮度日。我发现金钱就像第六感,没了它你就没法最好地发挥其他五感。(110)

兴趣导向:作家以此引发人们将自身与特定条件下特定人群的命运联系在一起,并且使你关注着他们,直到问题解决。如果作家让你的思绪游离在主题之外,那他极有可能就再也抓不住你的注意力了。(119)

对于充分发挥一个场景的价值,以及让人物用丰富的表达来展现自我这样的欲望,作者必须加以抑制,暗示就够了,它们会被抓住的。(121)

06 里尔克

《走向绝对:王尔德 里尔克 茨维塔耶娃》

作者: [法] 茨维坦·托多罗夫(Tzvetan Todorov)
出版社: 华东师范大学出版社·六点分社
原作名: Les Aventuriers de l’absolu
译者: 朱静
出版年: 2014-8

2016-08-19 23:44:07


只写你迫切感到需要抒发的东西。…“那么,请你们按照这个必要性来构建你们的生活,你的生活直至最无关紧要的瞬间,最细微的地方都应该成为体现这种需要的标志和见证。”

艺术的目不在于抓住世界的表象,这种表象可能会很漂亮,而是要找到“最深层内在的缘由,找到激起这种表象的、隐匿于深处的原因”。艺术家应该不图名利,不仅仅因为追求名利会让来自外界的回报性的愉悦替代内心的创作需要,而且还因为它导致分心,完全与专心致志相反,专心致志是艺术创作必不可少的出发点。(90)

战争优于和平之处在于美学层面:日常生活乏味平庸,战争揭示出了一些未知的力量——直至此时,唯有战争能庇佑诗歌。(95)

他叮嘱他要孤独。孤独是宏伟壮丽的,如果说它是艰难的话,那是多产的标志。偏好孤独的理由是,一切来自内心的东西是真的。而来自于他人的东西是借用的。“要注意发现你自身冒出的东西,把它置于你在周围所注意到的东西之上。”从我们自己身上产生的东西是唯一与我们的爱相称的东西,不要把时间浪费在“弄明白与人们之间的关系上”。… 彻底孤独的人不再是人,任何深渊都不能真正隔断来自外界和个人在内心发现的东西:内心不是其他,而是某种先前的外界。(99)

孤独的爱情是提升;两人的生活是堕落。…

爱情之伟大在于永无枯竭,无边无际;然而,如果爱情有一个明确的对象,它就已经缩减了。被爱意味着限制了另一个人的爱情;为了能够一直成为爱情的主体,必须不当爱情的对象——爱情不应该成为交互性的。被爱,是消失自我;爱,是延续。“孩子在家里受宠若惊——于是,他就以出走来逃脱这种限制。”得知了真相,“他就计划再不去爱,为了不把任何人置于残忍的被爱的境地。” 几番颠覆起伏之后,他回到家人中间,跪倒在亲人脚下,恳求他们“永远不要去爱”。(102)

固然,孤独对于创作来说必不可少,但是它不足以激发出创作欲。而一种无果的孤独比漫无边际的闲聊更糟糕。(107)

里尔克很明白弃绝社会将是背叛他的计划:“我的艺术难道不是让我深深扎根于人间吗?难道我应该疏远人间,对它一无所知吗?” 这就是压抑着诗人的矛盾性的悲剧苛求:他应该为艺术而贡献生命,然而他是在生活中干艺术的。他既不应该全身心地投入生活也不应该与生活背道而驰;他应该始终向生活敞开,但不要参与进去,里尔克找到的解决办法是保持人性关系而不把它个人化——与其和一个个人对话,他宁可和人性对话,“只要不关系到我,我总会给人一种友好的理解。”(115)

不可能同时既了解生活又会生活,然而对孤独的个人以及整个人类来说,这两件事都是人们所期望的,处登命运之途可能有点举步不定;但是,总有一个时刻,必须在伟大和幸福之间作出抉择,在为人类服务或为亲近的人服务之间做出抉择。无论做出何种选择(选择并不完全取决于主体的意愿),其中总是得悲剧性地抛弃生活中某种本质性成分。(122)

不可能同时满足诸神和人们。然而人们总是不由自主地想要这样做。… 之前里尔克将先尝受到爱情的快乐,而不是共同生活的快乐。(123)

他反对这种内心“清扫”,他怀疑有人要对他施行“某种心灵消毒”。(133)

生活滋养了作品,但是作品却无助于提高生活,这是一种单向的关系。(136)

里尔克不再把诗人的命运看作生命的完成,而是看作献身。由此,创作活动表现得与宗教使命更加相似:不仅因为两者都是通向“绝对”的道路,而且因为他们都同样要求献身。为了神灵来临,艺术家不得不放弃人间烟火,接受它的十字架。(137)

 

05 Duras

Marguerite Duras, “Writing,” in Writing, trans. Mark Polizzotti (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011): 1-45.

 


The solitude of writing is a solitude without which writing could not be pronounced, or would crumble, drained bloodless by the search for something else to write. When it loses its blood, its author stops recognizing it. And first and foremost it must never be dictated to a secretary, however capable she may be, even given to a publisher to read at that stage.

The person who write books must always be enveloped by a separation from others. That is one kind of solitude. It is the solitude of the author, of writing. To begin with, one must ask oneself what the silence surrounding one is—with practically every step one takes in a house, at every moment of the day, in every kind of light, whether light from outside or from lamps lit in daytime. This real, corporeal solitude becomes the inviolable silence of writing. I’ve never spoken of this to anyone. By the time of my first solitude, I had already discovered that what I had to do was write. I’d already gotten confirmation of this from Raymond Queneau. The only judgement Raymond Queneau ever promounced was this sentence: “Do nothing but write.”

Writing was the only thing that populated my life and made it magic. I did it. Writing never left me. (2-3)


An open book is also night.

I don’t know why, but those words I just said bring me to tears.

Write all the same, in spite of despair. No: with despair. I don’t know what to call that despair. Writing to one side of what precedes writing is always to ruin it. And yet we must accept this: ruining the failure means coming back toward another book, toward another possibility of the same book. (18)


I wrote every morning. But without any kind of schedule. Never. Except for cooking. I knew exactly when to come to make something boil or keep something from burning. And for my books I knew it, too. I swear it. I swear all of it. I have never lied in a book. Or even in my life. Except to men. Never. And this is because my mother had terrified me with the lie that killed children who lived.

I think what I blame books for, in general, is that they are not free. One can see it in the writing: they are fabricated, organized; one could say they conform. A function of the revision that the writer often wants to impose on himself. At that moment, the writer becomes his own cop. By being concerned with good form, in other words the most banal form, the clearest and most inoffensive. There are still dead generations that produce prim books. Even young people: charming books, without extension, without darkness. Without silence. In other words, without a true author. Books for daytime, for whiling away the hours, for traveling. But not books that become mourning for all life, the commonplace of every thought.

I don’t know what a book is. No one knows. But we know when there is one. And when there’s nothing, one knows it the way one knows one has not yet died.

Every book, like every writer, has a difficult, unavoidable passage. And one must consciously decide to leave this mistake in the book for it to remain a true book, not a lie. I don’t yet know what happens to solitude after that. I can’t talk about it yet. What I believe is that the solitude becomes banal; eventually it becomes commonplace, and so much the better. (23-24)


We are sick with hope, those of us from ’68. The hope is the one we placed in the role of the proletariat. And as for us, no law, nothing, no one and no thing, will ever cure us of that hope. I’d like to join the Communist Party again. But at the same time I know I shouldn’t. And I’d also like to speak to the Right and insult it with all the force of my rage. Insults are just as strong as writing. It’s a form of writing, but addressed to someone. I insulted people in my articles, which can be every bit as satisfying as writing a beautiful poem. I draw a radical distinction between a man of the Left and a man of the Right. Some would say they’re the same man. On the Left there was Pierre Bérégovoy, who will never be replaced. Bérégovoy number one is Mitterrand, who isn’t like anyone else either. (26-27)

*Translator’s note: Bérégovoy was fiance minister, then prime minister under Mitterrand. He committed suicide in 1993, when Duras was putting the finishing touches to Writing.


Living like that, the way I say I lived, in that solitude, eventually means running certain risks. It’s inevitable. As soon as a human being is left alone, she tips into unreason. I believe this: I believe that a person left to her own devices is already stricken by madness, because nothing keeps her from the sudden emergence of her personal delirium. (27-28)


The problem all year round is dusk. Summer and winter alike.

There is the first dusk, the summer kind, when you mustn’t turn the lights on indoors.

And then there is true dusk, winter dusk. Sometimes we close the shutters just not to see it. There are chairs, too, which we put away for the summer. The porch is where we stay every summer. Where we talk with friends who come during the day. Often just for that, to talk.

It’s sad every time, but not tragic: winter, life, injustice. Absolute horror on a certain morning.    It’s only that: sad. One does not get used to it with time.

All over the world, the end of light means the end of work.

As for myself, I’ve always experienced that time not as the moment when work ends, but when it begins. A sort of reversal of natural values by the writer.

The other kind of work writers do is the kind that sometimes makes them feel  ashamed, the kind that usually provokes the most violent political regrets. I know that it leaves one inconsolable. And that one becomes as vicious as the dogs used by their police. (39-40)


Here, one feels separated from manual labor. But against that, against this feeling one must adapt to, get used to, nothing is effective. What will always predominate—and this can drive us to tears—is the hell and injustice of the working world. The hell of factories, the exaction of the employers’ scorn and injustice, the horror they breed, the horror of the capitalist regime, of all the misery stemming from it, of the right of the wealthy to do as they please with the proletariat and to make this the very basis of their failure, never of their success. The mystery is why the proletariat should accept. But there are many of us, more of us each day, who believe that it can’t last much longer. That something was attained by all of us, perhaps a new reading of their shameful texts. Yes, that’s it. (41)


Deliverance comes when night begins to settle in. When work stops outside. What remains is the luxury we all share, the ability to write about it at night. We can write at any hour of the day. We are not sanctioned by orders, schedules, bosses, weapons, fines, insults, cops, bosses, and bosses. Nor by the brooding hens of tomorrow’s fascisms.

The Vice-Consul’s struggle is at once naive and revolutionary.

That is the major injustice of time, of all times: and if one doesn’t cry about it at least once in life, then one doesn’t cry about anything. And never to cry means not to live.

Crying has to happen, too.

Even if it’s useless to cry, I still think we have to cry. Because despair is tangible. It remains. The memory of despair remains. Sometimes it kills.

It’s the unknown one carries within oneself: writing is what is attained. It’s that or nothing.

One can speak of a writing sickness.

What I’m trying to say isn’t easy, but I believe we can find our way here, comrades of the world. (42-43)


If one had any idea what one was going to write, before doing it, before writing, one would never write. It wouldn’t be worth it anymore.

Writing is trying to know beforehand what one would  write if one wrote, which one never knows until afterward; that is the most dangerous question one could ever ask oneself. But it’s also the most widespread.

Writing comes like the wind. It’s naked, it’s made of ink, it’s the thing written, and it passes like nothing else passes in life, nothing more, except life itself. (44-45)