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《渡鸦》夹注 "The Raven" annotated for Chinese readers
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（在以下的英文介绍词，我试试效法《渡鸦》的节奏与押韵，说我参加个关于翻译与通感等的华人周末演讲 (宣布、回顾)，他们播放《渡鸦》时我感觉汉语翻译很温柔而有竖琴，但我觉得温柔不适合《渡鸦》，原本有渡鸦的ɔr、ɔr、ɔr声音，主角儿以为是英文nevermore(‘绝不再’的意思)而想象那个渡鸦回答他的深心问题‘绝不再’，这几乎使主角儿疯了，背景是寒冷的冬天而有暴风雨，诗人多次使我们想起风的声音和渡鸦的声音。那演讲的问答汉语太快我不懂，那时想起《渡鸦》的原本而希望自己不疯了因为我试试找方法让他们了解原本粗糙声音的重要性。要是不喜欢读我的介绍词，可以跳到《渡鸦》开始。）
(Once upon a weekend gently
sitting in a classroom empty,
Saw Sinitic souls aplenty
enter through the metal door;
’Twas a lecture on translation,
multisens'ry stimulation,
Then there came a Poe quotation
which I thought should sound so sore;
But the learned word collector---ravens on the lab projector---
Played a soothing voice like nectar
with a harpist out before!
As the Q&A proceeded
swifter than what could be heeded
With my meagre mind impeded
by its lack of Eastern lore;
I recalled that midnight dreary,
when the hero, weak and weary,
Tossed by tempest winds, was nearly
maddened by the raven's caw;
Was I mad myself already,
fearing for my thoughts unsteady---
After all, would it be heady
to let them hear the “Nevermore”?
The translators had had to miss it;
the readers hadn't known to guess it:
’Twas no lullaby---far from it---harpists aren't what this is for!
Don't they see the rhythmic structure
intertwined with dread and rupture
Saturated through to capture
tempest's howl and raven's caw?
And so I sat there, half-fixated---can it even be translated?---
Can I help them grasp the weighted
`Quoth the raven, “Nevermore”'?)
(Well perhaps I can show it.)
The Raven (Edgar Allan Poe 爱伦·坡 1845年)
Once
upon
a
midnight
dreary,
while
I
pondered,
weak
and
weary,
Over
many
a
quaint
and
curious
volume
of
forgotten
lore,
While
I
nodded,
nearly
napping,
suddenly
there
came
a
tapping,
As
of
someone
gently
rapping,
rapping
at
my
chamber
door.
“'Tis
some
visitor,”
I
muttered,
“tapping
at
my
chamber
door—
Only
this,
and
nothing
more.”
Ah,
distinctly
I
remember
it
was
in
the
bleak
December,
And
each
separate
dying
ember
wrought
its
ghost
upon
the
floor.
Eagerly
I
wished
the
morrow;
vainly
I
had
tried
to
borrow
From
my
books
surcease
of
sorrow—sorrow
for
the
lost
Lenore—
For
the
rare
and
radiant
maiden
whom
the
angels
name
Lenore—
Nameless
here
for
evermore.
And
the
silken
sad
uncertain
rustling
of
each
purple
curtain
Thrilled
me—filled
me
with
fantastic
terrors
never
felt
before;
So
that
now,
to
still
the
beating
of
my
heart,
I
stood
repeating
“'Tis
some
visitor
entreating
entrance
at
my
chamber
door—
Some
late
visitor
entreating
entrance
at
my
chamber
door;
This
it
is,
and
nothing
more.”
Presently
my
soul
grew
stronger;
hesitating
then
no
longer,
“Sir,”
said
I,
“or
Madam,
truly
your
forgiveness
I
implore;
But
the
fact
is
I
was
napping,
and
so
gently
you
came
rapping,
And
so
faintly
you
came
tapping,
tapping
at
my
chamber
door,
That
I
scarce
was
sure
I
heard
you”—here
I
opened
wide
the
door—
Darkness
there,
and
nothing
more.
Deep
into
that
darkness
peering,
long
I
stood
there
wondering,
fearing,
Doubting,
dreaming
dreams
no
mortal
ever
dared
to
dream
before;
But
the
silence
was
unbroken,
and
the
darkness
gave
no
token,
And
the
only
word
there
spoken
was
the
whispered
word,
“Lenore!”
This
I
whispered,
and
an
echo
murmured
back
the
word,
“Lenore!”
Merely
this,
and
nothing
more.
Then
into
the
chamber
turning,
all
my
soul
within
me
burning,
Soon
I
heard
again
a
tapping
somewhat
louder
than
before.
“Surely,”
said
I,
“surely
that
is
something
at
my
window
lattice;
Let
me
see,
then,
what
thereat
is,
and
this
mystery
explore—
Let
my
heart
be
still
a
moment
and
this
mystery
explore;
’Tis
the
wind,
and
nothing
more!”
Open
here
I
flung
the
shutter,
when,
with
many
a
flirt
and
flutter,
In
there
stepped
a
stately
raven
of
the
saintly
days
of
yore;
Not
the
least
obeisance
made
he;
not
an
instant
stopped
or
stayed
he;
But,
with
mien
of
lord
or
lady,
perched
above
my
chamber
door—
Perched
upon
a
bust
of
Pallas
just
above
my
chamber
door—
Perched,
and
sat,
and
nothing
more.
Then
this
ebony
bird
beguiling
my
sad
fancy
into
smiling,
By
the
grave
and
stern
decorum
of
the
countenance
it
wore,
“Though
thy
crest
be
shorn
and
shaven,
thou,”
I
said,
“art
sure
no
craven,
Ghastly
grim
and
ancient
raven
wandering
from
the
Nightly
shore —
Tell
me
what
thy
lordly
name
is
on
the
Night's
Plutonian
shore!”
Quoth
the
raven,
“Nevermore.”
Much
I
marvelled
this
ungainly
fowl
to
hear
discourse
so
plainly,
Though
its
answer
little
meaning—little
relevancy
bore;
For
we
cannot
help
agreeing
that
no
sublunary
being
Ever
yet
was
blessed
with
seeing
bird
above
his
chamber
door—
Bird
or
beast
upon
the
sculptured
bust
above
his
chamber
door,
With
such
name
as
“Nevermore.”
But
the
raven,
sitting
lonely
on
the
placid
bust,
spoke
only
That
one
word,
as
if
his
soul
in
that
one
word
he
did
outpour.
Nothing
farther
then
he
uttered—not
a
feather
then
he
fluttered—
Till
I
scarcely
more
than
muttered,
“Other
friends
have
flown
before—
On
the
morrow
he
will
leave
me,
as
my
hopes
have
flown
before.”
Quoth
the
raven,
“Nevermore.”
Wondering
at
the
stillness
broken
by
reply
so
aptly
spoken,
“Doubtless,”
said
I,
“what
it
utters
is
its
only
stock
and
store,
Caught
from
some
unhappy
master
whom
unmerciful
Disaster
Followed
fast
and
followed
faster—so,
when
Hope
he
would
adjure,
Stern
Despair
returned,
instead
of
the
sweet
Hope
he
dared
adjure —
That
sad
answer,
“Nevermore!”
But
the
raven
still
beguiling
all
my
sad
soul
into
smiling,
Straight
I
wheeled
a
cushioned
seat
in
front
of
bird,
and
bust,
and
door;
Then
upon
the
velvet
sinking,
I
betook
myself
to
linking
Fancy
unto
fancy,
thinking
what
this
ominous
bird
of
yore—
What
this
grim,
ungainly,
ghastly,
gaunt,
and
ominous
bird
of
yore
Meant
in
croaking
“Nevermore.”
This
I
sat
engaged
in
guessing,
but
no
syllable
expressing
To
the
fowl
whose
fiery
eyes
now
burned
into
my
bosom's
core;
This
and
more
I
sat
divining,
with
my
head
at
ease
reclining
On
the
cushion's
velvet
lining
that
the
lamplight
gloated
o'er,
But
whose
velvet
violet
lining
with
the
lamplight
gloating
o'er,
She
shall
press,
ah,
nevermore!
Then,
methought,
the
air
grew
denser,
perfumed
from
an
unseen
censer
Swung
by
angels
whose
faint
foot-falls
tinkled
on
the
tufted
floor.
“Wretch,”
I
cried,
“thy
God
hath
lent
thee—by
these
angels
he
hath
sent
thee
Respite—respite
and
Nepenthe
from
thy
memories
of
Lenore!
Let
me
quaff
this
kind
Nepenthe
and
forget
this
lost
Lenore!”
Quoth
the
raven,
“Nevermore.”
“Prophet!”
said
I,
“thing
of
evil!—prophet
still,
if
bird
or
devil!—
Whether
Tempter
sent,
or
whether
tempest
tossed
thee
here
ashore,
Desolate,
yet
all
undaunted,
on
this
desert
land
enchanted—
On
this
home
by
Horror
haunted—tell
me
truly,
I
implore—
Is
there—is
there
balm
in
Gilead?—tell
me—tell
me,
I
implore!”
Quoth
the
raven,
“Nevermore.”
“Prophet!”
said
I,
“thing
of
evil!—prophet
still,
if
bird
or
devil!—
By
that
Heaven
that
bends
above
us—by
that
God
we
both
adore—
Tell
this
soul
with
sorrow
laden
if,
within
the
distant
Aidenn,
It
shall
clasp
a
sainted
maiden
whom
the
angels
name
Lenore—
Clasp
a
rare
and
radiant
maiden
whom
the
angels
name
Lenore.”
Quoth
the
raven,
“Nevermore.”
“Be
that
word
our
sign
of
parting,
bird
or
fiend!”
I
shrieked,
upstarting—
“Get
thee
back
into
the
tempest
and
the
Night's
Plutonian
shore!
Leave
no
black
plume
as
a
token
of
that
lie
thy
soul
hath
spoken!
Leave
my
loneliness
unbroken!—
quit
the
bust
above
my
door!
Take
thy
beak
from
out
my
heart,
and
take
thy
form
from
off
my
door!”
Quoth
the
raven,
“Nevermore.”
And
the
raven,
never
flitting,
still
is
sitting,
still
is
sitting
On
the
pallid
bust
of
Pallas
just
above
my
chamber
door;
And
his
eyes
have
all
the
seeming
of
a
demon
that
is
dreaming,
And
the
lamplight
o'er
him
streaming
throws
his
shadow
on
the
floor;
[所以灯也在门的上面或左上右上面，可能天花板比较高]
And
my
soul
from
out
that
shadow
that
lies
floating
on
the
floor
Shall
be
lifted—nevermore!
If a bird enters your house,
do not go mad trying to talk to it.
Open a window wide, suppress other light sources, and use a sheet or towel to encourage it out. Don't touch it, even with the towel (you could injure it).
飞鸟要是进来你的家，不要试试与它谈话做疯。张大窗口，阻止飞鸟看其他光源，而使用床单或毛巾鼓励它飞走。不要摸它，连毛巾也不摸（这会伤害它）。
All material © Silas S. Brown unless otherwise stated.