蜗居在巷陌的寻常幸福
2010-11-22 11:07阅读：
汉译英原文
蜗居在巷陌的寻常幸福
隐逸的生活似乎在传统意识中一直被认为是幸福的至高境界。但这种孤傲遁世同时也是孤独的，纯粹的隐者实属少数，而少数者的满足不能用来解读普世的幸福模样。
有道是小隐隐于野，大隐隐于市。真正的幸福并不隐逸，可以在街市而不是丛林中去寻找。
晨光，透过古色古香的雕花窗棂，给庭院里精致的盆景慢慢地化上一抹金黄的淡妆。那煎鸡蛋的“刺啦”声袅袅升起，空气中开始充斥着稚嫩的童音、汽车启动的节奏、夫妻间甜蜜的道别，还有邻居们简单朴素的问好。巷陌中的这一切，忙碌却不混乱，活泼却不嘈杂，平淡却不厌烦。
巷尾的绿地虽然没有山野的苍翠欲滴，但是空气中弥漫着荒野中所没有的生机。微黄的路灯下，每一张长椅都写着不同的心情，甜蜜与快乐、悲伤与喜悦，交织在一起，在静谧中缓缓发酵。谁也不会知道在下一个转角中会是怎样的惊喜，会是一家风格独特食客不断的小吃店？是一家放着爵士乐的酒吧？还是一家摆着高脚木凳、连空气都闲散的小小咖啡馆？坐在户外撑着遮阳伞的木椅上，和新认识的朋友一边喝茶，一边谈着自己小小的生活，或许也是一种惬意。
一切，被时间打磨，被时间沉淀，终于形成了一种习惯，一种默契，一种文化。
和来家中做客的邻居朋友用同一种腔调巧妙地笑谑着身边的琐事，大家眯起的眼睛都默契地闪着同一种狡黠；和家人一起围在饭桌前，衔满食物的嘴还发着含糊的声音，有些聒噪，但没人厌烦。
小巷虽然狭窄，却拉不住快乐蔓延的速度……
随着城市里那些密集而冰冷的高楼大厦拔地而起，在拥堵的车流中，在污浊的空气里，人们的幸福正在一点点地破碎，飘零。大家住得越来越宽敞，越来越私密。自我，也被划进一个单独的空间里，小心地不去触碰别人的心灵，也不容许他人轻易介入。可是，一个人安静下来时会觉得，曾经厌烦的那些嘈杂回想起来很温情很怀念。
比起高楼耸立的曼哈顿，人们更加喜欢佛罗伦萨红色穹顶下被阳光淹没的古老巷道；比起在夜晚光辉璀璨的陆家嘴，人们会更喜欢充满孩子们打闹嬉笑的万航渡路。就算已苍然老去，支撑起梦境的应该是老房子暗灰的安详，吴侬软语的叫卖声，那一方氤氲过温馨和回忆的小弄堂。
如果用一双细腻的眼眸去观照，其实每一片青苔和爬山虎占据的墙角，都是墨绿色的诗篇，不会飘逸，不会豪放，只是那种平淡的幸福，简简单单。
幸福是什么模样，或许并不难回答。幸福就是一本摊开的诗篇，关于在城市的天空下，那些寻常巷陌的诗。
夜幕笼罩，那散落一地的万家灯火中，有多少寻常的幸福正蜗居在巷陌……
译文：
The ordinary
happiness
---The pigeonhole
dwellers
---The lanes and
alleys
The secluded life,
traditionally, seems to be always regarded as the highest state the
happiness can attain. However, the disdainful of the world and
living in seclusion are often along with loneliness. The fact is
that the real recluses are tiny, and the contentment of the small
shall not epitomize the mode of happiness of the
public.
In reality, only a few
recluses are in the wooded mountains while the real others are in
the city lanes. The true happiness, in truth, which is not tucked
away, could scavenge for not in the woods but in the
alleys.
The morning sunlight,
filtering in through the quaint flower-carved window lattice,
gradually tinted the exquisite potted landscape in the yard with
golden hues. With the sizzle of the eggs rising, it began to mingle
in the air with the kids’ tender voices, the rhythms of the
starting engines, the sweet goodbyes between couples, and the
simple and common greetings among neighbors. All these in the lanes
and alleys were just unrolling, busily not chaotically,
boisterously not noisily, ordinarily not
routinely.
For all the green at the
end of the lanes is hard to compare to the full extent of the
vigorously verdant one in the mountains and fields, while the vigor
and vitality that are richly pervasive in the air are devoid of in
the woods. In the dimly lamplit lanes, it seems that every bench
takes on different moods, sweetly and merrily, sorrowfully yet
joyously, interweaving together and slowly fermenting in the
serenity. Nobody knows what sort of a pleasant surprise will be in
the next corner. Will it be a unique snack bar with patrons in an
endless stream? Or a pub with jazz? Or a coffee bar with tools set,
even permeating the casual and languorous air. When settling
outside in a wooden chair with a sunshade, perhaps, it is a sort of
agreeability to sip at our tea with newly met friends and chat
about our own simple and ordinary lives.
All these were tested and
filtered by the days and years, and, eventually, it gradually came
to form a kind of habit, tacit agreement and
culture.
We all cleverly made fun
of the surrounding trivia in the same tone with our neighboring
company, and, our narrowing eyes were all sparkling a tinge of
mysterious knowingness with great tacit understanding. More often
than not, we were at table with our family. And, sometimes, it may
be a little noisy when we were murmuring-sounded with a mouthful of
food, but it was not in the least loathsome.
Narrowness as the lanes
are, it will never slow down the spreading speed of the
conviviality…
In the city, with the
dense and impersonal skyscrapers mushrooming, in the congested
traffic flows and in the foul air, people’s happiness is getting
fragmented and ethereal bit by bit. Our dwellings are becoming more
spacious and people are getting more privately secret. Our selves
are confined in separate space, discreetly not touching other
people’s minds and also not letting others’ in. Nevertheless, when
we come to settle down and think, we will cherish the memory of the
clamors that once irked us, and now, they tend to be rather warm,
rather unforgettable.
Comparing to the
skyscrapers in Manhattan, people have the tendency to give more
preferential to the ancient alleys that are fully basked in the
sunshine under the red domes of Florence. Comparing to the brightly
illuminated Lu Jiazui, the financial center in Shanghai, people
tend to prefer more the Wanhang Ferry Street lying between the
Jingan and the Changning District in Shanghai, where always
scatters the frolicking and boisterous kids.
What if we are going grey
at the temples one day, yet, what could prop up our dreams should
be the grayish serenity in the old house, the yelling in Suzhou
dialect﹡ and the small lanes or alleys in Shanghai where brewed the
warmly memorable recollections.
If you keep an unusual
and unique eye on every patch of the green moss and the corner that
is occupied by the ivy, you will get the sense that they are all
poem-like pictures, least of etherealness and heroic boldness, only
with everyday happiness, simply and ordinarily.
Perhaps, it is not very
difficult to give an answer what on earth the happiness is. The
true happiness is like the unfolding poems, which are about the
usual lanes under the city sky.
Under the cloak of the
gloaming sparklingly scattered numerous home lighting, nobody could
get to know how much the happiness of the pigeonhole dwellers was
veiled in the city lanes and alleys.
﹡Suzhou dialect,
which is noted for its softness and sweetness, mainly represents Wu
dialects which are spoken among the eastern provinces and cities,
like Zhejiang, Jiangsu, and Shanghai, etc.
翻译：李林
