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的清澈、明亮，望着这一弯美丽的蛾眉月，想起皮特·斯坦哈特的关于月亮的一篇散文《Spell of the Rising Moon》，便提笔译之。皮特·斯坦哈特，美国作家、博物学家，他是美国一家著名环保杂志《AUDUBON》的编辑和专栏作家，该杂志以美国著名画家、博物学家约翰·詹姆斯·奥杜邦命名，皮特·斯坦哈特很多作品以自然景色和环境保护为主题。

Spell of the Rising Moon
By Pater Steinhart (1785-1851)

There is a hill near my home that I often climb at night. The noise of the city is a far off murmur. In the hush of dark I share the cheerfulness of crickets and the confidence of owls. But it is the drama of the moonrise that I come to see, for that restores in me a quiet and clarity that the city spends too freely.

From this hill I have watched many moons rise. Each one had its own mood. There have been broad, confident harvest moons in autumn; shy, misty moons in spring; lonely, winter moons rising into the utter silence of an ink-black sky and smoke smudged orange moons over the dry fields of summer. Each, like fine music, excited my heart and then calmed my soul.

Moon gazing is an ancient art. To prehistoric hunters the moon overhead was as unerring as heartbeat. They knew that every 29 days it become full bellied and brilliant, then sickened and died, and then was reborn. They knew the waxing moon appeared larger and higher overhead after each succeeding sunset. They knew the waning moon rose later each night until it the sunset. They knew the waning moon rose later each night until it vanished in the sunrise. To have understood the moons patterns from experience must been a profound thing.

But we, who live indoors, have lost contact with moon. The glare of street lights and the dust of pollution veil the night sky, though men have walked on the moon, it grows less familiar. Few of us can say when the moon will rise tonight.

Still, it tugs at our minds. If we unexpectedly encounter the full moon, huge and yellow over the horizon, we are helpless but to stare back at its commanding presence. And the moon has gifts to bestow up those who watch.

I learned about its gifts one July evening in the mountains. My car had mysteriously stalled, and I was stranded and alone. The sun had set, and I was watching what seemed to be the bright orange glow of a forest fire beyond a ridge to the east. Suddenly, the ridge itself seemed to burst into flame. Then, the rising moon, huge and red and grotesquely mishappen by the dust and sweet of the summer atmosphere, loomed up out of the woods.

Distorted thus by the hot breath of earth, the moon seemed ill-tempered and imperfect. Dogs at nearby farmhouses barked nervously, as if this strange light had wakened evil spirits in the weeds.

But as the moon lifted off the ridge it gathered firmness and authority. Its complexion changed from red, to orange, to gold, to impassive yellow. It seemed to draw light out of the darkening earth, for as it rose, the hills and valleys below grew dimmer. By the time the moon stood clear of the horizon, full chested and round and the color of ivory , the valleys were deep shadows in the landscape. The dogs, reassured that this was the familiar moon stopped barking. And all at once I felt a confidence and joy close to laughter.

The drama took an hour. Moonrise is slow and serried with subtleties. To watch it, we must slip into an older,more patient sense of time. To watch the moon move inexorably higher is to find an unusual stillness within ourselves. Our imaginations become aware of the vast distance of space, the immensity of the earth and huge improbability of our own existence. We feel small but privileged.

Moonlight shows us none of life’s harder edges. Hillsides seem silken and silvery, the oceans still and blue in its light. In moonlight we become less calculating, more drawn to our feelings.

And odd things happen in such moments. On that July night, I watched the moon for an hour or two, and then got back into the car, turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine start, just as mysteriously as it had stalled a few hours earlier. I drove down from the mountains with the moon on my shoulder and peace in my heart.

I return often to the rising moon. I am draw especially when events crowd ease and clarity of vision into a small corner of my life. This happens often in the fall. Then I go to my hill and await the hunter’s moon, enormous and gold over the horizon, filling, the night with vision.

An owl swoops from the ridge top, noiseless but bright as flame. A cricket shrills in the grass. I think of poets and musicians. Of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” and of Shakespeare, whose Lorenzo declaims in The Merchant of Venice, “How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!/ Here will we sit and let the sounds of music./ Creep in our ears.” I wonder if their verse and music, like the music of crickets, are in some way voices of the moon. With such thoughts, my citified confusions melt into the quiet of the night.

Lovers and poets find deeper meaning at night. We are all apt to pose deeper questions about our origins and destines. We indulge in riddles, rather than in the impersonal geometries that govern the daylight world. We become philosophers and mystics.

At moonrise, as we slow our minds to the pace of the heavens, enchantment steals over us. We open the vents of feeling and exercise parts of our minds that reason locks away by day. We hear, across the murmurs distances, of ancient hunter and see anew the visions of poets and lovers of long ago.
[转载]读书留痕：译散文《Spell <wbr>of <wbr>the <wbr>Rising <wbr>Moon》


月出之美
皮特·斯坦哈特（美）著
惠 译
家的附近有一座山，我常常在夜晚登上山顶看夜景。在那里，城市的喧闹幻化成遥远的低吟。在夜的静谧中，我与虫儿、鸟儿们分享他们的快乐与秘语，但更期待邂逅月亮冉冉升起时的美好景致，重拾我们随意丢失于城市的那份宁静与清澈。

从山上，我无数次地迎接月亮的升起，每一次的心情都是独特的，仰望广袤、朦胧、如墨、如烟的夜空，秋月的丰盈、春月的羞涩、冬月的寂静、夏月的橙红如天籁之音，充盈、平静我的心灵。

赏月是一种古老的艺术活动，早在远古时期，猎人们就对月亮运行规律了然于心，他们知道月以29天为一个周期，历过新月、上弦月、满月、下弦月、朔月，如此循环往复。他们还知道：在盈月期，月亮在落日时分显现，日渐丰盈明亮，高挂夜空；在亏月期，月亮在子夜时分出现，隐于日出时分。仅凭经验就知道月亮的运行规律，对古人来说是一件十分了不起的事情。

但是对于习惯呆在室内的我们已经失去与月亮的联系，街灯的闪亮，尘雾的弥漫，朦胧了夜空。虽然人类已经行走于月亮之上，却对月亮日渐陌生，几乎很少有人能过说出当晚的月亮何时升起。

尽管如此，月亮依然牵挂着我们的心。当我们不经意间邂逅一轮挂在地平线之上的丰盈、橙黄的圆月，都会情不自禁驻足凝视，静享月亮的这份美好礼物。

在七月的一个夜晚的山中，我收到了这份月的礼物。我的车意外的怠工，我被困山中，已是黄昏时分，环顾四周，东边葱翠的山脉披上了橙红色的霞光，转眼间山脉如燃烧般的火红，接着，一轮红色的圆月隐隐约约出现在山脉的树林间，只是在夏日尘雾和芬芳夹杂的气息里显得有些奇异。

由于地球的灼热气息的影响，月亮看起来有些焦躁而不完美，附近农舍的狗也焦虑地狂叫，好似这奇异的光亮唤醒草丛中邪恶的灵魂。

然而，当月亮跃出山脊，便显出她原有的坚毅和清丽，从红色、橙色、金色变成一轮清冷的淡黄，山脉和山谷都沉入暮色，好像地面所有的光亮都被月亮带走了。当月亮高挂于清冷的夜空，山谷在淡淡的象牙色的月光下，如风景画中一抹曲折蜿蜒的暗色轮廓线，狗儿们在熟悉的月光中安静下来，此刻，我也笑了，内心充满了欢欣。

月出如一幕曼妙的舞剧，缓慢而微妙，欣赏她，如穿越远古的时空，静观月亮执着上升，似乎触及我们内心深藏的一份独特的宁静，使我们的思绪驰骋于无垠、广袤的天地间，忘却自己的存在，真切地感受到人类的渺小与独特。

月光把一切生活的艰辛都轻轻抹去。月光下，山脉如丝一样柔软、如银一般闪亮；海洋如镜一样平静、如天一般湛蓝；而我们，在月光下也可放下世俗名利，静静地倾听内心的呢喃。

此刻，奇妙的事发生了，七月的那个夜晚，我在山中欣赏月出返回车中，启动后竟听到了引擎的轰鸣，神秘如同几小时前车子的突然怠工一样的不可思议。我披着一身银色的月光、带着一颗平静的心, 驱车离开山林。

我常重返山中看月出，尤其在可以放下日常工作和生活琐事时。秋夜，我登上山头，静等猎人之月的出现，当丰盈、金色的圆月高挂天宇，秋夜里的一切都沐浴在银色的月光之中。

夜猫如一抹亮光悄无声息地从山顶俯冲下来，蟋蟀在草丛中鸣叫。这不由得让我想起了贝多芬的《月光曲》和莎士比亚的《威尼斯商人》中男主人公罗伦佐的一段赞美月光的台词：“多么甜美啊，这月光沉睡的河岸！/ 我们坐下吧，让这天籁之音，/ 萦绕耳际。”我想，是否他们的音乐和诗句，一如蟋蟀的鸣唱，都是来自月光之音，这样想着，我的这颗都市之心渐渐融入这月夜的静谧。

诗人以及相爱的人总在月夜寻找人生深层的意义。因为在月夜，我们倾向于去探究本源、深奥的问题：我们来自何方？将归于何方？人们似乎喜欢在月光下寻求这样的难解之谜，更胜于在日光下的世界里探究没有情感的几何学，月夜，使我们成为了哲学家和神秘主义者。

月升时分，我们放缓思绪与天宇同步，月夜之美吸引着我们，打开心灵之窗，释放白日紧锁的心境。倾听，来自远古猎人的低语；感受，遥远诗人诗里诗外的月夜，以及恋人们眼中月夜的美好意象。



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