4--回 家

On Going Home
I am home for my daughter's first birthday. By "home" I do not mean the house in Los Angeles where my husband and I and the baby live, but the place where my family is, in the Central Valley of California. It is a vital although troublesome distinction. My husband likes my family but is uneasy in their house, because once there I fall into their ways, which are difficult, oblique, deliberately inarticulate, not my husband's ways. We live in dusty houses ("D-U-S-T," he once wrote with his finger on surfaces all over the house, but no one noticed it) filled with mementos quite without value to him (what could the Canton dessert plates1. mean to him? How could he have known about the assay scales, why should he care if he did know?), and we appear to talk exclusively about people we know who have been committed to mental hospitals, about people we know who have been booked on drunk-driving charges, and about property, particularly about property, land, price per acre and C-2 zoning and assessments and freeway access2.. My brother3.does not understand my husband's inability to perceive the advantage in the rather common real-estate transaction known as "sale-leaseback," and my husband in turn does not understand why so many of the people he hears about in my father's house have recently been committed to mental hospitals or booked on drunk-driving charges. Nor does he understand that when we talk about sale-leasebacks and right-of-way condemnations we are talking in code about the things we like best, the yellow fields and the cottonwoods and the rivers rising and falling and the mountain roads closing when the heavy snow comes in. We miss each other's points, have another drink and regard the fire. My brother refers to my husband, in his presence, as "Joan's husband." Marriage is the classic betrayal.
Or perhaps it is not any more. Sometimes I think that those of us who are now in our thirties were born into the last generation to carry the burden of "home," to find in family life the source of all tension and drama. I had by all objective accounts a "normal "and a "happy " family situation, and yet I was almost thirty years old before I could talk to my family on the telephone without crying after I had hung up. We did not fight. Nothing was wrong. And yet some nameless anxiety colored the emotional charges between me and the place that I came from4. The question of whether or not you could go home again was a very real part of the sentimental and largely literary baggage with which we left home in the fifties5; I suspect that it is irrelevant to the children born of the fragmentation after World War II. A few weeks ago in a San Francisco bar I saw a pretty young girl on crystal take off her clothes and dance for the cash prize in an "amateurtopless" contest. There was no particular sense of moment about this, none of the effect of romantic degradation, of "dark journey," for which my generation strived so assiduously. What sense could that girl possibly make of, say, Long Day's Journey into Night? Who is beside the point?
That I am trapped in this particular irrelevancy is never more apparent to me than when I am home. Paralyzed by the neurotic lassitude engendered by meeting one's past at every turn, around every corner, inside every cupboard, I go aimlessly from room to room. I decide to meet it head-on and clean out a drawer, and I spread the contents on the bed. A bathing suit I wore the summer I was seventeen. A letter of rejection from The Nation, an aerial photograph of the site for a shopping center my father did not build in 1954. Three teacups hand-painted with cabbage roses and signed "E.M.," my grandmother's initials. There is no final solution for letters of rejection from The Nation and teacups hand-painted in 1900. Nor is there any answer to snapshots of one's grandfather as a young man on skis, surveying around Donner Pass in the year 1910. I smooth out the snapshot and look into his face, and do and do not see my own. I close the drawer, and have another cup of coffee with my mother. We get along very well, veterans of a guerrilla war we never understood.
Days pass. I see no one. I come to dread my husband's evening call, not only because he is full of news of what by now seems to me our remote life in Los Angeles, people he has seen, letters which require attention, but because he asks what I have been doing, suggests uneasily that I get out, drive to San Francisco or Berkeley. Instead I drive across the river to a family graveyard. It has been vandalized since my last visit and the monuments are broken, overturned in the dry grass. Because I once saw a rattlesnake in the grass I stay in the car and listen to a country-and-Western station. Later I drive with my father to a ranch he has in the foothills. The man who runs his cattle on it asks us to the roundup, a week from Sunday, and although I know that I will be in Los
Angeles I say, in the oblique way my family talks, that I will come. Once home I mention the broken monuments in the graveyard. My mother shrugs.
I go to visit my great-aunts. A few of them think now that I am my cousin, or their daughter who died young. We recall an anecdote about a relative last seen in 1948, and they ask if I still like living in New York City. I have lived in Los Angeles for three years, but I say that I do. The baby is offered a horehound drop, and I am slipped a dollar bill "to buy a treat." Questions trail off, answers are abandoned, the baby plays with the dust motes in a shaft of afternoon sun.
It is time for the baby's birthday party: a white cake, strawberry-marshmallow ice cream, a bottle of champagne saved from another party. In the evening, after she has gone to sleep, I kneel beside the crib and touch her face, where it is pressed against the slats, with mine. She is an open and trusting child, unprepared for and unaccustomed to the ambushes of family life, and perhaps it is just as well that I can offer her little of that life. I would like to give her more. I would like to promise her that she will grow up with a sense of her cousins and of rivers and of her great-grandmother's teacups, would like to pledge her a picnic on a river with fried chicken and her hair uncombed, would like to give her home for her birthday, but we live differently now and I can promise her nothing like that. I give her a xylophone and a sundress from Madeira, and promise to tell her a funny story.
【概述】
本文是2001年第十三届“韩素音青年翻译奖”英译汉部分的参赛原文。

原文作者Joan Didion是位散文文体大家，她的文章极有文采和个性，要贴切地表达成汉语确实要下一番功夫。

而这篇文章艰深的背景知识更是给准确翻译设置了很大障碍。

不了解该文的作者及其生活道路、创作思想，不了解文章的写作背景及反映的时代特征，好些地方会觉得把握不准，甚至一筹莫展。

【翻译要点评析】
1．the Canton dessert plates: 查英文词典我们可能会取“the former name of Guangzhou”这一释义，然后把这一部分译成“产自广州的甜点盘子”。

但The Dolphin Reader (Hunt, 1990)收录的On Going Home中对“canton”的注释为“Fine Chinese porcelain”。

据此注释，“canton”在这里应是指这些盘子的质地，而不是产地。

另外，《英汉辞海》（王同亿，1987）里有“Canton china”词条，译文第一条为“广东瓷；广东瓷器，尤指青花瓷”；韦伯斯特电子词典（2000 Merriam-Webster, Incorporated. Version 2.5.）有“Canton ware”词条，释义照录于下：“ceramic ware exported from China especially during the 18th and 19th centuries by way of Canton and including blue-and-white and enameled porcelain and various ornamented stonewares”（从中国出口的陶瓷器，特别是18、19世纪期间经由广州出口的，包括青花上釉瓷器和各种有装饰的粗陶器）。

综合以上信息，最后把这个地方译成“粤式细瓷点心盘”。

2．…and about property, particularly about property, land, price per acre and C-2 zoning and assessments and freeway access: 这里有两个问题，一是其中两个“property”指涉是不是一样；二是如何翻译“C-2 zoning”。

我们知道地产或房地产交易在作者当时的家乡司空见惯，成为人们生活中一个不可或缺的部分，经常谈论这些事情是理所当然的事。

从语法上说，“particularly about property”可以是起加强语气作用的插入语，下面的“land, price per acre and C-2 zoning and assessments and freeway access”是列举他们谈论有关“property”的具体内容。

因此，这两个“property”指涉应该是一样的。

“C-2 zoning”的翻译比较棘手。

根据《21世纪城市规划管理》一书中的解释，这里“C”指“公共设施用地，主要指居住区及居住区以上的行政、经济文化、教育、卫生、体育、商贸及科研设计等机构和设施的用地。

”（任致远，2000；174）另外，《城市规划概论》（陈友华、赵民，2000）上面专门有一节介绍“用地区划”（Zoning），在244-245页上还附有纽约市用地区划表，其中“C2”的对应汉语是“地区服务区”。

综合上面这些知识，最后把这个地方译为“特别是地产，土地和地价，C-2区制规划及评估，还有高速公路的出入口，等等”。

3. my brother:这里从原文无法判断“brother”是“elder brother”还是“younger brother”，因为在英语中这两者一般是不做区分的，而在汉语里正好相反。

如果笼统地译成“兄弟”，觉得很别扭。

迪迪翁的文章自传性很强，其中讲的都是真人真事，这里“brother”是“弟弟”还是“哥哥”应确切所指。

迪迪翁在另一篇文章John Wayne: A Love Song（《约翰·韦恩：一首爱之歌》（1965）中有这样一段描述：“In the summer of 1943 I was eight ,and my father and mother and small brother and I were at Peterson Field in Colorado Springs.（Slouching, p. 29）
（下划线为笔者所加）据此，“my brother”应译为“弟弟”。

4. And yet some nameless anxiety colored the emotional charges between me and the place that I came from: 如何译“colored the emotional charges”是传达意境的关键。

有人把这句话译成“可是一种莫名的焦渴笼罩着我和我的出生地之间的情感蕴藉”，还有人译为“可是一种莫名的焦虑扭曲了我和我的家乡之间的情感交流”，都译得不太好，原文的诗意全无。

查了韦伯斯特电子词典（同上）对“charge”的解释，其中有如下释义：“a store or accumulation of impelling force”，并随后附有用法举例“the deeply emotional charge of the drama”。

经过斟酌，我们可以把这句话译为“但一丝莫名的忧虑，浸染了我和生我养我的家之间的情感纠葛”。

5．The question of whether or not you could go home again was a very real part of the sentimental and largely literary baggage with which we left home in the fifties：这里如何处理“the sentimental and largely literary baggage”感到很棘手。

我们来看一看作者的生活道路。

迪迪翁1956年毕业于加州大学英文系，有很高的文学修养。

这句话中说的“we left home in the fifties”很可能就是指她的同学们一起（她那一代人）大学毕业后离开家到各地寻求前程，开始独立生活。

这难免让人伤感，而她们刚出校园，又难免满脑子不切实际的书生气。

“baggage”的英文释义中有一条是“superfluous ideas”（过多的想法）这一意思，我们可把这句话译成“五十年代我们离家时，背负着一个装着伤感、多半是书籍的行囊。

还能回家吗？”翻译过程是一个包含一系列选择和决策的过程。

译者的选择不是随意的，而是受到语境的制约，有时译者要依据整部作品或大语境（macro context）作出取舍。

语言在一定语境中才有意义。

英语中有句老话，叫做Words do not have meanings; people have meanings for words（词无本义，义随人生）。

故而，译者不仅要有良好的双语能力，还应掌握相关的语境资料，从而准确地理解原文涉及的社会文化信息，贴切地再现原文。

（参考王祥兵执笔的评析）
【参考译文】
回家
我回家给女儿过周岁生日。

我所说的“家”，并非指丈夫，我和小宝宝在洛杉矶的家，而是指位于加州中央谷地的娘家。

这样区分，尽管麻烦，却很重要。

丈夫不是不喜欢我娘家的人，但是在我娘家却颇不自在。

因为我一回去，就染上了娘家人的习惯，说起话来故意吞吞吐吐、拐弯抹角、令人费解，完全有别于丈夫的习惯。

我们住在灰蒙蒙的屋子里（丈夫曾用手指在落满灰尘的地方都写上了“灰——尘”两个大字，只是没人注意。

），里面还摆满了纪念品，可在丈夫眼里这些东西毫无价值（粤式细瓷点心盘对他来说能有什么意义？他怎么可能了解分析天平？即使他了解，他又何必在意？）。

在他看来，我们好像尽在那谈熟人，哪个被送进了精神病院，哪个被控酒后驾车。

还谈财产，特别是地产，土地和地价，C-2区制规划及评估，还有高速公路的出入口，等等。

弟弟弄不明白，我丈夫怎么连很平常的“售后回租”这种房地产交易的好处也不懂？丈夫也觉得奇怪，在我娘家为何听到这么多人最近被送进了精神病院，或是因酒后开车被控？其实丈夫不明白，我们谈售后回租和依法征用公共用地的时候，是在用娘家人特有的语言谈论最来劲的东西，像金黄色的田野、棉白杨、时涨时落的河水，以及下大雪时封闭的山路。

话不投机，索性接着喝酒，默默注视着炉火。

弟弟当着我丈夫的面，称他为“琼的丈夫”。

结婚啊，从古到今，都意味着背叛。

或许，现在情况变了。

我有时想，我们这些三十几岁的人，注定成为承担“家”的重负、并经受家庭生活中种种紧张和冲突的最后一代人。

在别人的眼里，无论从哪方面看，我都曾拥有一个“正常”而“幸福”的家。

然而，直到将近三十岁以前，我与娘家人通电话后总是要哭鼻子。

我们没吵过架，也没出过岔子。

但一丝莫名的忧虑，浸染了我和生我养我的家之间的情感纠葛。

五十年代我们离家时，背负着一个装着伤感、多半是书籍的行囊。

还能回家吗？这个问题便是行囊中实实在在的一部分。

我想，这个问题大概与二战后破碎家庭里出生的孩子无关。

几个礼拜前，在旧金山的一个酒吧里，我看见一位吸了毒的漂亮姑娘，脱去衣服跳舞，仅仅是为得到一场“业余无上装”比赛的现金奖励！这没有什么特别的意思，与浪漫沉沦沾不上边儿，与我们这一代人所趋之若鹜的“黑暗之旅”也沾不上边儿。

那位姑娘呀，你对《进入黑夜的漫长旅程》作何理解？到底是谁离题了？
这个不相干的问题困扰着我，在我返回老家后尤为明显。

走过每个角落，打开每个食橱，
转身驻足间，我一次次地面对过去，思绪不宁，及至疲乏不堪，我还是漫无目的地逐个房间走着。

我决意正眼看去，清理出一个抽屉，把东西摊在床上。

一件我十七岁那年夏天穿的泳衣；一封《民族》周刊的退稿信；一张从空中拍摄的选址照片，1954年父亲曾打算在那里建购物中心；还有三只茶杯，上面有手绘的百叶蔷薇，并签有祖母名字的两个首字母“E.M.”。

我不知道该如何处理1900年手绘的茶杯和《民族》周刊的退稿信，也不知道该如何处理祖父1910年的几张快照。

照片里的祖父青春年少，踩着滑雪板，在察看唐纳山口。

我抚平照片，注视着祖父的脸，依稀看到自己的影子，又似乎没有。

我关上抽屉，陪母亲又喝了一杯咖啡。

我们现在相处得很好，就像打过游击战的老兵一样，真不明白过去为何有龃龉。

日子一天天过去，我没拜访任何人。

我开始对丈夫晚间打来的电话感到害怕，不光是因为他老是跟我讲洛杉矶的情况，见到谁啦，哪些信件该回啦，等等，而洛杉矶的生活距离我似乎已遥远了啊！还因为他问我在做什么，有点拘束地建议我出去走走，开车去旧金山或伯克利。

我却驾车去了河对岸的一块家族墓地。

自我上次来过之后，墓地被破坏了，墓碑断裂，翻倒在枯草丛里。

以前我曾在草丛里见到一条响尾蛇，所以这次我呆在车上，收听乡村与西部音乐台的广播。

后来我同父亲开车去了他在山麓小丘上的农场。

为他放牛的人请我们下周日来看他赶拢牛群。

尽管我明明知道那时我已回到洛杉矶了，但我还是以家里人绕弯子的方式说要来。

一回到家里，我就提起了墓地里的断碑。

母亲耸了耸肩。

我去看望姑婆们。

其中几位把我当成了我的堂妹，或她们早逝的女儿，我们回忆起一位亲戚的轶事，上次相见是在1948年。

她们问我是否还喜欢住在纽约市。

其实我在洛杉矶已经住了三年，但我还是说喜欢纽约。

她们给我女儿带苦味的薄荷糖吃，还塞给我一块钱“去买好吃的。

”慢慢地，问题少了，回答也就省了。

女儿在午后的一缕阳光里，欢快地抓弄着尘土。

女儿的生日聚会开始了——有白蛋糕，草莓蜜饯冰激凌，和一瓶从别的聚会上留下来的香槟。

晚上，女儿睡着后，我跪在小床边，面颊贴着她那紧挨着床栏的小脸蛋。

女儿性情开朗，相信别人，对于家庭生活的陷阱既不知晓，也无防范。

也许，我还是让她少过这种生活吧。

我倒是愿意给与她更多别的东西。

我倒愿意许诺让堂兄弟姊妹的手足之情、潺潺流淌的小河、以及外曾祖母的茶杯伴着她成长；愿意答应带她去河边野炊，认她披散着头发，啃炸鸡；愿意给她一个真正的家作为生日礼物。

但是，我们的生活不同了啊，我无法许诺给予她这一切！我只给了她一把木琴和来自马德里的背心裙，还答应给她讲个有趣的故事。

（参考方开瑞执笔的译文）。