《四季隨筆》節(jié)選 - 春 20

《四季隨筆》是吉辛的散文代表作。其中對(duì)隱士賴(lài)克羅夫特醉心于書(shū)籍、自然景色與回憶過(guò)去生活的描述，其實(shí)是吉辛的自述，作者以此來(lái)抒發(fā)自己的情感，因而本書(shū)是一部富有自傳色彩的小品文集。

吉辛窮困的一生，對(duì)文學(xué)名著的愛(ài)好與追求，以及對(duì)大自然恬靜生活的向往，在書(shū)中均有充分的反映。本書(shū)分為春、夏、秋、冬四個(gè)部分，文筆優(yōu)美，行文流暢，是英國(guó)文學(xué)中小品文的珍品之一。

以下是由網(wǎng)友分享的《四季隨筆》節(jié)選 - 春 20的內(nèi)容，讓我們一起來(lái)感受吉辛的四季吧!

It has occurred to me that one might define Art as: an expression, satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life. This is applicable to every form of Art devised by man, for, in his creative moment, whether he produce a great drama or carve a piece of foliage in wood, the artist is moved and inspired by supreme enjoyment of some aspect of the world about him; an enjoyment in itself keener than that experienced by another man, and intensified, prolonged, by the power—which comes to him we know not how—of recording in visible or audible form that emotion of rare vitality. Art, in some degree, is within the scope of every human being, were he but the ploughman who utters a few would-be melodious notes, the mere outcome of health and strength, in the field at sunrise; he sings, or tries to, prompted by an unusual gusto in being, and the rude stave is all his own. Another was he23, who also at the plough, sang of the daisy, of the field-mouse, or shaped the rhythmic tale of Tam O' Shanter24. Not only had life a zest for him incalculably stronger and subtler than that which stirs the soul of Hodge25, but he uttered it in word and music such as go to the heart of mankind, and hold a magic power for ages.

我想到我們可以將藝術(shù)定義為：一種對(duì)生命之熱情令人滿(mǎn)足和持久的表達(dá)。這一定義適用于人們創(chuàng)造的每一種藝術(shù)形式。因?yàn)樵谀莿?chuàng)造性的一刻，不管藝術(shù)家創(chuàng)作了一出偉大戲劇還是在樹(shù)林里刻了一片樹(shù)葉，藝術(shù)家都是在欣賞周?chē)澜缒硞€(gè)方面的極樂(lè)中獲得了啟發(fā)和靈感，這種快樂(lè)比他人感受到的更強(qiáng)烈，而藝術(shù)家擁有一種神秘力量，能夠?qū)⒆约簩?duì)那種罕見(jiàn)生命力的感受，用可見(jiàn)或可聞的形式記錄下來(lái)，使之更加深沉和持久。在某種程度上，藝術(shù)是人皆能為的，哪怕是一個(gè)日出而作的田間農(nóng)夫，完全是他身體健康有活力的結(jié)果，哼出了幾句或許稱(chēng)得上悅耳的小調(diào)。他唱歌或者試圖歌唱，是受到對(duì)生命中少有的熱情的激發(fā)，那粗樸的調(diào)子完全是屬于他自己的。另外一個(gè)這樣的農(nóng)夫，他歌頌雛菊，詠唱田鼠，還寫(xiě)就了《湯姆·奧桑特》這首抑揚(yáng)頓挫的敘事詩(shī)。比之觸動(dòng)霍奇靈魂的熱情，生活給予了他一種更加強(qiáng)烈和微妙的熱情，而他訴諸文字和音樂(lè)，并感動(dòng)人們的心靈，幾百年來(lái)始終保有一種神奇的力量。

For some years there has been a great deal of talk about Art in our country. It began, I suspect, when the veritable artistic impulse of the Victorian time had flagged, when the energy of a great time was all but exhausted. Principles always become a matter of vehement discussion when practice is at ebb. Not by taking thought does one become an artist, or grow even an inch in that direction—which is not at all the same as saying that he who is an artist cannot profit by conscious effort. Goethe (the example so often urged by imitators unlike him in every feature of humanity) took thought enough about his Faust; but what of those youth time lyrics, not the least precious of his achievements, which were scribbled as fast as pen could go, thwartwise on the paper, because he could not stop to set it straight? Dare I pen, even for my own eyes, the venerable truth that an artist is born and not made? It seems not superfluous, in times which have heard disdainful criticism of Scott26, on the ground that he had no artistic conscience, that he scribbled without a thought of style, that he never elaborated his scheme before beginning—as Flaubert, of course you know, invariably did. Why, after all, has one not heard that a certain William Shakespeare turned out his so-called works of art with something like criminal carelessness? Is it not a fact that a bungler named Cervantes was so little in earnest about his Art that, having in one chapter described the stealing of Sancho's donkey, he presently, in mere forgetfulness, shows us Sancho riding on Dapple27, as if nothing had happened? Does not one Thackeray28 shamelessly avow on the last page of a grossly "subjective" novel that he had killed Lord Farintosh29's mother at one page and brought her to life again at another? These sinners against Art are none the less among the world's supreme artists, for they LIVED, in a sense, in a degree, unintelligible to these critics of theirs, and their work is an expression, satisfying and abiding, of the zest of life.

在我們國(guó)家，對(duì)藝術(shù)的討論已經(jīng)進(jìn)行了很多年。我猜想它始于維多利亞時(shí)代真正的藝術(shù)靈感行將枯竭之際，那個(gè)大時(shí)代的活力幾乎耗盡之時(shí)。基本原則總會(huì)在實(shí)踐處于低潮時(shí)成為大眾熱議的焦點(diǎn)。一個(gè)人靠苦思冥想成不了藝術(shù)家，亦無(wú)法朝那個(gè)方向前進(jìn)一寸—這并不是說(shuō)自覺(jué)的努力不能讓藝術(shù)家有所增益。歌德（他的例子經(jīng)常被那些和他沒(méi)有任何相似之處的模仿者援引）對(duì)《浮士德》確實(shí)費(fèi)盡心思，但他年輕時(shí)的詩(shī)作也算有很了不起的成就吧，由于文思泉涌無(wú)法停筆，那些詩(shī)句都是飛快潦草地寫(xiě)下，歪歪斜斜地橫在紙上，這又怎么說(shuō)呢？“藝術(shù)家是天生的而不是后天造就的”，這一神圣真理—即便只是給自己看—我敢訴諸筆端嗎？我們不時(shí)能聽(tīng)到輕蔑批評(píng)司各特的聲音，這并非系風(fēng)捕影，根據(jù)是司各特沒(méi)有藝術(shù)良心，他草草寫(xiě)作并不考慮風(fēng)格，在小說(shuō)開(kāi)頭從不精心構(gòu)思—這一點(diǎn)就像福樓拜，你當(dāng)然知道，他寫(xiě)作也一貫如此。難道我們沒(méi)聽(tīng)說(shuō)有個(gè)威廉·莎士比亞在創(chuàng)作他所謂的藝術(shù)作品時(shí)，態(tài)度草率得簡(jiǎn)直像犯罪？還有一個(gè)拙笨的叫塞萬(wàn)提斯的人，他對(duì)待自己的藝術(shù)如此不認(rèn)真，在一章中描寫(xiě)桑科的驢被偷走，接下來(lái)他就忘了，很快又寫(xiě)道?？乞T在達(dá)普爾身上，就像前面的情節(jié)根本沒(méi)發(fā)生過(guò)，這不是事實(shí)么？那個(gè)叫薩克雷的不是也恬不知恥地在小說(shuō)最后一頁(yè)承認(rèn)自己創(chuàng)作了一部非常“主觀”的小說(shuō)，在某一頁(yè)他殺死了法林托什爵士的母親，在另一頁(yè)又讓她復(fù)活？盡管如此，這些藝術(shù)上的罪人都是世界上最頂尖的藝術(shù)家，因?yàn)樗麄冊(cè)谀硞€(gè)意義、某種程度上，以他們的批評(píng)者無(wú)法理解的方式“生活過(guò)”，他們的作品是對(duì)生命之熱情的一種令人滿(mǎn)足和持久的表達(dá)。

Some one, no doubt, hit upon this definition of mine long ago. It doesn't matter; is it the less original with me? Not long since I should have fretted over the possibility, for my living depended on an avoidance of even seeming plagiarism. Now I am at one with Lord Foppington30, and much disposed to take pleasure in the natural sprouts of my own wit—without troubling whether the same idea has occurred to others. Suppose me, in total ignorance of Euclid31, to have discovered even the simplest of his geometrical demonstrations, shall I be crestfallen when some one draws attention to the book? These natural sprouts are, after all, the best products of our life; it is a mere accident that they may have no value in the world's market. One of my conscious efforts, in these days of freedom, is to live intellectually for myself. Formerly, when in reading I came upon anything that impressed or delighted me, down it went in my note-book, for "use." I could not read a striking verse, or sentence of prose, without thinking of it as an apt quotation in something I might write—one of the evil results of a literary life. Now that I strive to repel this habit of thought, I find myself asking: To what end, then, do I read and remember? Surely as foolish a question as ever man put to himself. You read for your own pleasure, for your solace and strengthening. Pleasure, then, purely selfish? Solace which endures for an hour, and strengthening for no combat? Ay, but I know, I know. With what heart should I live here in my cottage, waiting for life's end, were it not for those hours of seeming idle reading?

毫無(wú)疑問(wèn)，我對(duì)藝術(shù)的這個(gè)定義一定有人想到過(guò)。沒(méi)有關(guān)系，這是否意味著我的原創(chuàng)性會(huì)打折扣？如果在不久前，我也許會(huì)因?yàn)檫@種可能性而煩惱，因?yàn)槲业闹\生手段就在于避免哪怕是貌似的剽竊?，F(xiàn)在，我和浮平頓爵士看法一樣，很容易為自己頭腦自然萌生的智慧而自得其樂(lè)了—無(wú)需在意別人是否有同樣的想法。試想一下，假使我對(duì)歐幾里得一無(wú)所知，卻發(fā)現(xiàn)了他的幾何證明中哪怕是最簡(jiǎn)單的一種，那么在有人關(guān)注他的書(shū)時(shí)，我應(yīng)該垂頭喪氣嗎？這些自然萌發(fā)的智慧是我們生命的最好結(jié)晶，只不過(guò)它們湊巧在世界市場(chǎng)上沒(méi)有價(jià)值。在我享受自由的這些日子，我有意識(shí)地努力讓自己過(guò)一種精神的生活。以前在讀書(shū)時(shí)，看到一句讓我印象深刻或開(kāi)心的話，我都會(huì)抄在筆記本上以備“應(yīng)用”。每讀到一行精彩的詩(shī)，或者散文中的句子，我就情不自禁地想在自己的文章中作為點(diǎn)睛之筆加以引用—這是文學(xué)生活養(yǎng)成的惡習(xí)?，F(xiàn)在我努力摒棄這種思維習(xí)慣，但又捫心自問(wèn)，那現(xiàn)在我讀書(shū)記誦的目的何在呢？這一定是人類(lèi)向自己提出的最愚蠢的問(wèn)題之一。讀書(shū)是為了讓自己心情愉快，得到安慰和力量。那么，這種愉快是純粹自私的嗎？安慰不過(guò)只能持續(xù)一小時(shí)，而沒(méi)有爭(zhēng)斗要力量何用呢？唉，但是我明白，我清楚。如果不是能靠貌似無(wú)用的讀書(shū)來(lái)打發(fā)時(shí)光，那么我住在這個(gè)小村舍里，等待生命的盡頭，情何以堪？

I think sometimes, how good it were had I some one by me to listen when I am tempted to read a passage aloud. Yes, but is there any mortal in the whole world upon whom I could invariably depend for sympathetic understanding?—nay, who would even generally be at one with me in my appreciation. Such harmony of intelligences is the rarest thing. All through life we long for it: the desire drives us, like a demon, into waste places; too often ends by plunging us into mud and morass. And, after all, we learn that the vision was illusory. To every man is it decreed: thou shalt live alone. Happy they who imagine that they have escaped the common lot; happy, whilst they imagine it. Those to whom no such happiness has ever been granted at least avoid the bitterest of disillusions. And is it not always good to face a truth, however discomfortable? The mind which renounces, once and for ever, a futile hope, has its compensation in ever-growing calm.

有時(shí)我會(huì)想，當(dāng)我有興致大聲念出一段文章時(shí)，如果有人在身邊聆聽(tīng)，那該多好。是啊，但是在整個(gè)世界上哪能找到一個(gè)人和我始終心有戚戚焉呢？—不能，即使找一個(gè)和我閱讀欣賞情趣大致相同的人也難。這種思想上的琴瑟和鳴是最難求的。整個(gè)一生我們都渴望得到：這種欲望像魔鬼一樣，驅(qū)使我們到荒涼之地，很多時(shí)候?qū)⑽覀兺先肓四嗵逗驼訚伞Ｈ欢吘刮覀兞私獾竭@種想法是虛幻的，每個(gè)人生來(lái)都注定“將孤獨(dú)而活”。那些以為自己擺脫宿命的人是幸福的，在他們的想象中他們是幸福的。而沒(méi)有得到這種幸福的人，起碼避免了幻想破滅時(shí)的萬(wàn)分痛苦。不管真相讓人多么不舒服，面對(duì)它的感覺(jué)不是很好嗎？頭腦徹底放棄虛妄的希望，會(huì)得到與日俱增的平靜作為補(bǔ)償。