首页 -> 2006年第3期
第三届ＣＡＳＩＯ杯翻译竞赛原文
作者：［美］Ｅ·Ｂ·怀特
On any person who desires such queer prizes, New York will bestow the gift of loneliness and the gift of privacy. It is this largess that accounts for the presence within the city's walls of a considerable section of the population; for the residents of Manhattan are to a large extent strangers who have pulled up stakes somewhere and come to town, seeking sanctuary or fulfillment or some greater or lesser grail.The capacity to make such dubious gifts is a mysterious quality of New York.It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck.No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky.
New York is the concentrate of art and commerce and sport and religion and entertainment and finance, bringing to a single compact arena the gladiator, the evangelist, the promoter,the actor,the trader,and the merchant.It carries on its lapel the unexpungeable odor of the long past,so that no matter where you sit in New York you feel the vibrations of great times and tall deeds,of queer people and events and undertakings.I am sitting at the moment in a stifling hotel room in 90-degree heat, halfway down an air shaft,in midtown.No air moves in or out of the room,yet I am curiously affected by emanations from the immediate surroundings.I am twenty-two blocks from where Rudolph Valentino lay in state, eight blocks from where Nathan Hale was executed, five blocks from the publisher's office where Ernest Hemingway hit Max Eastman on the nose,four miles from where Walt Whitman sat sweating out editorials for the Brooklyn Eagle,thirty-four blocks from the street Willa Cather lived in when she came to New York to write books about Nebraska,one block from where Marceline used to clown on the boards of the Hippodrome, thirty-six blocks from the spot where the historian Joe Gould kicked a radio to pieces in full view of the public,thirteen blocks from where Harry Thaw shot Stanford White,five blocks from where I used to usher at the Metropolitan Opera and only 112 blocks from the spot where Clarence Day the elder was washed of his sins in the Church of the Epiphany (I could continue this list indefinitely);and for that matter I am probably occupying the very room that any number of exalted and somewise memorable characters sat in,some of them on hot,breathless afternoons,lonely and private and full of their own sense of emanations from without..
When I went down to lunch a few minutes ago I noticed that the man sitting next to me (about eighteen inches away along the wall) was Fred Stone. The eighteen inches are both the connection and the separation that New York provides for its inhabitants. My only connection with Fred Stone was that I saw him in the The Wizard of Oz around the beginning of the century. But our waiter felt the same stimulus from being close to a man from Oz, and after Mr. Stone left the room the waiter told me that when he (the waiter) was a young man just arrived in this country and before he could understand a word of English, he had taken his girl for their first theater date to The Wizard of Oz. It was a wonderful show, the waiter recalled—a man of straw, a man of tin. Wonderful! (And still only eighteen inches away.) “Mr. Stone is a very hearty eater, ” said the waiter thoughtfully, content with this fragile participation in destiny, this link with Oz.