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治愈小动画:孤独航行于房内

每日意图 2019-06-24 02:29:45

每日意图

洞悉人性的幽微和光亮

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这部由Andrew D. Zimbelman制作的动画,取材于美国桂冠诗人比利·柯林斯(Billy Collins)的诗《Rooms》。


《Rooms》是诗人在一个抑郁的雨天写下的。他以可爱、清澈、柔和的句子描述着自己对死亡的想象,最终却无法舍弃那眼前的美好,由衷发出对生命诚挚的赞颂。

Rooms(房间)

比利·柯林斯


恼人的雨一连下了三天,

我踱步走遍每个房间,

想象哪间才是死亡的归宿

书房显然是个不错的选择,

有着厚厚的毛毯和淡淡的油漆味,

满载的书架刚刚好,

梯子缓缓延伸到地下室深处。

厨房也有不小的吸引力,

“他可能给正在烧水泡茶。”侦查员拿着热熔化的热水壶,这么说道。

然后就是餐厅了,就在这个地方,脸朝下,

在长桌子的尽头,有封只写到一半的信。

或者充满性爱和睡眠气息的卧室,倚靠着床头板,

一本书滑落到地板上——是我还没读过的《多洛韦夫人》。

死在地毯上,死在瓷砖上,死在冰冷的地板上,

乍一听就像首民谣,

酒吧里一个面色潮红的男人轻声哼唱。


这都是冰冷雨水的错啊,

它在窗户上闪烁飘忽。

但当它最终释怀的时候,

才肯给破碎的云和温暖的微风让路。

当树木站在阳光里,青翠欲滴,

我便会离开这些阴暗的、棱角分明的房间,

沿着乡间小路行驶,走进一方更大的世界。

如此的开阔,如此的斑斓,满溢着墨迹与忧伤,

疾驰的公路穿过光秃秃的树林,

红叶与黄叶缠绵悱恻苦乐均分,

在这冬月残存的日子里。


也许,在路旁的树叶下藏着一窝老鼠,

每一个都不足拇指大小,

一个拇指闭着眼睛,

一个拇指长着胡须和尾巴,

每一个拇指都在思量着青草的芳香,

还有白驹过隙般短暂的生命。


(王不留行 译)


Rooms


After three days of steady, inconsolable rain,

I walk through the rooms of the house

wondering which would be best to die in.

The study is an obvious choice, with its thick carpet and soothing paint,

its overstuffed chair preferable,

to a doll-like tumble down the basement stairs.

And the kitchen has a centain appeal --

"It seems he was boiling water for tea."

the inspector will offer, holding up the melted kettle.

Then there is the dining room, just the place to end up face down,

at one end of its long table in a half-written letter.

Or the bedroom with its mix of sex and sleep, upright against the headboard,

a book having slipped to the floor -- make it Mrs.Dolloway, which I have yet to read.

Dead on the carpet, dead on the tiles, dead on the stone cold floor,

it's starting to sound like a ballad,

sung in a pub by a man with a coal red face.

It's all the fault of the freezing rain which is flicking against the windows,

but when it finally lets up and gives way to broken clouds and a warm breeze,

when the trees stand dripping in the light,

I will quit these dark, angular rooms and drive along a country road into the larger rooms of the world.

So vast and speckled, so full of ink and sorrow,

a road the cuts through bare woods and tangles of red and yellow bittersweet these late November days.

And maybe under the fallen wayside leaves there is hidden a nest of mice,

each one no bigger than a thumb,

a thumb with closed eyes,

a thumb with whiskers and a tail,

each one contemplating the sweetness of grass and startling brevity of life.


-- Write by Billy Collins


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