買了這本書. 一來為了仔細研讀,力圖翻譯準確; 二來為了留做紀念, 畢竟是第一次看詩歌改編的劇, 更是第一次接觸詩歌翻譯.片子本身我不想再評論, 這種片子需要自己逐字逐句去體會. 看的次數越多, 便越是感嘆語言的魅力. 就是這樣在字斟句酌之間, 不經意的,好些臺詞幾乎都記在心里了. (然而我要再啰嗦一句: 這種文學性太強的詩歌并不適合當作教材'學英文', 本詩一些用詞和表達方式, 英國人表示他們自己也看不太懂, 更別提使用了.)劇中的臺詞, 全是直接用的原詩句, 但不可避免有刪掉的部分, 所以打算把原詩當中沒有編進本劇的章節敲出來, 有興趣的可以看看.------注1: 括號中的是劇中出現過的, 方便大家定位.注2: 大小寫, 換行, 標點, 均依照faber&faber出版社2010年版 (http://www.faber.co.uk/work/song-of-lunch/9780571273522/).<1>(Keep your imagination peeled and seeVirginia Woolfloping off to the librarywith a trug full of books.)At every twentieth step,she takes a sharp drag at a cigaretteand pulls a tormented faceas if she had never tasted anythingso disgusting.(And there goes T.S. Eliot,bound for his first martini of the day.With his gig-lamps and his immaculate sheen,)he eases pastyou like a limousine:a powerful American model.<2>(Gaggles of tourists stragglemore provocatively than ever;)the approach to Bedford Square is blocked:orange plastic barriers--our century's major contributionto the junk art of street furniture!(Never mind, he's making good time--note the active verb--and he expects she'll be late.)So he allows himself to feelpleasure in his own fleetness,in not being carried but ridingthe currents and eddiesof the human torrent.And occasionally stoppingto let another pass,unthanked politeness beingthe ultimate gestureof the metropolitan dandy.<3>(The restaurantis an old haunt,though he hasn't been there for years;)not since the publishing trade,once the provinceof swashbucklers and buccaneers,was waylaid by suits and calculators,and a strict afternooncurfew imposed.Farewell to long lunchesand other boozy pursuits!Hail to the new ageof the desk potato,strict hours of imprisonmentand eyesight torturedby an impassive electronic screen!Sometimes, though, a man needsto go out on the rampage,throw conscientious time-keepingto the winds,help kill a few bottles--and bugger the consequences.If not a right, exactly,it's a rite,and therefore approved in the sightof some notional higher authority.<4>Lunch being a game with few rules,and those unwritten,it's important to him that the field of playremain the sameas he fondly remembers it.(Zanzotti's: unreformed Soho Italian....cultureless, fly-by-night.)He stops for a scrawny ladwheeling a big, unsteady,rust-patched, festering binto park at the roadside,and wonders what he will find.<5>And that's where Dylan Thomasscrounged ten bob off him,then set about seducing his girl.Not.Seriously, though,what will they say when they look backat our demythologised age?Postmodern Times:garrulous, garish classicstarringsome idiot off the box.Charlie Cretin!Needs work.Craplin? Forget it.He cuts down Meard Street,now much too smart for its namebut where he remembersa knocking-shop henever went into--feral whores at the window--turns the corner, crosses,and (hey presto:Zanzotti's edges into view.)<6>Same tricolore paintwork,thick from repeated coatsand somehow suggesting edibility.Same signwriter's cursivefestooning the fascia-boardand flanked by the same brass lamps.It's so much the same, it almostlooks like a replica.The Wardour Street wideboys and creativesmust love it,must think it's the campest retro--when it's the real thing.Through a gap in the blind,he can see quite a few of them in there already.Well, never mind.He wishes no one ill.Democracy of the feeding-trough;swill and let swill.He and his hand on the door-handle,and foot on the grooved step,(when he suddently recollects--what, precisely?Deja vu? Some artistic analogy?)A true liminal moment,or simply a trickof the dictionary-picker's skittering brain?Eye-corner glimpseof fugitive epiphanythat, for several beats,he pursues in vain.(Too bad. Let it go.)He has his hand still on the dimpledbrass bul of the door-handle.Which he turns, noticingthe familiar loose-jointedness:that's a promissing sign.With the meekest bump of resistancefrom the spring contraption overhead,the door yields and he steps insideto stand on the prickled mat,peering into the gloom.Midday twilight,requiring adjustmentof all the sensesbefore it delivers its secrets.He scans the room,which is deeper than you might guess from the street,registers its busyness,and wonders which of the fewuntaken covers will be his.Not that one by the doorto the toilets, he hopes;nor the one with too much window light.Snug privacy is what he wants:to be tucked away from the bustle:ideally, over there.(On the threshold, on the edgeof a shadow-world)<7>(Without a smile, without a word,he is eybrowed and nodded to follow.)Which he does, past tables,past people at tables,he is careful not to brushwith either himself or his shoulder-bag.Aloof carriage, side=steps,calculated indirection:it's as much a dance as a walk.And it gets him nicelyto the spot he had spottedfrom the door.Laid for two. A little island. An eyot.Perfect.<8>(We said we wouldn't look back.)Innocent jaunty wistfulditty from the wingsand would run uninterruptedif he didn't shoo it away.Just one of those things.Ditto.A song for every cliche!Though it was more, he's perfectly sure,than a bell that now and then(Why did she e-mail himsuggesting)No, heWoofs of laughterin imprecise unisonfrom a table, all men,jolly good company,off to his right.He draws a breadstick,wrong brand, from its ripped sheathand beheads it with a bite.<9>In twilight himself(he commands, nice word,a clear view of the entrance,...What will she look like?)On his third tastelessbut moreish breadstick,he's startled: she's changed.But he's wrong. She hasn't. She isn't.Back to his chewing:the fragmentationand mashing of rusksoothingly loudin the isolated chamber of his skull.<10>(Hello?)He jolts. Ice cubesslurrily clatterto the bottom of the tumbleras he bumps it back on the table.Wiping his wet lipalso expresses surprise.(She's here. How did that happen!)<11>(Have some wine,) he adds,any stage businessbeing better than a dry.(I'm afraid it hasn't really had time,butHe pours into the two glasses,measuring by earidentical notes,)then doesn't put the bottle down.He has a speech to deliver.(...And they drink.Becoming palatable.)Her expression expresses no judgementand she puts the glass down.(You haven't changed....It's almost all pizzas,)he apologisesbefore she has read a word.(I'm afraid the place has gone to the dogs.)She looks around, cursorily.(Don't be absurd, it's fine.)<12>Across the tableacross clean cloth and cluttershe leans and wooingly twicewith middle fingernudges him on the knuckle.(Come on, no sulks. Be nice. Sois sage....Pax,) he agrees, aggrieved.And they shake hands,a squeeze of fingers rather:hers light then tightthen light again in his,then efficiently retrieved.<13>He is startled from this recklessplunge into memoryby his own awareness of it:like snpping out of a doze.How long can it have lasted?Gone some time.(But she seems not to have noticed,...you were practically seducing hima minute ago.)She swivels her gaze back:smiling, surprisingly.(It's nice to knowyou're still madly jealous.)<14>(And we'll need another bottle of this.)The waiter goes:one of those fellowsyou'd describe as nondescriptif the word wasn't forbidden.How many timesin some author's manuscripthas he crossed it out and writtenThere is nothing that cannot be described.But in this particular case,searching in ainfor any distinctive feature,he may allow and exception.From that thought idlyon a ride of the eyearound the room--the bustle, the hubbub--he travels to the next:a small dark waitress carryingthree filled platesfrom the kitchen hatchreverses pauses turns proceedswith such practised fluencythat he'd like to catchher eye to show herhis appreciationand be rewar