午宴之歌

用了这句词做题目，苏轼一生作品甚多，我喜欢的也不少，但是只有这两句，我觉得自己永远需要反复咀嚼，才能期待在某一个瞬间和它背后隐藏的心情相遇。

另一个原因是江南的同名卷首，2006年5月，我在高考前读到这篇色彩清丽的文。事实上整部午宴之歌给我的感觉和这篇文也极其接近，我脑海里不断回响它的某些字句，和AR独有的念白重叠在一起。

先要赞一句AR的声音很适合这首诗的氛围，唇齿间摩擦的音节如同大提琴的弓在琴弦上来回，弥漫开一片厚实、温暖的光芒——略略泛黄的，有着旧时光独有的、微微发苦的香。

这是一个失意的老男人的故事，一个事业和爱情上都很难说是成功的老男人十五年以后突然某根神经搭错了想要找回点儿旧时的感觉，于是他写了邮件约见自己的旧情人，那个女人离开他以后嫁了一个远比他要体面的作家，戴精致的金手环，友好而有分寸地对餐厅的年轻服务生微笑，刀叉碰在盘子边缘发出令人愉悦的轻响。某个瞬间她伸出手去摩挲他的手，即使经历了15年时光，她的手依旧纤细柔软，只是多了些细小的皱纹，而他的手却发胖、饱经风霜。经过15年我们重聚，我的鬓角已经花白，我的脸上有了岁月的刻痕，我的眼睛已经混浊，再难看清你的模样，你或许还能随着当年的音乐起舞，而我已不再能逐你的舞步轻唱。

何必再叩我的心呢？我的心已是朽木。

而那个女人，她温柔、优雅、知性、善良，她对文学和美食都有着独到而优秀的品味，她在适当的时候谈论这些话题，时机把握得恰到好处，不会有任何不自然的感觉。

可是……

她不懂坐在她对面的那个男人的心。

她谈论那个男人的诗歌，那个男人的生活平凡而无望，在狭小逼仄的办公室里对着无止尽的文稿，使用一支简陋的圆珠笔，穿一件起皱的外套，没什么钱，甚而他的缪斯也弃他而去。女人知道这一切，或者说她的睿智足以让她在这段短暂的交谈中洞察这一切，她真的读懂了男人写的那些诗，其中的每一个意象、每一个人物都有着特定的意涵，因为她有着那么好的鉴赏力和文学修养。她是认真读了那些诗的，我们知道，男人也知道。

可是，她读懂了一切，却唯独没有读懂那些诗背后一颗逐渐老去的心。那个男人曾在巴黎的街道上她的房门外徘徊，却始终没有勇气去按响门铃，鸽子在巴黎的天空下四散飞翔，而他转身离去，巴黎的风吹动他两鬓的白发。他为一次午宴而欢欣，本来已经衰老而尺水不波的心略略泛起涟漪，他翩然出门，一跃来到伦敦的街道上，在那里邂逅弗吉尼亚·伍尔夫和T·S·艾略特，他穿过成群的游客，抄一条小道，步履轻快如同年轻人，我想甚至他会觉得缪斯女神的光辉再度照到了他的额头。

但是她终归不懂。他在饭桌上用流水般的语言描述他的自传，而她说自己的近况，巴黎很好，丈夫要出新书了，一切都遵循常规，没有惊喜，没有想象中久别重逢的温情脉脉，不，或许本该有的，是因为男人的笨拙抑或是放不下的骄傲而使一切都付之东流了么？对于重逢，我们怕的不是爱或恨或“纵使相逢应不识”，我们怕的是平庸。你好么？我很好。巴黎好么？美妙的城市，你也该来玩玩。你丈夫呢？他很好，而且也问你好。对话还在继续，但却是无意义的，当事双方的心不在一个宇宙空间里，他的目光游离，他的意识超越光速在另一个空间去追寻她远去的影像；而她认真地对待当下这场对话，只是老友叙旧而已，难道不该谈这些么？生活中的琐事，平凡的点滴，这些她觉得很重要的，却恰恰让他深恶痛绝。

我想男人应该是厌弃着自己的，无名编辑，写几首没什么人看的诗，工作环境让人窒息，厌倦现实而沉湎于过去——典型的一无是处。他想通过一次午宴找到一点旧日的光芒，然而从进入那间餐厅，看到服务员陌生的脸和礼节性的微笑时，这一切就都已花落水凉。

买了这本书. 一来为了仔细研读,力图翻译准确; 二来为了留做纪念, 毕竟是第一次看诗歌改编的剧, 更是第一次接触诗歌翻译.
片子本身我不想再评论, 这种片子需要自己逐字逐句去体会. 看的次数越多, 便越是感叹语言的魅力. 就是这样在字斟句酌之间, 不经意的,好些台词几乎都记在心里了. (然而我要再啰嗦一句: 这种文学性太强的诗歌并不适合当作教材'学英文', 本诗一些用词和表达方式, 英国人表示他们自己也看不太懂, 更别提使用了.)

剧中的台词, 全是直接用的原诗句, 但不可避免有删掉的部分, 所以打算把原诗当中没有编进本剧的章节敲出来, 有兴趣的可以看看.

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注1: 括号中的是剧中出现过的, 方便大家定位.
注2: 大小写, 换行, 标点, 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 see
Virginia Woolf
loping off to the library
with a trug full of books.)
At every twentieth step,
she takes a sharp drag at a cigarette
and pulls a tormented face
as if she had never tasted anything
so 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 straggle
more provocatively than ever;)
the approach to Bedford Square is blocked:
orange plastic barriers--
our century's major contribution
to 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 feel
pleasure in his own fleetness,
in not being carried but riding
the currents and eddies
of the human torrent.

And occasionally stopping
to let another pass,
unthanked politeness being
the ultimate gesture
of the metropolitan dandy.

<3>
(The restaurant
is an old haunt,
though he hasn't been there for years;)
not since the publishing trade,
once the province
of swashbucklers and buccaneers,
was waylaid by suits and calculators,
and a strict afternoon
curfew imposed.

Farewell to long lunches
and other boozy pursuits!
Hail to the new age
of the desk potato,
strict hours of imprisonment
and eyesight tortured
by an impassive electronic screen!

Sometimes, though, a man needs
to go out on the rampage,
throw conscientious time-keeping
to 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 sight
of some notional higher authority.

<4>
Lunch being a game with few rules,
and those unwritten,
it's important to him that the field of play
remain the same
as he fondly remembers it.

(Zanzotti's: unreformed Soho Italian.
...
cultureless, fly-by-night.)

He stops for a scrawny lad
wheeling a big, unsteady,
rust-patched, festering bin
to park at the roadside,
and wonders what he will find.

<5>
And that's where Dylan Thomas
scrounged ten bob off him,
then set about seducing his girl.

Not.

Seriously, though,
what will they say when they look back
at our demythologised age?

Postmodern Times:
garrulous, garish classic
starring

some idiot off the box.

Charlie Cretin!
Needs work.

Craplin? Forget it.

He cuts down Meard Street,
now much too smart for its name
but where he remembers
a 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 coats
and somehow suggesting edibility.

Same signwriter's cursive
festooning the fascia-board
and flanked by the same brass lamps.

It's so much the same, it almost
looks like a replica.

The Wardour Street wideboys and creatives
must 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 trick
of the dictionary-picker's skittering brain?

Eye-corner glimpse
of fugitive epiphany
that, for several beats,
he pursues in vain.

(Too bad. Let it go.)

He has his hand still on the dimpled
brass bul of the door-handle.

Which he turns, noticing
the familiar loose-jointedness:
that's a promissing sign.

With the meekest bump of resistance
from the spring contraption overhead,
the door yields and he steps inside
to stand on the prickled mat,
peering into the gloom.

Midday twilight,
requiring adjustment
of all the senses
before 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 few
untaken covers will be his.
Not that one by the door
to 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 edge
of 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 brush
with 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 nicely
to the spot he had spotted
from the door.
Laid for two. A little island. An eyot.
Perfect.

<8>
(We said we wouldn't look back.)

Innocent jaunty wistful
ditty from the wings
and would run uninterrupted
if 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 him
suggesting)
No, he

Woofs of laughter
in imprecise unison
from a table, all men,
jolly good company,
off to his right.

He draws a breadstick,
wrong brand, from its ripped sheath
and 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 tasteless
but moreish breadstick,
he's startled: she's changed.
But he's wrong. She hasn't. She isn't.

Back to his chewing:
the fragmentation
and mashing of rusk
soothingly loud
in the isolated chamber of his skull.

<10>
(Hello?)

He jolts. Ice cubes
slurrily clatter
to the bottom of the tumbler
as he bumps it back on the table.
Wiping his wet lip
also expresses surprise.

(She's here. How did that happen!)

<11>
(Have some wine,) he adds,
any stage business
being better than a dry.
(I'm afraid it hasn't really had time,
but

He pours into the two glasses,
measuring by ear
identical notes,)
then doesn't put the bottle down.
He has a speech to deliver.

(...
And they drink.
Becoming palatable.)

Her expression expresses no judgement
and she puts the glass down.

(You haven't changed.
...
It's almost all pizzas,)
he apologises
before 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 table
across clean cloth and clutter
she leans and wooingly twice
with middle finger
nudges 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 tight
then light again in his,
then efficiently retrieved.

<13>
He is startled from this reckless
plunge into memory
by 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 him
a minute ago.)

She swivels her gaze back:
smiling, surprisingly.

(It's nice to know
you're still madly jealous.)

<14>
(And we'll need another bottle of this.)

The waiter goes:
one of those fellows
you'd describe as nondescript
if the word wasn't forbidden.
How many times
in some author's manuscript
has he crossed it out and written
There is nothing that cannot be described.
But in this particular case,
searching in ain
for any distinctive feature,
he may allow and exception.

From that thought idly
on a ride of the eye
around the room--
the bustle, the hubbub--
he travels to the next:
a small dark waitress carrying
three filled plates
from the kitchen hatch
reverses pauses turns proceeds
with such practised fluency
that he'd like to catch
her eye to show her
his appreciation
and be rewar

我不是文青，绝对不是。并非因为“文青”在当今像是骂人话，而是因为我的思维结构与文青格格不入。我看重事实，讲求证据，逻辑，推理，科学事实，这些东西无一不是艺术的大忌。
自然而然地，我尽量不碰文艺片，不读诗。塔可夫斯基的《乡愁》我看了三遍，都没看完；西莫斯·希尼的诗集我也知道写得极好，却就是看着……不给力。
文艺片那大段大段无声镜头，长镜头，超长镜头，不停地蒙太奇，我受不了。你知道我在看《乡愁》时会走神到什么程度？因为片子里基本没什么对话，我忍不住胡思乱想：这个教堂是东正教的还是天主教的？东正教堂我可从没见过，不知里面放的圣乐和其他教派的是不是一样的？是不是格里高利圣咏？那巴赫的音乐呢？……我自己在生活中可以连续几天一字不讲，但要我长时间忍受无声的有声电影是很痛苦的。
诗歌我从来不喜欢，这里尤指现代诗歌。唐诗宋词我还是愿意一读的，给个注释就更好了。国外诗歌我得羞愧地承认自己好像只读过《浮士德》。对，我喜欢看长篇叙事诗，有文采又有内容，文质彬彬，寓教于乐。
又是孤陋寡闻了，不知道如今还有把叙事诗拍成影视作品的。我值的就是这部，《午宴之歌》（The Song of Lunch）。原作者是出生于我国（香港理论上算“我国”吧？）的英国诗人克里斯朵夫·里德（Christopher Reid）。两位主角也很熟了，一位是女人喜欢的老男人，另一位是男人喜欢的老女人——顺便问一句，男人有喜欢老女人的吗？反正我是喜欢的。
这部片子我目前看了三遍，已经看得抑郁了。连续不断的优美词句和对细节的捕捉让我根本不可能胡思乱想，更要命的是，我就算胡思乱想，可能也就是诗中所说的细节（我无意暗示自己有什么“诗情画意”）。对本人而言，一部好的文青作品的标准是什么？让人看得心慌。上一次让我看得倒吸凉气的作品是罗兰·巴特的《恋人絮语》——一本我发誓不再翻阅的顶级个人禁书，读过的人都知道我说的是什么意思。
很好，《午宴之歌》让我重温“心慌意乱”了，而且是毫无防备的情况下。午宴之歌，瞧这名字，怎么看怎么觉得是个轻松愉快的样子。抱歉，是我幼稚了，Professor Snape和Professor Trelawney在一起能怎么轻松愉快？
这下好了，抑郁了，怎么办呢？以前用恶意解构作品的办法驱赶忧愁，但面对她，我无能为力。
要不这么得了，背背诗作，里面有一百多个高分词汇呢，用到考试里，得牛逼啊？考试是扼杀一切情绪的手术刀，不是么？

文艺片范畴，通常为法兰西的特长；但谈到将“文学艺术”在影像上辗转呈现的热情，则非英国人莫属。拥有自中古时代起就大放异彩的足以自傲的文学史，莎士比亚的后裔们自然非常自负于他们独有的如同贵族世袭制一般的文学宝藏。不提自莎翁以来，英国的戏剧和小说如何成为了文艺复兴文学中的旗帜和标杆，对于18世纪往后类似简•奥斯丁和勃朗宁姐妹这种广受好评的大众情人类的文学作品，英国人向来不遗余力地加以推广。类似于将《傲慢与偏见》和《理智与情感》这样的名著改编在银幕上，从单集到系列的BBC古典剧目再到电影，翻拍了无数遍也不嫌烦。在互联网一统江湖、快速浏览网络讯息的方式几乎争夺了所有传统书读者的当下，这个闻名的岛国则永远竭力为正统文学留下一方不染尘埃的净土。

文学视觉化
将文学经典翻拍成影视作品并不见新奇，但将一首诗歌扩展成一幕剧的做法，却是将缪斯精神发挥到了极致。由瑞克曼（Alan Rickman）和汤普森（Emma Thompson）主演的《午宴之歌》即是这一出小小银幕舞台剧的绝佳代表。电影改编自诗人Christopher Reid于2010年获柯斯达文学奖（Costa Book Awards）“年度代表作”的同名叙事诗，也是他最杰出的作品之一。诗歌讲述的是某位不知名的图书编辑和他早已嫁做他人妇的旧情人在分手15年后再聚伦敦某餐厅叙旧的故事。如此小众的文艺剧最初依旧是在傲娇的BBC播出——作为某档晚间节目的单集剧目。按照BBC 2台《午宴之歌》节目监制人Greg Wise的话来说，BBC一定深得上帝眷顾。“因为除了BBC，我不知道还有哪家广播公司有这样的洞察力，勇气和责任心来保证这项工作完成。”——显然，这种吃力不讨好的手笔，是一贯的BBC风范。
深得上帝眷顾的可不光是只有BBC。满世界都忙着在捞钱，大英帝国却有闲暇为“国家诗歌月”造势——《午宴之歌》即是为2010年国家诗歌月应景而推出的。该诗所获的柯斯达文学奖也是大有来头，其前身为英国惠特公司自1971年所赞助的“惠特笔奖”。柯斯达奖的奖项内容、奖金及评选方式皆沿用传统，评审员广泛涉猎作家、书店老板和新闻工作者；其评判的标准是选出一本写的尽善尽美、富娱乐性并且值得向大众推荐一读的好书。其中，《午宴之歌》所获得的“年度代表作”（Book of the Year）奖项的审查小组则有九位成员，包括各审查小组的主席及其它三位热心读者，于全部得奖作品中评审出的唯一的一部作品，成为年度代表作。当年，《午宴之歌》获得的评论是：它展现了“Christopher Reid的全部智慧，诡计和人道”。这导致了诗歌最终被搬上了银幕，并获得了英国影界两位老牌戏骨的首肯：“他们几乎是迅速就确定了同意出演此剧的意向。”
事实上，BBC的《午宴之歌》确实是将诗歌的文学性还原到了最佳状态。在这幕不足50分钟的短剧中，没有连贯的完整剧情，没有清晰度人物设定，镜头的设置和运用多半为静止局部特写的画面切换，慢镜头的运用将各种细节展现的分毫毕现。而电影中最佳看点即为大段内心独白似的优美台词。这些提炼自诗歌的戏剧语言，配合着画面传达出这个无法止住失落情绪的带点残酷的故事。万事皆变，而昔日的旧情人在一顿并不愉快的午餐中依旧未能达成双方预想的愉快期许。对于故事主角的他来说，目睹在巴黎过着精致生活的她，比较自己的现状，暗生失落的情绪导致了荒诞的戏剧性结局。这种悲剧式样的宿命往往是人们不愿意面对的生活真实所在，却借助文学和影象艺术的方式完美呈现出来。也许这才是文学作品在瞬息万变的时代洪流中，最为珍贵的存在意义。

无戏剧，不演员
和好莱坞大片打造出的流水作业一般的标杆型帅哥靓妹不同，英国演员通常都被赞誉为气质绝佳，功底深厚——那是因为他们几乎个个都是经历过舞台戏剧的浸淫，而不仅仅是一个杵在那儿当摆设的花瓶。比起肌肉救世主男和波霸性感尤物，考究的仪容、整洁的服饰、谦卑的姿态、优雅的举手投足才是英佬奉行的精髓，万般情绪在浅笑中流露；抑扬顿挫的语调和拿捏得恰到好处的诵读更是备受推崇的唯一标榜。虽然并不是每一个英国演员都能在戏剧舞台和电影银屏的双料上玩得左右逢源，但从十四行诗到弥尔顿，文学素养已成为英伦人深入骨髓的特征。对于演员来说，在舞台上的功力是其银幕上更多发展的基础，而对于这些老戏骨来说，举手投足，腾挪辗转中，未曾开演，自成戏剧。
《午宴之歌》中的两位主演——艾伦•瑞克曼和艾玛•汤普森可不仅仅只是《哈利•波特》系列里的两位知名教授而已。艾伦除了演员身份，还任英国皇家艺术戏剧学院副主席，在舞台剧、电视节目、导演、编剧、乃至戏剧配音上都有卓越的成就。在英国皇家戏剧艺术学院（RDRA）求学时，他就已经接受了正统科班的戏剧训练；毕业后，他并未一头踏入影视圈，而是在英国各种定目剧团和实验剧场中演出各种话剧和戏剧，深谙莎士比亚的经典作品。这些经历无异于对他日后进军银幕积累了宝贵经验。而演对手戏的艾玛•汤普森也是戏剧班底出身，就读于剑桥大学纽纳姆学院英国文学系；在学生时代，艾玛就加入了剑桥大学的戏剧社团“脚灯俱乐部”（Cambridge University Footlights Dramatic Club）并担任社团副主席——这是一支建于1883年的学生戏剧社团，在英国高校广泛享有盛誉。大学毕业后，艾玛在音乐剧和BBC电视剧中取得表演领域的成就。她同时还做过戏剧评论，改编剧本——总而言之，在英国，演员们基本遵循这样一条定律：无戏剧，不演员。《午宴之歌》中，大段的旁白和诵读，其语境之优美，音调之抑扬，展示了两位出众演员深厚的戏剧功底。提及戏剧，艾伦曾表示：“你可以在表演中表述真情实感，抑或谎言以蔽之。你可以揭示你的内心，或是掩饰你的情感。观众们能通过你的表演，认识和发现到自己身上的一些东西，或者没有。这是非常具有挑战性的——你不会期待他们在观看你的表演后，走出剧场，脑子里仅仅想着‘哦还不错吧，可是出租车在哪儿？’”

失落的财富
对于英国佬来说，保持着如此高姿态的文艺架势一方面基于古老传统，一方面源于自傲的贵族精神。如同古老的英国皇室一般，这种唯我独尊的优越感一直是老牌帝国昂然自居的资本。如今，英国人为之自傲的悠久传统在时代浪潮的冲击下，正面临着土崩瓦解的局面。当所有的人都在追寻感官的刺激和快餐式的享乐时，坚守着精神层面的孤芳自赏显得分外孤僻，但这其实是不可或缺的。《午宴之歌》是这样的一个例子，让人们意识到，即便再功利，诗歌这样一种优美精致到不容亵渎的高昂“消费品”，也有存在的理由。对于某些传承下来的珍宝标准而言，不是追寻利益最大化，也不是游戏人间；而在皇室也平民的世风日下中，某些固执的精神贵族对最后一块阵地的坚守，却是用最值得钦佩的一种方式来保卫着最具高贵精神的人类文明和他们自创的珍贵文化财富。