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【川端康成】《雪国》英文版

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YASUNARI KAWABATA
(1899-1972)
Yasunari Kawabata was born in Osaka to a family that was far from wealthy despite its aristocratic origins. His childhood was a litany of loss: his father, a frail and scholarly doctor, died when he was two, his mother when he was three. Going to live with his grandparents near Osaka, he soon lost his grandmother and his sister and was left alone with his blind grandfather.
A delicate boy who often missed school, Kawabata preferred to bury himself in the Japanese classics rather than to play with his peers. Despite a conviction that he, too, was destined for an early death, he resolved to become a writer in his early teens. Gessel (1993, 144) describes him as "determined to be a success, if only to restore to the family some of the dignity and property lost in his grandfather's day." When his grandfather eventually died in 1914, the teenage Kawabata was left with no close family.
Kawabata moved to Tokyo in 1917 to attend high school, then, in 1920, enrolled in the English Literature Department of Tokyo Imperial University. There he helped resurrect Shinshich6, the literary magazine in which Tanizaki had made his debut a decade earlier. Kawabata was to be actively involved with literary magazines throughout his life. He also sat on the first-ever jury for the Akutagawa Prize in 1935 and helped launch the careers of many writers, including the young Yukio Mishima.
Kawabata's own career started to take offin the mid-1920s. A 1925 account of his grandfather's last days was followed the next year by The Izu Dancer, the story of an unconsummated love affair between a high school student and a young dancing girl. Perennially popular, it established what was to be a recurring theme in Kawabata's oeu- vre: "the discovery of a younger, impoverished, virginal girl by an urban, well-educated male" (Cabell 2001, 153). Kawabata also wrote the screenplay for A Page of Madness, a film set in a lunatic asylum, produced a number of prose vignettes called "palm-of-the-hand" stories, and serialized The Scarlet Gang ofAsakusa, a collage-style portrait of life in the dancehalls and cafes of Tokyo's entertainment district.
In 1934, Kawabata began work on Snow Country. The story of the hopeless relationship between a wealthy Tokyoite and a geisha at a hot-spring town in the mountains of Niigata, it was published first in 1937, then in a revised version in 1948. Kawabata's methodof producing his novels was unconventional. He would never write a book straight through; instead he would write a section, publish it, then add more when inspiration visited, only declaring it finished when he felt the work had finally achieved its proper form.
Kawabata's work is sometimes described as "expressing the essence of the lapanese mind" (Osterling 1968), his oblique and fragmented mode of storytelling seen as more akin to haiku poetry than conventional prose narrative. One must, however, be careful about sentimentalizing him into no more than the flail and nostalgic exponent of traditional Japanese beauty. A pioneer of the Neo-Perceptionist school in the 1920s, Kawabata consciously tried to import the techniques of European modernism into lapanese literature, while spare dialogue, an almost total absence of exposition, and sudden shifts in time and place owe much to the techniques of the cinema.
During the war, Kawabata was called on to perform various duties by the militarist government: editing the writings of soldiers about to go into battle, touring lapan's conquests in China--even spending April 1945 in Kagoshima with the kamikaze corps. It has been suggested that Seidensticker's portrayal (1973, vii) of Kawabata as a man who would "have nothing of jingoistic wartime hysteria" may be more wishful thinking than fact.
As Japan crashed to humiliating defeat, Kawabata set up a publishing company to reissue prewar literary masterpieces and publish a magazine to showcase new writing talent. The early 1950s saw Kawabata himself publish The Master of Go, Thousand Cranes and The Sound of the Mountain. True to his famous remark that "after the war he could write nothing but elegies," these uniformly pessimistic masterpieces deal with death, deceit and the decline of tradition. Later works from the 1960s such as "The House of the Sleeping Beauties" address the emotional isolation and physical impotence that afflict men in old age.
Kawabata's works started to be translated in the mid-1950s and his reputation--bolstered also by his tireless efforts as an ambassador for Japanese literature--spread overseas. International recognition culminated in the award of the Nobel Prize for Literature in October 1968, but Kawabata's health was in decline, and the 1970 suicide of his protege, Mishima, had hit him hard. In the evening of April 16, 1972, Kawabata went to his writing room in Kamakura and gassed himself to death.


1楼2015-10-01 17:48回复
    Snow Country Miniature Through a Glass Darkly Kawabata's works are frequently described as disjointed, diffuse or lacking in finality, and his characteristic opacity is only exaggerated by the brevity of his 146 tanogokoro no shosetsu, or "palm-of-the-hand stories," of which this is one. Completed only months before his death, "Snow Country Miniature" is a distillation of Snow Country,
    the novel Kawabata's translator Edward G. Seidensticker regarded as "his masterpiece" (1957, x). The story may have been inspired by Kawabata's experience of being jilted by a girl from Niigata, the "snow country" of the title, in his early twenties.
    In this compressed version we meet (if not always by name) the key characters from the full-length novel: Shimamura, the feckless dilettante from Tokyo; Komako, his geisha lover; and Y6ko, the mysterious girl whose death in a fire serves as the conclusion of the original work.
    Kawabata prefers implication to explanation, leaving it up to the reader to catch the inferences of each brief, inconclusive episode and retro- assemble them into an interpretation of events. Look out for unannounced chronological leaps; be aware that the characters may often be talking at cross-purposes; and notice how nature, in mirroring the emotions of the protagonists, fulfills a role akin to the chorus in Greek tragedy.


    2楼2015-10-01 17:48
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      2025-08-11 13:59:55
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      They emerged from the long border tunnel into the snow country. The night was carpeted with white. The train halted at a signal box.
      Rising from the seat across the aisle, a young girl came over and opened the window in front of Shimamura. The snow-chilled air flooded in. The girl leaned far out of the window and shouted as though to someone far away:
      "Stationmaster! Stationmaster!"
      The man who came tramping slowly over through the snow held a lantern. He was wrapped in a scarf to the bridge of his nose and the fur flaps of his hat hung down over his ears.
      So cold already, thought Shimamura. He gazed out at the sheds--probably housing for railroad workers--that straggled desolately across the lower slopes of the mountain. The white of the snow was swallowed up in darkness before it reached them.
      It had been three hours earlier that, in a fit of boredom, Shimamura had been watching the index finger of his left hand as he waggled it around. In the end, only this finger retained a vivid memory of the woman he was about to see. The harder he tried to form a clear picture of her, the more elusive and hazy she became in his inconstant memory. It struck him as extraordinary that this one finger, seemingly moist even now from her touch, should be thus drawing him to her from afar, and he brought it up to his nose to take a sniff of it. When he absentmindedly traced a line with the same finger on the fogged-up glass of the window, one of the woman's eyes suddenly loomed at him. In his surprise he almost cried out. But he had been daydreaming, and when he got a grip on himself he realized it was no more than the reflection of the girl in the seat across the aisle. Outside twilight had fallen, and the lights had been switched on in the train, turning the window glass into a mirror. But the glass had been co pletely coated in water vapor due to the warmth of the steam heaters and had not been functioning as a mirror until he wiped it with his finger. With the evening landscape flowing by in the depths of this mirror, reflected objects and the reflecting mirror moved in tandem like double-exposed images on film. The characters and the background scenery had absolutely no connection to one another. The people were transparent and fragile, the landscape a hazy flow, and as the two of them merged they created a universe of symbols that was not of this world. Particularly when the lights of the countryside shone within the girl's face, Shimamura's chest throbbed at the inexpressible beauty of it.
      The sky beyond the distant mountains was still aglow with traces of light from the setting sun, and the shapes of things far off in the landscape outside the window had not yet faded from sight. But they had lost their color, making the endless expanse of banal fields and mountains look only more banal; and because nothing in the scene stood out and grabbed your attention, it was somehow like a great stream of indistinguishable emotions. Of course, that was because the girl's face was floating in it. With the evening landscape in continuous movement around the edges of the girl's reflection in the mirror, her face appeared transparent. But caught up in the illusion that the darkening landscape rushing past behind her face might actually be passing in front of it, he could not for a moment tell if it really was transparent or not.
      It was not that bright inside the train, and the image was weaker than in a proper mirror. The window did not reflect much light, so in the course of peering into it Shimamura gradually forgot it was a mirror at all and it began to seem as if the girl was floating in the darkness outside.
      It was then that a light gleamed from within the girl's face. Her reflection in the mirror was not strong enough to blot out the light outside, and the light did not obliterate her reflection either. The light streamed across her face. It did not, however, illuminate it. The light was of a cold, faraway quality. As it softly illuminated the area around her tiny pupils--at the instant, that is, when the light and girl's eyes had become perfectly aligned--her eyes became mysterious and beautiful fireflies floating on waves of twilight.


      3楼2015-10-01 17:48
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        The woman gazed at the far-off river as it glowed under the evening sun. She felt awkward and uncomfortable.
        "Silly me, I forgot these. Your cigarettes," said the woman with forced lightness.
        "You weren't there when I popped back into your room just now. I was just wondering what had happened to you, and there you were charging like the clappers all alone up the mountain. I saw you out the window. You looked funny.
        Anyway, I brought your cigarettes, since you seemed to have forgotten them."
        Producing the cigarettes from her sleeve, she struck a match.
        "I feel bad about that girl."
        "Don't be silly. It's completely up to the client. When to send the woman back."
        All they could hear was the sweetly rounded babble of the rock-strewn river. Through the cedars they could see the folds of the mountains off in the distance as they darkened.
        "The girl should be no less beautiful than you are, otherwise when I saw you after the event, I'd just feel ashamed of myself."
        "Don't give me that! Chock-full of excuses, you are," said the woman in a bitter, mocking tone--but the emotions flowing between them had changed since he had called in the geisha.
        When Shimamura realized that this woman was the only one he had wanted from the start, and that, as usual, he was taking the long way around, he felt disgusted with himself. Meanwhile, the woman appeared to him all the more beautiful. Moments after calling to him from the cedar grove, she now looked nonchalant and relaxed, as if she had quietly let something go.
        Her high, thin nose had a certain melancholy, but beneath it the small budded lips, with their smooth transition from narrowness to fullness, were like a beautiful circle of leeches. Had they been cracked or discolored, they would have surely looked gross and impure, but they were moist and glistening. The corners of her eyes had no upward slant, and there was something a bit odd about her eyes, which looked as though they'd been deliberately arranged perfectly straight across her face. The downward curves of her trim, thick eyebrows, however, framed them beautifully.
        The shape of her face--round and not too flat--was ordinary enough. With her skin that looked like porcelain brushed with pink and her throat that had not yet fleshed out, she was not so much beautiful as pure.
        For a woman who made her living as an entertainer, she was a little pigeon-breasted.
        "My, my. Look at all these sand flies," said the woman, getting to her feet and brushing down her skirts.


        5楼2015-10-01 17:49
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          It was probably about ten o'clock that night. The woman shouted Shimamura's name from the corridor, then hurtled into his room as if she'd been pushed. She collapsed against the table, sending everything on it flying with flailing, drunken hands, then greedily gulped down some water.
          Apparently she had run into some men whom she had got to know on the ski slopes that winter and who had dropped in from over the mountain. Having been invited, she'd gone over to their inn. There they'd proceeded to call in some geisha and have a rambunctious time. She had been made to drink, she said.
          Her head lolling from side to side, she rambled on to herself.
          "I really have to go. They'll be wondering where I've got to. I'll be back later." She stumbled out of the room.
          After about an hour, once again he heard her coming unsteadily down the long corridor, bumping into things, losing her footing.
          "Shimamura-saan! Shimamura-saan!" she shouted in a shrill voice.
          "I can't see a thing. Shimamura-saan!"
          It was quite clearly the voice of a woman, her heart laid bare, calling to her man. Shimamura was caught by surprise. Thinking that her screeching would be echoing throughout the inn, he got to his feet in a fluster, whereupon the woman stuck her fingers through the paper of the shoji, grabbed the doorframe and then collapsed against Shimamura.
          "Ah, there you are."
          Her limbs entangled with his, the woman sat down, resting against him.
          "I'm not drunk. No, sir. It's just that I feel awful. Awful. I know what I'm doing though. Ah, I need a drink of water. I shouldn't have mixed whiskey with other drinks.
          Goes straight to my head. It's killing me. They'd brought some cheap moonshine. How was I to know?" As she rambled on, she kept rubbing her face with her hands.
          Outside, the sound of the rain suddenly grew stronger.
          If he relaxed his grip at all, the woman would slump over. He was holding her head so tightly that her coiffure was crushed against his cheek, and his hand slipped into her bosom.
          The woman did not respond to his pleading. She crossed her ar***ike a bar clamped over the objects of his desire, but possibly because she was so addled with drink, she had no strength.
          "What's wrong with me? Damn you! Damn you! I'm all limp. These useless things." All of a sudden she bit her own arm.
          Shocked, he pulled her arm away. Deep tooth marks were imprinted on it.
          Letting him have his way with her, the woman started doodling. She said she was going to write down the names of the men she liked, and after listing some twenty or thirty stage and movie actors' names, she wrote "Shimamura" over and over again.
          The delectable swelling beneath Shimamura's hand grew gradually warmer.
          "Ah, I'm glad that's all over. What a relief," he said gently. He even felt slightly maternal toward her.
          The woman suddenly started feeling unwell again, and she squirmed her way to her feet before pitching forward into the far corner of the room.


          6楼2015-10-01 17:49
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            "It isn't right. Not right. I'm going. Going home."
            "You can hardly even walk. And it's bucketing down."
            'Tll go barefoot. I'll crawl."
            "It's not safe. If you want to leave, I'll go with you."
            The inn was on the top of a hill and it was a steep slope.
            "Why not loosen your sash a bit? Better to lie down a while and sober up."
            "That's no good. This is the way to do it. I always do this," said the woman, sitting up straight and puffing out her chest. But she only found it hard to breathe. Opening the window she tried to vomit, but nothing came. As she fought down the urge to roll around on the floor, clutched at herself and just occasionally pulled herself together enough to repeat, "I've got to go, got to go," it was soon after two in the morning.
            The woman had turned away to hide her face, but soon thrust her lips toward him, suddenly and fiercely. Then as if moaning in a delirium of pain:
            "We shouldn't. We shouldn't. You were the one who said 'Let's just be friends,'" she repeated countless times.
            Struck by the seriousness in her voice and the strength of will evident in her frowning determination to control herself, Shimura felt rather bored, and his interest waned. It even occurred to him to maybe keep his promise to the woman.
            "I have no regrets. None at all. It's just that I'm not that kind of woman. That's not the sort of woman I am. You were the one who said it could never last." She was half-numb with liquor.
            "I'm not doing anything wrong. It's you. You lost. You're the weak one. Not me." She babbled on, biting her sleeve to muffle her delight.
            For a while she was quiet, seemingly dazed, then, as if she had suddenly remembered something, she said sharply:
            "You don't respect me, do you? You think I'm a joke."
            "No, I do not."
            "Deep inside, you don't take me seriously, do you? Even if you're not laughing at me now, I bet you will later." The woman rolled over onto her front and sobbed.
            But she soon stopped crying and started to talk all about herself in a relaxed, friendly manner, as if providing a personal profile to a suitor. Her drunken discomfort was apparently gone and forgotten. She did not say a word about what had just happened.
            "Look at that! ! was so busy talking, I lost track of the time." She smiled dreamily.
            She had to get home before daybreak, she said.
            "It's still dark. But the people around here are early risers," she said, getting to her feet again and again to open the window and peek outside.
            "I still can't see anyone around. It's raining this morning, so no one will be going out to the fields."
            Even after the mountains opposite and the roofs of the houses at their foot became visible through the rain, the woman still seemed reluctant to leave. She fixed her hair before the inn staff got up, and though Shimamura offered to take her down to the hallway, the thought of being seen terrified her, so she slipped off by herself in a panicky escape.
            When the woman abruptly raised her head, Shimamura could see through the thick white make-up that her face was red from her eyelids down along the sides of her nose, where it had been pressing against his hand. The mark evoked the cold of the nights in the snow country, but somehow it felt warm too because of the sheer blackness of her hair.


            7楼2015-10-01 17:49
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              There were the radiant beginnings of a smile on her face. As she smiled, it could be she was recalling "that time," for Shimamura's words seemed literally to be seeping into her body like dye. Her collar was pulled back at the nape, so when she hung her head in a fit of pique he saw that she had flushed red all the way down to her back. It was as if she had exposed her nakedness in all its moist freshness. Maybe the contrast with the color of her hair made the impression even stronger. It was not that the hair pulled back from her forehead was fine or luxuriant; the individual strands were thick like a man's, not a single lock was out of place, and it had a heavy sheen like some black mineral.
              Realizing that the surprise he'd felt when he touched such cold hair for the first time was not due to its coldness but to the nature of the hair itself, Shimamura scrutinized it afresh. The woman then started to count her fingers on top of the kotatsu. It went on and on.
              "What are you counting?" he asked, but she said nothing and just kept on counting in silence.
              "It was the twenty-third of May."
              "Ah, I see. So you were counting the number of days. July and August are two long months in a row."
              "This is the one-hundred and ninety-ninth day, you know. Today's exactly the hundred and ninety-ninth day."
              "It's the midnight train for Tokyo." At the sound of the train's whistle she sprang to her feet, tore open the shoji and window, flung herself against the railings and sat down on the window sill.
              Cold air surged into the room immediately. The train sounded like the night wind as it faded into the distance.
              "Hey, you idiot, it's freezing." Shimamura got up and went over to the window, but there was no wind.
              The austere nighttime landscape was ringing to its depths, it seemed, with the sound of the great expanse of snow freezing. There was no moon. The number of stars was incredible. Looking at them, they shone so brightly that they seemed to be falling earthward at a hopeless speed. As the clusters of stars became clearer, the sky took on the color of night to ever-greater distances.
              You could no longer make out the vistas of mountain upon mountain in the border range; instead they looked like one heavy, sagging mass. Everything was clear, calm and harmonious.


              8楼2015-10-01 17:49
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                When the woman realized that Shimamura was coming over, she hung forward over the rail from her chest. It was not a sign of weakness. Set against a night like this, it was a pose of invincible obstinacy. Here we go again, thought Shimamura to himself.
                Black though the mountain ranges were, for some strange reason they looked as brilliant and as white as snow. He had a sense that the mountains were diaphanous and melancholy things. The sky and the mountains were not in harmony after all."Close the window."
                "Let me stay here a little longer."
                The village was half-hidden by the black bulk of the cedar grove of the shrine. Not ten minutes away by car, its lights seemed to emit a high-pitched hum as they blinked weakly in the cold.
                The woman's face; the glass of the window; the sleeves of his padded kimono--whatever he touched, it seemed to Shimamura that he had never experienced such cold before.
                The tatami began to get cold beneath his feet, so he made as if to go to the bath alone.
                "Wait a minute. I'll come too." The woman followed him tamely this time.
                Just as the woman was putting his cast-off clothes into a basket, another man staying at the inn came in. But when he noticed the woman cowering up against Shimamura's chest and hiding her face, he said:
                "Oh, I do beg your pardon."
                "Not at all. Come on in. We'll go to the other bath," replied Shimamura briskly, and, still naked, picked up the basket and went into the women's bath next door. The woman followed, looking every inch his wife. Shimamura said nothing and leaped into the bath without so much as a glance at her. In his contentment, he felt a loud laugh welling up in his throat, so he put his mouth to the tap and gargled coarsely.
                Once they were back in the room, the woman, who had lain down, raised her head slightly and tugged at the hair on the side of her head with her little finger~
                "I feel miserable" was all she said.
                It looked as though the woman's black eyes were half-open, but when he took a closer look, he realized it was only the effect of her eyelashes.
                The woman was too nervous to sleep a wink.
                It was probably the sound of her stiff sash being pulled tight that woke Shimamura.
                Even after tying on the sash, the woman kept getting up and sitting down again, and walking around always looking toward the window. It was the restlessness of a nocturnal animal pacing about in agitation, fearing the onset of the morning. There seemed to be a strange wildness building inside her.
                Perhaps the room had grown brighter, for as she paced to and fro, he was able to make out the red of her cheeks. Shimamura found himself mesmerized by the astoundingly fresh red color.
                "Your cheeks are bright red. Must be the cold."
                "I'm not cold. It's because I took off my make-up. As soon as I get into bed, I get warm right down to the tips of my toes." She settled herself in front of the mirror-stand by the pillow.
                "Well, it's daylight now. I've got to go home."
                Shimamura looked over toward her, then shrugged his shoulders. The immaculate white glowing in the depths of the mirror was snow. And floating in the midst of that snow were the bright red cheeks of the woman. There was something indescribably pure about the beauty of it.
                Perhaps because the sun was rising, the snow in the mirror was glowing more fiercely, as though it were burning coldly. At the same time, the woman's brilliant black hair with its purple gleam grew brighter against the snow.


                9楼2015-10-01 17:49
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                  2025-08-11 13:53:55
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                  来自手机贴吧11楼2018-10-31 19:49
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