费德里科·加西亚·洛卡 著

Federico Garcia Lorca

第一部分 | Part I
女士们，先生们：自1918年我进入马德里学生公寓起，直至1928年完成哲学与文学学业离开为止，在那间精致的大厅里——西班牙旧贵族为涤荡自身那沾染法国海滩气息的轻佻而常聚之处——我听了近千场讲座。 Ladies and gentlemen: From the year 1918, when I entered the Residencia de Estudiantes in Madrid, until 1928, when I finished my studies in Philosophy and Letters, I have listened to about a thousand lectures in that refined hall where the old Spanish aristocracy gathered to wash away the frivolity of French beaches.

渴望空气与阳光的我，厌倦得如此之深，以至于每次离席时，都仿佛身披一层细灰，几欲化作呛人的胡椒。不。我绝不让那可怕的“无聊之虻”飞入此厅——它用一根细若游丝的睡意之线，串起所有人的头颅，更往听众的眼里，刺入簇簇针尖。 Hungry for air and sun, I was so profoundly bored that upon leaving, I felt covered in a fine ash, almost turning into irritating pepper. No. I will not let that terrible “fly of boredom” enter this room—that fly which strings all heads together on a thin thread of sleep and pricks the eyes of the listeners with clusters of needles.

因此，我将以一种朴素的方式，用我诗性声音中并无木质光泽、没有毒芹的曲折，也没有忽然变成讽刺之刀的羊群的语调，试着给诸位讲一堂关于痛苦的西班牙之隐秘精神的简单课程。 Therefore, in a simple manner, with a register in my poetic voice that has no wooden luster, no twists of hemlock, and no tone of a flock that suddenly turns into a knife of irony, I will try to give you a simple lesson on the hidden spirit of suffering Spain.

生活在这张牛皮般展开、介于胡卡尔河、瓜达莱特河、西尔河或皮苏埃尔加河之间的土地上的人们（我不愿提及那条水波如狮鬃般摇动的拉普拉塔河），时常会听到这样一句话：“这东西很有杜恩德。”安达卢西亚人民中的伟大艺术家曼努埃尔·托雷斯曾对一位歌者说：“你有嗓音，你懂曲式，可你永远不会成功，因为你没有杜恩德。” Those who live on this land spread out like a bull’s hide, between the Júcar, the Guadalete, the Sil, or the Pisuerga rivers (I do not wish to mention the Plata, its waters rippling like a lion’s mane), often hear the phrase: “This has much duende.” Manuel Torre, a great artist of the Andalusian people, once said to a singer: “You have a voice, you know the styles, but you will never succeed, because you have no duende.”

在整个安达卢西亚——哈恩的岩石与加的斯的海螺之间——人们不断谈论杜恩德，并凭借敏锐的本能在它一出现时便将其识别。杰出的歌者埃尔·莱布里哈诺，《德布拉》的创造者曾说：“那些我带着杜恩德歌唱的日子，没有人能胜过我。”老吉普赛舞者拉·马莱娜在听到布拉伊洛夫斯基演奏巴赫的一段时惊呼：“哦嘞！这有杜恩德！”可她听格鲁克、勃拉姆斯和达里乌斯·米约时却感到厌烦。而我所见过血液中蕴含最大文化的人——曼努埃尔·托雷斯——在聆听法雅的《赫内拉利费夜曲》时，说出了这句壮丽的话：“凡是拥有黑色声音的东西，便有杜恩德。”没有比这更大的真理了。 Throughout Andalusia—between the rocks of Jaén and the seashells of Cádiz—people speak constantly of the duende and recognize it with instinctive precision as soon as it appears. The magnificent singer El Lebrijano, creator of the Debla, used to say: “On the days when I sing with duende, no one can touch me.” The old Gypsy dancer La Malena once exclaimed, upon hearing Brailowsky play a passage of Bach: “Olé! That has duende!” yet she found Gluck, Brahms, and Darius Milhaud tiresome. And Manuel Torre—the man with the greatest culture in his blood that I have ever known—said a magnificent phrase while listening to Falla’s Nocturno del Generalife: “All that has black sounds has duende.” There is no greater truth than this.

这些“黑色声音”正是神秘本身，是扎根于我们都熟知、却又一无知的淤泥之中的根系——正是从那里，艺术中最本质的东西来到我们这里。西班牙的民间之人说“黑色声音”，而他与歌德不谋而合：歌德在谈到帕格尼尼时这样定义杜恩德：“一种人人感受得到，却没有任何哲学家能够解释的神秘力量。” These “black sounds” are the mystery itself, the roots that fasten into the mire that we all know, and all ignore, but from which comes the very substance of art. The common man in Spain speaks of “black sounds,” and in this, he agrees with Goethe, who defined the duende when he spoke of Paganini: “A mysterious power that everyone feels and no philosopher can explain.”

因此，杜恩德是力，而非行；是搏斗，而非思辨。我曾听一位老吉他大师言道：“杜恩德不在喉咙；杜恩德自脚底攀升。”换言之，它与才能无关，关乎的是真正活着的姿态——是血液，是古老至髓的文化，是进行时的创造。 So, the duende is a power, not a work; it is a struggle, not a thought. I have heard an old guitar master say: “The duende is not in the throat; the duende climbs up from the soles of the feet.” That is to say, it is not a matter of ability, but of real, living form; of blood; of a culture ancient to the marrow; of creative action in the moment.

这种“人人感受得到，却没有任何哲学家能够解释的神秘力量”，归根结底，是山岭的精神；是同一个杜恩德，曾紧紧抱住尼采的心。尼采曾在里亚托桥的外在形式中，或在比才的音乐里寻找它，却未能找到——而他并不知道，自己追逐的杜恩德，早已从神秘的希腊人那里，跳跃到了加的斯的舞者身上，或银里奥那首西吉里亚中被割喉般的狄俄尼索斯之呼喊里。 This “mysterious power that everyone feels and no philosopher can explain” is, in the end, the spirit of the earth; the same duende that once gripped the heart of Nietzsche. Nietzsche looked for it in the outer forms of the Rialto Bridge or in the music of Bizet, but failed to find it—not knowing that the duende he chased had already leaped from the mysterious Greeks to the dancers of Cádiz or the Dionysian cry, like a slit throat, in Silverio’s Siguiriya.

因此，我不愿任何人将我所说的杜恩德，与神学中怀疑的恶魔混为一谈——那个路德在纽伦堡出于酒神般的冲动向其掷出墨水瓶的存在；也不要把它与天主教中那种愚钝而具有破坏性的魔鬼混为一谈——它会化身为母狗潜入修道院；也不要与塞万提斯《嫉妒的戏剧与安达卢西亚的森林》中，那个带着会说话猴子的通译混为一谈。 Therefore, I do not want anyone to confuse the duende I speak of with the theological demon of doubt—that being at whom Luther, in Nuremberg, threw an inkwell out of a Dionysian impulse; nor with the blunt, destructive devil of Catholicism who enters convents disguised as a bitch; nor with the interpreter with the talking monkey in Cervantes’ The Jealous Cavalier and the Andalusian Forests.

不。我所说的杜恩德，阴暗而战栗，是苏格拉底那位最欢快的守护灵的后裔——那位由大理石与盐构成的存在，在苏格拉底饮下毒芹的那一天，曾愤怒地抓挠他；也是笛卡尔那位忧郁的小妖精的后裔——它像一颗青杏仁般微小，厌倦了圆与线条，沿着运河走出，只为听水手醉酒的歌唱。 No. The duende I speak of, dark and quivering, is a descendant of Socrates’ most cheerful daemon—that being of marble and salt who scratched him in anger the day he drank the hemlock; and a descendant of Descartes’ melancholy imp—tiny as a green almond, who grew tired of circles and lines and walked out along the canals just to hear the drunken singing of sailors.

诚如尼采所言，每个人、每位艺术家，在通往自身完善之塔的每一级阶梯上，其代价皆是与一位杜恩德的搏斗——而非与天使（世人常如此说），亦非与缪斯。此一区分，关乎作品的根本。 As Nietzsche said, every man, every artist, on every step of the ladder of his perfection, pays the price of a struggle with a duende—not with an Angel (as is often said), nor with a Muse. This distinction is fundamental to the work.

天使指引并赐予，如圣拉斐尔；防卫并回避，如圣米迦勒；预示并告知，如圣加百列。天使令人目眩，却飞翔在人类头顶之上，位于高处，倾洒恩典；人在毫不费力的情况下，完成他的作品、他的情感或他的舞蹈。大马士革之路上的天使，或从亚西西阳台缝隙中进入的那一位，或追随恩里克·苏松脚步的那一位，发号施令——而人无法反抗其光芒，因为它在被预定者的空气中拍击着钢铁般的翅膀。 The Angel guides and endows, like St. Raphael; defends and avoids, like St. Michael; announces and informs, like St. Gabriel. The Angel dazzles, but flies over the heads of men, high above, pouring out grace; the man, without effort, completes his work, his emotion, or his dance. The Angel on the road to Damascus, or the one who entered through the cracks of the balcony in Assisi, or the one who followed in the footsteps of Heinrich Suso, commands—and man cannot resist its light, because it beats its iron wings in the air of the predestined.

缪斯则是口述，有时轻轻吹拂。她的力量相对有限，因为她早已遥远，也如此疲惫（我曾两次见过她），以至于我不得不给她安上一颗半大理石的心。受缪斯支配的诗人听见声音，却不知道来自何处；那是激励他们的缪斯，有时甚至会把他们吞噬。正如阿波利奈尔的例子——这位伟大的诗人，被那位神圣而天使般的卢梭为他描绘的可怕缪斯所摧毁。缪斯唤醒智性，带来柱廊般的风景与虚假的桂冠滋味；而智性往往是诗歌的敌人，因为它过度模仿，因为它把诗人抬举到锋利的高度，使他忘记自己随时可能被蚂蚁吃掉，或被一只巨大的砒霜蝗虫砸中头颅——对此，小沙龙里单眼镜中的缪斯，或淡漆玫瑰中的缪斯，皆无能为力。 The Muse dictates and sometimes whispers. Her power is relatively limited because she is already distant and so weary (I have seen her twice) that I had to give her a half-marble heart. The poet governed by the Muse hears voices but does not know where they come from; it is the Muse who inspires them, and sometimes even consumes them. Such was the case with Apollinaire—the great poet destroyed by the terrible Muse depicted for him by the divine and angelic Rousseau. The Muse awakens the intellect, bringing colonnaded landscapes and the taste of false laurels; but the intellect is often the enemy of poetry because it imitates too much, because it lifts the poet to sharp heights where he forgets he could be eaten by ants at any moment or struck on the head by a giant arsenic locust—against which the Muse with a monocle in the little salon, or the Muse of the pale-varnished rose, is powerless.

天使与缪斯，来自外部：天使赐予光，缪斯赋予形（赫西俄德曾受教于她们）。那金色的面包，或衣袍的褶皱——诗人在月桂林中，领受规训。 The Angel and the Muse come from without: the Angel gives light, and the Muse gives form (Hesiod was taught by them). The golden bread, or the folds of the tunic—the poet receives the discipline in the laurel grove.

而杜恩德，必须从血液最深处的暗房中，将它唤醒。并拒绝天使，踢开缪斯，摆脱对十八世纪诗歌散发的紫罗兰芬芳的恐惧，摆脱那架玻璃中熟睡、因局限而生病的缪斯望远镜的束缚。真正的斗争是与杜恩德的斗争。 But the duende must be awakened in the remotest mansions of the blood. And one must reject the Angel, kick out the Muse, and lose the fear of the violet scent exhaled by eighteenth-century poetry, and free oneself from the telescope of the Muse sleeping in glass, sick with limitations. The real struggle is with the duende.

第二部分 | Part II
世人皆知寻觅上帝之路，从苦行僧的蛮野之法，到神秘主义者的精微之途。可以如圣特蕾莎般筑塔高攀，亦可如圣胡安·德·拉·克鲁斯般三径并寻。纵使我们终须以赛亚之声呼喊：“你真是自隐的上帝啊”，但归根结底，上帝赐予寻觅者的，不过是最初那一丛燃烧的荆棘。 Everyone knows the path to find God, from the wild ways of the ascetic to the subtle paths of the mystic. One can climb like St. Teresa or seek through the three paths like St. John of the Cross. Although we must eventually cry out with the voice of Isaiah, “Truly You are a God who hides Yourself,” in the end, God grants the seeker nothing more than the first burning bush.

然而，寻觅杜恩德，既无地图，亦无教程。唯一确知的是，它能如玻璃般灼烧血液，使人精疲力竭；它拒绝一切习得的、甜美的几何学，击碎所有既定曲式。正是它，让戈雅——那位在灰色、银色与英式油画粉彩中游刃有余的大师——以膝与拳泼洒出恐怖如沥青的墨黑；让辛托·维尔达格尔神父在比利牛斯的严寒中赤身裸体；让豪尔赫·曼里克在奥卡尼亚的荒原上静候死神；让兰波纤弱的躯体套上滑稽戏子的绿衣；让洛特雷蒙伯爵的眼睛，在清晨的林荫大道上，如死鱼般凝滞。 However, for the search for the duende, there is neither map nor discipline. One only knows that it burns the blood like powdered glass, that it exhausts, that it rejects all learned, sweet geometry, and breaks all established forms. It was the duende that drove Goya—the master who moved with ease through greys, silvers, and the pastels of English oil painting—to splash on terrifying blacks of bitumen with his knees and fists; that left Father Jacinto Verdaguer naked in the cold of the Pyrenees; that made Jorge Manrique wait for death on the moors of Ocaña; that clad Rimbaud’s frail body in the green coat of a circus performer; and fixed the eyes of the Comte de Lautréamont like dead fish on the morning boulevards.

安达卢西亚的伟大学者——无论是吉普赛人还是弗拉门戈艺人——都深谙此理：歌唱、舞蹈或演奏，若无杜恩德，则真情永不可及。他们或许能蒙骗观众，伪造出杜恩德在场的幻象（一如那些每日欺瞒我们的作家、画匠或文学裁缝），但只要观者稍加留意，不为其冷漠所蔽，便能戳穿伪装，令那粗鄙的赝品仓皇遁逃。 The great scholars of Andalusia—whether Gypsies or Flamenco artists—know this well: singing, dancing, or playing without duende means the truth is forever out of reach. They might deceive the audience, forging an illusion of duende (like the writers, painters, or literary tailors who deceive us daily), but if the observer pays close attention and is not blinded by indifference, they will pierce the disguise and watch that vulgar forgery flee in haste.

有一回，安达卢西亚歌手帕斯托拉·帕翁，人称“梳子少女”，那位阴郁而伟大的西班牙天才，其想象力堪与戈雅或“拉法埃尔·埃尔·加利奥”比肩，在加的斯一家小酒馆里献唱。她将声音如黑影、如熔锡、如覆苔般把玩，任其缠绕发间，浸入甘菊，或迷失于远方幽暗的灌木丛。然而，一切皆是徒劳——满座寂然。 Once, the Andalusian singer Pastora Pavón, “The Girl with the Combs”—that dark and great Spanish genius whose imagination rivaled Goya or “Rafael el Gallo”—was singing in a little tavern in Cádiz. She played with her voice like a shadow, like molten tin, like moss, letting it coil in her hair, soak into chamomile, or lose itself in far-off, dark thickets. However, all was in vain; the house was silent.

席间有伊格纳西奥·埃斯佩莱塔，俊美如罗马石雕。曾有人问他：“你怎么不工作？”他报以阿尔甘托尼奥式的微笑，答道：“我如何能工作？我可是加的斯人。”还有那热烈的贵族埃洛伊萨，塞维利亚的烟花女子，索莱达·巴尔加斯的直系后裔，年方三十便拒绝了罗斯柴尔德的求婚，只因“血统不合”。还有佛罗里达家族，世人皆以为他们是屠夫，实则是传承千载的祭司，至今仍向革律翁献祭公牛。角落里端坐着威严的牧牛人巴勃罗·穆鲁贝，浑身散发着克里特岛面具般的气息。帕斯托拉·帕翁在一片死寂中唱完了。唯有一个小个子男人——那种会突然从白兰地酒瓶里蹦出来的舞者——低声讥讽道：“巴黎万岁！”那语气仿佛在说：“技巧、形式、技艺，我们毫不在乎。我们在乎的，是别的东西。” In the audience was Ignacio Espeleta, beautiful as a Roman statue. Someone once asked him, “Why don’t you work?” He gave an Argantonio-like smile and replied, “How can I work? I am from Cádiz.” There was also the fiery aristocrat Eloísa, the Sevillian courtesan, a direct descendant of Soledad Vargas, who at thirty refused Rothschild’s proposal because “the blood didn’t match.” There were the Florida family, whom the world took for butchers, but who were actually priests of a thousand-year tradition, still sacrificing bulls to Geryon. In the corner sat the majestic cattleman Pablo Murube, exhaling the air of a Cretan mask. Pastora Pavón finished in a dead silence. Only one small man—the kind of dancer who would suddenly pop out of a brandy bottle—muttered sarcastically: “Long live Paris!” His tone implied: “Technique, form, skill—we don’t care. We care for something else.”

于是，“梳子少女”如疯似狂地站起身，身躯扭曲如中世纪的哭丧妇人，猛灌下一口火焰般的烈酒，坐下重唱——这次，无声、无息、亦无色，只余喉咙灼烧，但……杜恩德降临了。她扼杀了歌曲的全部架构，只为给那愤怒炽烈的杜恩德让路。杜恩德如沙尘暴般席卷，听众的衣衫几欲随节奏撕裂，仿佛置身安的列斯黑人祭仪，众舞者正环绕圣芭芭拉神像疯狂舞动。 Then “The Girl with the Combs” rose like a madwoman, her body twisted like a medieval mourner, downed a glass of fire-like brandy, and sat down to sing again—this time without voice, without breath, without color, with a burning throat, but… the duende arrived. She killed the entire scaffolding of the song to make way for a furious and flaming duende. The duende swept through like a sandstorm, and the audience’s clothes nearly tore with the rhythm, as if in an Antillean Negro rite, with dancers circling the statue of Saint Barbara in madness.

《梳子少女》必须撕裂自己的声音，因为她知道听众是挑剔之人，他们不求形式，而求形式的骨髓——以紧凑的身体承载纯粹的音乐，使其悬于空中。她必须舍弃能力与安全；也就是驱逐缪斯，自我孤立，让杜恩德降临，与之全力搏斗。她唱出了怎样的歌声！声音不再嬉戏，而是因痛苦与真诚而涌出的血流，从双脚伸展开，像十指之掌，却又充满风暴，如同胡安·德·胡尼的基督雕像。 “The Girl with the Combs” had to tear her own voice because she knew the audience was demanding; they did not seek form, but the marrow of form—pure music carried in a tight body, suspended in the air. She had to abandon ability and safety; that is, to exile the Muse, isolate herself, and let the duende descend and fight with all its might. What singing she produced! The voice no longer played, but became a flow of blood surging from pain and sincerity, stretching from her feet like a ten-fingered palm, yet full of storms, like the Christ of Juan de Juni.

杜恩德的到来总意味着所有旧形式的彻底革命，带来前所未有的新鲜感，如初生的玫瑰般奇迹般的质感，几乎引发宗教般的热情。在阿拉伯音乐、舞蹈、歌曲或挽歌中，杜恩德到来时常以“阿拉，阿拉！”、“上帝，上帝！”的高呼回应，几乎等同于斗牛场的“奥莱！”；在整个西班牙南部，杜恩德出现后，真诚的“上帝万岁！”随之而起——深沉、有人情味、温柔的呼喊，通过五感与杜恩德的震动，使舞者的声音与身体脱离尘世，如十七世纪罕见诗人佩德罗·索托·德·罗哈斯在七座花园间所达成的纯净，如胡安·卡利马克通过颤抖的哭泣音阶所达成的纯净。 The arrival of the duende always means a radical revolution of all old forms, bringing a sense of freshness unknown until then, with the quality of a miracle like a newly created rose, producing an almost religious enthusiasm. In Arabic music, dance, song, or lament, the arrival of the duende is often answered with cries of “Allah, Allah!”, “God, God!”, almost equivalent to the “Olé!” of the bullring; throughout southern Spain, after the duende appears, a sincere “Viva Dios!” arises—a deep, human, tender cry, which through the five senses and the vibration of the duende, detaches the dancer’s voice and body from the earth, reaching the purity achieved by the rare seventeenth-century poet Pedro Soto de Rojas among seven gardens, or Juan de Kalimako through a trembling scale of weeping.

自然，当这种超脱实现时，每个人都能感受到它的效果：有经验者看到形式战胜贫乏材料，无知者感受真实情感的“不可言说”。多年前，在赫雷斯·德拉弗龙特拉的舞蹈比赛中，一位八十岁的老妇击败腰肢如水的美丽女子，仅因举起双臂、昂首、踏脚一击；而在天使与缪斯汇聚之场——美貌与微笑交错——那位临死的杜恩德拖着锈刀般的翅膀赢得了比赛。 Naturally, when this detachment is achieved, everyone feels its effect: the experienced see form triumph over poor material; the ignorant feel the “ineffable” of real emotion. Years ago, in a dance competition in Jerez de la Frontera, an eighty-year-old woman defeated beautiful women with waists like water, simply by raising her arms, lifting her head, and striking the floor with one stomp; in a field where Angels and Muses gathered—beauty and smiles intertwining—that dying duende dragging its wings like rusty knives won the prize.

所有艺术都有杜恩德，但它最能施展的，当然是音乐、舞蹈与口语诗歌，因为这些需要活体来表达，形式不断诞生与消亡，并在当下的瞬间升起轮廓。 All arts have duende, but it has the most room in music, dance, and spoken poetry, for these require a living body to express them—forms that are born and die continually, and raise their contours in the precise present.

杜恩德常从音乐家传给演奏者，有时在演奏者或诗人缺席时，演奏者的杜恩德创造出新的奇迹，其外表仅保留原始形式。如被杜恩德附体的艾莱奥诺拉·杜塞，她寻求失败的作品以创造成功；或歌德所述的帕格尼尼，让平凡旋律发出深沉之声；又如我曾见到一名圣玛利亚港的女孩唱跳意大利可怕的曲子《O Mari!》，节奏、停顿、意图，使粗陋意大利曲子化作金色蛇形光环。实质上，她们发现了前所未有的新元素，将鲜血与技艺注入空洞身体。 The duende often passes from the musician to the performer; sometimes in the absence of the performer or poet, the performer’s duende creates new wonders where only the original form remains in appearance. Such as Eleonora Duse possessed by the duende, who sought out failing works to create successes; or Paganini as described by Goethe, making deep sounds from trivial melodies; or a girl I once saw in El Puerto de Santa María singing and dancing the terrible Italian tune “O Mari!”, where rhythm, pause, and intent transformed the crude song into a golden serpent-like halo. In essence, they discovered new elements never seen before, injecting blood and skill into empty bodies.

所有艺术，甚至国家，都有杜恩德、天使与缪斯的能力。正如德国（有例外）有缪斯，意大利常伴天使，西班牙自古则由杜恩德驱动——音乐与舞蹈的千年之国，凌晨榨取柠檬的国度，也是死亡之国，向死亡敞开的国度。 All arts, even nations, have the capacity for duende, Angel, and Muse. Just as Germany (with exceptions) has the Muse and Italy is often accompanied by the Angel, Spain since antiquity has been driven by the duende—a millennial country of music and dance, a country that squeezes lemons at dawn, and also a country of death, a country open to death.

在世界各地，死亡都是终点——帷幕落下。而在西班牙，帷幕升起。许多人活在墙内，直至死亡被晒于阳光下。西班牙的死者，比任何地方更鲜活：其轮廓如剃刀般锋利。西班牙人熟悉死亡及其静观的幽默。从克韦多的《骷髅之梦》，到瓦尔德斯·莱亚尔的《腐烂主教》，再到十七世纪马贝拉的产死之女，吟道： In all other countries, death is an end—the curtain falls. In Spain, the curtain rises. Many live within walls until death is brought out into the sun. The dead in Spain are more alive than anywhere else: their silhouettes are sharp as razors. The Spaniard is familiar with death and with its contemplative humor. From Quevedo’s Dream of the Skulls, to Valdés Leal’s Rotting Bishops, to the seventeenth-century woman of Marbella who died in childbirth, singing:

血从我腹中 覆盖马背 你马的蹄 喷射焦油之火…… The blood from my womb covers the horse’s back and the hooves of your horse strike sparks of tar and fire…

再到萨拉曼卡青年死于公牛，呼喊： Or the young man from Salamanca, killed by a bull, who cries:

朋友们，我要死了； 朋友们，我病得很重。 三条手帕在内 这条算第四…… Friends, I am dying; Friends, I am very ill. I have three handkerchiefs inside and this one makes the fourth…

西班牙有盐花围栏，供观死者的民众远眺，或以耶利米的粗犷诗句，或以香柏点缀抒情一侧；这是一个将最重要的事物赋予死亡终极价值的国家。西班牙的刀刃与车轮、牧羊人锋利胡须、剥光的月亮、苍蝇、湿漉橱柜、废墟、镶蕾丝的圣像、石灰、屋檐与瞭望台的锐线——都蕴含微小的死亡草木、暗示与可觉察的声音，唤起警觉的精神，使我们以死寂之气忆起自己的过渡。西班牙所有与山岭相关的艺术——满是蓟与坚石——非偶然；普莱贝里奥的哀歌或何塞·马里亚·德·巴尔迪维索的舞蹈非孤例；西班牙民谣独特之处亦非偶然： Spain has walls of saltpetre for the crowds who gaze at death, either with the rugged verses of Jeremiah or with cedar decorating the lyrical side; it is a country where the most important thing of all has an ultimate value in death. The Spanish blade and wheel, the shepherd’s sharp beard, the stripped moon, the flies, damp cabinets, ruins, lace-trimmed icons, lime, and the sharp lines of eaves and watchtowers—all contain the tiny plants and minerals of death, hints and perceivable sounds that evoke an alert spirit, reminding us of our passage with a breath of silence. It is no accident that all Spanish art related to the mountains—full of thistles and hard stone—exists; the laments of Pleberio or the dances of José María de Valdivieso are no isolated cases; nor is the uniqueness of the Spanish ballad an accident:

若你是我美丽的朋友， 为什么不看我呢？ 我看你的眼睛 给了阴影 If you are my beautiful friend, why do you not look at me? The eyes with which I looked at you I have given to the shadows.

若你是我美丽的朋友， 为什么不吻我呢？ 我吻你的嘴唇 给了山脉 If you are my beautiful friend, why do you not kiss me? The lips with which I kissed you I have given to the mountains.

若你是我美丽的朋友， 为什么不拥抱我呢？ 我拥抱你的双臂 用虫子覆盖 If you are my beautiful friend, why do you not embrace me? The arms with which I embraced you are covered with worms.

在我诗歌初启之时，这样的歌声也常响起： In the beginning of my poetry, such songs often sounded:

在园中，我将死去 在玫瑰丛，他们将我杀毙 我去寻找我的母亲， 在园中遇见死亡 我去采摘我的母亲， 在园中遇见死亡 在园中，我将死去 在玫瑰丛，他们将我杀毙 In the garden, I shall die In the rosebush, they will kill me. I went to look for my mother, In the garden I found death. I went to gather my mother, In the rosebush I found death. In the garden, I shall die In the rosebush, they will kill me.

第三部分 | Part III
从苏尔瓦兰笔下月光般冰冷的头颅，到格列柯那黄闪黄乳脂的色调；从西贡萨神父的叙述，到戈雅的鸿篇巨制；从埃斯科里亚尔修道院的后殿壁画与彩塑，到奥苏纳公爵府的地穴、梅迪纳-德里奥塞科贝纳文特教堂的吉他陪葬——这一切，连同圣安德烈斯朝圣中列队行进的死者、阿斯图里亚斯妇女在十一月寒夜手持火把吟唱的亡灵歌谣、马略卡与托莱多大教堂的西碧拉歌舞、阴郁的“托尔托萨的‘雷科尔特’舞”，以及无数耶稣受难日的仪式——当然，还有斗牛这崇高的节日——共同构成了西班牙式死亡的民间凯旋。这世上，唯有墨西哥堪与我的祖国在此意境上比肩。 From the moonlight-cold heads of Zurbarán to the yellow-flash-and-custard tones of El Greco; from the narratives of Father Sigüenza to the colossal works of Goya; from the frescoes and sculptures in the apse of El Escorial to the crypt of the Dukes of Osuna, and the guitar-burials in the Benavente church in Medina de Rioseco—all of this, along with the marching dead of the San Andrés pilgrimage, the ghost-songs of Asturian women on November nights with torches, the Sibyl dances in the cathedrals of Mallorca and Toledo, the gloomy “Record” dance of Tortosa, and the endless ceremonies of Good Friday—and of course, the bullfight, that sublime festival—all constitute the popular triumph of Spanish death. In this world, only Mexico can rival my homeland in this sentiment.

当死亡逼近，缪斯会阖上门扉、抬高基座，或挪动骨灰瓮，用她蜡制的手书写墓志铭；但转瞬之间，她又会撕裂那顶在两缕微风间犹疑不决的沉默桂冠。在颂歌颓圮的拱顶下，她以丧葬般的精确，聚拢十五世纪意大利画师笔下的花朵，并呼唤卢克莱修那护卫安宁的雄鸡，以驱散不期而至的暗影。 When death approaches, the Muse closes her doors, raises her pedestal, or moves the urn, writing epitaphs with her waxen hand; but in an instant, she tears that crown of silence that wavers between two breezes. Under the crumbling vaults of the ode, she gathers the flowers of fifteenth-century Italian painters with funeral precision and calls upon the Lucretian rooster who guards the peace to disperse the unexpected shadows.

当死亡逼近，天使会缓缓盘旋，用冰泪与水仙编织哀歌——我们曾见这哀歌在济慈的指间颤抖，在比利亚桑迪诺、埃雷拉、贝克尔与胡安·拉蒙·希梅内斯的笔下颤抖。然而，倘若天使那柔嫩的粉足上，沾了一粒最细小的沙尘，那将是何等骇人的景象！ When death approaches, the Angel circles slowly, weaving laments from ice-tears and narcissus—laments we have seen trembling between the fingers of Keats, and in the pens of Villasandino, Herrera, Bécquer, and Juan Ramón Jiménez. However, what a terrifying sight it would be if a single grain of the smallest dust were to touch the Angel’s soft, pink foot!

而杜恩德，倘若不见死亡的可能性，不知它将徘徊于自家厅堂，不确信自己将撼动我们每个人与生俱来、永难抚慰的生命之枝，它便绝不会降临。 But the duende does not come at all unless he sees that death is possible, unless he knows that death can surround the house, and is certain that he will shake those branches of life that we all carry, which have no solace.

杜恩德偏爱危险的边缘，它以其理念、声响或动作，与创造者正面交锋。天使与缪斯携着小提琴或节拍器逃之夭夭，而杜恩德却造成创伤；正是在这永不愈合的伤口的痛楚中，孕育了人类作品中最奇异、最具创造性的部分。 The duende loves the edge of things, the wound, and he draws close to places where forms fuse in a yearning beyond visible expression. The Angel and the Muse flee with their violins or metronomes, while the duende causes a wound; and it is in the pain of this never-healing wound that the strangest and most creative parts of human work are born.

诗的魔力，在于它常被杜恩德附体，从而能以幽暗之水为所有凝视它的人施洗。因为杜恩德在场，去爱与理解变得轻易，同时也必然被爱与被理解。而这番为了表达与交流而进行的搏斗，在诗歌中，有时甚至具有致命的性质。 The magic of poetry lies in its being possessed by the duende, so that it can baptize all who look upon it with dark water. Because the duende is present, it becomes easy to love and understand, and necessarily to be loved and understood. And this struggle to express and communicate, in poetry, sometimes even takes on a fatal character.

回想那位最富弗拉门戈气质、最具杜恩德的圣特蕾莎——她之所以弗拉门戈，并非因为驯服狂牛并完成三次华丽的动作（她确实做到了），也不是为了在“可怜的胡安”面前炫耀美貌，亦非为给教皇公使一记耳光，而是因为她是少数几个被杜恩德（而非天使——天使从不攻击）以利箭穿透之人，欲杀她以夺回最后的秘密——那微妙桥梁，连通五感与活肉、活云、活海般的中心，连接超越时间的自由之爱。 Think of St. Teresa—the most Flamenco and most possessed by the duende. She was Flamenco not because she tamed wild bulls and completed three brilliant passes (which she did), nor to show off her beauty before “poor Juan,” nor to slap the papal legate, but because she was one of the few whom the duende (not the Angel—the Angel never attacks) pierced with a sharp arrow, wishing to kill her to reclaim the final secret—that subtle bridge connecting the five senses with the center of living flesh, living clouds, and living seas, connecting the free love that transcends time.

这位勇敢无畏的杜恩德征服者，与费利佩二世正好相反——后者渴望在神学中寻找缪斯与天使，却被冷烈杜恩德囚禁于埃斯科里亚尔的作品中，在那里几何与梦境相邻，而杜恩德戴上缪斯面具，成为伟大国王的永恒惩罚。 This brave and fearless conqueror of the duende was the exact opposite of Philip II—who sought the Muse and the Angel in theology but was imprisoned by the cold, fierce duende in the works of El Escorial, where geometry and dreams reside side by side, and the duende wore the mask of the Muse to become the eternal punishment of the great king.

我们已说过，杜恩德喜爱边缘、伤口，并靠近那些形式融入超越可见表达的渴望之地。在西班牙（如同东方那些以舞蹈为宗教表达的民族），杜恩德在加的斯舞者的身体上有无限领域——马尔提亚尔赞美过的胸脯，尤维纳利斯赞美过的歌者胸膛；在斗牛的礼仪中，杜恩德同样存在——真实的宗教戏剧，正如弥撒中崇拜并献祭神明。仿佛古典世界的全部杜恩德汇聚于此完美的节日——它体现了一个民族的文化与敏感，发掘人类最深的愤怒、胆汁与哭泣。无论是西班牙舞蹈还是斗牛，参与者从未寻求乐趣；杜恩德负责通过戏剧使之受苦，借由活的形式，并为脱离现实铺设阶梯。 We have said that the duende loves the edge, the wound, and draws near to those places where forms dissolve into the longing for expression beyond the visible. In Spain (as with those Oriental peoples whose dance is a religious expression), the duende has an infinite realm on the bodies of the dancers of Cádiz—the breasts praised by Martial, the chests of singers praised by Juvenal; in the ritual of the bullfight, the duende is also present—a true religious drama, like the worship and sacrifice of a god in the Mass. It is as if all the duende of the classical world gathered at this perfect festival—representing a people’s culture and sensitivity, unearthing man’s deepest rage, bile, and weeping. In neither Spanish dance nor the bullfight do the participants seek pleasure; the duende is in charge of making them suffer through the drama, using living forms, and providing the ladder for an escape from reality.

杜恩德作用于舞者的身体，如空气作用于沙地。它能神奇地将少女化作月亮的瘫痪之身，或让破败的老者满面红晕，在酒馆乞讨，发出港口夜色的气息；它时时作用于手臂，孕育所有时代舞蹈的母体。但它绝不重复——这一点非常值得强调。杜恩德如风暴中的海浪般，不会重复其形式。 The duende acts upon the dancer’s body as wind acts upon sand. It can magically transform a young girl into the paralyzed body of the moon, or give a flush of red to an old, broken man begging in a tavern, exhaling the scent of the harbor night; it acts constantly on the arms, giving birth to the matrix of all dances of all ages. But it never repeats—this point is well worth emphasizing. The duende, like waves in a storm, never repeats its forms.

在斗牛场，它获得最令人印象深刻的音调——因为它必须一面与可能毁灭它的死亡搏斗，一面与几何、尺度——节日的基本准则——搏斗。公牛有其轨道，斗牛士有其轨道；轨道之间，存在危险之点——可怕游戏的顶点。可用缪斯掌控红布、天使掌控彩旗，也许成为“好斗牛士”，但在斗篷舞、清晰无伤的公牛面前，以及最后致命一刻，需要杜恩德的助力，才能击中艺术真理的中心。在广场以鲁莽震慑观众的斗牛士，其实不算斗牛——他只是站在任何人都可触及的可笑平面上，拿生命作赌注。而被杜恩德咬中的斗牛士，奏出毕达哥拉斯式乐章，使人忘记他不断将心抛向牛角。 In the bullring, it acquires its most impressive tones—because it must struggle on one side with the death that could destroy it, and on the other with geometry and measure—the fundamental rules of the festival. The bull has its orbit, the matador has his; between these orbits exists the point of danger—the apex of the terrible game. One can control the muleta with the Muse or the banderillas with the Angel, and perhaps become a “good matador,” but in the cape-dance, before a clear and uninjured bull, and in the final fatal moment, the help of the duende is needed to strike the center of artistic truth. The matador who shocks the crowd with recklessness is not truly bullfighting—he is merely standing on a ridiculous plane accessible to anyone, gambling with his life. But the matador bitten by the duende performs a Pythagorean movement, making one forget that he is constantly throwing his heart against the bull’s horns.

拉加蒂霍与其罗马杜恩德，何塞利托与其犹太杜恩德，贝尔蒙特与其巴洛克杜恩德，卡甘乔与其吉普赛杜恩德——他们从斗牛场暮色中，向诗人、画家与音乐家传授西班牙传统的四大路径。 Lagartijo with his Roman duende, Joselito with his Jewish duende, Belmonte with his Baroque duende, Cagancho with his Gypsy duende—from the twilight of the bullring, they teach poets, painters, and musicians the four great paths of Spanish tradition.

西班牙是唯一一个将死亡作为国民表演的国家——死亡吹响春天的长号，其艺术永远受敏锐杜恩德主导，这赋予了其差异与创造力。 Spain is the only country where death is a national spectacle—where death blows the trumpets of spring—and its art is forever governed by a sharp duende that gives it its distinctiveness and its creative quality.

那个首次以血填充雕塑中圣徒面颊的杜恩德，与让圣胡安·德拉克鲁斯呻吟，或燃烧洛佩宗教十四行诗中裸体仙女的杜恩德，是同一个。那个在萨阿贡高塔建塔，或在卡拉塔尤德、特鲁埃尔搬热砖的杜恩德，是同一个打破格雷科云彩、踢翻奎维多执法者与戈雅幻兽的杜恩德。雨时，它让委拉斯开兹神秘附体，潜藏于灰色王权之下；雪时，它让埃雷拉裸身示人，证明寒冷无法杀人；火焰中，它将贝鲁格特卷入烈焰，促使其为雕塑发明新空间。 That duende who first filled the cheeks of saints in sculptures with blood is the same one who made St. John of the Cross moan, or burned the naked nymphs in Lope’s religious sonnets. That duende who built the towers in Sahagún or moved hot bricks in Calatayud and Teruel is the same one who broke El Greco’s clouds, kicked over Quevedo’s magistrates, and Goya’s chimeras. In rain, it possess Velázquez mysteriously, hiding under the grey of royalty; in snow, it leaves Herrera naked to prove that cold cannot kill; in fire, it pulls Berruguete into the flames, urging him to invent new space for sculpture.

当贡戈拉的缪斯与加尔西拉索·德·拉·维加的天使遇到圣胡安·德拉克鲁斯的杜恩德，桂冠必须让路，当 鹿受伤 自山岗探头 When Góngora’s Muse and Garcilaso de la Vega’s Angel meet the duende of St. John of the Cross, the laurel must give way when: The wounded deer peeks from the hill.

冈萨洛·德·贝尔塞奥的缪斯与希塔牧区神父的天使也必须退开，为豪尔赫·曼里克让路，当他死伤临贝尔蒙特城堡门口。格雷戈里奥·埃尔南德斯的缪斯与何塞·德·莫拉的天使也必须避开，为梅纳的杜恩德之泪与马丁内斯·蒙塔涅斯的亚述公牛头杜恩德让路。正如加泰罗尼亚忧郁缪斯与加利西亚湿透天使，也必须以慈爱惊讶之眼凝视卡斯蒂利亚杜恩德——远离温热面包与甜美牛奶，遵循被扫净天空与干旱山岭的规则。 The Muse of Gonzalo de Berceo and the Angel of the Archpriest of Hita must also step aside for Jorge Manrique when he lies wounded at the gates of Belmonte castle. The Muse of Gregorio Hernández and the Angel of José de Mora must avoid the tears of Mena’s duende and the Assyrian bull-head duende of Martínez Montañés. Just as the melancholy Muse of Catalonia and the soaked Angel of Galicia must gaze with loving, surprised eyes at the Castilian duende—away from warm bread and sweet milk, following the rules of swept skies and dry mountains.

克维多的杜恩德与塞万提斯的杜恩德——一方以绿色磷光海葵装饰，一方以鲁伊德拉石膏花点缀——共同为西班牙杜恩德祭坛加冕。每种艺术自然有其专属杜恩德，但皆根源于同一点——曼努埃尔·托雷斯的“黑色声音”，最后物质、共同基础、不可控而颤栗的木、音、布与词。这些黑色声音背后，温柔地蛰伏着火山、蚂蚁、微风与银河紧束腰间的浩夜。 The duende of Quevedo and the duende of Cervantes—one adorned with green phosphorescent anemones, the other with Ruidera plaster flowers—together crown the altar of the Spanish duende. Every art naturally has its own duende, but all root in the same point—Manuel Torre’s “black sounds,” the final substance, the common ground, the uncontrollable and shivering wood, sound, cloth, and word. Behind these black sounds, volcanoes, ants, breezes, and the vast night with the Milky Way tightened around its waist, sleep tenderly.

女士们，先生们：我已竖起三道拱门，用笨拙的手将缪斯、天使与杜恩德置于其中。缪斯静止不动；她可穿小褶的长袍，或如庞培所绘的四面鼻子牛眼，毕加索的挚友所画。天使可挥动安东内洛·德·梅西纳的发丝，披里皮的长袍，小提琴来自马索利诺或卢梭。 Ladies and gentlemen: I have raised three arches and with a clumsy hand I have placed within them the Muse, the Angel, and the duende. The Muse remains motionless; she can wear a tunic with small folds, or a four-sided nose and ox-eyes like those painted by Pompey or by Picasso’s close friend. The Angel can wave the hair of Antonello da Messina, wear the tunic of Lippi, and the violin comes from Masolino or Rousseau.

杜恩德……杜恩德在何处？从空拱门透入的，是一股思维之风，它执着吹拂死者头顶，寻找未知的风景与音调——带着孩童口水、碾碎青草与水母薄纱的气息，预示新生事物不断的洗礼。 The duende… where is the duende? Through the empty archway comes a wind of the spirit, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents—a wind with the scent of a child’s saliva, of crushed grass, and jellyfish veils, announcing the constant baptism of newly created things.