Selected poem：佩索阿 (Pessoa) 的〈煙草店〉(Tobacconists)
相當喜歡Pessoa 的這首長詩〈煙草店〉(Tobacconists，另譯為The Tobacco Shop)，從一開始的「我什麼都不是。/我將永遠什麼都不是。/我不能指望成為什麼。」(I am nothing/Never shall be anything/Cannot will to be anything)，叩問人生現實的意義，一直到「我活過、思考過、愛過，甚至信過。」(I have lived, have studied, have loved, and even believed) 則是坦然接受現實的人生。
這是值得細細品嚐的一首詩。
https://www.bookdepository.com/I-Have-More-Souls-Than-One-Fernando-Pessoa/9780241339602
I Have More Souls Than One
By (author) Fernando Pessoa
Dramatic, lyrical and ranging over four distinct personae, these poems by one of Portugals greatest poets trace a mind shaken by intense suffering and a tireless search for meaning.
https://www.books.com.tw/products/CN11643482
想像一朵未來的玫瑰：佩索阿詩選
作者：費爾南多·佩索阿
譯者：楊鐵軍
出版社：中信出版社
出版日期：2019/04/01
語言：簡體中文
Tobacconists
I am nothing.
Never shall be anything.
Cannot will to be anything.
This apart, I have in me all the dreams of the world.
Windows of my room,
Room of one of the millions in the world about whom nobody knows who he is
(And if they knew who he is, what would they know?),
You give on the mystery of a street constantly trodden by people,
On a street inaccessible to all thoughts,
Real, impossibly real, certain, strangely certain,
With the mystery of the things under the stones and lives,
With death to put damp in the walls and white hair on men,
With Destiny to drive the car of all down the roadway of nothing.
I, today, am defeated, as though I knew the truth.
I, today, am lucid, as though I were just going to die
And had no longer any connection with things
Except a leave-taking, this house and this side of the street turning into
The line of carriages of a train, and a whistle blown for departure
From inside my head,
And a jolt to my nerves and a creaking of bones at moving off.
I, today, am perplexed, like a man who has thought and found and forgotten.
I, today, am divided between the loyalty I owe
To the Tobacconists on the other side of the street, as a thing real outside,
And to the sensation that all is dream, as a thing real inside.
I have failed altogether.
As I have not achieved any design, perhaps it was all nothing.
The apprenticeship they gave me–
Ive dropped from it out of the window at the back of the house.
I went out into the country with grand designs.
But there I met with only grass and trees,
And when there were people they were just like the rest.
I move from the window, sit down in a chair. What shall I think about?
What do I know of what I shall be, I who dont know what I am?
Be whatever I think? But I think so many things!
Genius? At this moment
A hundred thousand brains are busy dreaming of themselves as geniuses like me,
And history will not mark–who knows?–even one,
And nothing but manure will be left of so many future conquests.
No, I dont believe in me…
All the lunatic asylums have in them patients with many many certainties.
And I, who have no certainty at all, am I more certain or less certain?
No, not even in me…
In how many garrets, and non-garrets, in the world
Are there not at this hour geniuses-in-their-own-eyes dreaming?
How many high and noble and lucid aspirations–
Yes, really and truly high and noble and lucid–
And who knows whether realizable?–
Will never see the light of the real sun, or reach the ears of people?
The world is for the person who is born to conquer it,
And not for the one who dreams he can conquer it, even if he be right.
I have dreamed more than Napoleon performed.
I have squeezed into a hypothetical breast more loving kindnesses than Christ,
Ihave made philosophies in secret that no Kant wrote.
But I am, and perhaps always shall be, the man of the garret,
Even though I dont live there;
I shall always be the one who was not born for that;
I shall always be the one who had qualities;
I shall always be the one who waited for them to open to him the door at the foot of a wall without a door,
And sang the balled of the Infinite in a hen-coop,
And heard the voice of God in a well with a lid.
Believe in myself? No, and in nothing.
Let Nature pour out over my ardent head
Her sunshine, her rain, the wind that touches my hair,
And the rest that may come if it will, or have to come, or may not.
Heart-diseased slaves of the stars,
We conquer the whole world before getting out of bed:
But we wake up and it is opaque,
We get up and it is alien,
We go out of the house and it is the entire earth
Plus the solar system and the Milky Way and the Indefinite.
(Have some chocolates, little girl;
Have some chocolates!
Look, theres no metaphysics in the world except chocolates.
Look, all the religions teach no more than the confectioners.
Bat, dirty little girl, eat!
If I could eat chocolates with the same truth as you do!
But I think and, peeling the silver paper with its fronds of tin,
I leave it all lying on the floor, just as I have left life.)
But at least there remains, from the bitterness of what will never be,
The rapid calligraphy of these verses –
Colonnade started towards the Impossible
But at least I dedicate to myself a contempt without tears,
Noble at least in the big gesture with which I throw
The dirty laundry I am-no list-into the course of things
And stay at home without a shirt
(You, who console, who dont exist and therefore console,
Either Greek goddess; conceived as a statue that might be alive,
Or Roman matron, impossibly noble and wicked,
Or troubadours’ princess, most gentle and bright vision,
Or eighteenth-century marquise, décolletée and distant,
Or celebrated cocotte of ones fathers time,
Or something modern–I’ve no very clear idea what –,
Be any of this whatever, and, if it can inspire, let it!
My heart is an overturned bucket.
Like the people who invoke spirits invoke spirits I invoke
Myself and meet with nothing.
I go to the window and see the street with absolute clarity:
I see the shops, I see the pavements, I see the traffic passing,
I see the living creatures in clothes, their paths crossing,
I see the dogs also existing,
And all this weighs on me like a sentence to banishment,
And all this is foreign, as all is.)
I have lived, have studied, have loved, and even believed,
And today there is not a beggar I do not envy simply for not being me.
I look at each ones rags and ulcers and lying,
And I think: perhaps you never lived or studied or loved or believed
(Because it is possible to do the reality of all that without doing any of it);
Perhaps you have barely existed, like when a lizards tail is cut off
And it is a tail short of its lizard squirmingly.
I have made of me what I had not the skill for,
And what I could make of me I did not make.
The fancy dress I put on was the wrong one.
They knew me at once for who I was not and I did not expose the lie, and lost myself.
When I tried to take off the mask,
It was stuck to my face.
When I got it off and looked at myself in the glass,
I had already grown old.
I was drunk, was trying in vain to get into the costume I had not taken off.
I left the mask and went to sleep in the cloakroom
Like a dog that is tolerated by the management
Because he is harmless
And here I am, on the point of writing this story to prove I am sublime.
Musical essence of my useless verses,
If only I could meet with you as something of my own doing,
Instead of staying always facing the Tobacconists opposite,
Trampling underfoot consciousness of existing,
Like a carpet that a drunk stumbles over
Or a doormat the gipsies stole and was worth nothing.
But the Lord of the Tobacco Store has come to the door and stopped in the doorway.
I look at him with the unease of a head twisted askew
And the unease of a soul understanding askew.
He will die and I shall die.
He will leave the shop-sign, I shall leave verses.
At a certain stage the shop-sign also will die, and the verses also.
After a certain stage the street where the shop-sign was will die,
And the language the verses were written in.
Later will die the revolving planet on which all this took place.
On other satellites of other systems something like people
Will continue making things like verses and living under things like shop-signs,
Always one thing opposite another,
Always one thing as useless as another,
Always the impossible as stupid as the real,
Always the underlying mystery as sure as the sleep of the surface mystery,
Always this or always some other thing or neither one thing nor the other.
But a man has gone into the Tobacconists (to buy some tobacco?)
And plausible reality has descended suddenly over me.
I half rise energetic, convinced, human,
And resolve to write these verses in which I say the contrary.
I light a cigarette as I think of writing them
and I savour in the cigarette liberation from all thought.
I follow the smoke like a route of my own
And enjoy, for a sensitive and competent moment,
Liberation from all speculations
And awareness that metaphysics is a consequence of feeling out of sorts.
Then I sink into my chair
And continue smoking.
As long as Destiny concedes it, I shall continue smoking.
(If I married the daughter of my laundress Perhaps I would be happy.)
At this I get up from the chair. I go to the window.
The man has come out of the Tobacconist’s (putting change into his trousers pocket?)
Ah, I know him: its Steve, he has no metaphysics.
(The Lord of the Tobacco Store has come to the door.)
As if by some divine instinct Steve has turned and has seen me.
He has waved me a greeting, I have shouted to him Adeus ó Esteves, and the universe
Has rebuilt me itself without ideal or hope, and the Lord of the Tobacconists has smiled.
〈煙草店〉
我什麼都不是。
我將永遠什麼都不是。
我不能指望成為什麼。
但我在我內部有這世界的全部夢想。
我的房間的窗戶，
世界上百萬房間裡無人知曉的一間
（假如他們知曉，他們又知曉些什麼？），
你朝向一條行人絡繹不絕的街道的神秘，
一條任何思想都無法理解的街道，
真實，難以置信地真實，確定，無知無覺地確定，
有著石頭和存在之下的神秘，
有著使牆壁潮濕、使人們頭髮斑白的死亡，
有著命運在烏有之路駕馭萬有的馬車。
今天我被打敗了，就像剛獲知了真理。
今天我是清醒的，就像我即將死去。
除了道別，不再與事物有親緣的關聯，
這座建築和街道的這一側成了
一排火車車廂，出發的汽笛
在我的腦子裡吹響，
我們開出去時，我的神經震動著，我的骨頭咯吱響。
今天我很迷惑，像一個好奇了、發現了、忘記了的人。
今天我被兩種忠實撕扯，
一個是對街對面煙草店的外在現實，
一個是對萬物皆夢的我的感覺的內在現實。
我失敗於一切。
因為我沒有野心，也許一切即是烏有。
我丟棄了我被灌輸的教育，
從房子後邊的窗戶爬下。
我懷著偉大的計畫來到鄉間。
但所有我能發現的只是草木，
即使有人，也和別人沒什麼兩樣。
我從窗戶退回一張椅子。我該想些什麼？
我怎麼知道我會變成什麼？我甚至不知道我現在是什麼。
成為我的所想所欲？但我想成為的東西太多！
有那麼多人想成為我們不可能全都成為的同一個東西！
天才？此刻
有十萬大腦做著夢，認為他們是和我一樣的天才，
而歷史，誰知道呢，一個都不會銘記，
所有的他們想像中的征服只等同於糞土。
不，我不相信自己。
瘋人院裡充斥著滿是確定性的瘋子！
而那個不確定的我，是更正確還是更錯誤？
不，不僅是我……
此刻世界上多少閣樓和非閣樓裡
自我確認的天才正在做夢？
多少崇高、高貴、清晰的理想——
是的，確實崇高、高貴、清晰——
誰知道呢，甚至可以實現，
將看不到一天真正的光芒，找不到一隻同情的耳朵？
世界是給那些天生為了征服它的人的，
不是給那些做夢征服的人的，即使他們正確。
而我在夢中比拿破崙做得更多。
相對於基督我在我假設的胸膛裡懷抱著更多的人性。
我秘密地創造了哲學就好像康德從來沒寫過。
但我是，也許將永遠是，一個閣樓上的人，
雖然我實際上並不住在閣樓。
我將永遠是那個生非所是的人；
我將永遠只是那個有道德的人；
我將永遠是那個等著一面無門之牆開門的人，
在雞籠裡唱著無限之歌的人，
在蓋住的井裡聽到上帝的聲音的人。
相信我？不，也不相信任何東西。
讓大自然在我沸騰的腦海裡
傾瀉它的陽光、雨水，和刮亂我的頭髮的風，
讓其他的也來，如果它們願意或必須，或不讓它們來。
作為星辰的心靈奴隸，
我們在起床之前征服了整個世界，
但我們起來後它很模糊，
我們起來後它很陌生，
我們出去到外邊，它就是整個地球，
太陽系，銀河，至於無限。
（吃你的巧克力，小女孩，
吃你的巧克力！
相信我，世界上沒有比巧克力更好的形而上學，
所有那些宗教加起來都不如一個糖果店教得更多。
吃吧，骯髒的小女孩，吃吧！
如果我能像你那樣真實地吃巧克力該有多好！
但我卻在思想，揭掉那層銀色錫紙，
我把它扔在地上，就像扔掉生活那樣。）
但至少，從我對自己永遠不能變成什麼的痛苦中
還存留著這些匆匆寫就的詩句，
一座通向不可能性的破碎了的門徑。
但至少我對自己的輕蔑裡不含眼淚，
至少這是高貴的，當我把髒衣服，也就是我，一下拋入
事物之流中，沒有清單，
而我待在家裡，身上沒穿襯衫。
（你，安慰我的人，你不存在所以才能安慰，
不管你是一個希臘女神，被塑造成活的雕像，
或者一個羅馬的貴族婦女，不可思議地高貴威嚴，
或者一個行吟詩人的公主，美麗優雅，
或者一個十八世紀侯爵夫人，領口低開，神態慵懶，
或者一個屬於我們父母輩的名妓，
或者是我無法想像的現代人——
不管是什麼，是誰，如果你能啟發，請啟發我！
我的心是一個潑空的桶。
用精神的激發者激發精神的方式，我激發
自己，但什麼都沒發現。
我走向窗戶，以絕對的清晰觀看大街。
我看到商鋪，我看到人行道，我看到駛過的車，
我看到穿衣服的活物亂紛紛。
我看到同樣存在著的狗，
所有這些壓向我，像流亡的詛咒，
所有這些都是陌生的，彷彿其他一切。）
我活過、思考過、愛過，甚至信過。
而今天沒有一個乞丐我不羡慕，只要他不是我。
我看著他們的破衣碎片、瘡口和虛偽，
我想：也許你從來沒有活過、思考過、愛過、信過。
（因為有可能做過所有這些和什麼都沒做相等）；
也許你只是如此存在過，就像一隻蜥蜴被切斷的尾巴
那尾巴離開了蜥蜴，還在抽搐。
我造就了我並不瞭解的我，
我應該造就的自己，我卻沒有去做。
我穿上了錯誤的衣服
而且立刻被當作另一個人，我沒說話，陷入迷惘。
當我想摘掉面具，
它卻已粘在我的臉上。
當我把它弄掉，看鏡中的我，
我已經老了。
我醉了，不再知道如何穿那件我沒有脫掉的偽裝。
我把面具扔出去，睡在壁櫥裡，
像一條物業管理因其無害
而容忍的狗，
我將寫下這個故事，證明我的崇高。
我那無用詩句的音樂性，
我多希望面對你就像面對我自己的創造，
而不是面對隔街的煙草店，
也不是把我的存在的意識踩在腳下，
像一塊酒鬼踩過的小地毯，
或者吉卜賽人偷走的門前地墊，一文不值。
但是煙草店老闆來到門前，站在那裡。
我看著他，半扭著脖子的不適
被一個半領悟的靈魂放大。
他會死，我會死。
他將離開他的招牌，我將離開我的詩。
他的招牌將會消亡，而我的詩也將如此。
最終，這個招牌所在的街道也將消亡，
寫就我的詩歌的語言也是如此。
所有這些事所發生的旋轉的行星也將死去。
在其他太陽星系的其他星球某些類似人類的東西
會繼續製造類似詩的東西，活在類似招牌的東西下邊，
總是如此，一件事相對另一件
總是如此，一件事和另一件同樣無用，
總是如此，不可能性和現實一樣愚蠢，
總是如此，內部的神秘和睡在表面的神秘一樣真實。
總是如此或如彼，或總是非此非彼。
這時一個人進入煙草店 （買煙草？），
可信的現實忽然擊中了我。
我從椅子上欠身起來——精力充沛、想通了、充滿人性——
試著寫下這些我在其中說著反話的詩句。
我在想著寫它們的時候點燃了一支煙
在那支煙裡我品味著一種免於所有思慮的自由。
我的眼睛跟著煙霧，彷彿跟著自己的足跡，
在那敏感而恰當的一刻，我欣賞著
一種免於猜測的解放
和如此的明悟：形而上學是感覺不太好時的後果。
然後我躺回椅子
繼續抽煙。
只要命運允許，我將繼續抽煙。
（如果我娶了洗衣婦的女兒，
也許我會幸福。）
我從椅子上起來。我走向視窗。
那個人也從煙草店裡出來了（把零頭放進了褲袋？）。
哦，我認識他：他就是不信形而上學的埃斯蒂夫斯。
（煙草店老闆來到了門前。）
神啟一樣，埃斯蒂夫斯轉過來看到了我。
他招手問好，我大聲回應“再見，埃斯蒂夫斯！”，整個宇宙
回歸原位，沒有理想和希望，而煙草店老闆笑了。
1928.1.15
【其他英譯版本】
https://www.ronnowpoetry.com/contents/pessoa/TobaccoShop.html
The Tobacco Shop
(translated by Richard Zenith)
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