匆 匆

朱自清

燕子去了，有再来的时候；杨柳枯了，有再青的时候；桃花谢了，有再开的时候。但是，聪明的，你告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？——是有人偷了他们罢：那是谁？又藏在何处呢？是他们自己逃走了罢：现在又到了那里呢？

我不知道他们给了我多少日子；但我的手确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着，八千多日子已经从我手中溜去；像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在时间的流里，没有声音，也没有影子。我不禁头涔涔而泪潸潸了。

去的尽管去了，来的尽管来着；去来的中间，又怎样地匆匆呢？早上我起来的时候,小屋里射进两三方斜斜的太阳。太阳他有脚啊，轻轻悄悄地挪移了；我也茫茫然跟着旋转。于是——洗手的时候，日子从水盆里过去；吃饭的时候，日子从饭碗里过去；默默时，便从凝然的双眼前过去。我觉察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽时，他又从遮挽着的手边过去，天黑时，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地从我身上跨过，从我脚边飞去了。等我睁开眼和太阳再见，这算又溜走了一日。我掩着面叹息。但是新来的日子的影儿又开始在叹息里闪过了。

在逃去如飞的日子里，在千门万户的世界里的我能做些什么呢？只有徘徊罢了，只有匆匆罢了；在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢？过去的日子如轻烟，被微风吹散了，如薄雾，被初阳蒸融了；我留着些什么痕迹呢？我何曾留着像游丝样的痕迹呢？我赤裸裸来到这世界，转眼间也将赤裸裸的回去罢？但不能平的，为什么偏要白白走这一遭啊？

你聪明的，告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？

（写于1922年3月18日）

【译文一】

Haste

The swallows may go, but they will return another day; the willows may wither, but they will turn green again; the peach blossoms may fade and fall, but they will bloom again. You who are wiser than I, tell me, then: why is it that the days, once gone, never again return? Are they stolen by someone? Then, by whom? And where are they hidden? Or do they run away by themselves? Then, where are they now?

I do not know how many days I’ve been given, yet slowly but surely my supply is diminishing. Counting silently to myself, I can see that more than 8,000 of them have already slipped through my fingers, each like a drop of water on the head of a pin, falling into the ocean. My days are disappearing into the stream of time, noiselessly and without a trace; uncontrollably, my sweat and tears stream down.

What’s gone is gone, and what is coming cannot be halted. From what is gone to what is yet to come, why must it pass so quickly? In the morning when I get up there are two or three rays of sunlight slanting into my small room. The sun, does it have feet? Stealthily it moves along, as I too, unknowingly, follow its progress. Then as I wash up the day passes through my washbasin, and at breakfast through my rice bowl. When I am standing still and quiet my eyes carefully follow its progress past me. I can sense that it is hurrying along, and when I stretch out my hands to cover and hold it, it soon emerges from under my hands and moves along. At night, as I lie on my bed, agilely it strides across my body and flies past my feet. And when I open my eyes to greet the sun again, another day has slipped by. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the shadow of the new day begins darting by, even in the midst of my sighing.

During these fleeting days what can I, only one among so many, accomplish? Nothing more than to pace irresolutely, nothing more than to hurry along. In these more than 8,000 days of hurrying what have I to show but some irresolute wanderings? The days that are gone are like smoke that has been dissipated by a breeze, like thin mists that have been burned off under the onslaught of the morning sun. What mark will I leave behind? Will the trace I leave behind be so much as a gossamer thread? Naked I came into this world, and in a twinkling still naked I will leave it. But what I cannot accept is: why should I make this journey in vain?

You who are wiser than I, please tell me why it is that once gone, our days never return.

   

(Translated by Howard Goldblatt. Joseph S. M. Lau & Howard Goldblatt (eds.). The Columbia Anthology of Modern Chinese Literature. New York: Columbia University Press, 1995: 625-626)

【译文二】
Transient Days

If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn green again. If peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have been stolen by someone. But who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhaps they have just run away by themselves. But where could they be at the present moment?

I don’t know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of them is undoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8,000 days have already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the stream of time without leaving a trace. At the thought of this, sweat oozes from my forehead and tears trickle down my cheeks.

What is gone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the transition in between! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or three squarish patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in its revolution. Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands; vanishes in the rice bowl when I have my meal; passes away quietly before the fixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie. Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my outstretched hands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body and flits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day is already gone. I heave a sigh, my head buried in my hands. But, in the midst of my sighs, a new day is flashing past.

Living in this world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but waver and wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8,000 fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps of smoke, have been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, not even gossamer-like traces. I have come to this world stark naked, and in the twinkling of an eye, I am to go back as stark naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass through this world for nothing at all?

O you the wise, would you tell me please: why should our days go by never to return?

【译文三】

Rush

Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?—If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could he hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment?

I do not know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me. Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes.

Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is the shift, in such a rush?  When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small room in two or three oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. Thus—the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, passes away before my day-dreaming gaze as I reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but he keeps flowing past my withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh.

What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a light wind, or evaporated as mist by the morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I ever left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to the world, stark naked; am I to go back, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: why should I have made such a trip for nothing!

You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return?

【译文四】

Days Gone By

When the swallows have gone, there is still time to return; there is still time to return; when the poplar and willow trees have become withered, there is still time to see green; when the peach flowers have already faded, there is still time to blossom. But please tell me, the genius, why then have my days gone and never returned? If some people have stolen them, then who are they? And where are they hidden? If they have escaped by themselves, then where are they now?

I don’t know how many days I have been given, but the days in my hands are becoming numbered. Counting silently, over eight thousand days have slipped by. Just like water drops upon a pinpoint dripping slowly into the vast ocean, my days have been dripping into the river of time, quietly and invisibly. I can’t help dripping with sweat and weeping many tears.

Although the goings have gone and the comings are constantly coming, how hurried is the time between? When I get up in the morning, I see two or three ribbons of light streaming into my room. The sun also has feet; it moves away on tiptoe and I follow it aimlessly. When I wash my hands, my days wash off into my basin; when I am eating, the days vanish from my bowl; and when I am sitting silently, my days pass by my gazing eyes. When I feel them go away so hurriedly, I reach out my hands only to hold them back before they are beyond my grasp. When it is dark, I lie upon my bed and watch days cleverly jump over my body or fly away from my feet. When I open my eyes to meet the sun again, another day has gone by. I cover my face and sigh, but the spark of a new day begins to flash away in my breath.

In these swiftly escaping days, what can I do in this world amongst thousands of households of households? I can do nothing but hesitate and hurry. In these over eight thousand hurried days, what has been left to me besides hesitation? The past days like light smoke are blown away with the breeze or like a thin layer of mist evaporate with the morning sun. And what mark have I left in the world? When have I ever left a mark as tiny as a hairspring? I came to this world naked, soon I’ll leave here naked too. But, it’s unfair to me…why did I come to this world for nothing?

You, the genius, please tell me why our days have gone by and have never returned?

【译文五】

Fleeting Time

Swallows fly away, yet return; willows wither, yet burgeon again; peach-blossom fades, yet blooms afresh. But tell me, you who are wise, why do our days depart never to return? Does someone steal them—if so, who? And where are they being hidden? Or have they fled of their own accord—and if so, where are they now?

I do not know how many days have been granted me, but my hand is growing emptier all the time. In silence I compute that more than eight thousand days have already slipped through my fingers. Like a drop of water on the point of a needle which drips into the ocean, my days have dripped noiselessly into the stream of time, leaving not a trace behind.

The past has gone whither it listed, and the future is coming as it wills; but why is this junction of past and future so fleeting?When I get up in the morning, two or three rays of sunlight slant into my chamber. The sun has feet which pad lightly, stealthily on; and I follow, revolving bemusedly in its wake. And so—when I wash my hands, my time slips out of the basin; when I eat, it slips away through my bowl; when I am silent, it slips past my abstracted eyes. Conscious that it is fleeting away, I stretch out my hands to catch it, but it streams through my outstretched fingers; and at night when I lie in bed, it glides nimbly over my body or flies from beside my feet. When I open my eyes to see the sun again, another day has slipped past. I sigh and cover my face. But the shadow of the new-come day begins to flutter off in my sigh.

What can I do in these days which escape so fast in this world with its teeming millions? I can only wander, only hasten away. What have I achieved, apart from wandering, in the eight thousand days which have flitted by? My past has been scattered like smoke by the light breeze, or dispersed like mist by the morning sun. And what traces are left me? What vestiges? Naked I came into the world, and naked no doubt I shall go from it very soon. What makes me indignant, though, is the question: What should I have to make this aimless trip?

Answer me, you who are wise: Why do our days depart never to return?

(Translator Unknown. Internet. Online.)