繁華散盡：廖玉蕙散文中英對照

　　為凸顯台灣優秀文化競爭力，推出「讀名家，學英文」系列，希冀藉由好看好讀的文字，讓國人同時領略中英雙種語言之美。

　　詩人陳義芝說廖玉蕙的散文特色是：「以憨、癡對抗人世的假面浮淺，不惜將尷尬的幕後搬到台前，讓人看翩翩彩翼起舞的歡愉，也看蝴蝶倉皇換裝之際的痛。」

　　本書精選名散文家廖玉蕙9篇散文，以其女兒之親親、以教師之仁愛，以作家之尖銳的筆觸，展現其生活散文特色。其中〈如果記憶像風〉談校園霸凌事件。〈一座安靜的城市〉是三進金門的感觸。〈繁華散盡〉談論對父親的印象。細數與兒女感情的〈你不知道我成績有多爛〉與〈遠方〉，與家人生活、朋友相處的〈我為卿狂〉、〈情深似海〉，以及對於年紀的體悟〈年過五十〉。逐句翻譯後，並請專業人士審訂，譯者掌握原文精神，流暢易讀。

　　全書採用中英對照的編排方式，閱讀散文風采外，還能欣賞精準譯文。讓想學英文與中文的讀者，能自由穿梭在兩種語言中，享受文字所蘊含的意義，並懂得如何使用。

本書特色

　　★親子教授 廖玉蕙第一本散文中英對照。

作者簡介

廖玉蕙

　　東吳大學中國文學博士，現任台北教育大學語文與創作學系教授，教授新文學創作、電影及小說等課程。曾獲中國文藝協會文藝獎章、中山文藝創作獎、中興文藝獎章及吳魯芹文學獎等。

　　著有散文集《不信溫柔喚不回》、《嫵媚》、《如果記憶像風》、《像我這樣的老師》、《公主老花眼》、《大食人間煙火》、《純真遺落》等二十餘冊，小說集《賭他一生》、《淡藍氣泡》，繪本書《曾經的美麗》，及訪談錄《走訪捕蝶人》及學術論著《細說桃花扇》、《人生有情淚沾臆》等。作品被選入國、高中國文課本及多種選集，深受各級師生喜愛與信賴。

譯者簡介

柏松年

　　美國加州大學柏克萊分校畢業。目前居住於北美卡羅來納阿什維爾。

胡守芳

　　東海大學外文系畢業。赴加拿大讀比較文學，後改讀室內設計及建築。現從事寫作和翻譯。曾獲多項海外華文創作獎及多次梁實秋文學獎散文獎、翻譯獎。

湯麗明

　　台大外文系，輔仁大學翻譯研究所畢業。為一資深翻譯工作者，譯註甚豐。現任教於台灣大學外文系。

盧競琪

　　台灣大學外文系畢業，美國舊金山州立大學英文碩士，曾以--朝露、展眉、艾琪等筆名，於美國世界日報、中國時報等報刊，發表短篇小說。

謝孟宗

　　東海大學外國語文學系畢業，成功大學外國語文學所碩士。中華民國斐陶斐榮譽學會會員。現任成功大學外國語文學系專案計畫講師。曾獲梁實秋文學獎翻譯類譯文組文建會優等獎、譯詩組佳作、散文評審獎；台北文學獎散文佳作；花蓮文學獎新詩優選。

審訂者簡介

中華民國筆會

　　創立於1924年，為1921年創立之國際筆會最早會員之一。首任會長蔡元培，秘書林語堂。1953年在台北復會，參加國際筆會恢復會籍。

　　筆會英文季刊〈The Chinese PEN〉創刊於1972年秋季，發行一百二十餘會員國。歷任總編輯包括張蘭熙、齊邦媛、彭鏡禧、張惠娟、高天恩。現任總編輯梁欣容。

彭淮棟

　　現任報社編譯。譯有薩依德《鄉關何處》、《論晚期風格：反常合道的音樂與文學》，以撒．柏林《現實意識》，安伯托．艾可《美的歷史》、《醜的歷史》等書。

繁華散盡
When the Splendor Is Gone
盧競琪／譯
Ttranslated by Crystal Allen

這些天，我一直翻閱著昔時的照片，在一本本的相簿中，父親一逕地以他招牌的笑容光燦地面對鏡頭。從年輕到年老，從紅顏到白髮，從山巔到海隅，從打球到下棋，從加州的水綠沙暄，到北海道的冰雪滿地，從人子到人父，甚至人祖……他總是那般興高采烈地擁抱生活。

The stars are twinkling in a moon-lit sky. Fireworks are showing off their beauty one after another.

My mother and I are pushing my father in a wheelchair through a boisterous crowd. We intimately talk and joke with each other. My father raises his head in a childlike way from time to time, pointing at some glowing lanterns and excitedly asking casual questions. With sounds of gongs and drums in their ears, people take their parents and children out to the street. Everywhere is a happy family picture. Cool breezes of the night join the cheerful crowd, playing with smoke from many street vendors’ stoves.

Perhaps drawn by the sound and joy, my father has been beside himself and suddenly he rises from his wheelchair. Carelessly, he falls down on the muddy road which is wet and slippery after a drizzle. People quickly gather around him like ants around food. Somebody, who could be me, my mother, or anybody in the crowd, suddenly utters a wild cry, “Bleeding! He is bleeding!”

Dark red blood floods the ground around my father. My mother bows down, lightly moving my father’s face toward her. My father opens his eyes, smiles, and says to me, “It is really bustling!”

Then he slowly closes his eyes. Frightened and fearful, I scream, “Dad!”

With cold sweat all over my body, I woke up from the nightmare. My tears kept coming down my face in the dark. There was a gathering in front of a temple nearby. It seemed to echo my nightmare, celebrating the Lantern Festival with the fast and incessant playing of Chinese wind and string instruments.

I was sequestered from the outside world that night, to maintain the secrecy of the exam questions I was preparing for selecting military reserve officers. In the sequestered building there was a dinner party. A riddle-solving game after dinner was the most fun. Then there was karaokee in the dining room nicely decorated by everybody who had to be there for the holiday. It seemed to distract us from our sense of loss for being away from home. I sang along with everybody else, trying to forget a promise I would never be able to fulfill in my life. When we were getting slightly drunk, the microphone was in a colonel’s hand. He had been drinking and laughing more than anybody else. He put his glass down and staggered to the center of the dining hall. He announced, “I’m a revolutionary soldier!”

Everybody died laughing, thinking he was totally drunk. We guessed he had drunk a fair amount.

“I have to take orders and be loyal to my country,” continued the colonel.

Everybody cheered again. He lowered his head. His hands were still holding the microphone but quivering. He almost murmured, “I was just told this evening that my mother passed away today.”

The shocking announcement terrified and silenced the whole crowd. Everybody was now sober. He said with tearful eyes and a trembling voice, “I can’t leave this place now. I have to be responsible for my work until it’s done…A few years ago, when my father passed away, I was on duty in Tokyo. I couldn’t go home for him, either. I’m not a filial son. But as a soldier, I have to choose between my country and my parents. I cannot but…So, tonight I’m going to sing a very sad song.”

His song stuck in his throat a few times. Then the sad melody, covering deep grief, flew intermittently into the dark night until he couldn’t help but end it with painful crying, covering his tearful face with his hands. I realized partying and drinking was just a way to cover up the pain, extreme beyond description. My pain, which I had tried to hide for the Lantern Festival celebration, was coming out in a flood of tears, too. Last Lantern Festival was when my father came to Taipei to seek better treatment for his broken arm and leg. Through a window, we saw a crowd near Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall. It was a bustling and joyful scene. I had tried everything I could to borrow a wheelchair for my father, but I didn’t get one. I promised my father that I would overcome any difficulty in order to take him to a boisterous and impressive Lantern Festival celebration next time. When this year’s Lantern Festival at Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall was on TV, I saw lanterns up high as stars, traditional handicrafts in eye-catching displays, and a crowd as delighted as people in the prosperous society described in the Chinese classic Dreamy Splendor of the Eastern Capital. But my father was gone as if he had flown away on a crane. I, who came from his flesh and blood, would never see him again. Isn’t this the utmost pain of life?

That night I wept in bed, with my pillow and blanket all wet. I had a dream. It began with the splendor of the stars, the moon, and fireworks. But it ended with heartbreaking tears and blood as a nightmare. Did my father come all the way from another world into my dream, just for this festival he had wanted to attend?

My father enjoyed boisterous gatherings and splendid festivals all his life. He also liked to decorate life with hobbies such as gardening, bird keeping, sports, and traveling. After he retired, he loved to visit friends and looked forward to his children’s every visit. Even when he was in poor health, he would struggle to go to a friend’s funeral with a cane and argue with my mother, who was against the idea. My mother was afraid that going to a funeral would exhaust or even depress him. But he felt upset about not being able to pay the last tribute to his friends.He grudgingly complained, “It shows how good a friendship is, when the friend is dead. Whether one’s funeral draws many people shows how popular this person is. If you don’t even go to see this person for the last time, what kind of relative or friend are you?”

He told us to record all the funeral invitations he had received for him. He said, “Later, when I pass away, you must send funeral invitations to these people.”

Seeing that we were astonished, he slowly explained, “That would make it boisterous. If nobody comes to my funeral, people will laugh at me and say I’m not popular. I hope my funeral will be as boisterous as your youngest uncle’s, with crowds as big as a mountain or an ocean! His funeral looked great, very enviable! Don’t think that my friends died and their children won’t come. Just invite all of them. Those who know courtesy will come.”