夜晚的旋律69 《跨界绽放》采访作家王芫 陈鹏演奏《外面的世界》

“外面的世界很精彩，外面的世界很无奈”，以一首新编吉它曲《外面的世界》开场，陈鹏和作家王芫畅谈移民生活以及中外文学。话题围绕“跨界”展开，涉及到生活与艺术中的种种跨界现象，最后为大家奉上精彩的中英文配乐诗歌朗诵《花与恶心》（翁童、钱革非朗诵）。让我们的思绪伴着优美的音乐自由地翱翔吧！BigStar Music and Arts, Inc 出品 主播: 陈鹏 王芫本期策划: 王芫 陈鹏 制作: 陈鹏 封面设计：钱革非 感谢马睿为节目封面亲笔题字！ 欢迎关注《夜晚的旋律》公众微信Music_627 官网：www.BigStarMusic.org 电邮: [email protected] 本期节目包括：指弹吉他曲《外面的世界》陈鹏改编演奏《花与恶心》作者：卡洛斯•德鲁蒙德•德•安德拉德（巴西 Carlos Drummond de Andrade）翻译： 胡续冬朗诵： 翁童 钱革非被我的阶级和衣着所囚禁，我一身白色走在灰白的街道上。忧郁症和商品窥视着我。我是否该继续走下去直到觉得恶心？我能不能赤手空拳地反抗？钟楼上的时钟里肮脏的眼睛：不，全然公正的时间并未到来。时间依然是粪便、烂诗、癫狂和拖延。可怜的时间，可怜的诗人困在了同样的僵局里。我徒劳地试图对自己解释，墙壁是聋的。在词语的皮肤下，有着暗号和代码。太阳抚慰着病人，却没有让他们康复。事物。那些不引人注目的事物是多么悲伤。沿着城市呕吐出这种厌倦。四十年了，没有任何问题被解决，甚至没有被排上日程。没有写过也没有收到任何一封信。所有人都回到家里。他们不怎么自由，但可以拿起报纸拼读出世界，他们知道自己失去了它。大地上的罪行，怎么可以原谅？我参与了其中的很多，另一些我躲在一旁围观。有些我认为很美，让它们得以出版。柔和的罪行助人活命。错误像每日的口粮，分发到家中。烘焙着邪恶的狠心面包师。运送着邪恶的狠心牛奶贩。把这一切都点上火吧，包括我，交给1918年的一个被称为无政府主义者的男孩。然而，我的仇恨是我身上最好的东西。凭借它我得以自救还能留有一点微弱的希望。一朵花当街绽放！它们从远处经过，有轨电车，公共汽车，钢铁的车河。一朵花，尽管还有些黯淡，在躲避警察，穿透沥青。请你们安静下来，停下手里的生意，我确信一朵花正当街绽放。它的颜色毫不起眼。它的花瓣还未张开。它的名字书中没有记载。它很丑。但它千真万确是一朵花。下午五点钟，我坐在一国之都的地面上缓慢地把手伸向这尚未明朗的形状。在山的那边，浓密的云团在膨胀。一个个小白点在海上晃动，受惊的鸡群。它很丑。但它是一朵花。它捅破了沥青、厌倦、恶心和仇恨。The Flower and the Nausea by Carlos Drummond de AndradeImprisoned by my class and my clothesI go in white through the gray streetmelancholy men, shopkeepers peer at me.Should I continue until I sicken?Can I, unarmed, be revolted?Dirty eyes on the clock tower:No, the time has not come for full justiceIt is still the time of excrement, bad poems, hallucinations and waitThe poor time, the poor poetStuck in the same impasse[In vain I try to explain myself, the walls are deaf]Under the skin of words there are ciphers and codesThe sun consoles the sick and does not renew themThe things. How sad are things, considered out of contextThey’ll vomit this tedium across the city[Forty years and not a single problemresolved, not even close]Not a single letter written nor received.All the men return homeThey are less free but they carry newspapersand decipher the world, knowing that they’ve lost it.Crimes of the earth, how does it forgive them?I took part in many, from others I hidSome I thought were beautiful, they were publishedGentle crimes, that helped me liveThe daily ration of error, distributed at homeThe feral bakers of evilThe feral milkmen of evilSet it all aflame, including myselfTo the boy of 1918 they called an anarchist[However, my hate is better than meWith it I save myselfand give at least a little faint hope][A flower rose from the street!Far away they pass by, trams, buses, rivers of steel trafficA flower, though fadedEvades the police, breaks the asphaltBe completely silent, stop your businessI assure you that a flower roseIts color is unnoticedIts petals don’t openIts name is not in the booksIt is ugly. But it is truly a flower[I sit on the ground in the country’s capital at five in the afternoonand lightly pass my hand over this frail thing.]Beside the mountains, dense clouds swellLittle white points dance on the surface of the sea, startled chickens[It is ugly. But it is a flower. It pierced the asphalt, the boredom,the disgust and the hate]