一个自由译者的生命记录

August- -

                                      

August is a dramatic month. Humidity is a form of madness.Writing is a form of suicide. The temptation to talk like this, in short clips, is overwhelming. Short sentences are like raindrops: splashy and desirable.

August, the most complacent month. Laziness, humidity, and utter lack of thought are its chief characteristics. Sluggish and indolent we drag our bodies through its sweaty middle like primeval crawlers.

I saw a guy, prostrate from heat, staring at an empty parking lot downtown. "There are more leaves on the trees this year," he said. I looked at the expanse of steaming cement before us and agreed. That was an August encounter and that man an August character. An ambassador of Humidity. The reason why so many people die in August is that nobody is really awake. All Death has to do is pluck the unalert from the planet like overripe peaches.

If you are poor and hot like me, one way to escape August is to visit showrooms. Not only are they airconditioned, they are educational. I went to an IBM computer showplace and a dear lady paraded me before the friendly pastles of a thousand keyboards. It was like ice cream.

Looking over the August of my life, I find all sorts of delirious phenomena. Once I was mugged in a hallway. I was too irritated by the heat to pay. I screamed at the guy and he only took half the money. A few years ago, my wife produced a wonderful calendar full of useful and wonderful facts, as well as the birthdays of all our friends. I tried to talk her into leaving August out. When she wouldn't listen, I went through her files and had several people I didn't like moved to August. She caught me. I pleaded humidity. I don't think she's forgiven me yet.

(from August by Andrei Codrescu, 翰唐 录入)

- 作者： 翰唐 访问统计：　2005年11月6日, 星期日 09:54 加入博采 打印