Editor-in-Chief:
  Yidan Han

  Contributing Editor:
  Kyle David Anderson


高兴
Gao Xing

高兴,诗人、翻译家,中国作家协会会员,1963年出生于江苏省吴江市。现为《世界文学》主编,“蓝色东欧”丛书主编。曾以作家、翻译家、外交官和访问学者身份游历过欧美数十个国家。出版过《米兰·昆德拉传》、《东欧文学大花园》、《布拉格,那蓝雨中的石子路》等专著和随笔集;主编过《伊凡·克里玛作品系列》(5卷)、《水怎样开始演奏》、《诗歌中的诗歌》、《小说中的小说》等大型图书。主要译著有《凡高》、《黛西·米勒》、《雅克和他的主人》、《可笑的爱》、《安娜·布兰迪亚娜诗选》、《我的初恋》、《索雷斯库诗选》、《梦幻宫殿》、《托马斯·温茨洛瓦诗选》、《托马斯·萨拉蒙诗选》、《罗马尼亚当代抒情诗选》等。编辑和研究之余,从事散文和诗歌创作。作品已被译成英语、俄语、孟加拉语、波斯语、罗马尼亚语、塞尔维亚语、亚美尼亚语、荷兰语、波斯语、越南语等。现居北京。

Gao Xing, was born in 1963. He is a poet and translator, as well as a member of Chinese Writers Association. He is now the editor-chief of World Literature. He has visited, lived and worked in tens of European countries as the writer, scholar and the diplomatist. His published works include the monograph and essays, such as Biography of Milan Kundera, Prague-the cobbled road in Blue Rain. His editor-in-chief works include some large-scale foreign literature books, such as the Poetry in Poetry, the Novel in Novel. He has become the chief editor of series book of Blue Eastern Europe since 2012. His translated works mainly include Van Gogh, Daisy Miller, Jacques and his Master,Lovely Smile, Anthology of Ana Blandiana, My First Love, Dreamlike Palace, Anthology of Thomas Venclova, Contemporary Lyric Poetry of Romania, Water Margin and Billions of Vagrants, or Nothingness, etc.



译者
Translator


梁余晶
Liang Yujing

梁余晶,湖南常德人,现为新西兰惠灵顿维多利亚大学博士生,译著包括英译中《2014新西兰年度最佳诗选》(新西兰Wai-te-ata出版社),中译英《零距离:中国新诗选》(美国Tinfish出版社)。

Liang Yujing grew up in China and is currently a PhD candidate at Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand. He is the Chinese translator of Best New Zealand Poems 2014 (Wai-te-ata Press) and the English translator of Zero Distance: New Poetry from China (Tinfish Press).

水鸟

Water Bird

绝没有料到 水面上也会冷不丁地 冒出带着斑纹图案的障碍 这难道是天空投下的幻影? 水鸟眨了眨眼 小心翼翼地游近,用喙试了试 又赶紧缩回。该如何是好? 该如何是好?水鸟停在水中 琢磨着,迟疑着 仿佛有三条路摆在面前: 折返,潜泳,或者飞翔 三条路,三种可能,三个方向 只见那水鸟先是折返,游了 几步,随后转身,一个猛子 潜入水中,片刻之后又在 障碍的那边,露出头颈 最终奋力一搏,飞了起来 朝向天空,朝向自己所认定的 远方,将三条路变成了一条路 三种可能变成了一种可能 三个方向变成了一个方向 那水鸟才有资格谈论自由 可它却什么也没说 它已什么也不用说了

 

Out of the blue, a striped obstacle abruptly emerges from the water. Or is it a shadow of the sky? The water bird, blinking, swims near, taps his beak on it, suddenly retreats. What shall I do? What shall I do? The bird stays in the water, pondering, hesitating, as if there are three paths before him: backtracking, diving, or flying. Three paths, three possibilities, three directions. Then the bird goes back, swims a few strokes, turns around again, diving into the water. A moment later, across the obstacle, his head and neck resurface. Eventually he strives to fly up toward the sky, toward the horizon he believes in, turning the three paths, the three possibilities, the three directions, all into one. Only that bird is qualified to talk about freedom. He says nothing. There's no need for him to say anything.

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