午后时光
日子。心情。人和事
（Selfportrait at 6th wedding anniversary， Paula Modersohn-Becker， 1906）
一个朋友的安魂曲
（纪念保拉•莫德索尔•贝克尔）
（上）
我曾经拥有的 那些逝去了的人们 我把他们放开 让他们离去
惊讶地发现 他们是如此地自在
视死如归家 如此愉悦
这与他们生前的名声地位不符 只有你
回来了 拂过我的身体 像风一样 停留 徘徊 想要
推倒什么弄出声响 以便透露你的存在。 哦 请不要
请不要拿走我 缓慢的认知 我确信你是迷失了方向
如果这个维度里有什么勾起了你的思乡之情。
我们改变事和物，那不是它们的真实模样 那只不过是
我们的存在 被抛光了的 相面的反映
我以为你已经走出很远 这会让我担心
你如果迷了路 你这个人 完成了比其他女人更加繁复的
幻相 你的死去让我们感到害怕。 不 更确切地说：
你凛然的死亡突然降临 闯入我们的生活 带着阴暗的色彩
将过去从以后分离开来 - 这关系到我们自己：调整它让它恢复秩序
将是我们需要持续进行的使命
但是你自己也被吓着了 就是现在也还在心悸
虽然害怕在那里恐怕已经失去了意义
你丢失了自己永恒中最微小的一片，保拉，但是你进入了
那个空间 那个还没有东西存在的地方，在那里
你一脸茫然 心不在焉 你不能
就像你抓住地球上的每一件事物一样 去领略 无限力量的辉煌
在那里 那个已经接纳了你的空间 因为一些曾经的不满与怨气
而升起的引力 将你重新拖拽回到 这个用时间来衡量的
世界 — -
这常常让我在无梦的夜晚惊醒 就像有一个小偷 悄无声息地
爬上了我的窗棂
如果我可以说那只是出于善意
出于你丰富的内心，所以你回来了
因为你是如此地安之若素 如此地自在
你可以在任何地方漫游 就像一个孩子一样
不惧怕 任何可能等待着你的伤害
但是不是这样的： 你在乞求。 这刺穿了我
深入骨髓，像锯子一样把我切碎
一个幽灵能够对我施加的最严厉的斥责
在暗夜里向我叫嚣，我退缩着 缩进
我自己的肺里 肠道里 心脏最后一瓣空荡的 心房里
所有这些苦楚 都不及
你那无声的乞求 更让我寒彻入骨
你想要的 到底是什么？
告诉我 我必须去旅行吗？ 你是否
拉下了什么东西 有什么地方 不能够忍受
你的离去？ 我必须出发 去一个你从未见过的国家
尽管它对你来说 就像你的感官一样近在咫尺清晰明亮？
我将在它的河流上航行 在它的山谷里探索 询问它最古老的
习俗 我将在那里长久地
站立 跟门廊下的女人们交谈 在她们
喊孩子回家时 等待着
我将观察他们 在田野和草地上作业 如何把自己
包裹于大地当中 我会要求引见 去见
他们的国王 我将贿赂牧师们
带我去他们的寺庙 到他们保留的最强大的佛像面前
把我留在那里 然后离开 让门在他们的身后关闭
只有在那时 在我有了足够的认知之后
我才会去观察动物 让它们沉着的底韵
缓慢地渗透进我的肢体 在它们的眼睛的
深处 我将审视自己的存在 它们的眼睛
将我短暂封锁 然后释放 平静地 不做任何评判
我会让花匠们来找我 在我面前吟咏
丰富的 花草的名字 用那些小小的刻着它们
抑扬顿挫的名字的 陶罐 我将带回
百种残余的 滞留不去的芳香
还有水果： 我要去采购水果
在它们甜美的芬芳里 那个国家的大地与天空将重现
因为那就是你对它们的理解：成熟的果实
你把它们摆放在画布之前 白色的碗里
用你的颜料去衡量每一颗果实的饱满
女人也是果实 你看 孩子们在内部塑造成
他们存在的形状
最后 你把自己也看成了果实 你一步一步走出
自己的衣物 把你裸露的躯体 引领到镜子的前面
你让里面的自己呈现在自己的凝视之下
那个站在镜子前面的 强大而沉默 它不宣称： 我是那个；或者，不，我是这个
完全丢弃了好奇之心 你的目光变得如此的
无欲无求 如此的平白无物 甚至不再
因为自己而渴望， 它什么都不想要：只剩下圣洁
我就是这样把你珍视 — 在镜子的
深处 你把自己摆放 远离这个世界的
一切 你为什么会这样回来 这样
来否认你自己呢？你为什么
想让我觉得 在你的自画像中 你佩戴的
琥珀珠子里 仍然带有一种
在宁静的绘画天堂里 无法存在的沉重感？
你为什么 要用你站立的姿态 向我
展示一种邪恶的预兆？
是什么让你 像印刻于手掌的手纹一样 去解读
你自己身体的曲线 以至于现在
我只能把它们像命运一样看待？
来吧 到这里来 站到烛光之下，我不害怕
直视死者的面孔 当他们归来 他们有权利
像其他事物一样 在我们的视线之内停留 重现
来吧 到这里来 让我们静默片刻 看到我桌角上的
这只玫瑰了吗 它周围的光芒 是不是
像你身上的一样怯弱？它也一样 不应该在这里存在
它应该在花园里 外面的花园里
开放和凋谢 它应该跟我毫无关联
但是现在，它在一个小小的瓷瓶里过活：
它又找到了什么样的意义呢 在我的感知之中？
Requiem for a Friend
Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell
(In memoriam Paula Modersohn-Becker)
（1）
I have my dead, and I have let them go,
and was amazed to see them so contented,
so soon at home in being dead, so cheerful,
so unlike their reputation. Only you
return; brush past me, loiter, try to knock
against something, so that the sound reveals
your presence, Oh don’t take from me what I
am slowly learning. I’m sure you have gone astray
if you are moved to homesickness for something
in this dimension. We transform these things;
they aren’t real, they are only the reflections
upon the polished surface of our being,
I thought you were much further on. It troubles me
that you should stray back, you, who have achieved
more transformation than any other woman.
that we were frightened when you died. . .no; rather:
that your stern death broke in upon us, darkly,
wrenching the till-then from the ever-since—
this concerns us; setting it all in order
is the task we have continually before us.
But that you too were frightened, and even now
pulse with your fear, where fear can have no meaning;
that you have lost even the smallest fragment
of your eternity, Paula, and have entered
here, where nothing yet exists; that out there,
bewildered for the first time, inattentive,
you didn’t grasp the splendor of the infinite
forces, as on earth you grasped each Thing;
that, from the realm which already had received you,
the gravity of some old discontent
has dragged you back to measurable time—:
this often startles me out of dreamless sleep
at night, like a thief climbing in my window.
If I could say it is only out of kindness,
out of your great abundance, that you have come,
because you are so secure, so self-contained
that you can wander anywhere, like a child,
not frightened of any harm that might await you. . .
But no: you’re pleading. This penetrates me, into
my very bones, and cuts at me like a saw.
The bitterest rebuke a ghost could bring me,
could scream to me, at night, when I withdraw
into my lungs, into my intestines,
into the last bare chamber of my heart
such bitterness would not chill me half so much
as this mute pleading. What is it you want?
Tell me, must I travel? Did you leave
something behind, some place, which cannot bear
your absence? Must I set out for a country
you never saw, although it was as vividly
near to you as your own senses are?
I will sail its rivers, explore its valleys, ask
about its oldest customs; I will stand
for hours, talking with women in their doorways
and waiting, while they call their children home.
I will watch the way they wrap the land around them
as they work in field and meadow; will demand
to be led before their king; will bribe the priests
to take me to their temple, before the most
powerful of the statues in their keeping,
and to leave me there, shutting the gates behind them.
And only then, when I have learned enough,
I will go to watch the animals, and let
something of their composure slowly glide
into my limbs; will see my own existence
deep in their eyes, which will hold me for a while
and let me go, serenely, without judgment.
I will have the gardeners come to me and recite
many flowers, and in the small clay pots
of their melodious names I will bring back
some remnant of the hundred fragrances.
And fruits: I will buy fruits; and in their sweetness
that country’s earth and sky will live again.
For that is what you understood: ripe fruits.
You set them before the canvas, in white bowls,
and weighed out each one’s fullness with your colors.
Women too, you saw, were fruits; and children, moulded
from inside, into the shapes of their existence.
And at last, you saw yourself as a fruit, you stepped
out of your clothes and brought your naked body
before the mirror, you let yourself inside
down to your gaze; which stayed in front, immense,
and didn’t say, I am that; no: This is.
So free of curiosity your gaze
had become, so unpossessive, of such true
poverty, it no longer desired even
for you yourself; it wanted nothing: holy.
And that is how I have cherished you—deep inside
the mirror, where you put yourself, far away
from all the world. Why have you come like this
and so denied yourself? Why do you want
to make me think that in the amber beads
You wore in your self-portrait there was still
A kind of heaviness that cannot exist
In the serene heaven of painting? Why do you show me
an evil omen in the way you stand?
What makes you read the contours of your body
Like the lines engraved inside a palm, so that
I cannot see them now except as fate?
Come here, into the candlelight，I’m not afraid
to look the dead in the face. When they return,
they have a right, as much as other things do,
to pause and refresh themselves within our vision.
Come here; let us be silent for a while.
Look at this rose on the corner of my desk:
isn’t the light around it just as timid
as the light on you? It too should not be here,
it should have bloomed and faded in the garden,
outside, never involved with me. But now
it lives on, in its small porcelain vase:
what meaning does it find in my awareness?
～～～～～～～～～～～～～
维基百科
保拉·莫德索恩-贝克尔（德語：Paula Modersohn-Becker，1876年2月8日—1907年11月21日）是一位德国画家，也是早期表现主义的重要代表人物之一。她在31歲時就死於產後血栓，因此她的職業生涯很短。她被公認為是第一位畫裸體自畫像的女性畫家，她也是20世紀初期現代主義運動很重要的成員。
安魂，
就是在消逝的时光里，
找回自己的初心，
生命的本质和意义。
冲数的想法
松松周末愉快！
死亡的话题，常常充满神秘和想象。死亡真是“将过去从以后分离开来”。
厉害了，小C！：）