◎董继平 译

对 话

当一阵风转动的时候，我听见花园和沙漠在相互讨论一些事情。有时在花园，有时在沙漠，要么在白天，要么在夜晚。泥墙，石墙，无墙，石灰石，遥远的绵羊，嚎叫声，鸟鸣声，嘶嘶声，滴落声，沉寂，干燥的气味，有水的气味，月亮，星星，那成为它们之间的钥匙的花朵。

花园和沙漠，相互诉说自己的梦幻。它们尤其会梦见对方。沙漠梦见花园在自己里面。它热爱花园。它拥抱花园。它想把花园变成沙漠。花园生活在自己的范围内。它梦见沙漠把自己团团围住，梦见它与沙漠的差异，它知道那种差异脆弱得就像情感。

我肯定在很久前就听见了它们交谈。我肯定在两岁时就听见了它们交谈。我肯定一岁时就听见了它们交谈，如此等等。也许是在我出生之前。或者任何人出生之前。或者任何圆弧变成鸡蛋之前。或者水诞生，在高高的岩石上冷却，预言泪水，预言眼神之前。

甚至在岩石诞生，在彩色之夜里移动之前，我就肯定听见了它们交谈。或许，我早就听见了它们交谈，自从光芒开始寻找某种要在上面写作的东西，向前飞翔，洁白，里面隐藏着色彩，周围环绕着黑暗，从开始没有遗忘什么，到预言知识的结束，预言荒野，预言花园，预言那梦见自己成为花园的荒野。而且花园。而且荒野。

A CONVERSATION

There is a wind that when it turns I hear the garden and the desert discussing things with each other.Sometimes in the garden，sometimes in the desert， day or night.Mud walls， stone walls， no walls， limestone， sheep far away，howling， birds singing， hissing，trickling，silence，dry smells，watered smells，moons，stars，flowers that are keys between them.

They tell their dreams to each other，the garden and the desert.They dream above all of each other.The desert dreams of the garden inside it.It loves the garden.It embraces the garden.It wants to turn it into desert.The garden lives within itself.It dreams of the desert all around it，and of its difference from the desert，which it knows is as frail as feeling.

It must be a long time since I first heard them talking.I must have heard them when I was two.I must have heard them when I was one，and so on.Perhaps before I was born.Or anyone was born.Or any roundness became an egg.Or the water was born，cooling on a high rock，prophesying tear， prophesying eyes.

I must have heard them even before the rocks were born moving in the colored night.Probably I have heard them ever since the light began looking for something to write on，flying on，white，with the colors hidden inside it and the darkness around it，forgetting nothing from the beginning.prophesying the end of knowledge，prophesying the wilderness，prophesying the garden，prophesying the wilderness dreaming that it was a garden.And the garden.And the wilderness.

第二人称

你是第二人称。

你四处寻找别的人成为第二人称。但没有别的人。即使有别的人，他们也不可能成为你。你试图在想象中遮蔽你是复数。那是整个醒着的世界试图想起的一个梦。它是孤儿的母亲——那位母亲从未生活过，但被渴望过，而且因为她没有名字，她就赋予了一个那就是你自己的回声的代词。她的神庙是镜子的阵列。但没有什么停留在它里面。想想在你极少造访那里的时候，你怎样对自己保持你的思想吧。还有你多么迅速地离开。

你是第二人称。话语对你而来，仿佛它们是认识你且最终找到了你的鸟儿，但它们却并没看着你，你从前也从未见过它们，你没有地方饲养它们，你没有食物去喂养它们，它们将干预你的生活，你自己听不见，那些小小的爪子，并不意味着伤害，从不让你独处，如此温顺，如此相信人。但你知道它们并不属于你。你也知道它们并不属于别人。

有时候，在睡与醒之间，你真的忘记了你是第二人称。你再一次开始运行，你到达了，什么也没失去，没有失去。薄暮是无限的重聚。于是一个使者进入，到处寻找某人。寻找第二人称。别的哪个人？

你被创造在第二人称的形象中，从未看见自己的脸。即使镜子把你的脸向后露给你看。亲爱的读者有时在自卫中想象我是第二人称，我比了解我自己还要了解你，但我不会认出你。至于你，你真的不了解自己的故事。不了解自己的故事都送了出去。它躺在一条万物汇入但无人拥有的河底。无人承认它。为什么你的这种捉摸不定，就像那生活在动物眼里的东西？因为你不得不被发现，你被发现，我发现了你。你作出可怜的努力，竭力装模作样地把自己伪装在第三人称之中，但你知道这并没有用。第三人称不是什么人。一种惯例。

当人们向你致意，你就永远不能快乐地回答吗？我想要你快乐地回答吗？

不，你坚持认为，这一切都是错误，我是第一人称。但你知道那多么令人不满意。而且真的多么罕见。

THE SECOND PERSON

You are the second person.

You look around for someone else to be the second person.But there is no one else.Even if there were someone else there they could not be you.You try to shelter in imagining that you are plural.It is a dream which the whole of the waking world is trying to remember.It is the orphan's mother who never lived but is longed for and has been accorded a pronoun that is an echo of your own，since she has no name.Her temple is an arrangement of mirrors.But nothing stays in it.Think how you keep your thoughts to yourself，on your rare visits there.And how quickly you leave.

You are the second person.The words come to you as though they were birds that knew you and had found you at last，but they do not look at you and you never saw them before，you have nowhere to keep them，you have nothing to feed them，they will interfere with your life，you cannot hear yourself，the little claws，meaning no harm，never let you alone，so tame，so confiding.But you know they are not yours.You know they are no one else's，either.

Sometimes between sleeping and waking you really forget that you are the second person.Once again you have embarked，you have arrived，nothing is missing，nothing.The twilight is an infinite reunion.Then a messenger enters looking everywhere for someone.For the second person.Who else?

Made in the image of The Second Person，you never see your face.Even the mirrors show it to you backwards.Dear reader at times imagining in your own defense that I am the second person，I know more about you than I know about myself，but I would not recognize you.For your part，it is true that you do not know your own story.That it has all been given away.That it lies at the bottom of a river where everything joins it but no one owns it.No one admits to it.Why this elusiveness of yours，like that which lives in an animal's eye?For you have to be found，you are found，I have found you.You make a pathetic effort to disguise yourself in all the affectations of the third person，but you know it is no use.The third person is no one.A convention.

Can you never answer happily when you are addressed?Do I want you to?

No,you insist,it is all a mistake,I am the first person.But you know how unsatisfactory that is.And how seldom it is true.