《芒果街上的小屋》 生辰不吉(3)

我不知道我们为什么挑选了她。也许那天我们很无聊。也许我们累了。我们喜欢我们的婶婶。她会听我们讲故事。她经常求我们再来。露西、我和拉切尔。我讨厌一个人去那里。走六个街区才到那昏暗的公寓，阳光从不会照射到的二层楼背面的房子，可那有什么关系？我婶婶那时已经瞎了。她从来看不见水池里的脏碗碟。她看不到落满灰尘和苍蝇的天花板。难看的酱色墙壁，瓶瓶罐罐和黏腻的茶勺。我无法忘记那里的气味。就像黏黏的胶囊注满了冻糊糊。我婶婶，一瓣小牡蛎，一团小肉，躺在打开的壳上，供我们观看。喂，喂。她好像掉在一口深井里。

我把图书馆借的书带到她家里。我给她读故事。我喜欢《水孩子》 这本书。她也喜欢。我从来不知道她病得有多重，直到那天我想要指给她看书里的一幅画，美丽的画，水孩子在大海中游泳。我把书举到她眼前。我看不到。她说。我瞎了。我心里便很愧疚。

【注】《水孩子》（The Water Babies），查理·金斯莱（1819～1875）的一部童话经典，讲述小烟囱工汤姆在仙女的帮助下，逃离危险的苦役，去到一处安宁清洁的水下世界，做了个水孩子。后来，经过一连串的奇遇，他习得了各种美德，完成了自己的成长之路，回到陆地，成为一个仁爱正直的人。国内早有周煦良的译本。作者金斯莱是牛津、剑桥的历史学教授，还曾做过维多利亚女王的牧师。学识渊博的他，写出的童话却清新优美，寄寓着对所有稚嫩心灵的爱惜与期望。


Born Bad(3)

I don't know why we picked her. Maybe we were bored that day. Maybe we got tired. We liked my aunt. She listened to our stories. She always asked us to come back. Lucy, me, Rachel. I hated to go there alone. The six blocks to the dark apartment, second-floor rear building where sunlight never came, and what did it matter? My aunt was blind by then. She never saw the dirty dishes in the sink. She couldn't see the ceilings dusty with flies, the ugly maroon walls, the bottles and sticky spoons. I can't forget the smell. Like sticky capsules filled with jelly. My aunt, a little oyster, a little piece of meat on an open shell for us to look at. Hello, hello. As if she had fallen into a well. 

I took my library books to her house. I read her stories. I liked the book The Water Babies. She liked it too. I never knew how sick she was until that day I tried to show her one of the pictures in the book, a beautiful color picture of the water babies swimming in the sea. I held the book up to her face. I can't see it, she said, I'm blind. And then I was ashamed.

《芒果街的小屋》 生辰不吉(4)

她会听我念给她听的每一本书，每一首诗。一天我读了一首自己写的给她听。我凑得很近。我对着枕头轻轻耳语：

我想成为
海里的浪，风中的云，
但我还只是小小的我。
有一天我要
跳出自己的身躯
我要摇晃天空
像一百把小提琴。

很好。非常好。她用有气无力的声音说。记住你要写下去，埃斯佩朗莎。你一定要写下去。那会让你自由，我说好的，只是那时我还不懂她的意思。

那天我们玩了同样的游戏。我们不知道她要死了。我们装作头往后仰，四肢软弱无力，像死人的一样垂挂着。我们学她的样子笑。学她的样子说话，那种盲人说话的时候不转动头部的样子。我们模仿她必须被人托起头颈才能喝水的样子。她从一个绿色的锡杯里把水慢慢地吮出来喝掉。水是热的，味道像金属。露西笑起来，拉切尔也笑了。我们轮流扮演她。我们像鹦鹉学舌一样，用微弱的声音呼喊托奇过来洗碗。那很容易做到。

可我们不懂。她等待死亡很长时间了。我们忘了。也许她很愧疚。也许她很窘迫：死亡花了这么多年时间。孩子们想要做成孩子，而不是在那里洗碗涮碟，给爸爸熨衬衫。丈夫也想再要一个妻子。

于是她死了。听我念诗的婶婶。

于是我们开始做起了那些梦。



Born Bad(4)

She listened to every book, every poem I read her. one day I read her one of my own. I came very close. I whispered it into the pillow: 

I want to be 
like the waves on the sea, 
like the clouds in the wind, 
but I'm me. 
One day I'll jump 
out of my skin. 
I'll shake the sky 
like a hundred violins. 

That's nice. That's very good, she said in her tired voice. You just remember to keep writing, Esperanza. You must keep writing. It will keep you free, and I said yes, but at that time I didn't know what she meant. 

The day we played the game, we didn't know she was going to die. We pretended with our heads thrown back, our arms limp and useless, dangling like the dead. We laughed the way she did. We talked the way she talked, the way blind people talk without moving their head. We imitated the way you had to lift her head a little so she could drink water, she sucked it up slow out of a green tin cup. The water was warm and tasted like metal. Lucy laughed. Rachel too. We took turns being her. We screamed in the weak voice of a parrot for Totchy to come and wash those dishes. It was easy. 

We didn't know. She had been dying such a long time, we forgot. Maybe she was ashamed. Maybe she was embarrassed it took so many years. The kids who wanted to be kids instead of washing dishes and ironing their papa's shirts, and the husband who wanted a wife again. 

And then she died, my aunt who listened to my poems. 

And then we began to dream the dreams.

《芒果街上的小屋》 黑暗里醒来的疲惫的爸爸

你爷爷去世了。有天清晨很早的时候，爸爸到我房里来说。他不在了。说完，他好像自己也才听到这个消息似的，人像件外套一样皱缩起来，哭了。我勇敢的爸爸哭了。我从来没看过爸爸哭，不知道该怎么办。

我知道他要走了，他会坐飞机去墨西哥，所有的叔叔婶婶都会去那里。他们会在墓地前拍一张黑白照片，白色花瓶里的长矛状花束摆在墓地边，在那个国家里，人们就那样送别死者。

因为我是最大的孩子，爸爸最先和我说起，现在轮到我来告诉别的人。我会解释为什么我们不能玩耍。我会告诉他们今天要安静。

我的爸爸，厚厚的手掌沉沉的鞋底，黑暗里疲惫地起身，蘸水梳头，喝掉咖啡，平日在我们醒来之前就走了的爸爸，今天正坐在我的床边。

我想要是我自己的爸爸去世了我会做什么。于是我把爸爸抱在怀里，我要抱呀抱呀抱住他。

Papa Who Wakes up Tired in the Dark

Your abuelito is dead, Papa says early one morning in my room. Esta muerto, and then as if he just heard the news himself, crumples like a coat and cries, my brave Papa cries' I have never seen my Papa cry and don't know what to do.

I know he will have to go away, that he will take a plane to Mexico, all the uncles and aunts will be there, and they will have a black-and-white photo taken in front of the tomb with flowers shaped like spears in a white vase because this is how they send the dead away in that country. Because I am the oldest, my father has told me first, and now it is my turn to tell the others- I will have to explain why we can't play. I will have to tell them to be quiet today.

My Papa, his thick hands and thick shoes, who wakes up tired in the dark, who combs his hair with water, drinks his coffee, and is gone before we wake, today is sitting on my bed.

And I think if my own Papa died what would I do. I hold my Papa in my arms. I hold and hold and hold him. 

《芒果街上的小屋》 阁楼上的流浪者

我想要一所山上的房子，像爸爸工作的地方那样的花园房。星期日，爸爸的休息日，我们会去那里。我过去常去。现在不去了。你长大了，就不喜欢和我们一起出去吗？爸爸说。你傲起来了。蕾妮说。我没告诉他们我很羞愧——我们一帮人全都盯着那里的窗户，像饥饿的人。我厌倦了盯着我不能拥有的东西。如果我们赢了彩票……妈妈才开口，我就不要听了。 

那些住在山上、睡得靠星星如此近的人，他们忘记了我们这些住在地面上的人。他们根本不朝下看，除非为了体会住在山上的心满意足。上星期的垃圾，对老鼠的恐惧，这些与他们无关。夜晚来临，没什么惊扰他们的梦，除了风。 

有一天我要拥有自己的房子，可我不会忘记我是谁我从哪里来。路过的流浪者会问，我可以进来吗？我会把他们领上阁楼，请他们住下来，因为我知道没有房子的滋味。 

有些日子里，晚饭后，我和朋友们坐在火旁。楼上的地板吱呀吱呀响。阁楼上有咕咕哝哝的声音。 

是老鼠吗？他们会问。 

是流浪者。我会回答说。我很开心。

Bums in the Attic

I want a house on a hill like the ones with the gardens where Papa works. We go on Sundays, Papa's day off. I used to go. I don't anymore. You don't like to go out with us, Papa says. Getting too old? Getting too stuck-up, says Nenny. I don't tell them I am ashamed--all of us staring out the window like the hungry. I am tired of looking at what we can't have. When we win the lottery...Mama begins, and then I stop listening. 

People who live on hills sleep so close to the stars they forget those of us who live too much on earth. They don't look down at all except to be content to live on hills. They have nothing to do with last week's garbage or fear of rats. Night comes. Nothing wakes them but the wind. 

One day I'll own my own house, but I won't forget who I am or where I came from. Passing bums will ask, Can I come in? I'll offer them the attic, ask them to stay, because I know how it is to be without a house. 

Some days after dinner, guests and I will sit in front of a fire. Floorboards will squeak upstairs. The attic grumble. 

Rats? they'll ask. 

Bums, I'll say, and I'll be happy.

《芒果街的小屋》 芒果有时说再见

我喜欢讲故事。我在心里讲述。在邮递员说过这是你的邮件之后。这是你的邮件。他说。然后我开始讲述。 

我编了一个故事，为我的生活，为我棕色鞋子走过的每一步。我说，“她步履沉重地登上木楼梯，她悲哀的棕色鞋子带着她走进了她从来不喜欢的房子。” 

我喜欢讲故事。我将向你们讲述一个不想归属的女孩的故事。 

我们先前不住芒果街。先前我们住鲁米斯的三楼，再先前我们住吉勒。吉勒前面是波琳娜。可我记得最清楚的是芒果街，悲哀的红色小屋。我住在那里却不属于那里的房子。 

我把它写在纸上，然后心里的幽灵就不那么疼了。我把它写下来，芒果有时说再见。她不再用双臂抱住我。她放开了我。 

有一天我会把一袋袋的书和纸打进包里。有一天我会对芒果说再见。我强大得她没法永远留住我。有一天我会离开。 

朋友和邻居们会说，埃斯佩朗莎怎么了？她带着这么多书和纸去哪里？为什么她要走得那么远？ 

他们不会知道，我离开是为了回来。为了那些我留在身后的人。为了那些无法出去的人。 


Mango Says Goodbye Sometimes

I like to tell stories. I tell them inside my head. I tell them after the mailman says, Here's your mail. Here's your mail he said. 

I make a story for my life, for each step my brown shoe takes. I say, "And so she trudged up the wooden stairs, her sad brown shoes taking her to the house she never liked." 

I like to tell stories. I am going to tell you a story about a girl who didn't want to belong. 

We didn't always live on Mango Street. Before that we lived on Loomis on the third floor, and before that we lived on Keeler. Before Keeler it was Paulina, but what I remember most is Mango Street, sad red house, the house I belong but do not belong to. 

I put it down on paper and then the ghost does not ache so much. I write it down and Mango says goodbye sometimes. She does not hold me with both arms. She sets me free. 

One day I will pack my bags of books and paper. One day I will say goodbye to Mango. I am too strong for her to keep me here forever. One day I will go away. 

Friends and neighbors will say, What happened to that Esperanza? Where did she go with all those books and paper? Why did she march so far away? 

They will not know I have gone away to come back. For the ones I left behind. For the ones who cannot out.

这就是芒果街的小屋的部分内容.............

THE END



芒果街上的小屋

…可是，芒果街上的小屋全不像他们讲的那样。它是小小的红房子，门前的台阶那么窄，窗户那么小，小得让你感觉它们好像是屏住了呼吸的样子。墙上的好些砖块碎得掉了渣。前门向外鼓着，你得用劲挤进来…

【注】在一次访谈中，作者说到芒果街是一个虚构的地名，而鲁米斯、吉乐、波琳娜都是芝加哥从前的街道名。“芒果”这个街名，没有特别的含义，只是，让人想起出产这种水果的某个国家，比如墨西哥。

The House on Mango Street 

...But the house on Mango Street is not the way they told it at all. It's small and red with tight steps in front and windows so small you'd think they were holding their breath. Bricks are crumbling in places, and the front door is so swollen you have to push hard to get in...

anything else ?
i like it !!!!

thanks
i like it

插图好美啊

Thanks