光阴集 2024 The Gilded Years 2024 第 01 篇 Section 01
序 怒斥、怒斥光阴的消逝 Preface: Rage, Rage Against the Passing of Time
返回 光阴集 2024 Back to The Gilded Years 2024小重山·春到长门春草青
宋 李清照
春到长门春草青，江梅些子破，未开匀。碧云笼碾玉成尘，留晓梦，惊破一瓯春。
花影压重门，疏帘铺淡月，好黄昏。二年三度负东君，归来也，著意过今春。
Xiao Chong Shan: Spring Arrives at the Changmen Palace and Spring Grasses Turn Green
By Li Qingzhao (Song Dynasty)
Spring arrives at the Changmen Palace, and the spring grasses turn green; river plums crack slightly open, their blossoms yet uneven. Blue clouds cup ground tea fine as jade dust; clinging to morning dreams, a bowl of spring tea startles me awake.
Flower shadows weigh upon tiered gates; through sparse curtains a pale moon spreads—what a lovely dusk. In two years, thrice have I failed the Lord of Spring; now that I have returned, I resolve to live out this spring with deliberate care.
“我们只有自己的经历而它不属于我们。”——何塞·奥特加·伊·加塞特
“We have only our experience, and it does not belong to us.” —José Ortega y Gasset
弱冠寿辰之际，月出张翼之间，余念颇深。忽旅已逾第四纪，社会之重压与厚望如潮，皆欲将余推往未知。此奥德修斯、阿基里斯、赫克力士、忒修斯之时，然此外界之逼压，实生活所不可缺之力也。
On the occasion of my twentieth birthday—the traditional capping age—as the moon rose between the lunar mansions of Zhang and Yi, my thoughts ran deep. Suddenly, the journey of my youth had crossed into its fourth epoch; the heavy pressure and towering expectations of society surged like a tide, eager to thrust me into the unknown. This was a time worthy of Odysseus, Achilles, Hercules, and Theseus. Yet this external coercion is, in truth, an indispensable kinetic force of living.
《悠悠岁月》跨六十年，犹大幅巨画，揭时光之无情消逝。埃尔诺以温和之笔勾勒生活细碎，犹道：光阴为匿匿之雕工，日夜雕琢吾之灵魂。与之鲜明者《尤利西斯》，此小说仅叙一日之事，然却深掘主人公内世界。乔伊斯之笔，如心灵之涌动，层层剥开主人公思维，显人性深渊。虽不一，犹共编织一哲学之画卷也。
The Years spans six decades, like an immense canvas laying bare the relentless flight of time. With a gentle pen, Annie Ernaux traces the mundane minutiae of daily existence, as if to proclaim: time is an invisible sculptor, chiseling away at my soul day and night. In stark contrast stands Ulysses, a novel chronicling merely a single day, yet dredging the innermost universe of its protagonist. James Joyce’s prose, surging like a psychological torrent, peels back the layers of his character’s consciousness to expose the abyss of human nature. Though divergent in approach, both weave a singular philosophical tapestry.
立于二十岁之分水岭，余始明，生命由片片瞬间与段段经历所组成。犹如《悠悠岁月》之长河，与《尤利西斯》之一日，各片刻皆具独特之价。余将珍爱每一曙光与黄昏，每一泪与笑，以构吾自身之故事——一本充奇迹与机会之书，含无数章节，或缓或疾。如文学之词句，每瞬刻具深邃内涵。
Standing at the watershed of twenty, I have come to understand that life is composed of fragmented moments and discrete experiences. Like the long river of The Years or the single day of Ulysses, every passing fragment carries unique value. I shall cherish every dawn and dusk, every tear and smile, to compose the narrative of my own self—a book brimming with wonders and opportunities, containing countless chapters, some languid, some swift. Like literary phrases, each fleeting instant holds profound substance.
是以，余择珍此日，吾之自叙，实百万篇中某一篇深奥、隐晦之哲学篇章，留待未来，一页一页展之。
Therefore, I choose to treasure this day. My self-narration is, in truth, one obscure, elusive philosophical chapter among millions, waiting for the future to unfold it, page by page.