冯静为你读《匆匆 Transient Days》
匆匆
作者: 朱自清
燕子去了，有再来的时候;杨柳枯了，有再青的时候;桃花谢了，有再开的时候。但是，聪明的，你告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢?——是有人偷了他们罢：那是谁?又藏在何处呢?是他们自己逃走了罢：现在又到了哪里呢?
我不知道他们给了我多少日子;但我的手确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着，八千多日子已经从我手中溜去;像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在时间的流里，没有声音，也没有影子。我不禁头涔涔而泪潸潸了。
去的尽管去了，来的尽管来着;去来的.中间，又怎样地匆匆呢?早上我起来的时候，小屋里射进两三方斜斜的太阳。太阳他有脚啊，轻轻悄悄地挪移了;我也茫茫然跟着旋转。于是——洗手的时候，日子从水盆里过去;吃饭的时候，日子从饭碗里过去;默默时，便从凝然的双眼前过去。我觉察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽时，他又从遮挽着的手边过去，天黑时，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地从我身上跨过，从我脚边飞去了。等我睁开眼和太阳再见，这算又溜走了一日。我掩着面叹息。但是新来的日子的影儿又开始在叹息里闪过了。
在逃去如飞的日子里，在千门万户的世界里的我能做些什么呢?只有徘徊罢了，只有匆匆罢了;在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢?过去的日子如轻烟，被微风吹散了，如薄雾，被初阳蒸融了;我留着些什么痕迹呢?我何曾留着像游丝样的痕迹呢?我赤裸裸来到这世界，转眼间也将赤裸裸的回去罢?但不能平的，为什么偏要白白走这一遭啊?
你聪明的，告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢?
Transient Days
Zhu Ziqing
If swallows go away, they will come back again. If willows wither, they will turn green again. If peach blossoms fade, they will flower again. But, tell me, you the wise, why should our days go by never to return? Perhaps they have beenstolen by someone. But who could it be and where could he hide them? Perhapsthey have just run away by themselves. But where could they be at the present moment?
I don't know how many days I am entitled to altogether, but my quota of them isundoubtedly wearing away. Counting up silently, I find that more than 8,000days have already slipped away through my fingers. Like a drop of water falling off a needle point into the ocean, my days are quietly dripping into the streamof time without leaving a trace. At the thought of this, sweat oozes from myforehead and tears trickle down my cheeks.
What isgone is gone, what is to come keeps coming. How swift is the translation inbetween! When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun casts two or threesquarish patches of light into my small room. The sun has feet too, edging away softly and stealthily. And, without knowing it, I am already caught in itsrevolution. Thus the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands;vanishes in the rice bowl when I have my meal; passes away quietly before thefixed gaze of my eyes when I am lost in reverie. Aware of its fleeting presence, I reach out for it only to find it brushing past my outstretchedhands. In the evening, when I lie on my bed, it nimbly strides over my body andflits past my feet. By the time when I open my eyes to meet the sun again,another day is already gone. I have a sigh, my head buried in my hands. But, inthe midst of my sighs, a new day is flashing past.
Living inthis world with its fleeting days and teeming millions, what can I do but waverand wander and live a transient life? What have I been doing during the 8,000 fleeting days except wavering and wandering? The bygone days, like wisps ofsmoke, have been dispersed by gentle winds, and, like thin mists, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What traces have I left behind? No, nothing, noteven gossamer-like traces. I have come to this world stark naked, and in thetwinkling of an eye, I am to go back as stark naked as ever. However, I am taking it very much to heart: why should I be made to pass through this worldfor nothing at all?
O you thewise, would you please tell me: why should our days go by never to return?
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