- A Letter to Be Opened in the Event of My Death
我在豆瓣是这样评论的: 我希望把它分成上中下三部分,导演出我脑海中的: the timetraveler and his wife (原谅我一直觉得这标题会更合适.)
在这一部,电影会充斥着 Henry 个人的独白.他母亲去世对他家庭的打击,他渴望留在现在却总是突然地消失.
这一部,或许要突出的是一个人孤独者大量的内心戏.这一部最精彩的我会把镜头交给博物馆的那一夜: Henry带着小时候的自己参观博物馆. 可以满足每个人对小时候的各种幻想.
在相遇这一部分, 他们两个人对彼此的故事线是相反的. Clare 在遇到 Henry 的时候已经跟他相处了很长的时间.而 Henry 只是第一次遇到她.我一直在想,这一部十分适合烧脑,时间线的重叠,而且可以有大量玩味的细节.因为一个是在过去,一个是在未来.
在两个人婚姻后 H 突然消失给 C 带来的困扰,两个人的矛盾也在 C 的不断流产达到最大化.前面的虐是为了衬托孩子出身给两个人带来的欣喜.产房那一幕,两个人为了迎接新生命的努力,绝对会是最温馨的.
当 Clare 十三岁的时候(已经到了会自己思考,有点叛逆的年纪了),有一次她跟 三十五岁的Henry在草地上有这样的对话:
- “这个嘛,通常没那么可怕,你喜欢放很多糖和奶精.”Henry 说道. Clare 把剩下的咖啡全部倒在草坪上,取出一块面包圈说:你是要把我培养成一个怪人. “不,我没有.你什么意思呢? 我根本没想把你培养成任何人” “你心知肚明,我根本没尝过,你就说咖啡加奶加糖我会喜欢喝,我怎么知道那是我自己真正喜欢的,还是听了你的话后才喜欢的呢?” “提前了解未来并不意味着要你提前告诉我喜欢什么” “为什么? 这些都是自由意志呀”
后面 Clare 好像已经不在意这样的事情了.我的理解是,她有意识无意识的知道,比起这些事情,能遇见 Henry 才是更重要的.这是她更在乎的. 就算我可以改变, 我也不想
Henry, 你害怕什么?我害怕冬天,我害怕警察,我害怕去荒唐的时空,被汽车撞,被人打 . 还有,我害怕在时间中迷路,永远回不去.我害怕失去你…时间,场所,际遇,死亡都无法让我屈服. 我最卑微的欲望就是最少的移动.
- 我一下子懵了,过了一会才想起来在众人面前背诵里尔克的诗歌,还真有些不自在我开始了,”Engel!EswäreeinPlatz,denwirnichtwissen–” . “用英文啊”克莱尔打断我. “不好意思,”我换了换姿势,坐到克莱尔的肚子旁,背对着查丽丝,医生和护士们,我把手伸进克莱尔扣得好j好的衬衣里,隔着她滚烫的腹部,感受爱尔芭身体的轮廓
所有的压抑我希望会通过 Henry 给 Clare 的那封信得到深化.令我震撼的是最后 Henry 的那一句: time is nothing. 他的整个生命,基本就是被时间给愚弄了.最后他是带着释怀,感恩离去.这才是了不起的一生呀.
这份信,最后一句,” time is nothing” 是很具备感染力和冲击力的.两个人再次相遇的场景描绘,这些我觉得翻译出来意境就差了些,所以我原封不动摘抄下来了.
A Letter to Be Opened in the Event of My Death
December 10, 2006
As I write this, I am sitting at my desk in the back bedroom looking out at your studio across the backyard full of blue evening snow, everything is slick and crusty with ice, and it is very still. It’s one of those winter evenings when the coldness of every single thing seems to slow down time, like the narrow center of an hourglass which time itself flows through, but slowly, slowly. I have the feeling, very familiar to me when I am out of time but almost never otherwise, of being buoyed up by time, floating effortlessly on its surface like a fat lady swimmer. I had a sudden urge, tonight, here in the house by myself (you are at Alicia’s recital at St. Lucy’s) to write you a letter. I suddenly wanted to leave something, for after. I think that time is short, now. I feel as though all my reserves, of energy, of pleasure, of duration, are thin, small. I don’t feel capable of continuing very much longer. I know you know.
If you are reading this, I am probably dead. (I say probably because you never know what circumstances may arise; it seems foolish and self-important to just declare one’s own death as an out-and-out fact.) About this death of mine-I hope it was simple and clean and unambiguous. I hope it didn’t create too much fuss. I’m sorry. (This reads like a suicide note. Strange.) But you know: you know that if I could have stayed, if I could have gone on, that I would have clutched every second: whatever it was, this death, you know that it came and took me, like a child carried away by goblins.
Clare, I want to tell you, again, I love you. Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this strange life of mine that I could ever trust. Tonight I feel that my love for you has more density in this world than I do, myself: as though it could linger on after me and surround you, keep you, hold you.
I hate to think of you waiting. I know that you have been waiting for me all your life, always uncertain of how long this patch of waiting would be. Ten minutes, ten days. A month. What an uncertain husband I have been, Clare, like a sailor, Odysseus alone and buffeted by tall waves, sometimes wily and sometimes just a plaything of the gods. Please, Clare. When I am dead. Stop waiting and be free. Of me-put me deep inside you and then go out in the world and live. Love the world and yourself in it, move through it as though it offers no resistance, as though the world is your natural element. I have given you a life of suspended animation. I don’t mean to say that you have done nothing. You have created beauty, and meaning, in your art, and Alba, who is so amazing, and for me: for me you have been everything.
After my mom died she ate my father up completely. She would have hated it. Every minute of his life since then has been marked by her absence, every action has lacked dimension because she is not there to measure against. And when I was young I didn’t understand, but now, I know, how absence can be present, like a damaged nerve, like a dark bird.
If I had to live on without you I know I could not do it. But I hope, I have this vision of you walking unencumbered, with your shining hair in the sun. I have not seen this with my eyes, but only with my imagination, that makes pictures, that always wanted to paint you, shining; but I hope that this vision will be true, anyway.
Clare, there is one last thing, and I have hesitated to tell you, because I’m superstitiously afraid that telling might cause it to not happen (I know: silly) and also because I have just been going on about not waiting and this might cause you to wait longer than you have ever waited before. But I will tell you in case you need something, after.
Last summer, I was sitting in Kendrick’s waiting room when I suddenly found myself in a dark hallway in a house I don’t know. I was sort of tangled up in a bunch of galoshes, and it smelled like rain. At the end of the hall I could see a rim of light around a door, and so I went very slowly and very quietly to the door and looked in. The room was white, and intensely lit with morning sun. At the window, with her back to me, sat a woman, wearing a coral-colored cardigan sweater, with long white hair all down her back. She had a cup of tea beside her, on a table. I must have made some little noise, or she sensed me behind her…she turned and saw me, and I saw her, and it was you, Clare, this was you as an old woman, in the future. It was sweet, Clare, it was sweet beyond telling, to come as though from death to hold you, and to see the years all present in your face. I won’t tell you any more, so you can imagine it, so you can have it unrehearsed when the time comes, as it will, as it does come. We will see each other again, Clare. Until then, live, fully, present in the world, which is so beautiful.
It’s dark, now, and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.