Shownotes Transcript
「主播与诗」由播客先声作为主理人，每期会邀请一些朋友读诗、读短篇。喜欢它，把它朗读出来吧。节目每周六22点更新~ 第四十九期节目，我们邀请了“青年导演”杨益辰，他读的短篇小说是维吉尼亚.伍尔芙的“A Haunted House” ↓ 大家好！欢迎收听主播与诗，我是青年导演杨益辰，今天带来的是现代与女性主义先锋作家维吉尼亚.伍尔芙 收录在其小说集A Haunted House中的短篇小说A Haunted House, 关于生命，空间，时间与横跨万物的爱。 选择这篇不太知名的小说是因为它启发了在2017年由David Lowery导演的A24电影 A Ghost Story 鬼魅浮生。这部电影对我而言意义非凡，每次在远方想起故乡，亲人，与爱人，都会去重温它。 电影开头也引用了这篇故事的前言 Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting, 每当你醒来，不管几点钟，总有一扇门会关上。 A Haunted House By Virginia Woolf WHATEVER HOUR you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure–a ghostly couple. "Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here too!" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them." But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it, " one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps it's upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass. But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The window panes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling–what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure? A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burnt behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us; coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. "The Treasure yours." The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy. "Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning–" "Silver between the trees–" "Upstairs–" "In the garden–" "When summer came–" "In winter snowtime–" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart. Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips." Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy. "Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years–" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure–" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart." 艾德琳·弗吉尼亚·伍尔芙（Adeline Virginia Woolf，1882年1月25日-1941年3月28日），英国女作家、文学批评家和文学理论家，意识流文学代表人物，被誉为二十世纪现代主义与女性主义的先锋。两次世界大战期间，她是伦敦文学界的核心人物，同时也是布卢姆茨伯里派（Bloomsbury Group）的成员之一。最知名的小说包括《达洛维夫人》（Mrs. Dalloway）《到灯塔去》（To the Lighthouse）等。 杨益辰，青年导演，编剧，剪辑师，毕业于纽约大学帝势艺术学院电影电视制作系。中国，美国，加拿大，新加坡多国的生活经历使他的作品多关注于多元文化背景下个体对于寻找归属感的挣扎。 最后，如果你也喜欢读诗、读你喜欢的内容，欢迎你也能参与这个播客哦~ 报名邮箱[email protected]