What every writer wants

作家之所需

I have known very few writers, but those I have known, and whom I respect, confess at once that they have little idea where they are going when they first set pen to paper. They have a character, perhaps two; they are in that condition of eager discomfort which passes for inspiration; all admit radical changes of destination once the journey has begun; one, to my certain knowledge, spent nine months on a novel about Kashmir, then reset the whole thing in the Scottish Highlands. I never heard of anyone making a 'skeleton', as we were taught at school. In the breaking and remaking, in the timing, interweaving, beginning afresh, the writer comes to discern things in his material which were not consciously in his mind when he began. This organic process, often leading to moments of extraordinary self-discovery, is of an indescribable fascination. A blurred image appears; he adds a brushstroke and another, and it is gone; but something was there, and he will not rest till he has captured it. Sometimes the yeast within a writer outlives a book he has written. I have heard of writers who read nothing but their own books; like adolescents they stand before the mirror, and still cannot fathom the exact outline of the vision before them. For the same reason, writers talk interminably about their own books, winkling out hidden meanings, super-imposing new ones, begging response from those around them. Of course a writer doing this is misunderstood: he might as well try to explain a crime or a love affair. He is also, incidentally, an unforgivable bore.

This temptation to cover the distance between himself and the reader, to study his image in the sight of those who do not know him, can be his undoing: he has begun to write to please.

A young English writer made the pertinent observation a year or two back that the talent goes into the first draft, and the art into the drafts that follow. For this reason also the writer, like any other artist, has no resting place, no crowd or movement in which he may take comfort, no judgment from outside which can replace the judgment from within. A writer makes order out of the anarchy of his heart; he submits himself to a more ruthless discipline than any critic dreamed of, and when he flirts with fame, he is taking time off from living with himself, from the search for what his world contains at its inmost point.

本文參考譯文

我認(rèn)識(shí)的作家寥寥無(wú)幾，然而凡是我所認(rèn)識(shí)和尊敬的作家，都立即承認(rèn)在他們動(dòng)筆時(shí)，不清楚要寫(xiě)什么，怎么寫(xiě)。他們心中只在一個(gè)或兩個(gè)角色。他們處于急切不安的狀態(tài)，而被當(dāng)作是靈感。他們無(wú)不承認(rèn)，一旦“旅程”開(kāi)始，“目的地”常有急劇的變化。據(jù)我所知，有位作家花了9個(gè)月的時(shí)間寫(xiě)了一部關(guān)于克什米爾的小說(shuō)，后來(lái)卻把整個(gè)故事背景換成了蘇格蘭高地。我從未聽(tīng)說(shuō)過(guò)任何一位作家像我們?cè)趯W(xué)校那樣，動(dòng)筆前先列什么提綱。作家在剪裁修改、構(gòu)思時(shí)間、穿插情節(jié)、以至從頭重寫(xiě)的過(guò)程中，會(huì)領(lǐng)悟到素材中很多東西是他剛動(dòng)筆時(shí)所未意識(shí)到的。這種有機(jī)的加工過(guò)程往往達(dá)到不尋常自我發(fā)現(xiàn)的境界，具有難以言表的構(gòu)思魅力。一個(gè)朦朧的形象出現(xiàn)在作家的腦海里，他左添一筆，右添一筆，形象反而消逝了;可是，好像還有什么東西存在著，不把它捕捉到，作家是不會(huì)罷休的。有時(shí)，一個(gè)作家一本書(shū)寫(xiě)完了，但興奮仍不消散。我聽(tīng)說(shuō)一些作家，除了自己的書(shū)外，別的書(shū)一概不讀，猶如希臘神話中那位漂亮的少年，站在鏡前，不能辨認(rèn)自身的真面目。由于這個(gè)原因，作家喋喋不休地談?wù)撟约旱臅?shū)，挖掘其隱晦的含義，詢問(wèn)周圍人的反應(yīng)。作家如此行事當(dāng)然被人誤解。他還不如給人講一個(gè)犯罪案件或一個(gè)戀愛(ài)故事。順便說(shuō)一句，他也是個(gè)不可饒恕的令人厭煩的人。

這種企圖消除自己和讀者之間距離的作法，企圖用不了解自己的人的觀點(diǎn)來(lái)研究自己塑造的形象的作法，會(huì)導(dǎo)致作家的毀滅，因?yàn)樗�已�?jīng)開(kāi)始為取悅他人而寫(xiě)作了。

一兩年前，一位年輕的英國(guó)作家發(fā)表了中肯的看法。他說(shuō)，初稿是才華，以后各稿是藝術(shù)。也是由于這個(gè)原因，作家同任何藝術(shù)家一樣，找不到可休息的場(chǎng)所，找不到伙伴和活動(dòng)使自己得到安逸。任何局外人的判斷也比不上他內(nèi)心的正確判斷。一旦作家從內(nèi)心的紊亂中理出頭緒，就應(yīng)該按任何評(píng)論家想像不到的無(wú)情規(guī)范約束自己寫(xiě)作;當(dāng)他沽名釣譽(yù)時(shí)，他就脫離了自我生活，脫離了對(duì)自己靈魂最深處世界的探索。

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