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翻译：白色声响
It’s Just the Sun Rising
My room faces the sun in the morning and on clear Sunday mornings it wakes me bright and fresh, no matter what time I stay up till. I’dl get up and make breakfast, watch TV, have a shower. If it’s before six in the morning, I usually have a cup of tea and go back to bed where I’dl 1)doze until seven and wake with 2)a thick head.
This morning I wake up with a 3)twitch, like the alarm clock in my head has given me a little electric 4)jolt. It isn’t sunny outside. I pull back the curtains and the sky is dark grey, the same colour as the sea and it looks like the sun won’t appear before tomorrow.
I get up and go downstairs. The hall clock tells me it is almost six thirty. I make tea and toast, pour 5)cereal and milk into a bowl, put it all on a 6)tray and take it back up to my bed.
My brother gets up for work and I hear him crashing about in the bathroom, so I go downstairs to make him a cup of tea. He’s down in the kitchen about five minutes later, wearing his work clothes.
“Morning.” I say.
“Ｕh huh.”
I leave him to work out what he is going to eat and go back to my room where I finish my tea and toast, turn on the radio and get back beneath the 7)quilt. Sometimes I like to think and other times I like to 8)dash straight in.
This morning I want to think a while.
Today is dad’s birthday. Mum won’t mention it. Every year on my dad’s birthday I draw a picture of him; each year he looks a bit different. I’m an artist. It’s not that I draw a straighter line or a truer circle, as they try to teach us to do at school, I just get the message across more clearly than other people. More truthfully. I know it.
I read a lot of books too, mainly about artists, and I go through phases when I like a certain artist or a movement, and I try to paint like them. When my dad comes back I’dl be able to say, This is you when I was twelve and I was in love with Monet1,or, This is you on your thirty-eighth birthday, when I was fourteen, and you’d been gone five years, and I wanted to paint like Dante Gabriel Rossetti2.And he’dl look at each painting and know that I loved him and never forgot him.
Last year I printed t-shirts, and sold most of them at school. The guy on the beach wears some.
At the moment I’m into lines. Simple lines. It’s a development of a six month 9)obsession I had with 10)calligraphy. So I get out my 11)charcoals, and a couple of sticks of chalk and I pin a heavy sheet of A3 paper onto a board and rest it on my knee as I sit on the bed.
On Saturday mornings when my mom worked, he’d take me to town and I’d12)drag him around the art shops. On my sixth birthday he bought me a box of crayons. On my eighth birthday he bought me an 13)easel. A real one, not a kiddie’s. On my ninth birthday he bought me oils.
“Draw me,he’d say.
“Oh dad, I can’t.
Some mornings I’d wake up and there’d be a book on my pillow about Picasso注3, or Chagall注4.
Today is my dad’s birthday, and I will spend it with him.
So I spend some time thinking about his hair, which I think is probably no more grey than it was last year. I know hair doesn’t age at the same speed every year, but I make his hair longer this year, and in my mind I give him an extra few pounds too. But I keep the smile fixed in my head, maybe a little 14)muted like it is when he’s happy but 15)distracted, or trying to understand me when I’m16)babbling to him.
It’s head and shoulders, so I’dl put him in a t-shirt that shows his neck and throat and how strong he is and how his eyes sparkle and how his brows are 17)dead level straight and still black.
I try to think of how much I want to show and how much I want to tell.
Then I pick up a charcoal stick and do it. I pick up a chalk to add a 18)suggestion of colour to his eyes, then another chalk for his mouth.
And there he is.
Dad.
There you are.
我的房间正对着每天早晨升起的太阳，每逢晴朗的周末清晨，它就把我唤醒，神清气爽—无论前一天晚上我熬夜熬到多晚。然后我就起床，做早餐，看电视，洗个澡。要是清晨六点前醒来的话，我通常会起来喝杯茶，然后回到床上打个盹儿，到七点钟再昏昏沉沉地醒来。
今天早上，一阵微痛让我惊醒，就好像脑袋里有个闹钟把我电了一下。外面不是晴天。我把窗帘拉开，天空是一片浓重的灰，像海的颜色。看来太阳要到明天才会露面。
我起床走下楼去。厅里的大钟告诉我已经快六点半了。于是我煮了茶，烤了面包，把麦片倒进碗里，冲上牛奶，再把它们都放到托盘带回卧室。
弟弟起床准备去上班，我听见他在盥洗室里磕磕碰碰的声音，便又下楼去，给他泡了杯茶。五分钟后，弟弟下楼到厨房里来了，已经换了一身工作服。
“早。”我说道。
“唔。”
我便回房去了，让他自己决定早餐要吃什么。回到房间里吃完早餐以后，我打开了收音机，又钻回到被窝里。有时候我喜欢先胡思乱想一番，有时候却会马上钻进去。
这个早晨，我要先想一想。
今天是爸爸的生日。妈妈不会提起。每年在爸爸生日的那一天，我都要为爸爸画一幅画；每年他看起来都与往年有所不同。我是个画家。并非我画的直线比别人更直或者我画的圆圈特别圆，就像上学时他们教的那样。—我只是比其他人画得更逼真传神罢了，更贴近真实。我知道事实如此。
我也读过不少书，几乎都是关于画家的，我也经历过特别喜爱某位画家或某个运动的阶段，还试着让自己能够像他们一样作画。这样，当爸爸回来的时候，我就能够对他说：“这就是您，当时我12岁，深爱着莫奈。”或者说：“这就是38岁生日时的您，那时候我14岁，而您已经离开五年了，我希望像但丁·加百列·罗塞蒂那样画画。”然后，他看着我的每一幅画，就会知道我爱他，从不曾忘记他。
去年我印了一些T恤，大部分在学校卖出去了。在海滩上的那个男孩也会穿。
现在我迷上了线条，简单的线条。这是从我醉心于书法的那六个月延续而来的。于是我拿出了炭笔和几支粉笔，把一张厚重的A3纸钉在画板上。我坐到床上，把它置于膝上。
周六早上母亲工作的时候，爸爸会带我进城，我则会拖着他到处逛美术用品店。在我过第六个生日的时候，他给我买了一盒蜡笔。在我八岁生日的时候，他送了我一个画架，一个真正的画架，不是小孩子用的那种。我九岁的时候，他又送了我油彩。
“画我吧。”他会这么说。
“哦，爸爸，我画不出来。”
早晨醒来，有时候我会发现枕边放着关于毕加索或夏卡尔的书。
今天又到了爸爸的生日，我要和他一起过。
于是，我花了好一会儿想象他头发的模样—我想应该是与去年差不多斑白吧。我知道头发衰老的速度每年不同，但今年我还是让他的头发留得稍长一些，还在心里给他增加了几磅。但在我脑海里他的笑容依旧不变，那笑声也许很微弱，就好像他感到开心却有点心不在焉，或者当我对他胡言乱语时他绞尽脑汁想弄明白我在说什么。
接下来该画头和肩膀了。我让他穿上一件T恤，露出脖子，可以看到他健壮的身躯，他炯炯有神的眼睛，还有他又直又黑的眉毛。
我努力去想还有多少我想展现的，还有多少我要诉说的。
然后，我就提起炭笔画了起来，用粉笔给他的眼睛加了一丝颜色，又换另一支粉笔为他的嘴唇上色。
他就在那儿。
爸爸。
你就在这里。
It’s Just the Sun Rising
My room faces the sun in the morning and on clear Sunday mornings it wakes me bright and fresh, no matter what time I stay up till. I’dl get up and make breakfast, watch TV, have a shower. If it’s before six in the morning, I usually have a cup of tea and go back to bed where I’dl 1)doze until seven and wake with 2)a thick head.
This morning I wake up with a 3)twitch, like the alarm clock in my head has given me a little electric 4)jolt. It isn’t sunny outside. I pull back the curtains and the sky is dark grey, the same colour as the sea and it looks like the sun won’t appear before tomorrow.
I get up and go downstairs. The hall clock tells me it is almost six thirty. I make tea and toast, pour 5)cereal and milk into a bowl, put it all on a 6)tray and take it back up to my bed.
My brother gets up for work and I hear him crashing about in the bathroom, so I go downstairs to make him a cup of tea. He’s down in the kitchen about five minutes later, wearing his work clothes.
“Morning.” I say.
“Ｕh huh.”
I leave him to work out what he is going to eat and go back to my room where I finish my tea and toast, turn on the radio and get back beneath the 7)quilt. Sometimes I like to think and other times I like to 8)dash straight in.
This morning I want to think a while.
Today is dad’s birthday. Mum won’t mention it. Every year on my dad’s birthday I draw a picture of him; each year he looks a bit different. I’m an artist. It’s not that I draw a straighter line or a truer circle, as they try to teach us to do at school, I just get the message across more clearly than other people. More truthfully. I know it.
I read a lot of books too, mainly about artists, and I go through phases when I like a certain artist or a movement, and I try to paint like them. When my dad comes back I’dl be able to say, This is you when I was twelve and I was in love with Monet1,or, This is you on your thirty-eighth birthday, when I was fourteen, and you’d been gone five years, and I wanted to paint like Dante Gabriel Rossetti2.And he’dl look at each painting and know that I loved him and never forgot him.
Last year I printed t-shirts, and sold most of them at school. The guy on the beach wears some.
At the moment I’m into lines. Simple lines. It’s a development of a six month 9)obsession I had with 10)calligraphy. So I get out my 11)charcoals, and a couple of sticks of chalk and I pin a heavy sheet of A3 paper onto a board and rest it on my knee as I sit on the bed.
On Saturday mornings when my mom worked, he’d take me to town and I’d12)drag him around the art shops. On my sixth birthday he bought me a box of crayons. On my eighth birthday he bought me an 13)easel. A real one, not a kiddie’s. On my ninth birthday he bought me oils.
“Draw me,he’d say.
“Oh dad, I can’t.
Some mornings I’d wake up and there’d be a book on my pillow about Picasso注3, or Chagall注4.
Today is my dad’s birthday, and I will spend it with him.
So I spend some time thinking about his hair, which I think is probably no more grey than it was last year. I know hair doesn’t age at the same speed every year, but I make his hair longer this year, and in my mind I give him an extra few pounds too. But I keep the smile fixed in my head, maybe a little 14)muted like it is when he’s happy but 15)distracted, or trying to understand me when I’m16)babbling to him.
It’s head and shoulders, so I’dl put him in a t-shirt that shows his neck and throat and how strong he is and how his eyes sparkle and how his brows are 17)dead level straight and still black.
I try to think of how much I want to show and how much I want to tell.
Then I pick up a charcoal stick and do it. I pick up a chalk to add a 18)suggestion of colour to his eyes, then another chalk for his mouth.
And there he is.
Dad.
There you are.
我的房间正对着每天早晨升起的太阳，每逢晴朗的周末清晨，它就把我唤醒，神清气爽—无论前一天晚上我熬夜熬到多晚。然后我就起床，做早餐，看电视，洗个澡。要是清晨六点前醒来的话，我通常会起来喝杯茶，然后回到床上打个盹儿，到七点钟再昏昏沉沉地醒来。
今天早上，一阵微痛让我惊醒，就好像脑袋里有个闹钟把我电了一下。外面不是晴天。我把窗帘拉开，天空是一片浓重的灰，像海的颜色。看来太阳要到明天才会露面。
我起床走下楼去。厅里的大钟告诉我已经快六点半了。于是我煮了茶，烤了面包，把麦片倒进碗里，冲上牛奶，再把它们都放到托盘带回卧室。
弟弟起床准备去上班，我听见他在盥洗室里磕磕碰碰的声音，便又下楼去，给他泡了杯茶。五分钟后，弟弟下楼到厨房里来了，已经换了一身工作服。
“早。”我说道。
“唔。”
我便回房去了，让他自己决定早餐要吃什么。回到房间里吃完早餐以后，我打开了收音机，又钻回到被窝里。有时候我喜欢先胡思乱想一番，有时候却会马上钻进去。
这个早晨，我要先想一想。
今天是爸爸的生日。妈妈不会提起。每年在爸爸生日的那一天，我都要为爸爸画一幅画；每年他看起来都与往年有所不同。我是个画家。并非我画的直线比别人更直或者我画的圆圈特别圆，就像上学时他们教的那样。—我只是比其他人画得更逼真传神罢了，更贴近真实。我知道事实如此。
我也读过不少书，几乎都是关于画家的，我也经历过特别喜爱某位画家或某个运动的阶段，还试着让自己能够像他们一样作画。这样，当爸爸回来的时候，我就能够对他说：“这就是您，当时我12岁，深爱着莫奈。”或者说：“这就是38岁生日时的您，那时候我14岁，而您已经离开五年了，我希望像但丁·加百列·罗塞蒂那样画画。”然后，他看着我的每一幅画，就会知道我爱他，从不曾忘记他。
去年我印了一些T恤，大部分在学校卖出去了。在海滩上的那个男孩也会穿。
现在我迷上了线条，简单的线条。这是从我醉心于书法的那六个月延续而来的。于是我拿出了炭笔和几支粉笔，把一张厚重的A3纸钉在画板上。我坐到床上，把它置于膝上。
周六早上母亲工作的时候，爸爸会带我进城，我则会拖着他到处逛美术用品店。在我过第六个生日的时候，他给我买了一盒蜡笔。在我八岁生日的时候，他送了我一个画架，一个真正的画架，不是小孩子用的那种。我九岁的时候，他又送了我油彩。
“画我吧。”他会这么说。
“哦，爸爸，我画不出来。”
早晨醒来，有时候我会发现枕边放着关于毕加索或夏卡尔的书。
今天又到了爸爸的生日，我要和他一起过。
于是，我花了好一会儿想象他头发的模样—我想应该是与去年差不多斑白吧。我知道头发衰老的速度每年不同，但今年我还是让他的头发留得稍长一些，还在心里给他增加了几磅。但在我脑海里他的笑容依旧不变，那笑声也许很微弱，就好像他感到开心却有点心不在焉，或者当我对他胡言乱语时他绞尽脑汁想弄明白我在说什么。
接下来该画头和肩膀了。我让他穿上一件T恤，露出脖子，可以看到他健壮的身躯，他炯炯有神的眼睛，还有他又直又黑的眉毛。
我努力去想还有多少我想展现的，还有多少我要诉说的。
然后，我就提起炭笔画了起来，用粉笔给他的眼睛加了一丝颜色，又换另一支粉笔为他的嘴唇上色。
他就在那儿。
爸爸。
你就在这里。