俺绞尽脑汁,翻译了千年一叹的自序,楼主看还能读得通吗?
This book is a journal about how I trekked thousands of miles visiting many
relics of world civilizations.
My goal was to find roadbeds for ancient civilizations, but the roads I
crossed were often buried in grass, separated by trenches and rampaged by
bandits. While the wheels of our Jeep rolled on, mile by mile, we never knew
what to expect of the next one. All we heard was horrific but true stories.
Right here, some religious extremists had shot down dozens of tourists just
minutes ago; over there, some foreigners had been held hostages by anti-
government forces about two months ago; and on the road ahead, thirty
policemen had been recently killed by drug traffickers ... In my previous
road trips of observing primitive cultures in China, and when I wrote my
previous books "A Journey of Culture" and "Living in the Hills", I
encountered many physical and spiritual adventures, however, I could always
get help and protections no matter how difficult or winding the process may
be. But this time, our team of cars were just like small ants crawling in
wilderness, any unknown violence could smash them easily at any time ...
There were not only the wilderness itself, but also ruins, shadows and gazes
deeply hidden in the wilderness. I'd be lying if I don't admit the fears I
had. But most of my fears were cloaked by astonishment. I was utterly
astonished by how human civilizations, once so magnificent, would destruct
so desolately. How did it happen? There are some theories in history books,
most of them are at best careless and vague guesswork. In the end, all
damages were particular, but the suffers were indescribable. Therefore, all
the answers are doubtful. All that matters is the result. Withered grass and
rubble of tiles bore the sufferings of disasters in our history.
I am willing to face all this directly in a dangerous situation without any
protection, just like feeling out an old man's wound without wearing a glove.
It often causes me to ponder thoroughly on these questions: Chinese
civilization, that we base our lives on, was also badly wounded. But how did
we avoid total collapse which some other civilizations did. What were the
prices we paid to avoid it, be it positive or negative? Can the past
experiences guarantee our future?
More importantly, for all the young blossoming civilizations today, will
they repeat the fate of fallen ancient civilizations? This question runs
through this whole book.
It was not easy writing daily journals in this expedition. I was traveling
with a group of people from HK Pheonix TV as a member of the Millennium
Journey program. In the beginning, nobody expected I would survive the
expedition. We drove more than ten hours everyday, without any decent food
to eat. When we finally arrived at the hostels, we were too tired too eat.
But my teammates would show special concerns to me before going to sleep,
because they knew I had to stay up late to write my journal. I don't smoke,
so I had to rely on teas to keep me awake. But none of the hostels in all
ten countries we visited supply hot water. My friend Zhao Wei, who rode in
the same car with me, had to ask some left over red tea from hostel waiters
everyday. He then poured all he collected from his own thermal cup to mine.
Some other friends knew I like eating turnips. They would search it in every
new towns we stayed, and finally found a sort of black turnip in Iran.
Unfortunately, the black turnip was really unpalatable.
It was hard for me to write in many places we stayed. Often I had to write
while bending over a car seat, or squatting on roadside. These scribbled
pieces were then sent over satellite to thousands miles away. When my
editors received it, it was often illegible, which led to many errors when
it was published by newspapers and periodicals at home and aboard. I put my
original manuscripts in a plastic laundry bag, and kept it with me all the
time. Minutes before we were about to enter Iraq, I suddenly recalled that
there were Hebrews printed on the laundry bag. I hastily stopped the car and
replaced the bag. It could have been a serious problem, if it was found out
by Iraq customs. How would I explain to them that these documents stored in
a bag from an enemy country , written in pictographic characters, were
actually travel journals. On our way through the terrains of Iran, Pakistan
and Afghanistan, which is also the most dangerous area of the world, I put
my journals in a bag closest to my body. I had many dreams that I was
running away with my bag, and every time it had the same ending:The pages
flying like snowflakes falling in a valley, while bandits ran to grab them,
although they don't understand what's written on it.
Therefore, I cherish the way this journal is written. I willingly and
carefully preserve it in its native and rough state. All I have been waiting
for is to give it to the publishing house, with only minor edits, on this
coming Spring Festival day when our expedition return to Beijing. It will be
done in a way similar to modern performance art, that all is achieved in
the procedure, without any garnishing beyond the actions themselves. It's
also similar to traditional Chinese calligraphy. Although a stroke of pen is
not perfect, better not to patch up or tinker with it afterward. In this
way, all the roots and twists, dirt and stains are preserved, at least it's
vivid. It was also a marginal experiment on attitude of writing. There were
no documents to check, no time for word crafting and will be no chance for
further editing before the articles are published. It almost completely
blocks any attempts to "do up" the article or "dress it up" to show off one'
s knowledge. My early proses had traces of "do up" and often had frictions
with and stepped into areas I had already left. This time, I finally can
clear myself up by doing it this way. I do not value ones pens but footsteps
. I do not focus on ones writings but life. I do not admire fineness but
crudeness. The sighs in the wilderness are always coarse. If I were to tame
them into gentle voices in study rooms or shills in salons, how am I to
guide myself in the journey that I resigned to take and started years ago.
The more time on the road, the more I rejoice in my choice. And I get
supports from many silent readers. So I can walk refreshingly and at east on
the road
This preface is written at lat night on January 31th, 2000. I am beside the
Yellow River Hu Kou Falls. Looking outside the windows, down in the
waterfall, thousands of billows frozen, no winds nor snow, no sounds nor
voices, it's biting cold. I breathe on my hands and hold my pen. It is now
five days until our "Millennium Journey" ends.
(Written on the night of Jan 31th, 2000 and in the early morning of Feb 1th
2000.
Second edition published on Dec 30th 2001, with abridgement.)