经典科幻文学:《 再见 多谢你们的鱼》第27章1
日期:2015-06-25 11:24
(单词翻译:单击)
Chapter 27
This is all very wonderful, said Fenchurch a few days later. But I do need to know what has happened to me. You see, there’s this difference between us. That you lost something and found it again, and I found something and lost it. I need to find it again.
She had to go out for the day, so Arthur settled down for a day of telephoning.
Murray Bost Henson was a journalist on one of the papers with small pages and big print. It would be pleasant to be able to say that he was none the worse for it, but sadly, this was not the case. He happened to be the only journalist that Arthur knew, so Arthur phoned him anyway.
Arthur my old soup spoon, my old silver turreen, how particularly stunning to hear from you. Someone told me you’d gone off into space or something.
Murray had his own special kind of conversation language which he had invented for his own use, and which no one else was able to speak or even to follow. Hardly any of it meant anything at all. The bits which did mean anything were often so wonderfully buried that no one could ever spot them slipping past in the avalanche of nonsense. The time when you did find out, later, which bits he did mean, was often a bad time for all concerned.
What? said Arthur.
Just a rumour my old elephant tusk, my little green baize card table, just a rumour. Probably means nothing at all, but I may need a quote from you.
Nothing to say, just pub talk.
We thrive on it, my old prosthetic limb, we thrive on it. Plus it would fit like a whatsit in one of those other things with the other stories of the week, so it could be just to have you denying it. Excuse me, something has just fallen out of my ear.
There was a slight pause, at the end of which Murray Bost Henson came back on the line sounding genuinely shaken.
Just remembered, he said, what an odd evening I had last night. Anyway my old, I won’t say what, how do you feel about having ridden on Halley’s Comet?
I haven’t, said Arthur with a suppressed sigh, ridden on Halley’s Comet.
OK, How do you feel about not having ridden on Halley’s Comet?
Pretty relaxed, Murray.
There was a pause while Murray wrote this down.
Good enough for me, Arthur, good enough for Ethel and me and the chickens. Fits in with the general weirdness of the week. Week of the Weirdos, we’re thinking of calling it. Good, eh?
Very good.
Got a ring to it. First we have this man it always rains on.
What?
It’s the absolute stocking top truth. All documented in his little black book, it all checks out at every single funloving level. The Met Office is going ice cold thick banana whips, and funny little men in white coats are flying in from all over the world with their little rulers and boxes and drip feeds. This man is the bee’s knees, Arthur, he is the wasp’s nipples. He is, I would go so far as to say, the entire set of erogenous zones of every major flying insect of the Western world. We’re calling him the Rain God. Nice, eh?
I think I’ve met him.
第27章
“这一切太美妙了。”几天之后芬切琪说，“不过我还是需要知道我身上到底发生了什么事情。你瞧，咱俩不一样。你丢了点什么东西然后又把它找到了，而我找到了点什么东西又把它搞丢了。我得把它再找回来。”
她白天必须要出去工作，所以阿瑟呆在屋里打了一天电话。
默里?波斯特?汉森是一家发行量很大的小报的记者。如果可以说这件事对他没有任何影响的话就太让人高兴了，可惜事情不是这样。他碰巧是阿瑟认识的唯一一个记者，所以阿瑟还是给他打了电话。
“阿瑟我的老汤勺，我的老汤碗，有你的消息实在太好了。有人跟我说你到太空去了什么的。”
默里谈话的时候有一套他自己的独特用语，是他自己发明出来给自己用的，而且其他人都没法说也没法学。这些用语基本上没有任何意义。有意义的小部分往往被巧妙地隐藏起来，以致没有人会在大堆无聊的话中注意到它们在悄悄滑过。等到你后来发现他哪一部分有意义的时候，往往已经错过了时机。
“什么？”阿瑟说。
“只是传言而已我的老象牙，我的小绿呢牌桌，只是传言。可能没有任何意义，但我需要你亲口说说。”
“没什么好说的，酒吧的闲聊而已。”
“我们就靠这个才能成功，我的老假肢，我们就靠这个。另外它也像一个星期其他故事和其他东西里面的什么玩意儿一样合适，所以最好还是由你来否认这事儿。对不起，有什么东西刚从我的耳朵里面掉出来了。”
出现了一个短暂的停顿，随后默里?波斯特?汉森回到线上，听起来很真诚地哆嗦着。
“刚想起来，”他说，“我昨天度过了一个多么奇特的夜晚。不过我的老伙计，我不会说什么的，你坐着哈雷彗星的时候感觉怎么样？”
“我没有，”阿瑟低低叹口气，“坐过哈雷彗星。”
“好吧，你没有坐哈雷彗星的感觉怎么样？”
“挺轻松的，默里。”
默里停了一会把这些写下来。
“对我来说够好了，阿瑟，对于爱瑟尔和我和小鸡们都够好了。放在一周怪谈中间很合适。怪人周，我们想取这么个名字。真好。嗯？”
“很好。”
“有个响儿了。我们先是有了这个头顶上总在下雨的人。”
“什么？”
“绝对是最牛的消息。他的小黑本子上所有的记录，实在会让所有人都高兴的。气象局会去冰冷沉重的香蕉皮鞭的，那些有趣的穿着白色外套的小个男人们都带着他们的小尺子和盒子还有滴灌饲料从世界各地飞进来。这个人是蜜蜂的膝盖，阿瑟，他是黄蜂的乳头。他就是，我甚至可以说，西方世界每个主要的飞行昆虫的全套性感带。我们把他叫做雨神。真好。嗯？”
“我想我遇到过他。”
This is all very wonderful, said Fenchurch a few days later. But I do need to know what has happened to me. You see, there’s this difference between us. That you lost something and found it again, and I found something and lost it. I need to find it again.
She had to go out for the day, so Arthur settled down for a day of telephoning.
Murray Bost Henson was a journalist on one of the papers with small pages and big print. It would be pleasant to be able to say that he was none the worse for it, but sadly, this was not the case. He happened to be the only journalist that Arthur knew, so Arthur phoned him anyway.
Arthur my old soup spoon, my old silver turreen, how particularly stunning to hear from you. Someone told me you’d gone off into space or something.
Murray had his own special kind of conversation language which he had invented for his own use, and which no one else was able to speak or even to follow. Hardly any of it meant anything at all. The bits which did mean anything were often so wonderfully buried that no one could ever spot them slipping past in the avalanche of nonsense. The time when you did find out, later, which bits he did mean, was often a bad time for all concerned.
What? said Arthur.
Just a rumour my old elephant tusk, my little green baize card table, just a rumour. Probably means nothing at all, but I may need a quote from you.
Nothing to say, just pub talk.
We thrive on it, my old prosthetic limb, we thrive on it. Plus it would fit like a whatsit in one of those other things with the other stories of the week, so it could be just to have you denying it. Excuse me, something has just fallen out of my ear.
There was a slight pause, at the end of which Murray Bost Henson came back on the line sounding genuinely shaken.
Just remembered, he said, what an odd evening I had last night. Anyway my old, I won’t say what, how do you feel about having ridden on Halley’s Comet?
I haven’t, said Arthur with a suppressed sigh, ridden on Halley’s Comet.
OK, How do you feel about not having ridden on Halley’s Comet?
Pretty relaxed, Murray.
There was a pause while Murray wrote this down.
Good enough for me, Arthur, good enough for Ethel and me and the chickens. Fits in with the general weirdness of the week. Week of the Weirdos, we’re thinking of calling it. Good, eh?
Very good.
Got a ring to it. First we have this man it always rains on.
What?
It’s the absolute stocking top truth. All documented in his little black book, it all checks out at every single funloving level. The Met Office is going ice cold thick banana whips, and funny little men in white coats are flying in from all over the world with their little rulers and boxes and drip feeds. This man is the bee’s knees, Arthur, he is the wasp’s nipples. He is, I would go so far as to say, the entire set of erogenous zones of every major flying insect of the Western world. We’re calling him the Rain God. Nice, eh?
I think I’ve met him.
第27章
“这一切太美妙了。”几天之后芬切琪说，“不过我还是需要知道我身上到底发生了什么事情。你瞧，咱俩不一样。你丢了点什么东西然后又把它找到了，而我找到了点什么东西又把它搞丢了。我得把它再找回来。”
她白天必须要出去工作，所以阿瑟呆在屋里打了一天电话。
默里?波斯特?汉森是一家发行量很大的小报的记者。如果可以说这件事对他没有任何影响的话就太让人高兴了，可惜事情不是这样。他碰巧是阿瑟认识的唯一一个记者，所以阿瑟还是给他打了电话。
“阿瑟我的老汤勺，我的老汤碗，有你的消息实在太好了。有人跟我说你到太空去了什么的。”
默里谈话的时候有一套他自己的独特用语，是他自己发明出来给自己用的，而且其他人都没法说也没法学。这些用语基本上没有任何意义。有意义的小部分往往被巧妙地隐藏起来，以致没有人会在大堆无聊的话中注意到它们在悄悄滑过。等到你后来发现他哪一部分有意义的时候，往往已经错过了时机。
“什么？”阿瑟说。
“只是传言而已我的老象牙，我的小绿呢牌桌，只是传言。可能没有任何意义，但我需要你亲口说说。”
“没什么好说的，酒吧的闲聊而已。”
“我们就靠这个才能成功，我的老假肢，我们就靠这个。另外它也像一个星期其他故事和其他东西里面的什么玩意儿一样合适，所以最好还是由你来否认这事儿。对不起，有什么东西刚从我的耳朵里面掉出来了。”
出现了一个短暂的停顿，随后默里?波斯特?汉森回到线上，听起来很真诚地哆嗦着。
“刚想起来，”他说，“我昨天度过了一个多么奇特的夜晚。不过我的老伙计，我不会说什么的，你坐着哈雷彗星的时候感觉怎么样？”
“我没有，”阿瑟低低叹口气，“坐过哈雷彗星。”
“好吧，你没有坐哈雷彗星的感觉怎么样？”
“挺轻松的，默里。”
默里停了一会把这些写下来。
“对我来说够好了，阿瑟，对于爱瑟尔和我和小鸡们都够好了。放在一周怪谈中间很合适。怪人周，我们想取这么个名字。真好。嗯？”
“很好。”
“有个响儿了。我们先是有了这个头顶上总在下雨的人。”
“什么？”
“绝对是最牛的消息。他的小黑本子上所有的记录，实在会让所有人都高兴的。气象局会去冰冷沉重的香蕉皮鞭的，那些有趣的穿着白色外套的小个男人们都带着他们的小尺子和盒子还有滴灌饲料从世界各地飞进来。这个人是蜜蜂的膝盖，阿瑟，他是黄蜂的乳头。他就是，我甚至可以说，西方世界每个主要的飞行昆虫的全套性感带。我们把他叫做雨神。真好。嗯？”
“我想我遇到过他。”
