僕が若く、もっと傷つきやすかったころ僕の父がしてくれたアドバイスはそれ以来僕の心の中を巡っている。
「もし誰かを批判したくなったとしても、」彼は言った、「誰だってお前ほど強くはないことを覚えておきなさい。」
彼はそれ以上何も言わなかった。けれど、僕たちはいつも異常なほど通じ合っていたから、それ以上の凄い意味のつもりで言ったことが分かった。そのせいで、僕は判断を控えるようになって、その習慣のおかげで、たくさんの珍しい性質もみられたし、よくあるうんざりすることの犠牲にもさせられた。異常な心を持つやつはすぐに察知してこの特質に付きまとった。なぜなら、普通の人にそういったことがみえると知らない男は秘密の悲しみを打ち明けて、大学ではただならない政治家だと告発された。親密な告白の兆候が地平線で震えていることを悟るとき、ぼくは寝たフリをしたり、没頭するフリをしたり、感じの悪い軽卒なことをした。若者の親密な関係と彼らがいうものは、明らかな抑圧のせいでたいがい借りものだったり傷つけられていたりする。判断を控えることは無限に希望を持つことである。それを忘れているんじゃないかと、今でも僕は少し怖くなる。僕の父親が気取ってほのめかしたことを、僕も気取って繰り返す、重要な謙虚さへの感覚は誰にでも平等に与えられるものじゃないということを。
僕が誇りにしてるこの寛容なやり方にも限界がある。固い岩の上か濡れた湿地に築かれた振る舞いでも、ある確実な点を過ぎれば僕はなにを基礎にしていても構わなくなる。去年の秋、東部から戻ってきたとき、僕は世界中がある種の道徳的な姿勢でずっといて欲しいと感じた。ギャツビー（この本の題名に冠した男だ）だけが僕の反発を免れた。ギャツビーは、僕が軽蔑するもの全てに影響されない。もし人格が不滅の成功したジェスチャーの連続なら、彼には豪華な何か、人生の約束に対する強い感受性や、一万マイル先の地震を計測する複雑な機械に関係するようなそれら何かがあった。この反応性はクリエイター気質とかいう大げさな気の抜けた感受性ではない。それは並外れた希望への天性、ロマンティックな迅速さは、彼以外の人間には誰にも見ることはできないだろう。いや、ギャツビーは最後まで正しかった。ギャツビーは食い物にされて、彼の夢の跡に汚いゴミが浮いて僕は失敗した悲しみと短くねじ曲がった男の意思への興味を失ったからだ。
僕の家族は有名で、三世代のあいだ中西部の街でうまくやった人達だった。キャラウェイ一家は氏族で、ブクルーチ公からの代々伝承しているが、実際の創立者の血筋は祖父の兄弟からで、51年で、南北戦争に行き、金物の卸売りの商売を始めて、父親がそれを今では引き継いでいる。
「もし誰かを批判したくなったとしても、」彼は言った、「誰だってお前ほど強くはないことを覚えておきなさい。」
彼はそれ以上何も言わなかった。けれど、僕たちはいつも異常なほど通じ合っていたから、それ以上の凄い意味のつもりで言ったことが分かった。そのせいで、僕は判断を控えるようになって、その習慣のおかげで、たくさんの珍しい性質もみられたし、よくあるうんざりすることの犠牲にもさせられた。異常な心を持つやつはすぐに察知してこの特質に付きまとった。なぜなら、普通の人にそういったことがみえると知らない男は秘密の悲しみを打ち明けて、大学ではただならない政治家だと告発された。親密な告白の兆候が地平線で震えていることを悟るとき、ぼくは寝たフリをしたり、没頭するフリをしたり、感じの悪い軽卒なことをした。若者の親密な関係と彼らがいうものは、明らかな抑圧のせいでたいがい借りものだったり傷つけられていたりする。判断を控えることは無限に希望を持つことである。それを忘れているんじゃないかと、今でも僕は少し怖くなる。僕の父親が気取ってほのめかしたことを、僕も気取って繰り返す、重要な謙虚さへの感覚は誰にでも平等に与えられるものじゃないということを。
僕が誇りにしてるこの寛容なやり方にも限界がある。固い岩の上か濡れた湿地に築かれた振る舞いでも、ある確実な点を過ぎれば僕はなにを基礎にしていても構わなくなる。去年の秋、東部から戻ってきたとき、僕は世界中がある種の道徳的な姿勢でずっといて欲しいと感じた。ギャツビー（この本の題名に冠した男だ）だけが僕の反発を免れた。ギャツビーは、僕が軽蔑するもの全てに影響されない。もし人格が不滅の成功したジェスチャーの連続なら、彼には豪華な何か、人生の約束に対する強い感受性や、一万マイル先の地震を計測する複雑な機械に関係するようなそれら何かがあった。この反応性はクリエイター気質とかいう大げさな気の抜けた感受性ではない。それは並外れた希望への天性、ロマンティックな迅速さは、彼以外の人間には誰にも見ることはできないだろう。いや、ギャツビーは最後まで正しかった。ギャツビーは食い物にされて、彼の夢の跡に汚いゴミが浮いて僕は失敗した悲しみと短くねじ曲がった男の意思への興味を失ったからだ。
僕の家族は有名で、三世代のあいだ中西部の街でうまくやった人達だった。キャラウェイ一家は氏族で、ブクルーチ公からの代々伝承しているが、実際の創立者の血筋は祖父の兄弟からで、51年で、南北戦争に行き、金物の卸売りの商売を始めて、父親がそれを今では引き継いでいる。
the great gatsby 1 2/2
2008年7月15日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳“Civilization’s going to pieces，” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read ‘The Rise of the Colored Empires’ by this man Goddard?”
“Why， no，” I answered， rather surprised by his tone.
“Well， it’s a fine book， and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be―will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound，” said Daisy， with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we――”
“Well， these books are all scientific，” insisted Tom， glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us， who are the dominant race， to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down，” whispered Daisy， winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California―” began Miss Baker， but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am， and you are， and you are， and――” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod， and she winked at me again. “―And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization―oh， science and art， and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration， as if his complacency， more acute than of old， was not enough to him any more. When， almost immediately， the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret，” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over to-night.”
“Well， he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night， until finally it began to affect his nose――”
“Things went from bad to worse，” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse， until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened―then the glow faded， each light deserting her with lingering regret， like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear， whereupon Tom frowned， pushed back his chair， and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her， Daisy leaned forward again， her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table， Nick. You remind me of a―of a rose， an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing， but a stirring warmth flowed from her， as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless， thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond， and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed， trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence， sank down， mounted excitedly， and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor――” I said.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker， honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why――” she said hesitantly， “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots， and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down， glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me， and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute， and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away――” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic， isn’t it， Tom?”
“Very romantic，” he said， and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner， I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside， startlingly， and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables， in fact all subjects， vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again， pointlessly， and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one， and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking， but I doubt if even Miss Baker， who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism， was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing―my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses， needless to say， were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker， with several feet of twilight between them， strolled back into the library， as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body， while， trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf， I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape， and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her， so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well， Nick，” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well， I’ve had a very bad time， Nick， and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more， and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks， and―eats， and everything.”
“Oh， yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen， Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about―things. Well， she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling， and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl， and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘all right，’ I said， ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool―that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world， a beautiful little fool.”
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow，” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so―the most advanced people. And I KNOW. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way， rather like Tom’s， and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated―God， I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off， ceasing to compel my attention， my belief， I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy， as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited， and sure enough， in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face， as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside， the crimson room bloomed with light.
Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the SATURDAY EVENING POST.―the words， murmurous and uninflected， running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light， bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair， glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued，” she said， tossing the magazine on the table， “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee， and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock，” she remarked， apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament to-morrow，” explained Daisy， “over at Westchester.”
“Oh―you’re Jordan BAKER.”
I knew now why her face was familiar―its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too， a critical， unpleasant story， but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night，” she said softly. “Wake me at eight， won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night， Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will，” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often， Nick， and I’ll sort of―oh―fling you together. You know―lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat， and all that sort of thing――”
“Good night，” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl，” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides， Nick’s going to look after her， aren’t you， Nick? She’s going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white――”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me.
“I can’t seem to remember， but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes， I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know――”
“Don’t believe everything you hear， Nick，” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all， and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something， and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right，” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it，” insisted Daisy， surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people， so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to， but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumors， and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich―nevertheless， I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house， child in arms―but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom， the fact that he “had some woman in New York.” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages， where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light， and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off， leaving a loud， bright night， with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight， and turning my head to watch it， I saw that I was not alone―fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself， come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner， and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him， for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone―he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way， and， far as I was from him， I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward―and distinguished nothing except a single green light， minute and far away， that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished， and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
“Why， no，” I answered， rather surprised by his tone.
“Well， it’s a fine book， and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be―will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound，” said Daisy， with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we――”
“Well， these books are all scientific，” insisted Tom， glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us， who are the dominant race， to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down，” whispered Daisy， winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California―” began Miss Baker， but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am， and you are， and you are， and――” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod， and she winked at me again. “―And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization―oh， science and art， and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration， as if his complacency， more acute than of old， was not enough to him any more. When， almost immediately， the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned toward me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret，” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over to-night.”
“Well， he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night， until finally it began to affect his nose――”
“Things went from bad to worse，” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse， until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened―then the glow faded， each light deserting her with lingering regret， like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear， whereupon Tom frowned， pushed back his chair， and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her， Daisy leaned forward again， her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table， Nick. You remind me of a―of a rose， an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing， but a stirring warmth flowed from her， as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless， thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond， and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed， trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence， sank down， mounted excitedly， and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbor――” I said.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker， honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why――” she said hesitantly， “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots， and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down， glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me， and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute， and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away――” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic， isn’t it， Tom?”
“Very romantic，” he said， and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner， I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside， startlingly， and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables， in fact all subjects， vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again， pointlessly， and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at every one， and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking， but I doubt if even Miss Baker， who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism， was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing―my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses， needless to say， were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker， with several feet of twilight between them， strolled back into the library， as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body， while， trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf， I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape， and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her， so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well， Nick，” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well， I’ve had a very bad time， Nick， and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she didn’t say any more， and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks， and―eats， and everything.”
“Oh， yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen， Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about―things. Well， she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling， and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl， and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘all right，’ I said， ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool―that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world， a beautiful little fool.”
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow，” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so―the most advanced people. And I KNOW. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way， rather like Tom’s， and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated―God， I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off， ceasing to compel my attention， my belief， I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy， as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited， and sure enough， in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face， as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside， the crimson room bloomed with light.
Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the SATURDAY EVENING POST.―the words， murmurous and uninflected， running together in a soothing tune. The lamp-light， bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair， glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued，” she said， tossing the magazine on the table， “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee， and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock，” she remarked， apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament to-morrow，” explained Daisy， “over at Westchester.”
“Oh―you’re Jordan BAKER.”
I knew now why her face was familiar―its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too， a critical， unpleasant story， but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night，” she said softly. “Wake me at eight， won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night， Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will，” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often， Nick， and I’ll sort of―oh―fling you together. You know―lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat， and all that sort of thing――”
“Good night，” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl，” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides， Nick’s going to look after her， aren’t you， Nick? She’s going to spend lots of week-ends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white――”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me.
“I can’t seem to remember， but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes， I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know――”
“Don’t believe everything you hear， Nick，” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all， and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something， and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right，” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it，” insisted Daisy， surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people， so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to， but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumors， and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumored into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich―nevertheless， I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house， child in arms―but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom， the fact that he “had some woman in New York.” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages， where new red gas-pumps sat out in pools of light， and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off， leaving a loud， bright night， with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight， and turning my head to watch it， I saw that I was not alone―fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbor’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself， come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner， and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him， for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone―he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way， and， far as I was from him， I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward―and distinguished nothing except a single green light， minute and far away， that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished， and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
the great gatsby 1 1/2
2008年7月15日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳 コメント (521)In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one，” he told me， “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more， but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way， and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence， I’m inclined to reserve all judgments， a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person， and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician， because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild， unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought―frequently I have feigned sleep， preoccupation， or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men， or at least the terms in which they express them， are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that， as my father snobbishly suggested， and I snobbishly repeat， a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And， after boasting this way of my tolerance， I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes， but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby， the man who gives his name to this book， was exempt from my reaction―Gatsby， who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures， then there was something gorgeous about him， some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life， as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”―it was an extraordinary gift for hope， a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No―Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby， what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent， well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan， and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch， but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother， who came here in fifty-one， sent a substitute to the Civil War， and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day.
I never saw this great-uncle， but I’m supposed to look like him―with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915， just a quarter of a century after my father， and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world， the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe―so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business， so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me， and finally said， “Why―ye―es，” with very grave， hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year， and after various delays I came East， permanently， I thought， in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city， but it was a warm season， and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees， so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town， it sounded like a great idea. He found the house， a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month， but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington， and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog―at least I had him for a few days until he ran away―and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman， who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man， more recently arrived than I， stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide， a pathfinder， an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees， just as things grow in fast movies， I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read， for one thing， and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities， and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint， promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college―one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Yale News.”―and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists， the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram―life is much more successfully looked at from a single window， after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York―and where there are， among other natural curiosities， two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs， identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay， jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere， the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. they are not perfect ovals―like the egg in the Columbus story， they are both crushed flat at the contact end―but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. to the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg， the―well， the less fashionable of the two， though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. my house was at the very tip of the egg， only fifty yards from the Sound， and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. the one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard―it was a factual imitation of some Hotel de Ville in Normandy， with a tower on one side， spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy， and a marble swimming pool， and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. it was Gatsby’s mansion. Or， rather， as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby， it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore， but it was a small eyesore， and it had been overlooked， so I had a view of the water， a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn， and the consoling proximity of millionaires―all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water， and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed， and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband， among various physical accomplishments， had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven―a national figure in a way， one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy―even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach―but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance， he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. it was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason， and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move， said Daisy over the telephone， but I didn’t believe it―I had no sight into Daisy’s heart， but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking， a little wistfully， for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected， a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion， overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile， jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens―finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows， glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon， and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body―he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing， and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage―a cruel body.
His speaking voice， a gruff husky tenor， added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it， even toward people he liked―and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now， don’t think my opinion on these matters is final，” he seemed to say， “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society， and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh， defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here，” he said， his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm， he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista， including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden， a half acre of deep， pungent roses， and a snub-nosed motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine， the oil man.” He turned me around again， politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space， fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room， blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags， twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling， and then rippled over the wine-colored rug， making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white， and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room， and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan， completely motionless， and with her chin raised a little， as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it―indeed， I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl， Daisy， made an attempt to rise―she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression―then she laughed， an absurd， charming little laugh， and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.” She laughed again， as if she said something very witty， and held my hand for a moment， looking up into my face， promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate， Miss Baker’s lips fluttered， she nodded at me almost imperceptibly， and then quickly tipped her head back again―the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin， who began to ask me questions in her low， thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down， as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it， bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth， but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion， a whispered “Listen，” a promise that she had done gay， exciting things just a while since and that there were gay， exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East， and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath， and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back， Tom. To-morrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well， you ought to see her. She’s――”
Tom Buchanan， who had been hovering restlessly about the room， stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing， Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them，” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will，” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh， I’ll stay in the East， don’t you worry，” he said， glancing at Daisy and then back at me， as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started―it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me， for she yawned and with a series of rapid， deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff，” she complained， “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me，” Daisy retorted， “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No， thanks，” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry， “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker， wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender， small-breasted girl， with an erect carriage， which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan， charming， discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her， or a picture of her， somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg，” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single――”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine， Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly， languidly， their hands set lightly on their hips， the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch， open toward the sunset， where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why CANDLES?” objected Daisy， frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something，” yawned Miss Baker， sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right，” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked―the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it， Tom，” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to， but you DID do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man， a great， big， hulking physical specimen of a――”
“I hate that word hulking，” objected Tom crossly， “even in kidding.”
“Hulking，” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once， unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter， that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here， and they accepted Tom and me， making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West， where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close， in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized， Daisy，” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark， but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing any one，” he told me， “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more， but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way， and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence， I’m inclined to reserve all judgments， a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person， and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician， because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild， unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought―frequently I have feigned sleep， preoccupation， or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men， or at least the terms in which they express them， are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgments is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that， as my father snobbishly suggested， and I snobbishly repeat， a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And， after boasting this way of my tolerance， I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes， but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby， the man who gives his name to this book， was exempt from my reaction―Gatsby， who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures， then there was something gorgeous about him， some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life， as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament.”―it was an extraordinary gift for hope， a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No―Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby， what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent， well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan， and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch， but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother， who came here in fifty-one， sent a substitute to the Civil War， and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on to-day.
I never saw this great-uncle， but I’m supposed to look like him―with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office I graduated from New Haven in 1915， just a quarter of a century after my father， and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world， the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe―so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business， so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me， and finally said， “Why―ye―es，” with very grave， hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year， and after various delays I came East， permanently， I thought， in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city， but it was a warm season， and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees， so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town， it sounded like a great idea. He found the house， a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month， but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington， and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog―at least I had him for a few days until he ran away―and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman， who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man， more recently arrived than I， stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide， a pathfinder， an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees， just as things grow in fast movies， I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read， for one thing， and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities， and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint， promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college―one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the “Yale News.”―and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists， the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram―life is much more successfully looked at from a single window， after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York―and where there are， among other natural curiosities， two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs， identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay， jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere， the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. they are not perfect ovals―like the egg in the Columbus story， they are both crushed flat at the contact end―but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual confusion to the gulls that fly overhead. to the wingless a more arresting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg， the―well， the less fashionable of the two， though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. my house was at the very tip of the egg， only fifty yards from the Sound， and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. the one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard―it was a factual imitation of some Hotel de Ville in Normandy， with a tower on one side， spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy， and a marble swimming pool， and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. it was Gatsby’s mansion. Or， rather， as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby， it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore， but it was a small eyesore， and it had been overlooked， so I had a view of the water， a partial view of my neighbor’s lawn， and the consoling proximity of millionaires―all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water， and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed， and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband， among various physical accomplishments， had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven―a national figure in a way， one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savors of anti-climax. His family were enormously wealthy―even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach―but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance， he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. it was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason， and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move， said Daisy over the telephone， but I didn’t believe it―I had no sight into Daisy’s heart， but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking， a little wistfully， for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected， a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion， overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile， jumping over sun-dials and brick walks and burning gardens―finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows， glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon， and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body―he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing， and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage―a cruel body.
His speaking voice， a gruff husky tenor， added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it， even toward people he liked―and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now， don’t think my opinion on these matters is final，” he seemed to say， “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society， and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh， defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here，” he said， his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm， he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista， including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden， a half acre of deep， pungent roses， and a snub-nosed motor-boat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine， the oil man.” He turned me around again， politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-colored space， fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room， blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags， twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling， and then rippled over the wine-colored rug， making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white， and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room， and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan， completely motionless， and with her chin raised a little， as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it―indeed， I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl， Daisy， made an attempt to rise―she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression―then she laughed， an absurd， charming little laugh， and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralyzed with happiness.” She laughed again， as if she said something very witty， and held my hand for a moment， looking up into my face， promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate， Miss Baker’s lips fluttered， she nodded at me almost imperceptibly， and then quickly tipped her head back again―the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin， who began to ask me questions in her low， thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down， as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it， bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth， but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion， a whispered “Listen，” a promise that she had done gay， exciting things just a while since and that there were gay， exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East， and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath， and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back， Tom. To-morrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well， you ought to see her. She’s――”
Tom Buchanan， who had been hovering restlessly about the room， stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing， Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them，” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will，” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh， I’ll stay in the East， don’t you worry，” he said， glancing at Daisy and then back at me， as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started―it was the first word she uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me， for she yawned and with a series of rapid， deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff，” she complained， “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me，” Daisy retorted， “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No， thanks，” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry， “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker， wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender， small-breasted girl， with an erect carriage， which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her gray sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan， charming， discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her， or a picture of her， somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg，” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single――”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbor dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine， Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly， languidly， their hands set lightly on their hips， the two young women preceded us out onto a rosy-colored porch， open toward the sunset， where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why CANDLES?” objected Daisy， frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something，” yawned Miss Baker， sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right，” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked―the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it， Tom，” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to， but you DID do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man， a great， big， hulking physical specimen of a――”
“I hate that word hulking，” objected Tom crossly， “even in kidding.”
“Hulking，” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once， unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter， that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here， and they accepted Tom and me， making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West， where an evening was hurried from phase to phase toward its close， in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized， Daisy，” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark， but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
翻訳記 2
2008年7月15日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳the great gatsby
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
tender is the night
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆
tender is the night長過ぎ
先にgreat gatsby訳そう
朗読の音源も持ってるし
でも文字数はかってないから分からん。
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
tender is the night
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆
☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆
☆☆☆
tender is the night長過ぎ
先にgreat gatsby訳そう
朗読の音源も持ってるし
でも文字数はかってないから分からん。
“We thought maybe you were in the plot，” said Mrs. McKisco. She was a shabby-eyed， pretty young woman with a disheartening intensity. “We don’t know who’s in the plot and who isn’t. One man my husband had been particularly nice to turned out to be a chief character―practically the assistant hero.”
“The plot?” inquired Rosemary， half understanding. “Is there a plot?”
“My dear， we don’t KNOW，” said Mrs. Abrams， with a convulsive， stout woman’s chuckle. “We’re not in it. We’re the gallery.”
Mr. Dumphry， a tow-headed effeminate young man， remarked: “Mama Abrams is a plot in herself，” and Campion shook his monocle at him， saying: “Now， Royal， don’t be too ghastly for words.” Rosemary looked at them all uncomfortably， wishing her mother had come down here with her. She did not like these people， especially in her immediate comparison of them with those who had interested her at the other end of the beach. Her mother’s modest but compact social gift got them out of unwelcome situations swiftly and firmly. But Rosemary had been a celebrity for only six months， and sometimes the French manners of her early adolescence and the democratic manners of America， these latter superimposed， made a certain confusion and let her in for just such things.
Mr. McKisco， a scrawny， freckle-and-red man of thirty， did not find the topic of the “plot” amusing. He had been staring at the sea― now after a swift glance at his wife he turned to Rosemary and demanded aggressively:
“Been here long?”
“Only a day.”
“Oh.”
Evidently feeling that the subject had been thoroughly changed， he looked in turn at the others.
“Going to stay all summer?” asked Mrs. McKisco， innocently. “If you do you can watch the plot unfold.”
“For God’s sake， Violet， drop the subject!” exploded her husband. “Get a new joke， for God’s sake!”
Mrs. McKisco swayed toward Mrs. Abrams and breathed audibly:
“He’s nervous.”
“I’m not nervous，” disagreed McKisco. “It just happens I’m not nervous at all.”
He was burning visibly―a grayish flush had spread over his face， dissolving all his expressions into a vast ineffectuality. Suddenly remotely conscious of his condition he got up to go in the water， followed by his wife， and seizing the opportunity Rosemary followed.
Mr. McKisco drew a long breath， flung himself into the shallows and began a stiff-armed batting of the Mediterranean， obviously intended to suggest a crawl―his breath exhausted he arose and looked around with an expression of surprise that he was still in sight of shore.
“I haven’t learned to breathe yet. I never quite understood how they breathed.” He looked at Rosemary inquiringly.
“I think you breathe out under water，” she explained. “And every fourth beat you roll your head over for air.”
“The breathing’s the hardest part for me. Shall we go to the raft?”
The man with the leonine head lay stretched out upon the raft， which tipped back and forth with the motion of the water. As Mrs. McKisco reached for it a sudden tilt struck her arm up roughly， whereupon the man started up and pulled her on board.
“I was afraid it hit you.” His voice was slow and shy; he had one of the saddest faces Rosemary had ever seen， the high cheekbones of an Indian， a long upper lip， and enormous deep-set dark golden eyes. He had spoken out of the side of his mouth， as if he hoped his words would reach Mrs. McKisco by a circuitous and unobtrusive route; in a minute he had shoved off into the water and his long body lay motionless toward shore.
Rosemary and Mrs. McKisco watched him. When he had exhausted his momentum he abruptly bent double， his thin thighs rose above the surface， and he disappeared totally， leaving scarcely a fleck of foam behind.
“He’s a good swimmer，” Rosemary said.
Mrs. McKisco’s answer came with surprising violence.
“Well， he’s a rotten musician.” She turned to her husband， who after two unsuccessful attempts had managed to climb on the raft， and having attained his balance was trying to make some kind of compensatory flourish， achieving only an extra stagger. “I was just saying that Abe North may be a good swimmer but he’s a rotten musician.”
“Yes，” agreed McKisco， grudgingly. Obviously he had created his wife’s world， and allowed her few liberties in it.
“Antheil’s my man.” Mrs. McKisco turned challengingly to Rosemary， “Anthiel and Joyce. I don’t suppose you ever hear much about those sort of people in Hollywood， but my husband wrote the first criticism of Ulysses that ever appeared in America.”
“I wish I had a cigarette，” said McKisco calmly. “That’s more important to me just now.”
“He’s got insides―don’t you think so， Albert?”
Her voice faded off suddenly. The woman of the pearls had joined her two children in the water， and now Abe North came up under one of them like a volcanic island， raising him on his shoulders. The child yelled with fear and delight and the woman watched with a lovely peace， without a smile.
“Is that his wife?” Rosemary asked.
“No， that’s Mrs. Diver. They’re not at the hotel.” Her eyes， photographic， did not move from the woman’s face. After a moment she turned vehemently to Rosemary.
“Have you been abroad before?”
“Yes―I went to school in Paris.”
“Oh! Well then you probably know that if you want to enjoy yourself here the thing is to get to know some real French families. What do these people get out of it?” She pointed her left shoulder toward shore. “They just stick around with each other in little cliques. Of course， we had letters of introduction and met all the best French artists and writers in Paris. That made it very nice.”
“I should think so.”
“My husband is finishing his first novel， you see.”
Rosemary said: “Oh， he is?” She was not thinking anything special， except wondering whether her mother had got to sleep in this heat.
“It’s on the idea of Ulysses，” continued Mrs. McKisco. “Only instead of taking twenty-four hours my husband takes a hundred years. He takes a decayed old French aristocrat and puts him in contrast with the mechanical age―”
“Oh， for God’s sake， Violet， don’t go telling everybody the idea，” protested McKisco. “I don’t want it to get all around before the book’s published.”
Rosemary swam back to the shore， where she threw her peignoir over her already sore shoulders and lay down again in the sun. The man with the jockey cap was now going from umbrella to umbrella carrying a bottle and little glasses in his hands; presently he and his friends grew livelier and closer together and now they were all under a single assemblage of umbrellas―she gathered that some one was leaving and that this was a last drink on the beach. Even the children knew that excitement was generating under that umbrella and turned toward it―and it seemed to Rosemary that it all came from the man in the jockey cap.
Noon dominated sea and sky―even the white line of Cannes， five miles off， had faded to a mirage of what was fresh and cool; a robin-breasted sailing boat pulled in behind it a strand from the outer， darker sea. It seemed that there was no life anywhere in all this expanse of coast except under the filtered sunlight of those umbrellas， where something went on amid the color and the murmur.
Campion walked near her， stood a few feet away and Rosemary closed her eyes， pretending to be asleep; then she half-opened them and watched two dim， blurred pillars that were legs. The man tried to edge his way into a sand-colored cloud， but the cloud floated off into the vast hot sky. Rosemary fell really asleep.
She awoke drenched with sweat to find the beach deserted save for the man in the jockey cap， who was folding a last umbrella. As Rosemary lay blinking， he walked nearer and said:
“I was going to wake you before I left. It’s not good to get too burned right away.”
“Thank you.” Rosemary looked down at her crimson legs.
“Heavens!”
She laughed cheerfully， inviting him to talk， but Dick Diver was already carrying a tent and a beach umbrella up to a waiting car， so she went into the water to wash off the sweat. He came back and gathering up a rake， a shovel， and a sieve， stowed them in a crevice of a rock. He glanced up and down the beach to see if he had left anything.
“Do you know what time it is?” Rosemary asked.
“It’s about half-past one.”
They faced the seascape together momentarily.
“It’s not a bad time，” said Dick Diver. “It’s not one of worst times of the day.”
He looked at her and for a moment she lived in the bright blue worlds of his eyes， eagerly and confidently. Then he shouldered his last piece of junk and went up to his car， and Rosemary came out of the water， shook out her peignoir and walked up to the hotel.
“The plot?” inquired Rosemary， half understanding. “Is there a plot?”
“My dear， we don’t KNOW，” said Mrs. Abrams， with a convulsive， stout woman’s chuckle. “We’re not in it. We’re the gallery.”
Mr. Dumphry， a tow-headed effeminate young man， remarked: “Mama Abrams is a plot in herself，” and Campion shook his monocle at him， saying: “Now， Royal， don’t be too ghastly for words.” Rosemary looked at them all uncomfortably， wishing her mother had come down here with her. She did not like these people， especially in her immediate comparison of them with those who had interested her at the other end of the beach. Her mother’s modest but compact social gift got them out of unwelcome situations swiftly and firmly. But Rosemary had been a celebrity for only six months， and sometimes the French manners of her early adolescence and the democratic manners of America， these latter superimposed， made a certain confusion and let her in for just such things.
Mr. McKisco， a scrawny， freckle-and-red man of thirty， did not find the topic of the “plot” amusing. He had been staring at the sea― now after a swift glance at his wife he turned to Rosemary and demanded aggressively:
“Been here long?”
“Only a day.”
“Oh.”
Evidently feeling that the subject had been thoroughly changed， he looked in turn at the others.
“Going to stay all summer?” asked Mrs. McKisco， innocently. “If you do you can watch the plot unfold.”
“For God’s sake， Violet， drop the subject!” exploded her husband. “Get a new joke， for God’s sake!”
Mrs. McKisco swayed toward Mrs. Abrams and breathed audibly:
“He’s nervous.”
“I’m not nervous，” disagreed McKisco. “It just happens I’m not nervous at all.”
He was burning visibly―a grayish flush had spread over his face， dissolving all his expressions into a vast ineffectuality. Suddenly remotely conscious of his condition he got up to go in the water， followed by his wife， and seizing the opportunity Rosemary followed.
Mr. McKisco drew a long breath， flung himself into the shallows and began a stiff-armed batting of the Mediterranean， obviously intended to suggest a crawl―his breath exhausted he arose and looked around with an expression of surprise that he was still in sight of shore.
“I haven’t learned to breathe yet. I never quite understood how they breathed.” He looked at Rosemary inquiringly.
“I think you breathe out under water，” she explained. “And every fourth beat you roll your head over for air.”
“The breathing’s the hardest part for me. Shall we go to the raft?”
The man with the leonine head lay stretched out upon the raft， which tipped back and forth with the motion of the water. As Mrs. McKisco reached for it a sudden tilt struck her arm up roughly， whereupon the man started up and pulled her on board.
“I was afraid it hit you.” His voice was slow and shy; he had one of the saddest faces Rosemary had ever seen， the high cheekbones of an Indian， a long upper lip， and enormous deep-set dark golden eyes. He had spoken out of the side of his mouth， as if he hoped his words would reach Mrs. McKisco by a circuitous and unobtrusive route; in a minute he had shoved off into the water and his long body lay motionless toward shore.
Rosemary and Mrs. McKisco watched him. When he had exhausted his momentum he abruptly bent double， his thin thighs rose above the surface， and he disappeared totally， leaving scarcely a fleck of foam behind.
“He’s a good swimmer，” Rosemary said.
Mrs. McKisco’s answer came with surprising violence.
“Well， he’s a rotten musician.” She turned to her husband， who after two unsuccessful attempts had managed to climb on the raft， and having attained his balance was trying to make some kind of compensatory flourish， achieving only an extra stagger. “I was just saying that Abe North may be a good swimmer but he’s a rotten musician.”
“Yes，” agreed McKisco， grudgingly. Obviously he had created his wife’s world， and allowed her few liberties in it.
“Antheil’s my man.” Mrs. McKisco turned challengingly to Rosemary， “Anthiel and Joyce. I don’t suppose you ever hear much about those sort of people in Hollywood， but my husband wrote the first criticism of Ulysses that ever appeared in America.”
“I wish I had a cigarette，” said McKisco calmly. “That’s more important to me just now.”
“He’s got insides―don’t you think so， Albert?”
Her voice faded off suddenly. The woman of the pearls had joined her two children in the water， and now Abe North came up under one of them like a volcanic island， raising him on his shoulders. The child yelled with fear and delight and the woman watched with a lovely peace， without a smile.
“Is that his wife?” Rosemary asked.
“No， that’s Mrs. Diver. They’re not at the hotel.” Her eyes， photographic， did not move from the woman’s face. After a moment she turned vehemently to Rosemary.
“Have you been abroad before?”
“Yes―I went to school in Paris.”
“Oh! Well then you probably know that if you want to enjoy yourself here the thing is to get to know some real French families. What do these people get out of it?” She pointed her left shoulder toward shore. “They just stick around with each other in little cliques. Of course， we had letters of introduction and met all the best French artists and writers in Paris. That made it very nice.”
“I should think so.”
“My husband is finishing his first novel， you see.”
Rosemary said: “Oh， he is?” She was not thinking anything special， except wondering whether her mother had got to sleep in this heat.
“It’s on the idea of Ulysses，” continued Mrs. McKisco. “Only instead of taking twenty-four hours my husband takes a hundred years. He takes a decayed old French aristocrat and puts him in contrast with the mechanical age―”
“Oh， for God’s sake， Violet， don’t go telling everybody the idea，” protested McKisco. “I don’t want it to get all around before the book’s published.”
Rosemary swam back to the shore， where she threw her peignoir over her already sore shoulders and lay down again in the sun. The man with the jockey cap was now going from umbrella to umbrella carrying a bottle and little glasses in his hands; presently he and his friends grew livelier and closer together and now they were all under a single assemblage of umbrellas―she gathered that some one was leaving and that this was a last drink on the beach. Even the children knew that excitement was generating under that umbrella and turned toward it―and it seemed to Rosemary that it all came from the man in the jockey cap.
Noon dominated sea and sky―even the white line of Cannes， five miles off， had faded to a mirage of what was fresh and cool; a robin-breasted sailing boat pulled in behind it a strand from the outer， darker sea. It seemed that there was no life anywhere in all this expanse of coast except under the filtered sunlight of those umbrellas， where something went on amid the color and the murmur.
Campion walked near her， stood a few feet away and Rosemary closed her eyes， pretending to be asleep; then she half-opened them and watched two dim， blurred pillars that were legs. The man tried to edge his way into a sand-colored cloud， but the cloud floated off into the vast hot sky. Rosemary fell really asleep.
She awoke drenched with sweat to find the beach deserted save for the man in the jockey cap， who was folding a last umbrella. As Rosemary lay blinking， he walked nearer and said:
“I was going to wake you before I left. It’s not good to get too burned right away.”
“Thank you.” Rosemary looked down at her crimson legs.
“Heavens!”
She laughed cheerfully， inviting him to talk， but Dick Diver was already carrying a tent and a beach umbrella up to a waiting car， so she went into the water to wash off the sweat. He came back and gathering up a rake， a shovel， and a sieve， stowed them in a crevice of a rock. He glanced up and down the beach to see if he had left anything.
“Do you know what time it is?” Rosemary asked.
“It’s about half-past one.”
They faced the seascape together momentarily.
“It’s not a bad time，” said Dick Diver. “It’s not one of worst times of the day.”
He looked at her and for a moment she lived in the bright blue worlds of his eyes， eagerly and confidently. Then he shouldered his last piece of junk and went up to his car， and Rosemary came out of the water， shook out her peignoir and walked up to the hotel.
tender is the night 翻訳記
2008年7月13日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳×night is tender
間違えるの二度目
訳すのはまだできないけど、1を単語片っ端から辞書引いて読んだ。
すげー集中力使う。
原文はこちら（http://etext.library.adelaide.edu.au/f/fitzgerald/f_scott/tender/index.html)
物書くのに軽く飽きてるから、物語練習＆英語訓練を目的にして読む。
いずれにしろ、英語（英語圏）に移りたい。
つか、外国株式に投資するのに英語使えないのは我ながらありえない。
間違えるの二度目
訳すのはまだできないけど、1を単語片っ端から辞書引いて読んだ。
すげー集中力使う。
原文はこちら（http://etext.library.adelaide.edu.au/f/fitzgerald/f_scott/tender/index.html)
物書くのに軽く飽きてるから、物語練習＆英語訓練を目的にして読む。
いずれにしろ、英語（英語圏）に移りたい。
つか、外国株式に投資するのに英語使えないのは我ながらありえない。
On the pleasant shore of the French Riviera， about half way between Marseilles and the Italian border， stands a large， proud， rose- colored hotel. Deferential palms cool its flushed façade， and before it stretches a short dazzling beach. Lately it has become a summer resort of notable and fashionable people; a decade ago it was almost deserted after its English clientele went north in April. Now， many bungalows cluster near it， but when this story begins only the cupolas of a dozen old villas rotted like water lilies among the massed pines between Gausse’s Hôtel des Étrangers and Cannes， five miles away.
The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. In the early morning the distant image of Cannes， the pink and cream of old fortifications， the purple Alp that bounded Italy， were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows. Before eight a man came down to the beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his person of the chilly water， and much grunting and loud breathing， floundered a minute in the sea. When he had gone， beach and bay were quiet for an hour. Merchantmen crawled westward on the horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the pines. In another hour the horns of motors began to blow down from the winding road along the low range of the Maures， which separates the littoral from true Provençal France.
A mile from the sea， where pines give way to dusty poplars， is an isolated railroad stop， whence one June morning in 1925 a victoria brought a woman and her daughter down to Gausse’s Hotel. The mother’s face was of a fading prettiness that would soon be patted with broken veins; her expression was both tranquil and aware in a pleasant way. However， one’s eye moved on quickly to her daughter， who had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks lit to a lovely flame， like the thrilling flush of children after their cold baths in the evening. Her fine forehead sloped gently up to where her hair， bordering it like an armorial shield， burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright， big， clear， wet， and shining， the color of her cheeks was real， breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered delicately on the last edge of childhood—she was almost eighteen， nearly complete， but the dew was still on her.
As sea and sky appeared below them in a thin， hot line the mother said:
“Something tells me we’re not going to like this place.”
“I want to go home anyhow，” the girl answered.
They both spoke cheerfully but were obviously without direction and bored by the fact—moreover， just any direction would not do. They wanted high excitement， not from the necessity of stimulating jaded nerves but with the avidity of prize-winning schoolchildren who deserved their vacations.
“We’ll stay three days and then go home. I’ll wire right away for steamer tickets.”
At the hotel the girl made the reservation in idiomatic but rather flat French， like something remembered. When they were installed on the ground floor she walked into the glare of the French windows and out a few steps onto the stone veranda that ran the length of the hotel. When she walked she carried herself like a ballet- dancer， not slumped down on her hips but held up in the small of her back. Out there the hot light clipped close her shadow and she retreated—it was too bright to see. Fifty yards away the Mediterranean yielded up its pigments， moment by moment， to the brutal sunshine; below the balustrade a faded Buick cooked on the hotel drive.
Indeed， of all the region only the beach stirred with activity. Three British nannies sat knitting the slow pattern of Victorian England， the pattern of the forties， the sixties， and the eighties， into sweaters and socks， to the tune of gossip as formalized as incantation; closer to the sea a dozen persons kept house under striped umbrellas， while their dozen children pursued unintimidated fish through the shallows or lay naked and glistening with cocoanut oil out in the sun.
As Rosemary came onto the beach a boy of twelve ran past her and dashed into the sea with exultant cries. Feeling the impactive scrutiny of strange faces， she took off her bathrobe and followed. She floated face down for a few yards and finding it shallow staggered to her feet and plodded forward， dragging slim legs like weights against the resistance of the water. When it was about breast high， she glanced back toward shore: a bald man in a monocle and a pair of tights， his tufted chest thrown out， his brash navel sucked in， was regarding her attentively. As Rosemary returned the gaze the man dislodged the monocle， which went into hiding amid the facetious whiskers of his chest， and poured himself a glass of something from a bottle in his hand.
Rosemary laid her face on the water and swam a choppy little four- beat crawl out to the raft. The water reached up for her， pulled her down tenderly out of the heat， seeped in her hair and ran into the corners of her body. She turned round and round in it， embracing it， wallowing in it. Reaching the raft she was out of breath， but a tanned woman with very white teeth looked down at her， and Rosemary， suddenly conscious of the raw whiteness of her own body， turned on her back and drifted toward shore. The hairy man holding the bottle spoke to her as she came out.
“I say—they have sharks out behind the raft.” He was of indeterminate nationality， but spoke English with a slow Oxford drawl. “Yesterday they devoured two British sailors from the flotte at Golfe Juan.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Rosemary.
“They come in for the refuse from the flotte.”
Glazing his eyes to indicate that he had only spoken in order to warn her， he minced off two steps and poured himself another drink.
Not unpleasantly self-conscious， since there had been a slight sway of attention toward her during this conversation， Rosemary looked for a place to sit. Obviously each family possessed the strip of sand immediately in front of its umbrella; besides there was much visiting and talking back and forth—the atmosphere of a community upon which it would be presumptuous to intrude. Farther up， where the beach was strewn with pebbles and dead sea-weed， sat a group with flesh as white as her own. They lay under small hand-parasols instead of beach umbrellas and were obviously less indigenous to the place. Between the dark people and the light， Rosemary found room and spread out her peignoir on the sand.
Lying so， she first heard their voices and felt their feet skirt her body and their shapes pass between the sun and herself. The breath of an inquisitive dog blew warm and nervous on her neck; she could feel her skin broiling a little in the heat and hear the small exhausted wa-waa of the expiring waves. Presently her ear distinguished individual voices and she became aware that some one referred to scornfully as “that North guy” had kidnapped a waiter from a café in Cannes last night in order to saw him in two. The sponsor of the story was a white-haired woman in full evening dress， obviously a relic of the previous evening， for a tiara still clung to her head and a discouraged orchid expired from her shoulder. Rosemary， forming a vague antipathy to her and her companions， turned away.
Nearest her， on the other side， a young woman lay under a roof of umbrellas making out a list of things from a book open on the sand. Her bathing suit was pulled off her shoulders and her back， a ruddy， orange brown， set off by a string of creamy pearls， shone in the sun. Her face was hard and lovely and pitiful. Her eyes met Rosemary’s but did not see her. Beyond her was a fine man in a jockey cap and red-striped tights; then the woman Rosemary had seen on the raft， and who looked back at her， seeing her; then a man with a long face and a golden， leonine head， with blue tights and no hat， talking very seriously to an unmistakably Latin young man in black tights， both of them picking at little pieces of seaweed in the sand. She thought they were mostly Americans， but something made them unlike the Americans she had known of late.
After a while she realized that the man in the jockey cap was giving a quiet little performance for this group; he moved gravely about with a rake， ostensibly removing gravel and meanwhile developing some esoteric burlesque held in suspension by his grave face. Its faintest ramification had become hilarious， until whatever he said released a burst of laughter. Even those who， like herself， were too far away to hear， sent out antennæ of attention until the only person on the beach not caught up in it was the young woman with the string of pearls. Perhaps from modesty of possession she responded to each salvo of amusement by bending closer over her list.
The man of the monocle and bottle spoke suddenly out of the sky above Rosemary.
“You are a ripping swimmer.”
She demurred.
“Jolly good. My name is Campion. Here is a lady who says she saw you in Sorrento last week and knows who you are and would so like to meet you.”
Glancing around with concealed annoyance Rosemary saw the untanned people were waiting. Reluctantly she got up and went over to them.
“Mrs. Abrams—Mrs. McKisco—Mr. McKisco—Mr. Dumphry—
“We know who you are，” spoke up the woman in evening dress. “You’re Rosemary Hoyt and I recognized you in Sorrento and asked the hotel clerk and we all think you’re perfectly marvellous and we want to know why you’re not back in America making another marvellous moving picture.”
They made a superfluous gesture of moving over for her. The woman who had recognized her was not a Jewess， despite her name. She was one of those elderly “good sports” preserved by an imperviousness to experience and a good digestion into another generation.
“We wanted to warn you about getting burned the first day，” she continued cheerily， “because YOUR skin is important， but there seems to be so darn much formality on this beach that we didn’t know whether you’d mind.”
The hotel and its bright tan prayer rug of a beach were one. In the early morning the distant image of Cannes， the pink and cream of old fortifications， the purple Alp that bounded Italy， were cast across the water and lay quavering in the ripples and rings sent up by sea-plants through the clear shallows. Before eight a man came down to the beach in a blue bathrobe and with much preliminary application to his person of the chilly water， and much grunting and loud breathing， floundered a minute in the sea. When he had gone， beach and bay were quiet for an hour. Merchantmen crawled westward on the horizon; bus boys shouted in the hotel court; the dew dried upon the pines. In another hour the horns of motors began to blow down from the winding road along the low range of the Maures， which separates the littoral from true Provençal France.
A mile from the sea， where pines give way to dusty poplars， is an isolated railroad stop， whence one June morning in 1925 a victoria brought a woman and her daughter down to Gausse’s Hotel. The mother’s face was of a fading prettiness that would soon be patted with broken veins; her expression was both tranquil and aware in a pleasant way. However， one’s eye moved on quickly to her daughter， who had magic in her pink palms and her cheeks lit to a lovely flame， like the thrilling flush of children after their cold baths in the evening. Her fine forehead sloped gently up to where her hair， bordering it like an armorial shield， burst into lovelocks and waves and curlicues of ash blonde and gold. Her eyes were bright， big， clear， wet， and shining， the color of her cheeks was real， breaking close to the surface from the strong young pump of her heart. Her body hovered delicately on the last edge of childhood—she was almost eighteen， nearly complete， but the dew was still on her.
As sea and sky appeared below them in a thin， hot line the mother said:
“Something tells me we’re not going to like this place.”
“I want to go home anyhow，” the girl answered.
They both spoke cheerfully but were obviously without direction and bored by the fact—moreover， just any direction would not do. They wanted high excitement， not from the necessity of stimulating jaded nerves but with the avidity of prize-winning schoolchildren who deserved their vacations.
“We’ll stay three days and then go home. I’ll wire right away for steamer tickets.”
At the hotel the girl made the reservation in idiomatic but rather flat French， like something remembered. When they were installed on the ground floor she walked into the glare of the French windows and out a few steps onto the stone veranda that ran the length of the hotel. When she walked she carried herself like a ballet- dancer， not slumped down on her hips but held up in the small of her back. Out there the hot light clipped close her shadow and she retreated—it was too bright to see. Fifty yards away the Mediterranean yielded up its pigments， moment by moment， to the brutal sunshine; below the balustrade a faded Buick cooked on the hotel drive.
Indeed， of all the region only the beach stirred with activity. Three British nannies sat knitting the slow pattern of Victorian England， the pattern of the forties， the sixties， and the eighties， into sweaters and socks， to the tune of gossip as formalized as incantation; closer to the sea a dozen persons kept house under striped umbrellas， while their dozen children pursued unintimidated fish through the shallows or lay naked and glistening with cocoanut oil out in the sun.
As Rosemary came onto the beach a boy of twelve ran past her and dashed into the sea with exultant cries. Feeling the impactive scrutiny of strange faces， she took off her bathrobe and followed. She floated face down for a few yards and finding it shallow staggered to her feet and plodded forward， dragging slim legs like weights against the resistance of the water. When it was about breast high， she glanced back toward shore: a bald man in a monocle and a pair of tights， his tufted chest thrown out， his brash navel sucked in， was regarding her attentively. As Rosemary returned the gaze the man dislodged the monocle， which went into hiding amid the facetious whiskers of his chest， and poured himself a glass of something from a bottle in his hand.
Rosemary laid her face on the water and swam a choppy little four- beat crawl out to the raft. The water reached up for her， pulled her down tenderly out of the heat， seeped in her hair and ran into the corners of her body. She turned round and round in it， embracing it， wallowing in it. Reaching the raft she was out of breath， but a tanned woman with very white teeth looked down at her， and Rosemary， suddenly conscious of the raw whiteness of her own body， turned on her back and drifted toward shore. The hairy man holding the bottle spoke to her as she came out.
“I say—they have sharks out behind the raft.” He was of indeterminate nationality， but spoke English with a slow Oxford drawl. “Yesterday they devoured two British sailors from the flotte at Golfe Juan.”
“Heavens!” exclaimed Rosemary.
“They come in for the refuse from the flotte.”
Glazing his eyes to indicate that he had only spoken in order to warn her， he minced off two steps and poured himself another drink.
Not unpleasantly self-conscious， since there had been a slight sway of attention toward her during this conversation， Rosemary looked for a place to sit. Obviously each family possessed the strip of sand immediately in front of its umbrella; besides there was much visiting and talking back and forth—the atmosphere of a community upon which it would be presumptuous to intrude. Farther up， where the beach was strewn with pebbles and dead sea-weed， sat a group with flesh as white as her own. They lay under small hand-parasols instead of beach umbrellas and were obviously less indigenous to the place. Between the dark people and the light， Rosemary found room and spread out her peignoir on the sand.
Lying so， she first heard their voices and felt their feet skirt her body and their shapes pass between the sun and herself. The breath of an inquisitive dog blew warm and nervous on her neck; she could feel her skin broiling a little in the heat and hear the small exhausted wa-waa of the expiring waves. Presently her ear distinguished individual voices and she became aware that some one referred to scornfully as “that North guy” had kidnapped a waiter from a café in Cannes last night in order to saw him in two. The sponsor of the story was a white-haired woman in full evening dress， obviously a relic of the previous evening， for a tiara still clung to her head and a discouraged orchid expired from her shoulder. Rosemary， forming a vague antipathy to her and her companions， turned away.
Nearest her， on the other side， a young woman lay under a roof of umbrellas making out a list of things from a book open on the sand. Her bathing suit was pulled off her shoulders and her back， a ruddy， orange brown， set off by a string of creamy pearls， shone in the sun. Her face was hard and lovely and pitiful. Her eyes met Rosemary’s but did not see her. Beyond her was a fine man in a jockey cap and red-striped tights; then the woman Rosemary had seen on the raft， and who looked back at her， seeing her; then a man with a long face and a golden， leonine head， with blue tights and no hat， talking very seriously to an unmistakably Latin young man in black tights， both of them picking at little pieces of seaweed in the sand. She thought they were mostly Americans， but something made them unlike the Americans she had known of late.
After a while she realized that the man in the jockey cap was giving a quiet little performance for this group; he moved gravely about with a rake， ostensibly removing gravel and meanwhile developing some esoteric burlesque held in suspension by his grave face. Its faintest ramification had become hilarious， until whatever he said released a burst of laughter. Even those who， like herself， were too far away to hear， sent out antennæ of attention until the only person on the beach not caught up in it was the young woman with the string of pearls. Perhaps from modesty of possession she responded to each salvo of amusement by bending closer over her list.
The man of the monocle and bottle spoke suddenly out of the sky above Rosemary.
“You are a ripping swimmer.”
She demurred.
“Jolly good. My name is Campion. Here is a lady who says she saw you in Sorrento last week and knows who you are and would so like to meet you.”
Glancing around with concealed annoyance Rosemary saw the untanned people were waiting. Reluctantly she got up and went over to them.
“Mrs. Abrams—Mrs. McKisco—Mr. McKisco—Mr. Dumphry—
“We know who you are，” spoke up the woman in evening dress. “You’re Rosemary Hoyt and I recognized you in Sorrento and asked the hotel clerk and we all think you’re perfectly marvellous and we want to know why you’re not back in America making another marvellous moving picture.”
They made a superfluous gesture of moving over for her. The woman who had recognized her was not a Jewess， despite her name. She was one of those elderly “good sports” preserved by an imperviousness to experience and a good digestion into another generation.
“We wanted to warn you about getting burned the first day，” she continued cheerily， “because YOUR skin is important， but there seems to be so darn much formality on this beach that we didn’t know whether you’d mind.”
愛だの恋だの男だの女だの移転について
2008年7月3日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳愛だの恋だの男だの女だのは、ここで書かないことにします。
別ブログたてるけど（だいありのーとではない）、見つけてもそっちは広めないでね。
別ブログたてるけど（だいありのーとではない）、見つけてもそっちは広めないでね。
セクシーなのキュートなのシットなの。
2008年7月1日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳飲みに行こうって誘って、じゃあみんな誘ってっていう返しをする女はどっか行ったほうがいい。しかも企画倒すのもむずいし。
渋谷と原宿のあいだの消防署の近く歩いてたら、ひとめでエロいって分かる（もちろんかわいい）女の子がいて、で、ampmに入っていったから付いていって店内で目とか合った。レジでキシリッシュを買うと隣のレジで2番のタバコを買って、そのとき、目が合った瞬間凄い勢いで首を反対方向にしゅっと振り向けた。で、店出て交差点で俺をチラ見してきた。手元の100円を落とした（ぐっじょぶ）から、俺がそれ拾ってちょいちょい話したけど、夕飯行かないって誘ってら「いぇいぇ」。どっちだよ。
信号が変わる直前彼女が足を僕の方に組み替えて、もっと混乱した。それでも、何も起きずに彼女は別方面に歩いていった。
ちょっと考えたんだけど、100円玉を落としたのはわざとじゃない。もしくは、男に声をかけさせるように仕向ける練習だったのかもしれない。
とにかく、女の子のことはよく分からない。
渋谷と原宿のあいだの消防署の近く歩いてたら、ひとめでエロいって分かる（もちろんかわいい）女の子がいて、で、ampmに入っていったから付いていって店内で目とか合った。レジでキシリッシュを買うと隣のレジで2番のタバコを買って、そのとき、目が合った瞬間凄い勢いで首を反対方向にしゅっと振り向けた。で、店出て交差点で俺をチラ見してきた。手元の100円を落とした（ぐっじょぶ）から、俺がそれ拾ってちょいちょい話したけど、夕飯行かないって誘ってら「いぇいぇ」。どっちだよ。
信号が変わる直前彼女が足を僕の方に組み替えて、もっと混乱した。それでも、何も起きずに彼女は別方面に歩いていった。
ちょっと考えたんだけど、100円玉を落としたのはわざとじゃない。もしくは、男に声をかけさせるように仕向ける練習だったのかもしれない。
とにかく、女の子のことはよく分からない。
ガーリー スーサイズ
2008年6月28日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳新宿のクラブ行った。
俺のほうをチラチラ覗き見る綺麗で繊細そうな女の子と話そうとすると、逃げていくから、追いつめて、壁際に顔に多い被さるように両腕を立てかけて目を真っ直ぐ見て、「俺のことが怖い？逃げたいんでしょ？ほら、目を逸らした。逃げたい？逃げてもいいよ。」（というような趣旨のこと。実際何言ったかよく覚えてない）って脅したら、両腕を抜けて逃げていった。
DJの人に「＋は女の子に逃げ道を作ってあげないと。」って言われた。なるほど、その通りだと思った。
そのあと一度もその女の子とは言葉を交わしていなかった。
明け方クラブの外、酔いつぶれた友達をタクシーに乗せようと、タクシー代引き出すためにATMが入ってる公衆電話のボックスのような場所で端末を操作してると、その女の子が入ってきて、「このあとホテル行こう。」って僕に告げた。
歌舞伎町のホテルはどこも満室で、道玄坂までタクシーで行った。
もちろん、そのあいだの会話で酔いが醒めてることなんてお互いに分かりきっていたから、ホテルに入ったあと、彼女があくまで酔っぱらっているふりをしたのになぜか苛立って、わざとセックスをしないで放っておいた。
そうすると、そのうち彼女のほうからすり寄ってきた。
女の子のことはよく分からない。
俺のほうをチラチラ覗き見る綺麗で繊細そうな女の子と話そうとすると、逃げていくから、追いつめて、壁際に顔に多い被さるように両腕を立てかけて目を真っ直ぐ見て、「俺のことが怖い？逃げたいんでしょ？ほら、目を逸らした。逃げたい？逃げてもいいよ。」（というような趣旨のこと。実際何言ったかよく覚えてない）って脅したら、両腕を抜けて逃げていった。
DJの人に「＋は女の子に逃げ道を作ってあげないと。」って言われた。なるほど、その通りだと思った。
そのあと一度もその女の子とは言葉を交わしていなかった。
明け方クラブの外、酔いつぶれた友達をタクシーに乗せようと、タクシー代引き出すためにATMが入ってる公衆電話のボックスのような場所で端末を操作してると、その女の子が入ってきて、「このあとホテル行こう。」って僕に告げた。
歌舞伎町のホテルはどこも満室で、道玄坂までタクシーで行った。
もちろん、そのあいだの会話で酔いが醒めてることなんてお互いに分かりきっていたから、ホテルに入ったあと、彼女があくまで酔っぱらっているふりをしたのになぜか苛立って、わざとセックスをしないで放っておいた。
そうすると、そのうち彼女のほうからすり寄ってきた。
女の子のことはよく分からない。
くんくん
2008年6月9日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳好きじゃなくなるなら好きにならないでほしいと思う。
ところで、すこんの中に入ってる元彼の水色の上の茶色の話のような文章を書きたい。あれこそ、物語だ。
ところで、すこんの中に入ってる元彼の水色の上の茶色の話のような文章を書きたい。あれこそ、物語だ。
「男なんてだいたい嫌い」とその男は言いました。
2008年6月7日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳人の気持ちを俯瞰できて、
そこにいた数人全員の気持ちの図示すらできる気がした。
だから、というわけではないけれど、
許せる気もした。
許せるけれど、傷ついたし、傷つけたくなる自分の気持ちをコントロールしようとする自分を客観視できた。それらの過程で誰かを傷つけるやむをえずを選び取る自分だって。
好きっていう気持ちも、傷つけたい気持ちも、打算も、立場も、感じとれていた。触れることのできるもののように分かっていた。たとえばそれは、彼女の肩が僕の肩と反対向きに触れ合っていたとき、服を通して、肉を通して、肩関節を通して、骨の動きが直接触れるように分かったように。（僕がきっと無意識に記憶を何万回も想起していた電車の中の眠りのおかげで、一生その動きを忘れることは無いのだ。そして僕は閾上ですら何万回も繰り返して愛情を増幅する。この瞬間だって感触が残ってる。）
アプローチして、あなたなんて嫌い、ぷんっ。ってされるのまで予想(予想できたのはいつもいつもいつもいつもいつも僕たちは同じようなことを毎回繰り返してたから)してたけど、そのあと自分が凄いスピードで落ち込んでいくのまでは予想がつかなかった。その時、自分をコミカルだって笑い飛ばしてて、でも、同時に落ち込んでく気持ちも共存してた。
成長してるのかな。
彼女が僕をはねのけるのも恒例。
それで僕が彼女を妬かせたくなってそうするのも恒例。
それから彼女が傷つくのも恒例。
あと、彼が彼女の肩に腕をかけるのも恒例かもしれない。
僕たちは本当は異常に素直なのかもしれない。
オーケー。はっきりした。
もし傷つけたいなら気が済むまでそうすればいい。
これを書いている今、ぼろぼろなのに浮かれた気分なんだ。
僕の四肢が千切れた果てで会おう。
そこにいた数人全員の気持ちの図示すらできる気がした。
だから、というわけではないけれど、
許せる気もした。
許せるけれど、傷ついたし、傷つけたくなる自分の気持ちをコントロールしようとする自分を客観視できた。それらの過程で誰かを傷つけるやむをえずを選び取る自分だって。
好きっていう気持ちも、傷つけたい気持ちも、打算も、立場も、感じとれていた。触れることのできるもののように分かっていた。たとえばそれは、彼女の肩が僕の肩と反対向きに触れ合っていたとき、服を通して、肉を通して、肩関節を通して、骨の動きが直接触れるように分かったように。（僕がきっと無意識に記憶を何万回も想起していた電車の中の眠りのおかげで、一生その動きを忘れることは無いのだ。そして僕は閾上ですら何万回も繰り返して愛情を増幅する。この瞬間だって感触が残ってる。）
アプローチして、あなたなんて嫌い、ぷんっ。ってされるのまで予想(予想できたのはいつもいつもいつもいつもいつも僕たちは同じようなことを毎回繰り返してたから)してたけど、そのあと自分が凄いスピードで落ち込んでいくのまでは予想がつかなかった。その時、自分をコミカルだって笑い飛ばしてて、でも、同時に落ち込んでく気持ちも共存してた。
成長してるのかな。
彼女が僕をはねのけるのも恒例。
それで僕が彼女を妬かせたくなってそうするのも恒例。
それから彼女が傷つくのも恒例。
あと、彼が彼女の肩に腕をかけるのも恒例かもしれない。
僕たちは本当は異常に素直なのかもしれない。
オーケー。はっきりした。
もし傷つけたいなら気が済むまでそうすればいい。
これを書いている今、ぼろぼろなのに浮かれた気分なんだ。
僕の四肢が千切れた果てで会おう。
ニーハイ
2008年6月5日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳僕が好きになる女の子は不安定な子が多い。
自分が不安定だから、共感し易いからかな。
でもでもでも、綺麗な女の子ってたいがい繊細（に見せるのが上手）なものだ。
守ってほしいの。的な。
あー、でも、これって俺じゃんか。
不器用で自己嫌悪。
好きな人に対してむきになる。
強烈な好意があるのに真っ直ぐ伝えられない。
自分が不安定だから、共感し易いからかな。
でもでもでも、綺麗な女の子ってたいがい繊細（に見せるのが上手）なものだ。
守ってほしいの。的な。
あー、でも、これって俺じゃんか。
不器用で自己嫌悪。
好きな人に対してむきになる。
強烈な好意があるのに真っ直ぐ伝えられない。
123 123456
2008年5月29日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳もう少しブサイクな顔で平凡な性格だったら、モテはしなかっただろうけど、恋愛は上手くいくだろうなー、と思った。
僕にとって理想的な経過は、
1.出会う
2.お互いの容姿を気に入る
3.ホテル行く
123合わせて10分くらい。
誰かに対する恋愛感情は時間が経てば消えてなくなってしまう。
失望している。もう取り戻せる気もしない。
誰にとってもいつも最後に残るのは唯物的な性欲だけで、
それは言葉や態度や契りより真実で僕はそれを信頼している。
もちろん、あらゆることに例外があるように、これにも例外がある。
どこかの地点を越えると、生涯繋がってしまう関係。
それに気付いているのに、認めることができないのは、破綻しているからだ。
沢山の矛盾。
恋愛感情と性欲、惰性と嫉妬、成り行きや社会規範、コンプレックスもトラウマも。
複雑で、がんじがらめになっているのに、その複雑さが更に加速している。うんざりする。
シンプルになれば、どれほど良いものだろうって思う。
じゃあこういうのはどうだろう。
1.お互いに好意を持ってるのが分かってる
2.話して連絡先を交換する
3.デートをする
4.手をつなぐ
5.キスをする
6.セックスをする
1〜6合わせて3ヶ月。
好きな人とほど上手くいかない専門家の自分としては、1から2の躊躇が痛いほど分かる。同情もできる。
だからこそ
けれど、それでもやっぱり間違ってると思うんだ。
僕にとって理想的な経過は、
1.出会う
2.お互いの容姿を気に入る
3.ホテル行く
123合わせて10分くらい。
誰かに対する恋愛感情は時間が経てば消えてなくなってしまう。
失望している。もう取り戻せる気もしない。
誰にとってもいつも最後に残るのは唯物的な性欲だけで、
それは言葉や態度や契りより真実で僕はそれを信頼している。
もちろん、あらゆることに例外があるように、これにも例外がある。
どこかの地点を越えると、生涯繋がってしまう関係。
それに気付いているのに、認めることができないのは、破綻しているからだ。
沢山の矛盾。
恋愛感情と性欲、惰性と嫉妬、成り行きや社会規範、コンプレックスもトラウマも。
複雑で、がんじがらめになっているのに、その複雑さが更に加速している。うんざりする。
シンプルになれば、どれほど良いものだろうって思う。
じゃあこういうのはどうだろう。
1.お互いに好意を持ってるのが分かってる
2.話して連絡先を交換する
3.デートをする
4.手をつなぐ
5.キスをする
6.セックスをする
1〜6合わせて3ヶ月。
好きな人とほど上手くいかない専門家の自分としては、1から2の躊躇が痛いほど分かる。同情もできる。
だからこそ
もう少しブサイクな顔で平凡な性格だったら、モテはしなかっただろうけど、恋愛は上手くいくだろうなーって言いたくなる。つまらない人間と居るほうが落ち着くっていう気持ちも分かる。
けれど、それでもやっぱり間違ってると思うんだ。
靴屋の髪が黒くて長いほうにフラれた。
人の気持ちは変わるし立場も変わる
向こうに旦那がいることなんて分かってたけど
ここで踏ん切りつけないと先進めないって
あー
でも一年前だったらうまくいったんだと思う
いや5ヶ月前ですらうまくいったはずだ
恋愛はタイミングで、僕は最悪のタイミングを掴み取る才能がある。断言できる。
(もっと言うなら軒の彼女だって5年後に簡単に不倫するんじゃないかなぁ(いや、たぶんするだろう。まともなホルモンとかそっち系を持ち合わせてる女性は同じ相手と1000日以上過ごすことはできないからだ。)、とか考えだしたらキリないけど、そんなわけで、そういうのが色々馬鹿げてると思う。そうじゃないなら、「遅かれ早かれ好きじゃない相手とするんだし」って生まれて初めてのセックスの相手を選ばなかった俺が救われない気もする。)
オーケー
認める
俺は貞節観念を軽蔑してる
婚姻制度を軽視してる
そしてそれらを高らかに掲げる連中は信用しない
そんなもんは欺瞞まみれの不誠実な気分屋達にくれてやる
僕の知り合いのカナダ人のアメリカンコミックライターはアルバイトで結婚式のときの牧師の仕事をしていて(永遠の愛を誓わせるだけの簡単なお仕事です)、漫画の内容は実にアメリカンコミック的な良心的な下品さだった。そして、そういった風に世の中は成り立ってる。
人の気持ちは変わるし立場も変わる
向こうに旦那がいることなんて分かってたけど
ここで踏ん切りつけないと先進めないって
あー
でも一年前だったらうまくいったんだと思う
いや5ヶ月前ですらうまくいったはずだ
恋愛はタイミングで、僕は最悪のタイミングを掴み取る才能がある。断言できる。
(もっと言うなら軒の彼女だって5年後に簡単に不倫するんじゃないかなぁ(いや、たぶんするだろう。まともなホルモンとかそっち系を持ち合わせてる女性は同じ相手と1000日以上過ごすことはできないからだ。)、とか考えだしたらキリないけど、そんなわけで、そういうのが色々馬鹿げてると思う。そうじゃないなら、「遅かれ早かれ好きじゃない相手とするんだし」って生まれて初めてのセックスの相手を選ばなかった俺が救われない気もする。)
オーケー
認める
俺は貞節観念を軽蔑してる
婚姻制度を軽視してる
そしてそれらを高らかに掲げる連中は信用しない
そんなもんは欺瞞まみれの不誠実な気分屋達にくれてやる
僕の知り合いのカナダ人のアメリカンコミックライターはアルバイトで結婚式のときの牧師の仕事をしていて(永遠の愛を誓わせるだけの簡単なお仕事です)、漫画の内容は実にアメリカンコミック的な良心的な下品さだった。そして、そういった風に世の中は成り立ってる。
2008-05-04
2008年5月4日 愛だの恋だの男だの女だのと翻訳足の遅い馬が馬として優れてないように、鼻の短い象が象として優れていないように、社会で生きていくのに社会に向いてないのは悲しいけれど、人として優れてなくて、参るなぁ、と思った。
僕が気に入って着ていたTシャツで、剣や槍や矢が突き刺さった男の絵と、その下に『TRAUMA HUMAN LIFE SUPPORT』と印字されたTシャツを無くして、いつかそれが僕の手元に戻ってこないだろうか、と、最近よく思ってる。
僕が気に入って着ていたTシャツで、剣や槍や矢が突き刺さった男の絵と、その下に『TRAUMA HUMAN LIFE SUPPORT』と印字されたTシャツを無くして、いつかそれが僕の手元に戻ってこないだろうか、と、最近よく思ってる。
