Orhan Pamuk

Hüzün（悲傷或苦楚，土耳其的呼愁）, the Turkish word for melancholy（憂郁，憂愁）,has an Arabic root; when it appears in theKoran（《可蘭經(jīng)》）［as huzn（悲傷或苦楚，土耳其的呼愁）in two verses and hazen（色度）in three others］it means much the same thing as the contemporary Turkish word. The Prophet（先知）Muhammad（穆罕默德）referred to the year in which he lost both his wife Hatice and his uncle, EbuTalip, as Senettulbuzn,the year of melancholy; this confirms that the word is meant to convey a feeling of deep spiritual loss. But if hüzün begins its life as a word for loss and the spiritual agony（苦惱，極度痛苦）and grief attending it, my own readings indicate a small philosophical fault line developing over the next few centuries of Islamic history.

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If hüzün has been central to Istanbul culture, poetry,and everyday life over the past two centuries, if it dominates our music, it must be at least partly because we see it as an honor. But to understand what hüzün has come to mean over the past century, to convey its enduring（持久的）power, it is not enough to speak of the honor that Sufi1. Sufi: 蘇非派，伊斯蘭教神秘主義派別，主張苦行、禁欲等。tradition has brought to the word. To convey the spiritual importance of hüzün in the music of Istanbul over the last hundred years; to understand why hüzün dominates not just the mood of modern Turkish poetry but its symbolism, and why, like the great symbols of Divan（詩集）poetry, it has suffered from overuse and even abuse; to understand the central importance of hüzün as a cultural concept conveying worldly failure,listlessness（倦怠，無精打采）, and spiritual suffering, it is not enough to grasp the history of the word and the honor we attach to it. If I am to convey the intensity of the hüzün that Istanbul caused me to feel as a child, I must describe the history of the city following the destruction of the Ottoman Empire2. Ottoman Empire: 土耳其人建立的奧斯曼帝國，創(chuàng)立者為奧斯曼一世，自消滅東羅馬帝國（拜占庭帝國）后，定都于君士坦丁堡并改名伊斯坦布爾。奧斯曼帝國位處東西文明交匯處，繼承了東羅馬帝國的文化及伊斯蘭文化，對(duì)西方文明影響舉足輕重，但最終于在一戰(zhàn)中敗于協(xié)約國并因此分裂。之后凱末爾領(lǐng)導(dǎo)起義，擊退歐洲列強(qiáng)勢(shì)力，建立土耳其共和國，奧斯曼帝國滅亡。and—even more important—the way this history is reflected in the city’s “beautiful” landscapes and its people. The hüzün of Istanbul is not just the mood evoked by its music and poetry, it is a way of looking at life that implicates（對(duì)……有影響）us all, not only a spiritual state but a state of mind that is ultimately as lifeaffirming（對(duì)生命的肯定）as it is negating（否定）.

土耳其著名作家奧爾罕·帕慕克（Orhan Pamuk，1952— ）被認(rèn)為是當(dāng)代歐洲最核心的三位文學(xué)家之一和最杰出的小說家之一，2006年因《伊斯坦布爾：一座城市的記憶》一書獲得諾貝爾文學(xué)獎(jiǎng)。其作品被譯成五十多種語言出版，在眾多國家和地區(qū)暢銷。

伊斯坦布爾充滿了奧斯曼帝國的遺跡，整個(gè)城市都彌漫著一種濃濃的憂郁和呼愁（hüzün），它不僅反映在土耳其的音樂和繪畫中，而且伴隨每一個(gè)伊斯坦布爾人，成為他們共有的陰郁情緒和集體意識(shí)。這種集體的傷感或者h(yuǎn)üzün流淌在伊斯坦布爾人的血液里，成為伊斯坦布爾這個(gè)城市的精神，就像老北京懷念胡同四合院，上海人懷念曾經(jīng)的十里洋場(chǎng)，似乎不呼愁就不稱其為伊斯坦布爾。作者在這一章里一口氣用了一千六百多個(gè)文字來描述伊斯坦布爾無處不在的呼愁。撲面而來的hüzün令人讀后揮之不去，在心頭久久縈繞。

小說《伊斯坦布爾：一座城市的記憶》

My starting point was the emotion that a child might feel while looking through a steamy（霧重的，潮濕的）window. Now we begin to understand hüzün not as the melancholy of a solitary（孤獨(dú)的）person but the black mood shared by millions of people together. What I am trying to explain is the hüzün of an entire city: of Istanbul.

But what I am trying to describe now is not the melancholy of Istanbul but the hüzün in which we see ourselves reflected, the hüzün we absorb with pride and share as a community. To feel this hüzün is to see the scenes, evoke the memories, in which the city itself becomes the very illustration, the very essence, of hüzün. I am speaking of the evenings when the sun sets early, of the fathers under the streetlamps in the back streets returning home carrying plastic bags. Of the old Bosphorus（博斯普魯斯海峽）ferries moored（停泊）to deserted（荒蕪的）stations in the middle of winter, where sleepy sailors scrub（用力擦洗）the decks, pail（桶）in hand and one eye on the black-and-white television in the distance; of the old booksellers who lurch（蹣跚）from one financial crisis to the next and then wait shivering all day for a customer to appear; of the barbers who complain that men don’t shave as much after an economic crisis; of the children who play ball between the cars on cobblestoned（鵝卵石的）streets; of the covered women who stand at remote bus stops clutching plastic shopping bags and speak to no one as they wait for the bus that never arrives; of the empty boathouses（船庫，艇庫）of the old Bosphorus villas; of the teahouses packed to the rafters（椽）with unemployed men; of the patient pimps（皮條客）striding up and down the city’s greatest square on summer evenings in search of one last drunken tourist; of the broken seesaws（蹺蹺板）in empty parks;of ship horns booming through the fog; of the wooden buildings whose every board creaked even when they were pashas’（帕夏，土耳其古代對(duì)大官的尊稱）mansions,all the more now that they have become municipal（市的）headquarters; of the women peeking through their curtains as they wait for husbands who never manage to come home in the evening; of the old men selling thin religious treaties（宗教條約）, prayer beads（念珠）, and pilgrimage oils（朝圣油）in the courtyards of mosques（清真寺）;of the tens of thousands of identical apartment house entrances, their facades（外觀）discolored（脫色的）by dirt, rust（銹）, soot（煙灰）, and dust; of the crowds rushing to catch ferries on winter evenings; of the city walls, ruins since the end of the Byzantine Empire3. Byzantine Empire: 拜占庭帝國，即東羅馬帝國（395—1453），核心地區(qū)位于歐洲東南部，由羅馬帝國分裂而成。; of the markets that empty in the evenings; of the dervish（托缽僧）lodges（小舍）, the tekkes（=tekkieh，清真寺）, that have crumbled（傾頹）; of the seagulls（海鷗）perched on rusty barges（駁船）caked with moss（苔蘚）and mussels（淡菜，雙貝類）, unflinching（不畏縮，不退縮）under the pelting（猛烈的）rain; of the tiny ribbons of smoke rising from the single chimney of a hundred-year-old mansion on the coldest day of the year; of the crowds of men fishing from the sides of the Galata Bridge4. Galata Bridge: 加拉塔大橋，是伊斯坦布爾的代表建筑，橫跨金角灣。; of the cold reading rooms of libraries; of the street photographers; of the smell of exhaled（散發(fā)出來的）breath in the movie theaters,once glittering（光彩的）affairs with gilded ceilings, now porn（色情的）cinemas frequented by shamefaced（害羞的）men; of the avenues where you never see a woman alone after sunset; of the crowds gathering around the doors of the state-controlled brothels（妓院）on one of those hot blustery（狂風(fēng)大作的）days when the wind is coming from the south; of the young girls who queue at the doors of establishments selling cutrate（二流貨的，打折扣的）meat; of the holy messages spelled out in lights between the minarets（叫拜樓，清真寺尖塔）of mosques on holidays that are missing letters where the bulbs have burned out; of the walls covered with frayed（磨損的）and blackened posters; of the tired old dolmu?es（小巴車）, fifties Chevrolets（美國雪佛蘭牌汽車）that would be museum pieces in any western city but serve here as share taxis, huffing and puffing（氣喘吁吁）up the city’s narrow alleys and dirty thoroughfares（大道，通道）; of the buses packed with passengers; of the mosques whose lead plates（鉛板）and rain gutters（水溝，水槽）are forever being stolen; of the city cemeteries（墓地）,which seem like gate ways to a second world, and of their cypress（柏樹）trees; of the dim lights that you see of an evening on the boats crossing from Kadik?y（卡迪廓伊）to Karak?y（卡拉柯伊）; of the little children in the streets who try to sell the same packet of tissues to every passerby; of the clock towers no one ever notices; of the history books in which children read about the victories of the Ottoman Empire and of the beatings these same children receive at home; of the days when everyone has to stay home so the electoral roll（選舉人名單）can be compiled or the census（人口普查）can be taken; of the days when a sudden curfew（宵禁）is announced to facilitate（使……容易）the search for terrorists and everyone sits at home fearfully awaiting “the officials”; of the readers’ letters, squeezed into a corner of the paper and read by no one, announcing that the dome（圓屋頂）of the neighborhood mosque, having stood for some 375 years, has begun to cave in（塌落）and asking why the state has not done something; of the underpasses（地下通道）in the most crowded intersections（交叉，十字路口）; of the overpasses（天橋）in which every step is broken in a different way; of the girls who read Big Sister Güzin’s column inFreedom, Turkey’s most populaces（大眾，貧民）and those who stand in the same spot uttering the same appeal day after day; of the powerful whiffs of urine（一陣陣尿味）that hit you on crowded avenues,ships, passageways, and underpasses; of the man who has been selling postcards in the same spot for the past forty years; of the reddish-orange glint（閃爍）in the windows of üsküdar（于斯屈達(dá)爾，土耳其西北部城鎮(zhèn)）at sunset; of the earliest hours of the morning, when everyone is asleep except for the fishermen heading out to sea; of that corner of Gülhane Park（古爾哈尼公園）that calls itself a zoo but houses only two goats and three bored cats, languishing（憔悴的，失去活力的）in cages; of the third-rate singers doing their best to imitate American vocalist（歌手）and Turkish pop stars in cheap nightclubs, and of first-rate singers too; of the bored high school students in never-ending English classes where after six years no one has learned to say anything but “yes” and “no” of the immigrants waiting on the Galata docks; of the fruits and vegetables, garbage and plastic bags and wastepaper, empty sacks, boxes and chests strewn（撒滿）across abandoned street markets on a winter evening; of beautiful covered women timidly（羞怯地）bargaining（討價(jià)還價(jià)）in the street markets; of young mothers struggling down street with their three children; of all the ships in the sea sounding their horns at the same time as the city comes to a halt to salute the memory of Atatürk5. Atatürk: 即Kemal Atatürk，凱末爾·阿塔土爾克（1881—1938），土耳其共和國的創(chuàng)始人。at 9:05 on the morning of November tenth; of a cobblestone staircase with so much asphalt（瀝青，柏油）poured over it that its steps have disappeared; of marble ruins that were for centuries glorious street fountains but now stand dry, their faucets（水龍頭，旋塞）stolen; of the apartment buildings in the side streets where during my childhood middle-class families—of doctors,lawyers, teachers, and their wives and children—would sit in their apartments listening to radio in the evenings, and where today the same apartments are packed with knitting and button machines and young girls working all night long for the lowest wages in the city to meet urgent orders; of the view of the Golden Horn（金角灣）, looking toward Eyüp（艾郁普）from the Galata Bridge; of the simit vendors（面包圈攤販）on the pier（碼頭）who gaze at the view as they wait for customers; of everything being broken,worn out, past its prime; of the storks（鸛）flying south from the Balkans（巴爾干半島地區(qū)）and northern and western Europe as autumn nears, gazing down over the entire city as they waft over（飄過）the Bosphorus and the islands of the Seas of Marmara（馬爾馬拉海）; of the crowds of men smoking cigarettes after the national soccer matches, which during my childhood never failed to end in abject（可憐的，不幸的）defeat: I speak of them all.

It is by seeing hüzün, by paying our respects to its manifestations（表現(xiàn)）in the city’s streets and views and people, that we at last come to sense it everywhere. On cold winter mornings, when the sun suddenly falls on the Bosphorus and that faint vapor（蒸汽）begins to rise from the surface, the hüzün is so dense you can almost touch it, almost see it spread like a film over its people and its landscapes.