The Habits of the Solitary

 

习惯性孤独

My bones have been aching again,as they often do in humid weather.

和平常一样遇到天气潮湿，我的骨头又疼起来了。

They ache like history:things long done with, that still remain as pain.

疼起来就像历史重演，很久之前就疼过，现在依然很疼。

When the ache is bad enough it keeps me from sleeping.

疼得厉害时，我无法入睡。

Every night I yearn for sleep,I strive for it;

每天晚上我渴望睡觉，努力入睡，

yet it flutters on ahead of me like a curtain.

但疼痛像窗帘一样在我面前晃动。

There are sleeping pills, of course,but the doctor has warned me against them.

当然我有安眠药，但医生警告我不要吃。

Last night, after what seemed hours of damp turmoil,I got up and crept slipperless down the stairs,feeling my way in the faint street light that came through the window.

昨晚，感觉好像是在 潮湿天气里辗转反侧了好几个小时后，我起了床，没有穿拖鞋悄悄下楼，一路上借着透过窗户照进来的微弱灯光摸索着。

Once safely arrived at the bottom,I walked into the kitchen and looked around in the refrigerator.

安全到了楼下，我走进厨房打开冰箱看了一遍。

There was nothing much I wanted to eat:the remains of a bunch of celery,a blue-tinged heel of bread,a lemon going soft.

没有什么我想吃的东西:剩下的一捆芹菜，发霉的面包，一个变软的柠檬。

I've fallen into the habits of the solitary;my meals are snatched and random.

我陷入了习惯性的孤独中；我吃饭总是胡乱而随意。

Furtive snacks, furtive treats and picnics.

偷吃零食，偷吃大餐和野餐。

I made do with some peanut butter,scooped directly from the jar with a forefinger:why dirty a spoon?

我直接用食指从罐子里蘸了一些花生酱来吃:为什么要弄脏勺子呢？

Standing there with the jar in one hand and my finger in my mouth,I had the feeling that someone was about to walk into the room—some other woman, the unseen, valid owner—and ask me what in hell I was doing in her kitchen.

站在那儿一手拿着罐子，手指含在嘴里，我感觉有人要进来—是另外某个女人，看不见的，合法的屋主—问我究竟在她的厨房做什么。

I've had it before,the sense that even in the course of my most legitimate and daily actions—peeling a banana, brushing my teeth—I am trespassing.

我以前就有过那种感觉，那感觉就是甚至在做我最合理的日常事情时—剥香蕉，刷牙—都觉得自己正在扇子进入别人的房间。

At night the house was more than ever like a stranger's.

夜里房子就更像是一个陌生人的。

I wandered through the front room,the dining room, the parlour,hand on the wall for balance.

我漫步穿过前屋，餐厅，客厅，手扶着墙以保持平衡。

My various possessions were floating in their own pools of shadow,denying my ownership of them.

我所拥有的各种东西在各自的阴影里飘动，否认我对它们的拥有权。

I looked them over with a burglar's eye,deciding what might be worth the risk of stealing,what on the other hand I would leave behind.

我用入室盗窃的眼光看待它们，决定哪些东西值得去偷，哪些我会留下。

Robbers would take the obvious things—the silver teapot that was my grandmother's,perhaps the hand-painted china. The television set.

盗窃者会拿走明显的东西—祖母留下的银茶壶，也许还有手绘的搪瓷以及电视。

Nothing I really want.

可是这里却没有我真正想要的东西。