http://zh.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E8%B5%AB%E5%B0%94%E6%9B%BC%C2%B7%E9%BB%91%E5%A1%9E
赫尔曼·黑塞
主要作品
小说
* 《彼得·卡門欽特》(Peter Camenzind)，1904 長篇
* 《車輪下》(Unterm Rad)，1906
* 《盖特露德》(Gertrud)，1910
* 《徬徨少年時/德米安》(Demian)，1919
* 《克林索最後的夏季》(Klingsors letzter Sommer)，1920
* 《流浪者之歌/悉達求道記》(Siddhartha)，1922 長篇
* 《荒原狼》(Der Steppenwolf)，1927 長篇
* 《知識與愛情》(Narziss und Glodmund)，1930 長篇
* 《東方之旅》(Die Morgenlandfahrt)，1932
* 《玻璃珠遊戲》(Das Glasperlenspiel，英譯The Glass Bead Game)，1943 長篇
* 《孤獨者之歌》
* 《成長的苦澀》
* 《園圃之歌》(Freunde am Garten)
* 《鄉愁》
* 《心靈的歸宿》
* 《生命之歌》
* 《藝術家的命運》
* 《漂泊的靈魂》
* 《美麗的青春》
詩集
* 《浪漫之歌》(Romantische Lieder)，1899 22歲時自費出版的第一本詩集。
散文
* 《堤契諾之歌》(Tessin:Betrachtungen,Gedichteund Aquarelle des Autors)散文集結
The Glass Bead Game (Magister Ludi) by Hermann Hesse
translation by Richard and Clara Winston
The Poems of Knecht's Student Years
Lament
No permanence is ours; we are a wave
That flows to fit whatever form it finds:
Through day or night, cathedral or the cave
We pass forever, craving form that binds.
Mold after mold we fill and never rest,
We find no home where joy or grief runs deep.
We move, we are the everlasting guest.
No field nor plow is ours; we do not reap.
What God would make of us remains unknown:
He plays; we are the clay to his desire.
Plastic and mute, we neither laugh nor groan;
He kneads, but never gives us to the fire.
To stiffen into stone, to persevere!
We long forever for the right to stay.
But all that ever stays with us is fear,
And we shall never rest upon our way.
-----------------------
A Compromise
The men of principled simplicity
Will have no traffic with our subtle doubt,
The world is flat, they tell us, and they shout:
The myth of depth is an absurdity!
For if there were additional dimensions
Beside the good old pair we'll always cherish,
How could a man live safely without tensions?
How could he live and not expect to perish?
In order peacefully to coexist
Let us strike one dimension off our list.
If they are right, those men of principle,
And life in depth is so inimical,
The third dimension is dispensable.
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But Secretly We Thirst...
Graceful as dancer's arabesque and bow,
Our lives appear serene and without stress,
A gentle dance around pure nothingness
To which we sacrifice the here and now.
Our dreams are lovely and our game is bright,
So finely tuned, with many artful turns,
But deep beneath the tranquil surface burns
Longing for blood, barbarity, and night.
Freely our life revolves, and every breath
Is free as air; we live so playfully,
But secretly we crave reality:
Begetting, birth, and suffering, and death.
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Alphabets
From time to time we take our pen in hand
And scribble symbols on a blank white sheet.
Their meaning is at everyone's command;
It is a game whose rules are nice and neat.
But if a savage or a moon-man came
And found a page, a furrowed runic field,
And curiously studied lines and frame:
How strange would be the world that they revealed.
A magic gallery of oddities.
He would see A and B as man and beast,
As moving tongues or arms or legs or eyes,
Now show, now rushing, all constraint released,
Like prints of ravens' feet upon the snow.
He'd hop about with them, fly to and fro,
And see a thousand worlds of might-have-been
Hidden within the black and frozen symbols,
Beneath the ornate strokes, the thick and the thin.
He'd see the way love burns and anguish trembles,
He'd wonder this cipher's cross-barred keep
He'd see the world in all its aimless passion,
diminished, dwarfed, and spellbound in the symbols,
And rigorously marching prisoner-fashion.
He'd think: each sign all others so resembles
That love of life and death, or lust and anguish,
Are simply twins whom no one can distinguish...
Until at last the savage with a sound
Of mortal terror lights and stirs a fire,
Chants and beats his brow against the ground
And consecrates the writing to his pyre.
Perhaps before his consciousness is drowned
In slumber there will come to him some sense
Of how this world of magic fraudulence,
This horror utterly behind endurance,
Has vanished as if it had never been.
He'll sigh, and smile, and feel all right again.
--------------------------------------------------
On Reading an Old Philosopher
These noble thoughts beguiled us yesterday;
We savored them like choicest vintage wines.
But now they sour, meanings seep away,
Much like a page of music from whose vines
The clefs and sharps are carelessly erased:
Take from a house the center of gravity,
it sways and falls apart, all sense debased,
Cacophony what had been harmony.
So too a face we saw as old and wise,
Loved and respected, can wrinkle, craze,
as, ripe for death, the mind deserts the eyes,
Leaving a pitiful, empty, shriveled maze.
So too can ecstasy stir every sense
And barely felt can quickly turn to gall,
as if there dwelt within us cognizance
That everything must wither, die, and fall.
Yet still above this vale of endless dying
Man's spirit, struggling incorruptibly,
Painfully raises beacons, death defying,
And wins, by longing, immortality.
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The Last Glass Bead Game Player
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A Toccata by Bach
Frozen silence. ... Darkness prevails on darkness
One shaft of light breaks through the jagged clouds
Coming from nothingness to penetrate the depths,
Compound the night with day, build length and breadth,
Prefigure peak and ridge, declivities, redoubts,
A loose blue atmosphere, earth's deep dense fullness.
That brilliant shaft disservers teeming generation
Into both deep and war, and in a frenzy of creation
Ignites a gleaming terrified new world.
All changes where the seeds of light descend,
Order arises, magnificence is heard
In praise of life, of victory to light's great end.
The mighty urge glides on, to move
Its power into all creature's being,
recalling far divinity, the spirit of God's doing:
Now joy and pain, words, art, and song,
World towering on world in arching victory throng
With impulse, mind, contention, pleasure, love.
(Translated by Alex Page)
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A Dream
Guest at a monastery in the hills,
I stepped, when all the monks had gone to pray,
Into a book-lined room. Along
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Worship
In the beginning was the rule of sacred kings
Who hallowed field, grain, plow, who handed down
The law of sacrifices, set the bounds
To mortal men forever hungering
For the invisible Ones' just ordinance
That holds the sun and moon in perfect balance
And whose forms in their eternal radiance
Feel no suffering, nor know death's ambience.
Long ago the sons of the gods, the sacred line,
Passed, and mankind remained alone,
Embroiled in pleasure and pain, cut off from being,
Condemned to change unhallowed, unconfined.
But intimations of the true life never died,
And it is for us, in this time of harm
To keep, in metaphor and symbol and in psalm,
Reminders of that former sacred reverence.
Perhaps some day the darkness will be banned,
Perhaps some day the times will turn about,
The sun will once more rule us as our god
And take the sacrifices from our hands.
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Soap Bubbles
From years of study and of contemplation
An old man brews a work of clarity,
A gay and involuted dissertation
Discoursing on sweet wisdom playfully.
An eager student bent on storming heights
Has delved in archives and in libraries.
But adds the touch of genius when he writes
A first book full of deepest subtleties.
A boy, with bowl and straw, sits and blows,
Filling with breath the bubbles from the bowl.
Each praises like a hymn, and each one glows;
Into the filmy beads he blows his soul.
Old man, student, boy, all these three
Out of the Maya-foam of the universe
Create illusions. None is better or worse.
But in each of them the Light of Eternity
Sees its reflection, and burns more joyfully.
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After Dipping Into the Summa Contra Gentiles
To truth, it seems to us, life once was nearer,
The world ordered, intelligences clearer,
Wisdom and knoweldge were not yet divided,
They lived far more serenely, many-sided,
Those ancients of whom Plato, the Chinese,
relate their incandescent verities.
whenver we entered the temple of Aquinas,
The graceful Summa contra Gentiles,
A new world greeted us, sweet, mature,
A world of truth clarified and pure.
There all seemed lucid, Nature charged with Mind,
Man moving from God to Him, as He designed.
The Law, in one great formulary bound,
Forming a whole, a still unbroken round.
But we who belong to his posterity
Seem condemned to doubt and irony,
To journeys in the wilderness, to strife,
Obsessions, and longings for a better life.
But if our children's children undergo
Such sufferings as ours, they will bestow
Praise upon us as blessed and as wise.
We will appear transfigured in their eyes,
For out of our lives' harsh cacophonies
They will hear only fading harmonies,
The legends of an anguish often told,
The echoes of contentions long grown cold.
And those of us who trust ourselves the least,
Who doubt and question most, these, it may be
Will make their mark upon eternity,
And youth will turn to them as to a feast.
The time may come when a man who confessed
His self-doubts will be ranked among the blessed
Who never suffered anguish or knew fear,
Whose times were times of glory and good cheer,
Who lived like children, simple happy lives.
For in us too is part of that Eternal Mind
Which through the aeons calls to brothers of its kind:
Both you and I will pass, but it survives.
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Stages
As every flower fades and as all youth
Departs, so life at every stage,
so every virtue, so our grasp of truth,
Blooms in its day and may not last forever.
Since life may summon us at every age
Be ready, heart, for parting, new endeavor,
Be ready bravely and without remorse
To find new light that old ties cannot give.
In all beginnings dwells a magic force
For guarding us and helping us to live.
Serenely let us move to distant places
And let no sentiments of home detain us.
The Cosmic Spirit seeks not to restrain us
But lifts us stage by stage to wider spaces.
If we accept a home of our own making,
Familiar habit makes for indolence.
We must prepare for parting and leave-taking
Or else remain the slaves of permanence.
Even the hour of our death may send
us speeding on to fresh and newer spaces,
And life may summon us to newer races.
So be it, heart: bid farewell without end.
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The Glass Bead Game
We re-enact with reverent attention
The universal chord, the masters' harmony,
Evoking in unsullied communion
Minds and times of highest sanctity.
We draw upon the iconography
Whose mystery is able to contain
The boundlessness, the storm of all existence,
Give chaos form, and hold our lives in rein.
The pattern sings like crystal constellations,
And when we tell our beads, we serve the whole,
And cannot be dislodged or misdirected,
held in the orbit of the Cosmic Soul.
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