Original by Friedrich Hölderlin(in German), translated by Maxine Chernoff and Paul Hoover, from http://www.slope.org/23chernoffhoover.html. See original Destuch at http://gutenberg.spiegel.de/hoelderl/gedichte/brotwein.htm.
Bread and Wine (Brod und Wein)
To Heinse
1
Around us the town is quiet, quiet the street in lamplight,
And with torches flaming, coaches run here and there.
Satisfied with the pleasures of their day, men go home to rest,
And weighing in their pensive heads the profit and loss,
They’re happy to be home; empty now of grapes and flowers
And goods made by hand, the market stands are quiet.
But the music of strings can be heard from distant gardens,
Perhaps one in love is playing, or a lonesome man thinking
Of distant friends and the days of his youth; and the fountains
Always welling new murmur among fragrant beds of flowers.
Softly in the twilight air, the heavy church bells ring.
And the time is called by a watcher of the hours.
Now a breeze rises, and stirs the tips of the grove.
Look! And the moon, the shadow image of our world,
Secretly rises also; and the visionary night approaches,
Replete with stars and indifferent to us entirely;
The astonishing one, a stranger to all things human,
Mournful and brilliant, shines over the mountain tops.
2It’s wonderful to share this exalted one’s favors, and no one
Knows the source of all that flows from her,
So she excites the world and the hopeful souls of men,
Not even a wise man understands what she’s preparing, for this
God the Highest has willed, who loves you so much, therefore
Is clearer to you that the common sense of day.
But there are times when the clearest eye also loves shadows
And tasting sleep for pleasure before sleep demands,
Or a generous man will also look gladly into the night,
Yes, it’s fitting to dedicate songs to her starry diadem,
While she is holy to the dead and those who’ve lost their way,
But by herself she stands, eternally free in spirit,
But to us also, so that, in the moment’s hesitation,
Something at least endures for us in the dark,
She grants us forgetfulness and holy drunkenness,
Grants us the rushing word, sleepless as lovers,
With our wine cups full, and full, audacious lives,
Holy memory, too, keeps us wide-eyed at night.
3And, in vain, we hide our hearts in our breasts, in vain
We hold our courage in check, master and boy,
For who would hinder us, who forbid our joy?
By day and night, divine fire drives us on,
Cracks us open. So come! To gaze at the Open,
To seek what is ours, remote as it may be.
One thing remains; at noon or just before midnight,
A measure always endures, common to all,
Though everyone is apportioned his own,
Each coming and going according to his reach.
Well! Let jubilant madness mock at the scorners
When holy night suddenly seizes the poets.
Then comes to the Isthmus, where the open sea roars
Near Parnassus and snow glistens on Delphic stones,
There in Olympian lands, to the heights of Cithaeron,
Under the pine trees, under grape clusters, from which
Thebes and Ismenos descend, in the land of Cadmus,
From there comes and points back the approaching god.
4Blessed land of the Greeks! Home of all the gods,
So it is true then, what we first heard in youth?
Festive hall whose floor is the sea, whose tables are
Mountains truly built in ancient times for a singular need,
But where are the thrones, the temple, and where the vessels,
Filled with nectar, to delight the gods with songs?
Where, where then, do they shine, the far-reaching proverbs?
Delphi is asleep, and where does the great fate resound?
Where is the quick? Where breaks through the full, all-pervasive joy,
Out of clear skies, thundering to us above our eyes?
Father Aether, one cried, and it flew from tongue to tongue
A thousand fold, for no one could bear such a life alone;
Shared, such wealth gives joy, and when traded with strangers
Turns to exaltation, and its power grows in sleep—
Father! Clear one! The cry resounds as far as it travels, ancient
Signs handed down from elders, creating and striking
Straight down. So the heavenly enter deeply shaking foundations,
So their day travels out from shadows and down to man.
5Unnoticed at first, they come, and the children gravitate
Toward them, the joy too bright, too dazzling,
And the men become afraid, a demigod hardly knows what to say
Their names might be, who come so near with gifts.
But their courage is very great, they fill his heart with their joy,
And he hardly knows what to do with such wealth;
Made and then squandered, the holy quickly becomes unholy,
On which he, with consecrating hand, foolishly, indulgently depended.
The heavenly bear it as long as they can, but when
In fact they arrive, men grow accustomed to joy,
To Day, to the gods stripped bare, and to their faces,
Which once and for all, finally have names.
Their breasts were filled deeply with quiet contentment,
And alone and from the start, every desire was met;
Such is man; when wealth is present and he’s tended with gifts
By no less than a god, he sees and understands nothing.
First he must suffer; but now he names his most loved things,
Now, now, he must instead find words standing up like flowers.
6And now he thinks to honor the holy gods in earnest,
In truth indeed, all must repeat their praise.
Nothing must see the light but what pleases the high ones.
The Upper Air was never made for such idle endeavors.
So to stand proudly in the gods’ presence, nations rise up
And build in glorious order, competing with each other,
Gracious temples and cities; noble and firm, they tower high
Above shores, but where are they? Laurels of the festival,
Where do the famous ones bloom? Thebes is withered,
And Athens; no more do weapons ring out
In Olympia, nor the games’ golden chariots, and no longer
Are Corinthian ships covered in garlands.
Where are they, too, the old holy theaters?
Why is the sacred, holy dance no longer celebrated?
Why, as never before, is the brow of man unmarked by a god?
Or he would come as himself and take a human shape,
And, comforting everyone, bring an end to the heavenly feast?
7But, friend, we’ve come too late. Though the gods are living,
Over our heads, above in a different world,
Endlessly they do their work, and are so gracious to us
They seem to pay little attention whether we live or die,
For a delicate vessel can’t always contain them,
Only at times can men bear the gods’ fullness.
Even after life, we dream of them. But that labyrinth helps,
Like sleep; distress and the night make us strong,
Until the heroes grow large enough in their steel cradles,
And only when our hearts are strong, as before, can we match
The heavenly. Then they come thundering. Meanwhile, I often
Think it’s better to sleep than to be without friends,
Always waiting, and what to say or do in the meantime,
I don’t know, and of what use are poets in such meager times?
But they are, as you say, like the holy priests of the wine god,
Who roam from land to land in the holiness of night.
8Indeed, for a long time, to us it seems forever,
Everyone rose up whose light had blessed us
When the father turned his face to man,
And all over the earth, quite rightly, they began to mourn;
It appeared that at last a genius had come, offering heavenly
Comfort, and he who named the day’s end then disappeared,
Leaving a token that once they were here and once would
Come again; the heavenly chorus left gifts behind,
For, to spiritual joy, the great had become too great
Among men; furthermore, lacking the strength
For God’s joy, they still offer silent thanksgiving.
Bread is the fruit of earth, yet touched by the blessings
Of light, and, from the thundering god, comes the joy of wine.
Thereby, partaking of them, we think of the heavenly,
Who once were here and will return at the moment prepared;
Therefore poets sing earnest songs to the wine god
And never idly compose songs of praise for the ancients.
9Yes, they say rightly, he joins day with night,
Drives the heaven’s stars endlessly up and down,
As glad always as the green bows of the evergreen,
Which he loves, and the wreath made of ivy
Chosen because it lasts and, to the godless below
In their gloom, contains the vanished god’s essence.
The ancient song foretells what God knows of his children.
Look! We are those very same ones; it is Hesperian fruit!
And so quite perfectly it has been fulfilled in man.
Believe since it has been proven! But so much happens,
Nothing succeeds, because we’re heartless, mere shadows
Until our Father Aether is known and heard by all.
Meanwhile, however, the son of the highest, the Syrian,
Comes down through the shadows on wings of flame.
The wise men are happy to see it, in their captive souls
A radiant smile, and the light thaws out their eyes.
The Titans sleep gently and dream in the arms of earth;
Even Cerberus, that envious one, drinks and goes to sleep.
[END]
These poems are from a 220-page manuscript, Selected Poems of Friedrich Holderlin, that will be published by Omnidawn in 2007.
作者：王 标 原载《法制与新闻》
挟着大西北的风尘，洛宾老人翩然而至。
一踏上故里京都，便亮出了一份厚礼——大型歌舞诗晚会《在那遥远的地方——王洛宾与西部民歌》。
那几天，保利大厦国际剧院场场爆满，好评如潮。
如今的京都人，既兴奋、焦灼、躁动不宁、又无奈、沮丧、惶然不知所从。
适逢其时，大西北的歌情舞韵给这些男男女女们一番酣畅淋漓的醉意，那种熨贴感，有如刚刚经受一次心理按摩。
眼下，洛宾老人就在你的面前。8l岁，白须秃顶、慈眉善目，心境很平和的样子，只是嘴角上不时挂起几分诡谲的俏皮。
稍稍了解老人身世的人都会知道，他这一生，与民歌结下了不解之缘。《在那遥远的地方》、《达阪城的姑娘》、《半个月亮爬上来》、《掀起你的盖头来》、《青春舞曲》、《哪里来的骆驼客》……这些歌曾熏染了几代寻梦人，使他们走入感情深潭，忘却了尘世中的悲苦和忧伤。这些，人们已说得太多太多。
这一次，我不揣冒昧单刀直入地提出这么一个问题：
“您是个情种吗?”
“不是。”老人的回答实在令人失望。
人们注意到，老人的一生和这么几个女人息息相关：那个把他引入音乐天国的俄国沙皇的妹妹沙多夫斯基伯爵夫人；当他唱起“锁住了万般世界，锁不住我的白日梦”时，为他伴舞后来又与他一起谱写战地浪漫曲的洛珊；哼起西北情歌“花儿”，让他倾心痴迷的客店女老板“五朵梅”；青海湖边，与他同骑一匹马扬鞭狂奔的藏族姑娘卓玛；大狱中，看管他的维吾尔族女警官撒阿黛，还有那个浪迹天涯的三毛。人们感到，仿佛是这几个女人的一场合谋——她们前后相继将王洛宾一步步诱入歌与情的迷津，使他苦苦挣扎，再也回不到尘世——于是，我们这个冷漠而乏味的土地蓦然间冒出700首情歌。
正是这样，正是时空的阻隔，命运对人的捉弄，以及那个年代我们对激情严酷的防范和压抑，王洛宾只得以某种升华的方式，转而将激情投注于民歌的润饰与创作。而民歌作为他理想的替代物，使他得到一种假想中的满足，不知道这么推求是不是有点道理，反正洛宾老人的经历似乎是弗洛伊德假说的一个极好例证。
“不是。不是同时，十几年才遇上一个。”
老人徒劳地申辩，让人心里顿时生出几分怜悯。
为什么硬说不是呢?
您就不怕一个动人的神话在诘问和否认中消解掉吗?
怪事，为什么明明有着真性情，却不能袒露它?是什么样的禁忌让世界充满了虚饰矫情?
过了一会儿，我的发问又一次直指人心，让谁都无可回避：
“王老，这辈子您是殉道，还是殉情?”
“都不是，我没什么道，我是殉乐(yue)。”
还是让人失望。
洛宾老人的一生处处都是悖谬：青年时代，音乐之都巴黎曾使他心驰神往，可是他却奔到了新疆大戈壁，在那儿一口气呆了半个世纪；他一辈子用歌来颂扬爱情，自己却当了大半辈子鳏夫，整整47年；他毕生追求自由无羁地云游天下，可单是身陷囹圄就占去18年；他与世无争，整日埋首于乐谱音符之间，飞短流长仍时有所闻……
老人，您不感到命运处处跟您过不去吗?
“事物发展到最荒谬的时候，就出现了幽默。”老人平平淡淡地冒出一句。
面对无穷无尽的苦难，您怎样与它们周旋?
“40岁以后，我化苦难为享受。最穷的时候，我用七粒花生米下酒，酒是三杯。前两杯都吃两粒花生，给最后一杯酒三粒花生——那就是很大的快乐，”老人拈须微笑，禅意十足，“愿望不能实现，练出了随遇而安。”
这次来北京，学生们知道我爱喝豆汁，请我。我连喝四碗豆汁，还有两个芝麻饼，三个焦圈，再加一碗丸子。学生说，哎呀，王老师，你的肚子，还是无产阶段的肚子，思想已经不是无产阶段的了。我想，肚子是无产阶段的，思想也应该是。
老人如此惊人的食量，显然是当年超大强度体力劳动所致。每当他面对着你端坐在沙发上时，稍稍有点眼力的人都会发现一个令人惊悸的细节：他的肩膀左高右低。是什么力量给人铸塑出这样的形体姿态？一问方知，当年劳动改造时，扛大袋水泥，别的囚徒一次扛一袋，他硬是扛两袋；别人挑灰浆一次两桶，他执意要挑四桶。他的执坳给身体留下了永久的烙痕。他是这么一种人，表面上慈和宽厚，骨子里有棱有角。“我学艺术，有个美好的向往——自己得到了，还要让大家满足。这不是什么主义，人就是他自己。”是的，您几十年的孜孜以求，早已把您的艺术主张解说得明明白白。
去年盛夏，“王洛宾版权风波”被传媒炒得纷纷扬扬。事情大致是这样的：1月27日，王洛宾发表了一纸《严正声明》，称一种台港联合制作的盒式录音带《情歌纪念日》署名“罗大佑、王洛宾世纪大合作”，是盗用自己的名义，侵犯了自己的署名权：该盒带录制的13首歌曲，全部是自己在三四十年代收集、整理、改编、创作（包括词曲）的歌曲作品，他自己拥有著作权，该盒带未经他本人同意便制作出版，是对他著作权的严重侵犯。
就是这个声明引发出了一场不大不小的论战。
5月初，上海《文汇报》发表陈×的文章《王洛宾疑结》，文章对王洛宾“西北民歌王”、“民歌之父”的称谓提出质疑，认为王洛宾对民歌只是记谱、整理，他只是民歌的采录者，而不是创作者。
接着，《人民音乐》杂志6月号一气刊出三篇文章：×××的《历史是严肃的》和《民歌岂容出卖》，×××的《<洛宾歌曲集>二三事》。戴文首次披露了王老1992年与台湾北辰著作权事务所签订的转让10首民歌著作财产权的事实。戴认为：民歌是宝贵的国有文化资产，王洛宾怎么可以把这些歌曲当做自己的“著作财产”？
7月5日，罗大佑在上海希尔顿饭店召开新闻发布会，正式回答王洛宾年初的《严正声明》。罗在否认侵犯王的署名权之后，强调指出：“如果王先生‘收集’、‘整理’、‘改编’了这些歌，就将这些民族遗产收归已有，并私相授受，出卖转让，再与他人七三分帐，王先生不啻成为了中华民族文化遗产的出卖者了。”
于是，支援和指责他的，纷纷操刀上阵，厮杀起来，直到今日胜负仍然未见分晓。
王老，对这场角斗您如何评价？
“别人怎么攻击，我也不在乎。5月攻击，美国约我去演出；6月攻击，台湾来约；7月攻击，我9月在南京办音乐会。我最大的享受是别人唱我的歌。”老人似乎没有认真地为自己申辩。
其实，指责王洛宾的人们都犯了三个小小的错误：第一，他们在讨论著作权问题时，都没有看一眼《著作权法》。若是依照该法第十二条的规定，王洛宾作为改编、翻译、注释、整理人，理所当然地享有“演绎作品”的著作权。
第二，所谓“著作权”是个笼而统之的说法，按《著作权法》的规定，它包括十六项具体的权利。王洛宾有偿转让自己改编，整理的音乐作品(确切地说是记谱文本)，是行使了著作权中的“许可权”和“获得报酬权”，合法合理，天经地义。
第三，民歌原本的存在方式是“口头流传”并且“不借助于记谱法或其他手段”(见《中国大百科全书·音乐舞蹈卷》)而存在的，由于没有将其记录下来的曲谱，即没有固定的物质载体，它根本就买不走，也卖不出的。严格说来，王洛宾“出卖”的是经自己改编、整理并记谱后产生的记谱文本，而不是民歌本身。所谓“出卖民歌”一说，实在是过于含混的一种说法。那么为什么会出现这种含混的说法呢?原因极简单——我们大家都是“法盲”(当然包括王洛宾本人)。
尊重事实并且稍稍有点常识的人们都会看到：王洛宾对西北民歌的贡献是多方面的，包括采集、记谱、改编、翻译、注释、整理以及传播。比如：《掀起你的盖头来》的歌词里，“你的眉毛细又长啊，好像那树梢的弯月亮。你的眼睛明又亮啊，好像那秋波一般样。你的脸儿红又圆啊，好像那苹果到秋天。你的嘴儿红又小啊，好像那五月的红樱桃。”《阿拉木罕》中，“她的眉毛像弯月，她的身腰像细柳”等等等等，无一不是汉民族独有的审美比喻。此类歌词比比皆是，都出自王洛宾的手笔。
至于对曲调的改编，也是相当显著的。《在那遥远的地方》乍一听似乎浑然天成，其实它是由王洛宾用藏族曲调和哈萨克族曲调逐句逐段地拼接、添加、糅合、润饰而成，它根本就没有一个现实的原型。
另外，王洛宾独立创作的歌曲也蔚蔚大观。如《云游》（为徐志摩诗谱曲）、（黄昏炊烟）、《我爱我的牢房》、《春去也》、《云》、《穆期林青年进行曲》、《亚克西》、《高高的白杨》、《撒阿黛》、《共产党宣言大合唱》、《我亲爱的白兰地》、《你的热泪把我的手背烫伤》、《我吆着大马车》、《带血的项链》、《玫瑰姑娘》、《等待——寄给死者的恋歌》、《新加坡的太阳》等等等等，有数百首之多。
眼下，受到一些不明真相的人们的非议，老人又无意劳神辩诬，肚子里自然满含酸楚苦涩。
“我累了苦了一辈子，被逼成这样!”老人很激愤。
怪事，这是什么道理?
“我以后可能会最后声明：我到包头开馄饨馆去!”王洛宾冷不丁冒出这么一句。
“为什么单单去包头呢?”笔者兴致大发。
“我儿子在那里。”
沉重的话题终于使会话人疲惫不堪了。
让我们互道珍重握手告别吧。
老人家，好歌永远伴您。
ps，附上罗大佑一段话……不因为是罗大佑说的，只因为说了什么。
；