关于元科学叙事的反动、结构和再结构的科学。

——学科拟人同人堆放处,给做科拟设定的朋友写的同人。朋友Lofter ID“盐乌冬”(部分人设堆积地),新浪微博ID“_Schwarzmaut_”(主要设定及作品存放处)
头像作者如上,角色是他家Italiano(意大利语)小姐姐,或者至少是她有钱的时候。

【授权翻译】政治丨PolitiKa【学科拟人】

翻译自英文,原作是 @历史课代表 太太写的,原博客戳这里,翻译授权在原链接评论区。一个月前承诺了要翻译的我居然拖到现在……

为方便阅读,下文中译后会贴出原文。

因为我这个博本来是放给藻荷田太太的同人的,所以这篇本来想私信给历史课代表太太,但藻荷田太太说可以放无关他家设定,所以就死皮赖脸放了(你)但还是很不好意思,这篇就不打tag了。

赞美英文原作太太!我既不信也不达也不雅,毫无水平,还原不出原作那种哀叹式的凝练的风格……大家请尽量去读原文!

除了我的翻译版以外,翻译经验比我多很多的 @Mephisto_K 太太也译了一个很妙的版本,比我这个信达雅很多,我因为英文不太行读完之后怀疑我的版本有很多错误QAQ所以强烈推荐大家阅读!!链接在此~




历史所知道的只是,她曾是如所有人一般的梦者。如今,同所有人的末路一样,她最终成长,脱离梦乡。但在她自身的记忆里,她来自天堂——此言切实无疑,绝非譬喻,她曾是神脚下的天使。

她自天堂而来,为的是救世人脱离苦海。

……自然,这句话历史一个字也不信。

把这话改一改:她自天堂而来,以期能否在人间推行某种意义上的秩序。她原初的意图究竟是赋权于人,教会其自治,互帮互助,终生幸福,抑或期许世人奉她为终结苦难的神明,我们不得而知。但我们或可假设她兼有二种意愿:统治或拯救,被作为救主称颂或被世人铭记,皆在她的愿望之中。

然而,这功业并非如她期冀的那样易于达成。因着即便在人类最为纯挚的逻辑中,亦有暗角于视线域外匍匐等待,为每个良善灵魂设下陷阱。

但当然,在她降临世间时,文明尚未有任何逻辑可言,读者自可将上述警告看作躁狂疯人的妄念。

而她失败的真正缘由,在于如每个怀梦者一般,她期想的图景过分地简化了真实。

我不会详述史卷中她惨败的细节种种,因为它们并非这故事重心所在。相较历史,我将重点讲述的这个故事的内容略与当下更为相近——切近今日,迫于现实。

长话短说:她再也不曾回到天堂。

如这星球一般,她已被人类改变了。她变而又变,直到再无资格被天堂接纳,直到她被困于此世,无力回归。

我该说说这些天国造物本来的模样。你看,它们固然美丽,但并非美得异质,美得不自然。就政治(Politika)而言,她的发丝并非雪色,她昔日的双眸并非深蓝,亦非猩红,更非鎏金,她旧日的肌肤并非苍白,她曾有过的形貌并非宛如生翼的死尸。她也并不把全身纯白当成时髦的扮相。毋庸赘言,若是天使相貌千篇一律,未免配不上造物的无边恩典①。实际上,她原先的肌肤略带麦色,却很健康,她的双颊颇为红润,褐发长而鬈曲,衣着也由她任意挑选。唯一与刻板天使形象肖似的是她的双翼:它们通体素白,了无杂色,缀满白羽。

直到世人夺走她的羽翼,为她全身泼上黑墨。此后,他们用血为她洗礼,待她的面目难于辨认,便将她周身洒满惨白的尘埃,直至她肌肤苍白,几乎耀亮。他们随即熨直她的鬈发,剪平至及肩的笔直一线,每根发丝都被染作纯白。大功当即告成。

历史非说政治生来如此:雪发,灰眸,肤色惨白,有若行尸。但本来,对她降自天国的故事,历史就毫不相信。

这就是政治缘何带着这样一幅面貌活到今日。传言每每入夜,她都反复涂抹惨白的脂粉,染遍发丝,生怕她身上的黑墨和鲜血会暴露出来。每月,她都重复将白发剪做那无可挑剔的一线:过肩,切平,笔直。

总的来说,她领导下的历史并不糟糕。年轻时,她为着在世上推行自己的“秩序”,同神学和哲学结盟。神学惨败后,她夺权登顶,对哲学的质疑全然置若罔闻。此间,她也一再改变,一再学习,一再成长;发生过很多战争,几乎太多的战争,但她的绩业至少并未让人大失所望。

可她自认是彻底的失败者。

当然,他们成长的过程都一样,自迷梦走向现实。可政治却始终比其他学科更敏感,更阴沉。她从不轻易发笑,从不无所事事,永远步履匆匆,永远头颅高昂。诚然,历史也同样遍历沧桑——但她至少会大笑,甚至笑得太多;她说笑话,恣肆妄为,令你困惑她何以能明面上如此希望丰沛,内心深处却绝望透顶。神学同样饱经风霜——但她偶尔也会无法自控,流露出疲惫;神学有自己的幽默感,多数时候她待人随和,关键是,她内心仍然善良。

社会学也一样看遍风雨。可她却是他们中最开朗亲切的那一个:她抽烟,痛饮,八卦闲谈。她跳舞跳得和艺术一样好,歌唱得甚至或许比艺术还好。她从不刻意隐藏自己的感情;不过,她其实甚少庄肃,对一切都充满戏谑。

政治与她们都不同。她永远肃穆,果决,刁滑。她从来心口不一,没人知道她的真实想法;讥嘲她、取笑她不能动摇她分毫,连讲道理也不能叫她改变决心。她死守着她自己的道理。有时,她看上去对蝇头小事都大动干戈,极为执着;可却没人敢取笑她,因为她手握重权。即使同她相熟千年的人,也无法相信她口中所言,无法信任她神情所现。若是你想良心舒畅,大可假定她本性善良,相信她降自天堂的故事,相信她的罪恶是世人强加于她。毕竟,她在某种意义上确实是人类的造物。

社会学——唯一能毫无后果地取笑政治的人,把她脸上的表情归结为一句歌词:“这是最后的斗争,团结起来到明天。”

这样一张脸若是痛哭流涕,那可实在叫人惊骇。

而这正是一个关于她泪落之日的故事。



那是在上世纪中叶的某场大战之后:逝者已逝,尘埃落定,愿天国收留他们的魂魄②。想来颇为可笑:我们中的某些人终生担忧自己死后何往,可一到某场无征无兆、从不偏私的大灾变陡然降临,他们就立刻认定所有死者都有登天的资格。但我能责备谁呢——我亦是如此盼望的。

生物、物理、化学和另一些自然科学围成一圈,用手捂住脸,反反复复地泣说自己如何有罪。这不是虚伪作戏:他们全都再真诚不过。他们甚至因为负罪感太过强烈,几乎相信神学对他们的指控实属真理,以致神学不得不出面表明祂并不认为他们生性邪恶。与此同时,社会科学恪守沉默,心知肚明:事实是,所有人都不曾无辜。

但是他们中唯有一人,独独一人,认定了一切罪恶皆在己身。

读者一定已猜到是谁。

她起先也尝试过,试着安慰自然科学们;因为她几乎无法承受自己的负罪感。

当然,她此前曾见过战争。她见过。但这一回……

她尽己所能组织语言,修整措辞,却发现自己无能为力;以致她不得不吐露真实。

“这是我的错。我是认真的,这一切都是我的错。但不要紧……我会找到办法,弥补过错。一定。不用担心,也不必有什么压力,继续去做你们的研究吧。这一切我会解决的。”

她甚至努力挤出一个微笑。

历史不知道自然科学们是否相信她,但不论如何事实是,听到这话后他们便都离开了房间;事实是——他们一走,政治便埋下头,泪如雨下。

她的泪雨落在静默中。深沉,深沉的静默里,众人的目光集中在她身上。仅有一刻,历史几乎相信了她来自天堂的传说;她甚至看见了政治泪痕下的墨与血,尖嚎着刺透她满施脂粉的苍白肌肤。

可仅仅一瞬,这一切就过去了。政治的面容干燥淡漠,宛如白纸,了无感情,至多有几分肃穆。那张面孔上写着庄重的哀思,而非心碎欲绝的惨痛。

“我会有办法的。”她只说了这句话。

然后,社会学拿了瓶酒来,他们立刻喝得酩酊大醉。

那天晚上,她失眠了。

她逡巡出门,走上街头。却惊异地看到那里不止有她一人。

医学站在那里,白大褂和手套一件不落。就像他刚刚走出急诊室,此刻正在星象中寻找死者游荡的亡魂。

在街灯行将熄灭的惨淡光线下,他的双眸空洞而寒冷。是的,他确实醒着,不在梦中;但他还像白昼里的他一样吗?想必并非如此。

政治扫了他一眼,有一刹那,她几乎以为他被手套覆盖的十指间将闪过手术刀的寒芒。

医学注意到了她的视线。他开口,没有转身:

“你害怕我吗?”

好问题,她想。站在诡谲的光线下,又是那一身行头,他看去着实有些骇人,像头一回寻见自由的疯人。此外,他眼里有她从没见过的神情,唯在子夜方能显露,当星系闪烁在他的眸中,你才能留意到那双眸之深暗几近融化星辰。她记起化学武器,那些实验——人体实验。她像电影里的主角,偶遇了头号反派,对方遽然朝她揭示出自己是一切罪行的真凶。

然而,她忽地明白过来——这出戏本非如此。不论他看去如何骇人,他不过是个演员,是一部恐怖电影里的演员,桀桀怪笑,满面可怕的浓妆,但到底也只是个演员。一旦镜头移开,他便是另一副面目,因为他终究不是那所有罪恶的根源。

我是。

以平静的声调,她答③:

“是你应当怕我。”

众星眼波流转,星光落到他们身周。她想象不出星辰倒映在她自己眼中的模样。

地面仿佛陡然上升,紧抓她的脚踝。她颠倒过来,苍穹有若她头顶的深渊。

然后,她想到,就像人们常常在深夜产生的好奇——她好奇旭日是否将照常升起。

她记起死者的数目。她思量着,若将这个数最初的那六个数字摘选出来,画进图表,它们会产生什么样的意义。在三维图中,它们会组成代表一个点的数对。若对所有战争的死者数目都如法炮制,这些点最终就能连成一幅图像。她好奇那张图画的是什么。它会是什么样子呢?一把手枪?一个圆?一只竖着中指的手?她承认这念头是有点好笑。

她缓慢地重复着那句歌词,那几个曾经用以取笑她,对她而言不过是个笑话的词。

这是最后的斗争。团结起来到明天。

随后,她同医学道了晚安,回到屋里。




几周过后,法律通行,诸伤愈合,众血涤净,而她重返往常的模样。


FIN.


①这句是根据K太太的翻译改的,原作“天使相貌均一方能显示造物的无边恩典”,因为傻兮兮的我把bore当成了bear的分词而理解成了完全的反义,于是发现整一段的意思我都弄错了,上下文也就做了微调……

②这句我很虚,因为原文是“Everyone who was dead was dead. Heaven received their souls” @Mephisto_K 老师译为“死了的人都死了,活着的人尚且活着”,并在评论区指出此句翻译有指导,因此可能是意思争议比较大的一句,我觉得按K老师的说法这一句可能是某种习语,但是自己英文水平不足不敢乱说_(:з」∠)_如果“Heaven”句是指生者的话,姑作“逝者已逝,生者尚安”,等原作者修正了QWQ

③原作“以与医学同样的声调,她答”,再次,脑残如我把even当成了持平的含义【facepalm.jpg



原作全文:


As far as History knew, she was once a dreamer like everyone else, and now she has grown out of the dream, like everyone else eventually did. But in her own memories, she had come, quite literally, from heaven, where she’d been an angle at God’s feet. 
She had come down, to free mankind from their suffering.
History, of course, believes not a word of the sentence above.
Correction, she had come down from heaven, to see if there was a possibility of enforcing some sort of order on man. Whether the original intention was for man to govern themselves and help one another and live happily ever after, or for her to be recognized as a god for ‘ending their suffering’, is unknown. But we can suppose that she had a bit of each. To rule, to save, to be praised as a savior, and to be remembered was what she wished.
However, the task was not as easy as predicted. For even in the simplest logics of mankind there are dark corners which lie in waiting and out of sight, each a trap for the kind soul.
But of course, civilization had not formed any logic when she arrived on earth, so the reader may safely assume the above to be a delusional sentence formed out of an over-excited mind.
The real reason of her fall, as is with every dreamer, was that she had over simplified the situation.
I will not go on about the historical details of how she fell, for that is not the focus of today’s narrative. The focus comes a little nearer to now. To present day.
To make a long story short, she never returned. 
She was changed by humans just as the Earth had been. She was changed and changed until the day came when heaven could no longer accept her. She was trapped on Earth.
I believe it will be important to relate, in the following paragraph, the appearances of such angelic creatures. For they are beautiful, you see, but not with an unnatural beauty. As for Politika, her hair was not white, her eyes were not blue or red or golden, her skin was not pale, no, she did not look like a corpse with wings. And she did not think a white cloth counted as fashionable wear. Surely, it would bore his magnificence the Creator if all angels looked the same. In truth, she had a slightly yellow shade of skin, but healthy, and her cheeks were quite red. Her hair was brown, and long, and curly, and she wore whatever she wanted. The two things you did get right are her wings: they are white, pure white, with white feathers.
They took her wings, and they covered her up in black ink. Then they poured blood all over her, and they waited until she was unrecognizable, the they covered her entire body with white dust, until her skin was so pale it shone. Then, they fried her hair straight, cut it to a perfectly straight line at the shoulder, dyed every strand of it white, and that was that.
History insists that she was born that way, with white hair, gray eyes, pale skin like a walking corpse. But of course, History never believed the ‘come down from heaven’ theory either.
And that is how she remained in appearance up to this very day. It is said that every night she powders her skin and dyes her hair for fear that the ink and blood would show, and every month she cuts her hair to the same, exact, straight line.
Overall, she has not led a disappointing history. In her youth she teamed up with Religion and Philosophy to impliment her ‘order’. Then, when Religion broke down she took up lead position and began to ignore Philosophy’s questions. In this process, she was constantly changing, constantly learning and growing too. Overall, a great many wars but no big disappointments. 
To her, however, everything was disappointing.
It is very important to note that all of them grew up in likewise fashion, from dreamer to realist. Yet she remains the most sensitive and solemn out of all her fellow subjects. Never laughing or smiling easily, never doing without purpose written in mind, never walking slowly, never seen with her head down. 
It is true that History has seen a lot, yes. Yet laughs, sometimes too much, she jokes, she does numerous pointless things, and she makes you wonder how a person can be so outwardly hopeful and so inertly hopeless at the same time.
It is true that Religion had seen a lot. Yet she gets tired occasionally and shows it. She is humorous in her own way, quite easy to talk to on most days, and above all, she is kind.
It is true that Sociology has seen a lot. Yet she is the most easy-going and social of them all. She smokes, she drinks, she gossips. She can dance just as Art can and sing maybe even better. She does not care to hide her emotions, but she is rarely serious about anything.
Politics is different. She is always grave, and purposeful, and devious. One never knows what is on her mind, for she will never say what she truly means. One cannot unhinge her ground by joking around with her, or even by logical reasoning. She is too solid in her own logic. Sometimes, it seems that she cares too much about too little. Yet one cannot make fun of her either, for she is too powerful. One can never trust the words from her mouth, even if one had been acquainted with her for thousands of years, and one can never trust the emotions that seem to appear on her face. If it helps with your conscious, you can pretend, for the sake of things, that she is kind, and that she really did come down from heaven, and that all her faults are cast onto her by man. She is, after all, in a way, man’s creation.
Sociology, the only person who is capable of making fun of Politics and getting away with it, has summed up the features of her face in one sentence of a song: “这是最后的斗争,团结起来到明天。”
You can how terrible and shocking it is to see such a face cry.
This is a story about when she cried.
 
It was after the end of the Second World War, everyone who was dead was dead. Heaven received their souls. It’s funny that some of us spend our whole lives worrying about where we will go, yet assume immediately when a huge disaster happens that all the dead go to heaven. But who am I to criticize. I have just wished the same.
Biology, Physics, Chemistry and some of the other natural sciences had stood around with their head in their hands talking about how everything was their fault. It was no bluff, all of them were sincere. In fact, it got so bad that they went as far as to consider if what Religion thought about them was true, and then Religion had to step out and say that (s)he didn’t think such things about them. All this time, the Social Sciences listened in silence and repeated in their hearts that it was everybody’s fault.
But out of them, one person alone thought it was all her own fault.
Yes, you have guessed it.
She tried at first. Tried to comfort the sciences. Because she was feeling unbearably guilty.
Sure, she had seen wars before, but this one…
She tried her best at wording her thoughts. When that failed, she gave up and spoke the truth.
“It’s my fault, seriously. But it’s alright, I’ll find a way to deal with it. I will fix this. I will. Don’t worry, and don’t feel pressure or anything. Just carry on with your research and studies. We’ll work this out.”
She even managed a smile. 
History is not sure whether the sciences were convinced, but the truth was that they left the room at that moment. And the truth was that the moment they left, Politics hung her head, and wept.
Her tears fell in silence. A terrible, terrible silence as everyone around her stared. And for a moment, History believed the story about her coming down from heaven. In fact, she could almost see the black ink and red blood underneath her tear tracks, screaming out of the white powder of her pale skin. 
But a second later, it was gone. Her face was dry and calm as a sheet of paper. Emotionless. Maybe a little grave. A face for mourning, not a face of heartbreak.
“I’ll deal with this.” Was all she said.
Then, Sociology produced a bottle of wine and they promptly proceeded to get themselves quite drunk.
那天晚上,她失眠了。
She wandered outside, into the street. And found with surprise that someone else was in the same situation. 
Medicine stood in his white coat and gloves. As if he’d just walked out of the emergency room and was now searching for the dead man’s soul among the stars.
His eyes were empty and cold under the dying light of the street lamp. He was awake, yes, the same person as the one under sunlight? Probably not.
Politics glanced down and half expected to see a scalpel protruding from between his gloved fingers.
Medicine did not miss her glance. Without turning to her, he spoke.
“Are you afraid of me?”
Good question, she thought. And it was true that under such a strange light and dressed in such manner he did look slightly unnerving, like a madman finding freedom for the first time. And there was something about his eyes which she’s never noticed before. Something that could only show at night, when you see the stars reflected there, and you realize that his eyes are so dark that the stars melt away into them. She remembered the chemical warfare, all those experiments, human experiments. It was like in a movie, when the protagonist meets the villain by chance, and the villain suddenly reveals himself to be the real killer or something. 
But then, she realized that it was not such a scene. No matter how scary he looks, he is only an actor. An actor in a horror film with his villain laugh and scary makeup but an actor all the same, and he will be changed as soon as you turn the camera away. Because he is not the real killer.
I am.
In an even voice she replied,
“You should be afraid of me.”
The stars winked down at them. She could not imagine what they looked like reflected in her eyes.
The ground seemed to rise up and grip her feet. She was upside down, the sky an abyss over her head.
Then, she wondered, as people often do when the night gets to them. She wondered if the sun would ever rise. 
She remembered the number of deaths. She wondered if she took the first six digits out and drew them in a chart what they would mean. In a third dimensional graph, they’d mean a dot. She wondered if she did this with all the wars there’d be a picture formed out of the dots. She wondered what it would mean. 它会是什么样子呢?一把手枪?一个圆?一只竖着中指的手? That, she admitted, was quite funny.
Slowly, she repeated the words to herself, words which had been a joke to her before.
这是最后的斗争。团结起来到明天。
Then, she said goodnight to him, and went inside.
 
A few weeks after, laws were being passed, wounds were being closed, blood was being washed away, and she was back to her old self.

Fn.


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