I clearly recall the day I first became truly aware of myself, I mean of myself as something that everything else was not. As a boy I liked best those dead intervals of the year when one season had ended and the next had not yet begun, and all was grey and hushed and still, and out of the stillness and the hush something would seem to approach me, some small, soft, tentative thing, and offer itself to my attention. This day of which I speak I was walking along the main street of the town. It was November, or March, not cold, but neutral. From a lowering sky fine rain was falling, so fine as to be hardly felt. It was morning, and the housewives were out, with their shopping bags and headscarves. A questing dog trotted busily past me looking neither to right nor left, following a straight line drawn invisibly on the pavement. There was a smell of smoke and butcher’s meat, and a brackish smell of the sea, and, as always in the town in those days, the faint sweet stench of pig-swill. The open doorway of a hardware shop breathed brownly at me as I went past. Taking in all this, I experienced something to which the only name I could give was happiness, although it was not happiness, it was more and less than happiness. What had occurred? What in that commonplace scene before me, the ordinary sights and sounds and smells of the town, had made this unexpected thing, whatever it was, burgeon suddenly inside me like the possibility of an answer to all the nameless yearnings of my life? Everything was the same now as it had been before, the housewives, that busy dog, the same, and yet in some way transfigured. Along with the happiness went a feeling of anxiety. It was as if I were carrying some frail vessel that it was my task to protect, like the boy in the story told to us in religious class who carried the Host through the licentious streets of ancient Rome hidden inside his tunic; in my case, however, it seemed I was myself the precious vessel. Yes, that was it, it was I that was happening here. I did not know exactly what this meant, but surely, I told myself, surely it must mean something. And so I went on, in happy puzzlement, under the small rain, bearing the mystery of myself in my heart.
Was it that same phial of precious ichor, still inside me, that spilled in the cinema that afternoon, and that I carry in me yet, and that yet will overflow at the slightest movement, the slightest misbeat of my heart?
僕は、はじめて自分自身というもの――つまり他のあらゆるものとは違う何かとしての自分――を真に自覚した日をはっきりと思い出せる。少年時代の僕が一番好んだのは、無のひとときであった。一つの季節が終わったけれど次の季節はまだ始まっていない時期で、全ては灰色で、静かで、動きがなくて、その静止と静寂から、何かが、何か小さくて、やわらかくて、不確かなものが、僕に近づいてきているようで、僕の注意はそれにひきつけられた。お話しているこの日のこと、僕は町の大通りに沿って歩いていた。それは十一月だったか、三月だったか、寒くはなく、冷暖の狭間であった。低く垂れ込めた空から、霧雨が、ほとんど感じられないくらい細かい雨が、降っていた。それは朝で、主婦たちは、手には買い物袋、頭にはスカーフを巻いて外出していた。臭跡を追う犬は、歩道の上に描かれた目には見えない真っ直ぐな線に従って、右も左も見もせずに僕を通り越してせわしく駆けていった。煙の匂い、肉屋の肉の匂い、海のしょっぱい匂いがした。そして、当時の町の中ではいつもするように、豚にくれてやる残飯のかすかな甘い悪臭がした。金物店の戸口は、大口を開けて、通り過ぎる僕に茶色く澱んだ空気を吐きかけた。この全てを受け入れて、名を与えられるとしたら幸福としか言いようのない何かを経験した――それは幸福ではなく、幸福以上でも幸福以下でもあったのだけれど。何が起こったのだろう。僕の眼前に広がるその普通の光景の中で、町のいつも通りの光景や音や匂いの中で、何が、この予期せぬことを、それが何であれ、人生のあらゆる言いようのない切望に対する答えとなり得るかのように、突然僕の中に芽吹かせたというのだろう。全てのことは、以前も今も同じだった。主婦も、せわしい犬も、同じ。でも、ある点で変わってしまった。幸福に伴ったのは、不安感。それは、さながら守り人のお役目を担って何か壊れやすい器を運ぶかのようであり、宗教の授業で教わる物語に出てくる、聖体をチュニックの中に隠して古代ローマの不道徳な道を通って運んだ少年のようであった。でも、僕の場合、僕自身が貴重な器のようだった。そう、そうなのだ。ここで起こっていること、それが「自分」ということだったのだ。僕はこれの意味するところを正確に理解していたわけではないけれど、確かに、そう、確かに、それは何かを意味していたに違いない、と僕は自分自身に言い聞かせた。そういうわけで、僕は幸福な困惑の中で、ささやかな雨の下で、心の内で自分自身という謎を受け入れ続けた。
あの日の午後に映画を見たときにこぼれたのは、未だ僕の中にある、あの頃と同じ貴重な霊液の入った小瓶だったのだろうか。それでもなお僕は小瓶を抱えていて、ほんのわずかな動き、ほんのわずかな心臓の鼓動の狂いでまたあふれるのだろうか。
The passage which I translated is in the early part of John Banville’s novel Eclipse, where the protagonist recalls the day when he experienced the awakening of the sense of “I” (himself) for the first time. “I” is thus an important word in this text, but when it comes to translating it into Japanese, it becomes troublesome.
The first-person singular pronoun in English is “I,” of course. Although “I” can be applied to anyone and in any occasion in English, Japanese has multiple words to indicate “I.” The impression of a speaker varies depending on which one he/she uses. In this case, I wondered whether to use “watashi (私)” or “boku (僕).” “Watashi” is the most commonly used word for the first-person singular and both men and women can use it not only in private scenes but also in public, while “boku” is generally used by men (and sometimes used by boyish girls) in more private situations and can sometimes give a somewhat childish impression. The protagonist of this work is a middle-aged man, who has a public role as actor though he has retired. He also has a wife and a grown-up daughter, so it may seem that “watashi” is better for his. However, he does not seem mature enough for his age or for his situation. For example, he escapes from his profession and his family, and such a selfish behavior irritates his wife. Considering the gap between his actual age and his childish action, I used “boku” in my translation. However, to be honest, I am still debating about this topic, for he wavers between maturity and immaturity or private and public self, so I would like to read more into the novel and continue thinking. I think it is difficult to translate Banville’s novel into Japanese retaining the layered meaning of the original text, but that is why this project was a good experience for me.
John Banville