都柏林人（英文版）

As I set down Dubliners, the wind outside was shaking the bare branches. The heater hummed softly indoors, and a leaden sky hung low and heavy, much like the perpetual fog of Dublin. The Chinese translation carries a crispness akin to northern frost, turning the dampness into a kind of tangible chill; whereas those winding sentences in the original always seem to hide the scent of moss and old wood around every corner. Translation is a migration between two climates—some things, like the word “paralysis,” must return to its viscous native tongue to truly touch that slow, creeping stagnation that spreads from limb to soul. Joyce does not tell stories; he presents states of being. The fifteen fragments are like fifteen windows wiped clean by chance: we peer inside a parlor, a pub, or a street corner, catching a glimpse of a moment when the candle flame is about to fade, only for the window to close again, leaving behind nothing but air, clear and precise. He possesses an almost cruel patience, tracing how hope extinguishes without a sound, how a thought stirs only to sink back into silence. It is not a terrifying tragedy, but a daily struggle—a silent, futile pushing against a wall. I stretched out a finger and drew a tiny snowflake on the fogged windowpane. It melted so quickly, leaving only a trail of moisture slowly sliding down—like those fleeting thoughts of the characters in the book, snuffed out by the breath of routine before they could illuminate anything. The fog gathered again, covering this futile trace. Their lives, too, sink into their own lingering haze, carrying the scent of coal smoke, rain, and words left unspoken. By the time I closed the book, the sky had turned completely dark. Street lamps in the distance blurred into hazy halos, reminiscent of the dying light in the boy’s hand in Araby. The prose carries Flaubert’s exacting rigor; the sorrow is Chekhovian—settled at the bottom of the cup, never spilling over; while Ibsen’s chill lies in making you see clearly your own confrontation with circumstance. Life’s grandest themes hide within the most ordinary days: youth wears away in shy longing, growing up is the process of recognizing one’s own limits, and death, perhaps, is that boundless, silent snow that finally falls upon all the living. We must return, after all, to our own lives and continue those silent journeys. Yet something has changed—perhaps we’ll pay closer attention to the light in the dusk, understand more fully the weight of a silent moment. This is Joyce’s gift: on a distant Dublin street, he makes you recognize the unspoken desolation and tenderness in your own life.

Yesterday night, I finished reading one of the most famous snow in literature. Joyce gave his sincere nice writing to us all, full of emotions and consciousness. And of course, through the translation of Xin Caina, I actually enjoyed the Dublin journey twice. I was too impatient to wait to write these impression down before finishing the book’s Introduction. I carefully read the former four stories on the English version, which I found were Joyce’s own stories of his childhood. Felt so lucky. His writing, what can I say, was so highly attractive that it would easily remind me of my own childhood, and I noticed many “Paralysis” hints there, which like a mirror, constrasting with my own experience. I said many times in my notes that I felt proud of being sentimental with Joyce. However, seeing Dubliners here trapped by their own spiritual poverty also indulged me in resonance and sympathy. That made me think of the significance of literature. As for other short stories, lazy for getting the notes online, except “The Dead”. I valued “A few light taps” more than the “snow”. The “taps” was a recall of the dead young admirer, outside Gretta’s window. It was so light that the young man could not wake Gretta’s love to stay with him. Meanwhile, it was so heavy that the couple could not sustain the collapse of love and marriage, especially thinking about Gabriel’s admiration kindled by so many memories of his wife. Then Gabriel’s sentiment brought us the famous snow, “general all over Ireland”, burying down everything, the good and the bad, the living and the dead. With such a soft thing.

dubliners,that write about human being who makes live.a short history of a man.don't forget the chain and glue.everyday i always fight with my instinct and prejudise and my nothing.everyday i chase my dream and wish.sometims it is phantasy,another period it is a falling leaf.i look it as the air,you can't touch and smell.imagine the world,so the environment can make your day dream coming true.you fight with lazyness and void.acknowledge that you should keep on and hang in and never give up.i know i was wrong ,bit i don't care.because have no tome to complain and curse and be wex.please calm your feeling and not make a decision in the wrath .you would find that you keep on doing and telling and walk on the top of the sea ,the wave would bring you before the face of truth.hey,you can see the ache and tear.you know the cruelty and misery.You make a fight with the stange or well known world.at last you have a chance to live your wanted life.