It was always a mystery to me why the churches of Ireland were filled with women, and empty of men. I looked up at the crucifix and thought it was a bizarre thing for women to worship a man in a church run by men. As far as I was concerned being a Catholic was silly, and being a Jew meant so much more washing-up. What all religions do, however, is what most political systems fail to do — they prize and praise the figure of the mother.
She is the machine, the hidden power. She is the ideal, the revered one, the truly loved. Which makes up, in a way, for being skipped in shop queues and looking like a heap.
And more. On the third night of my child’s life I looked into her eyes and realised that nothing I believed could explain this. It was an embarrassing moment. I think I saw her soul. I suffered from the conviction that a part of her was ancient; and that part chose to be there with me at the beginning of something new. I had a wise child.
Carrying her out of the hospital and into the noise of the traffic; driving her home in second gear; feeding her in the middle of the night, and at the beginning of the night, and at dawn — so precious — I found myself shrinking in the face of her vast and unknowable future. How would she turn out? What would she do? When would she die? Not for many, many years, I hoped; not for the longest time. The mechanisms of fate, the grinding of her days that would lead to one end or another, became urgently opaque to me. There were a thousand things that could hurt this child, or even estrange her from me. What could I do? Nothing. My best.
These are all feelings that religion understands.
I had, I thought, become human in a different and perhaps more radical way. I had let something slip into the stream of time. What else can you do, but trust the river — put it all into the hands of a higher power?
Oh, all right.
And who else, but the suffering Christ, could know the suffering that motherhood brings?
Actually, I will resist the tug of it, if you don’t mind. Still, I will resist.
Anne Enright, ‘God’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 111-12.
***
Children are actually a form of brainwashing. They are a cult, a perfectly legal cult. Think about it. When you join a cult you are undernourished, you are denied sleep, you are forced to do repetitive and pointless tasks at random hours of the day and night, then you stare deep into your despotic leader’s eyes, repeating meaningless phrases, or mantras, like Ooh da gorgeous. Yes, you are! Cult members, like parents, are overwhelmed by spiritual feelings and often burst into tears. Cult members, like parents, spout nonsense with a happy, blank look in their eyes. They know they’re sort of mad, but they can’t help it. They call it love.
From ‘Baby-Talk’ in Anne Enright, Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 138.
为什么爱尔兰的教堂里到处都是女人而没有男人，这对我来说一直是个谜。我抬头看着十字架，觉得女人在男人管理的教堂里崇拜男人是一件很奇怪的事情。就我而言，信天主教很傻，信犹太教则意味着多得多的洗礼。然而，所有的宗教都做到了大多数政治制度未能做到的事情——它们珍视和赞美母亲。
母亲是机器，是隐藏的力量。母亲是理想，受人尊敬，是真正受爱戴的。在某种程度上，这提供了补偿，弥补了她们在商店排队时被插队，弥补了身体的日益发福。
再多说一点。在我孩子出生后的第三个晚上，我看着她的眼睛，意识到我所相信的任何事情都无法解释这一点。这是一个尴尬的时刻。我想我看到了她的灵魂。我坚信她的一部分是古老的，这使我很痛苦；那一部分选择在我开始了解这个新生命的时候就出现。我有一个聪明的孩子。
把她抱出医院，走进嘈杂的车流中，挂二档开车送她回家，在半夜喂她，在夜晚开始时，在黎明时，在这些如此珍贵的时刻，我发现自己在面对她广阔而未知的未来时退缩了。她会变成什么样子？她会怎么做？她什么时候会死？我希望她很多很多年都不会，最好永远都不会。命运的机制，她那会导致这样或那样结局的磨砺，对我来说变得非常不透明。有一千种事情可以伤害这个孩子，甚至让她与我疏远。我能做什么？我什么也做不了。只有祝愿。
宗教能够理解这样的情感。
我想，我已经以一种不同的、或许更激进的方式成为了人类。我让一些东西溜进时间的洪流中。相信这条河流——把它全部交到拥有更高权力的手中，除此之外，你还能做什么呢?
哦，那好吧。
除了受苦的基督，还有谁能知道母性带来的痛苦？
事实上，如果你不介意的话，我会抗拒这种痛苦的拉扯。即便你介意，我还是会反抗。
It was always a mystery to me why the churches of Ireland were filled with women, and empty of men. I looked up at the crucifix and thought it was a bizarre thing for women to worship a man in a church run by men. As far as I was concerned being a Catholic was silly, and being a Jew meant so much more washing-up. What all religions do, however, is what most political systems fail to do — they prize and praise the figure of the mother.
She is the machine, the hidden power. She is the ideal, the revered one, the truly loved. Which makes up, in a way, for being skipped in shop queues and looking like a heap.
And more. On the third night of my child’s life I looked into her eyes and realised that nothing I believed could explain this. It was an embarrassing moment. I think I saw her soul. I suffered from the conviction that a part of her was ancient; and that part chose to be there with me at the beginning of something new. I had a wise child.
Carrying her out of the hospital and into the noise of the traffic; driving her home in second gear; feeding her in the middle of the night, and at the beginning of the night, and at dawn — so precious — I found myself shrinking in the face of her vast and unknowable future. How would she turn out? What would she do? When would she die? Not for many, many years, I hoped; not for the longest time. The mechanisms of fate, the grinding of her days that would lead to one end or another, became urgently opaque to me. There were a thousand things that could hurt this child, or even estrange her from me. What could I do? Nothing. My best.
These are all feelings that religion understands.
I had, I thought, become human in a different and perhaps more radical way. I had let something slip into the stream of time. What else can you do, but trust the river — put it all into the hands of a higher power?
Oh, all right.
And who else, but the suffering Christ, could know the suffering that motherhood brings?
Actually, I will resist the tug of it, if you don’t mind. Still, I will resist.
Anne Enright, ‘God’ in Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 111-12.
***
Children are actually a form of brainwashing. They are a cult, a perfectly legal cult. Think about it. When you join a cult you are undernourished, you are denied sleep, you are forced to do repetitive and pointless tasks at random hours of the day and night, then you stare deep into your despotic leader’s eyes, repeating meaningless phrases, or mantras, like Ooh da gorgeous. Yes, you are! Cult members, like parents, are overwhelmed by spiritual feelings and often burst into tears. Cult members, like parents, spout nonsense with a happy, blank look in their eyes. They know they’re sort of mad, but they can’t help it. They call it love.
From ‘Baby-Talk’ in Anne Enright, Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, London: Vintage, 2005, 138.
为什么爱尔兰的教堂里到处都是女人而没有男人，这对我来说一直是个谜。我抬头看着十字架，觉得女人在男人管理的教堂里崇拜男人是一件很奇怪的事情。就我而言，信天主教很傻，信犹太教则意味着多得多的洗礼。然而，所有的宗教都做到了大多数政治制度未能做到的事情——它们珍视和赞美母亲。
母亲是机器，是隐藏的力量。母亲是理想，受人尊敬，是真正受爱戴的。在某种程度上，这提供了补偿，弥补了她们在商店排队时被插队，弥补了身体的日益发福。
再多说一点。在我孩子出生后的第三个晚上，我看着她的眼睛，意识到我所相信的任何事情都无法解释这一点。这是一个尴尬的时刻。我想我看到了她的灵魂。我坚信她的一部分是古老的，这使我很痛苦；那一部分选择在我开始了解这个新生命的时候就出现。我有一个聪明的孩子。
把她抱出医院，走进嘈杂的车流中，挂二档开车送她回家，在半夜喂她，在夜晚开始时，在黎明时，在这些如此珍贵的时刻，我发现自己在面对她广阔而未知的未来时退缩了。她会变成什么样子？她会怎么做？她什么时候会死？我希望她很多很多年都不会，最好永远都不会。命运的机制，她那会导致这样或那样结局的磨砺，对我来说变得非常不透明。有一千种事情可以伤害这个孩子，甚至让她与我疏远。我能做什么？我什么也做不了。只有祝愿。
宗教能够理解这样的情感。
我想，我已经以一种不同的、或许更激进的方式成为了人类。我让一些东西溜进时间的洪流中。相信这条河流——把它全部交到拥有更高权力的手中，除此之外，你还能做什么呢?
哦，那好吧。
除了受苦的基督，还有谁能知道母性带来的痛苦？
事实上，如果你不介意的话，我会抗拒这种痛苦的拉扯。即便你介意，我还是会反抗。
Translation Commentary
XUE Jie（薛洁）
When source and target languages are very divergent, I think it’s better to think and translate from the perspective of culture. For example, in “God”, we can read a lot of words and scenes about religion. The religious belief is linked to the history, politics, economy and other aspects of Ireland. Discussions of religious belief and gender inequality are common themes in Irish literature. The mother figure represented by the Virgin Mary is even more common.
In the works of Anne Enright, the mother images can be divided into three categories: the mother who indulged in lust and eventually led to family tragedy, the mother who could not communicate with her children, and the mother of the new age who shouldered the responsibility of motherhood and could be independent. In the shaping of these mother images, Enright broke through the traditional mother image of Ireland with the Virgin Mary as the model, and no longer confined Irish mothers to the group image of selfless dedication, generosity and kindness, but lost the living characteristics. These mother images implied the requirement of Irish social culture on the role of Irish mother, and their breakthrough and innovation also reflected the change of Irish social reality.
In real life, men tend to be more privileged and women are less privileged and more vulnerable. But as an old Chinese saying goes, “to be a mother is to be strong,” the emotional strength and greatness that come with motherhood are the same in every culture. When translating this text, I also think of my mother and all the mothers I know. They are willing to endure hardships but do not want to let their children be wronged. They work hard to raise their children and pray for them when they cannot help.
The absence of male roles may express the author’s dissatisfaction and resistance to the weak position of women. It is clear that women are the key to the birth of new life. However, women in social life have not received due respect and praise. Since women are voiceless in politics, the author hopes to understand and comfort women in religion.
The mother in this text is sober and rational, and she can jump out of her gender limitations to speak for women objectively. She is well aware of the labour and worry of being a mother, as well as the inferiority and insignificance of human beings, so she can only bravely let her children go on the road, suffer setbacks, and grow up. At the same time, she also believes that women should speak up for themselves and resist some pains that can be avoided. Even at the risk of being questioned, she still dares to express her own thoughts and opinions. Her courage to do what she knows is impossible is admirable. I think it is the awakening of these women’s consciousness that will promote women to fight for the rights they deserve and then promote the progress of human civilization.