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.
为什么爱尔兰教会总是充满了女人而鲜少有男人,于我来说这一直是一个谜。抬头看着耶稣受难像,我认为女性在男性掌控的教堂中崇拜一个男性是件奇怪的事情。我觉得做一名天主教徒是愚蠢的,而当一个犹太人则意味更多次的施洗。然而,所有宗教做到了大部分政治体系所没能做到的一件事——称颂和嘉奖母亲。
她是机器,是隐藏的力量。她是理想,是可敬的形象,是真正的被爱。这在某种程度上弥补了母亲们在商店排队付款时,因被成堆的采购品遮挡而被售货员遗漏的心理落差。
除此之外,身为母亲还有更多的艰难体验。在我的孩子出生的第三个夜晚,我看着她的眼睛,意识到我之前相信的一切都不足以解释身为母亲的感受。这是令人尴尬的一刻。我想我看到了她的灵魂。宗教信念折磨着我,它迫使我相信孩子的一部分是古老的,在她的新生命开始时,这一古老的部分和我紧紧相连。我确信我有一个聪慧的孩子。
我把她带出医院,陷入车水马龙的噪音中;我开着调到二档的车缓缓送她回家;在午夜时分,在夜幕初降,在晨光熹微时我要给她喂奶——她是如此珍贵——想到她广阔而未知的未来,我发现自己会微微颤抖。她会有怎样的结果?她会做什么?她会何时死去?我希望,很多、很多年都不会,最好永远不会。命运的机制模糊难测,她的岁月无休无止地流逝,最终会抵达一个或另一个终点。这世间有一千种东西可能会伤害这个孩子,或是使她与我疏离。我能做什么?什么都做不了。只有竭尽所能。
这些都是宗教能够理解的感受。
我想我已经以一种不同的,也许是更激进的方式,成为了人类。我让一些东西流入了时间的长河。除了相信这条河流——并将之交付给人类之上更高等级的权力,你还能做什么?
哦,好吧。
除了苦难的基督,还有谁,能够知道母亲这一身份带来的痛苦?
实际上,如果你不介意,我会抗拒这一身份的牵绊。即使你介意,我仍旧会抗拒。
...........................................................
养育儿童实际上是一种洗脑。它是一个邪教,一个完全合法化的邪教。 想想看,当你加入一个邪教时,你会变得营养不良,你被剥夺了睡眠,你被迫从早到晚在不确定的时间里,完成重复的且无意义的任务,之后你专注地盯着你专制领袖的双眼,重复着无意义的短语或咒语,比如:“哦,太好了。” 是的,你是邪教的一员! 邪教成员和父母一样,被精神感受淹没,常常泪流满面。 邪教成员和父母一样,往往嘴上说着胡言乱语,眼里满是幸福和茫然。他们知道自己有点发疯,但他们无能为力。他们管这叫做爱。
节选自安妮·恩莱特所著《创造婴儿的“神”:跌跌撞撞成为母亲》,伦敦:Vintage出版社,2005,pp. 138。
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.
为什么爱尔兰教会总是充满了女人而鲜少有男人,于我来说这一直是一个谜。抬头看着耶稣受难像,我认为女性在男性掌控的教堂中崇拜一个男性是件奇怪的事情。我觉得做一名天主教徒是愚蠢的,而当一个犹太人则意味更多次的施洗。然而,所有宗教做到了大部分政治体系所没能做到的一件事——称颂和嘉奖母亲。
她是机器,是隐藏的力量。她是理想,是可敬的形象,是真正的被爱。这在某种程度上弥补了母亲们在商店排队付款时,因被成堆的采购品遮挡而被售货员遗漏的心理落差。
除此之外,身为母亲还有更多的艰难体验。在我的孩子出生的第三个夜晚,我看着她的眼睛,意识到我之前相信的一切都不足以解释身为母亲的感受。这是令人尴尬的一刻。我想我看到了她的灵魂。宗教信念折磨着我,它迫使我相信孩子的一部分是古老的,在她的新生命开始时,这一古老的部分和我紧紧相连。我确信我有一个聪慧的孩子。
我把她带出医院,陷入车水马龙的噪音中;我开着调到二档的车缓缓送她回家;在午夜时分,在夜幕初降,在晨光熹微时我要给她喂奶——她是如此珍贵——想到她广阔而未知的未来,我发现自己会微微颤抖。她会有怎样的结果?她会做什么?她会何时死去?我希望,很多、很多年都不会,最好永远不会。命运的机制模糊难测,她的岁月无休无止地流逝,最终会抵达一个或另一个终点。这世间有一千种东西可能会伤害这个孩子,或是使她与我疏离。我能做什么?什么都做不了。只有竭尽所能。
这些都是宗教能够理解的感受。
我想我已经以一种不同的,也许是更激进的方式,成为了人类。我让一些东西流入了时间的长河。除了相信这条河流——并将之交付给人类之上更高等级的权力,你还能做什么?
哦,好吧。
除了苦难的基督,还有谁,能够知道母亲这一身份带来的痛苦?
实际上,如果你不介意,我会抗拒这一身份的牵绊。即使你介意,我仍旧会抗拒。
...........................................................
养育儿童实际上是一种洗脑。它是一个邪教,一个完全合法化的邪教。 想想看,当你加入一个邪教时,你会变得营养不良,你被剥夺了睡眠,你被迫从早到晚在不确定的时间里,完成重复的且无意义的任务,之后你专注地盯着你专制领袖的双眼,重复着无意义的短语或咒语,比如:“哦,太好了。” 是的,你是邪教的一员! 邪教成员和父母一样,被精神感受淹没,常常泪流满面。 邪教成员和父母一样,往往嘴上说着胡言乱语,眼里满是幸福和茫然。他们知道自己有点发疯,但他们无能为力。他们管这叫做爱。
节选自安妮·恩莱特所著《创造婴儿的“神”:跌跌撞撞成为母亲》,伦敦:Vintage出版社,2005,pp. 138。
Translation Commentary
Jie Wang
In Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, Anne Enright offers a sober and funny memoir of a woman who enjoys and suffers a lot during the early period of her motherhood. The author expresses her intense love for her children but is not afraid to reflect on the difficulties, such as sleeplessness, tiredness and loneliness, which are brought by pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood.
As an episode of Making Babies: Stumbling into Motherhood, "God" focuses on the struggles a woman suffers in her early motherhood. When I was translating "God" from English to Chinese, I made my translation resonate with the harsh, honest and intimate tone of her text. The memoir certainly helps to consider the advantages and disadvantages of motherhood carefully before becoming a mother.
I am not sure if the text will appeal to most male readers who often ignore the difficulty of women. Mothers are divinized as gods by most religions. It is not only in Western but also in Eastern societies that mothers are dehumanized as selfless sacrificers and great but quiet superheroes. They are required by the public to be docile, laborious and virtuous and be silent about what they suffer. Their anger, agony, confusion and gloominess are marginalized and even erased by the patriarchal society. Therefore, this text is a comfort and a relief for female readers, as the experience of motherhood is captured here in a humorous and enlightening way.