记忆记忆 玛丽亚斯捷潘诺娃 著 宣告俄罗斯文学重返世界文坛之书 俄语文学哲思录 20世纪俄罗斯犹太家族史 中信出版社图书 pdf mobi txt 2024 电子版 下载

《记忆记忆》是当代俄语世界著名诗人玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的新类型复合小说：既有历史，也有哲学，更是文学。

小说主要由两条线串起：一条是作者对于旧物，文献，以及试图“记忆”的人们——所作的文学和哲学的思辨：桑塔格，曼德尔施塔姆，茨维塔耶娃，塞巴尔德，夏洛特·萨洛蒙等 等等等皆 进 入了她的视野。在现在与过去中思考中得到新的诠释。

另一条则是作者通过寻找家族遗迹，回溯俄罗斯近代史中的自我家族史，拼凑出一个犹太家族几代人生命故事的历程：他们有的融入宏大叙事，刚满20岁便牺牲在伟大的卫国战争中；有的与历史擦肩而过：参与了20世纪初期的俄国革命，成为俄国第一批“留法学医女学生”，回国后却就此沉寂；有的参与了热火朝天的苏联大建设，然而在1991年苏联解体之时毅然决然移民德国，有的——诸如在书中隐形却又无处不在的作者本人，则同一个告别过去又满是记忆的国家一起迈入了新世纪，思考俄罗斯的当下，以及或近或远的未来……

这两条线相依相交，勾勒出巨大20世纪的诡谲风云与微小浪花。精巧复杂，娓娓道来，又包含了俄罗斯式的辽阔和沉思。在追溯与思辨中， “后记忆时代的俄罗斯”得到思考，包括俄罗斯在内的整个欧美文艺界的先贤们被重审，过去与现在、逝者与生者之间的关系和逻辑被再度梳理——“关于他们我所能讲述的越少，他们于我便越亲近。”

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编辑推荐

★ “近年来最重要的俄语小说”，宣告俄罗斯文学重返世界文坛之书。

★ 一部与整个欧美文艺界对话的俄语文学哲思录；一部解构重构犹太民族的20世纪俄罗斯犹太家族史。

★“当代俄罗斯是一个后记忆的时代”——后记忆时代的俄罗斯一部杰出的“反记忆”小说。

★ 2018年出版即获俄罗斯国内三项文学大奖：俄罗斯国民级文学奖“大书奖”、 新文学大奖“鼻子奖” ，以及以托尔斯泰庄园命名的文学大奖“亚斯纳亚-波利亚纳”奖之“读者选择奖”。入围 2021年美国国家图书奖翻译文学长名单、2021年国际布克奖名单、2022年法国费米娜奖（ Prix Feminar ）长名单等国际文学奖项。

★问世短短两年，迅速被译为德，法，英，意，荷兰，瑞典，芬兰等多种语言，在欧洲取得巨大成功。

★“我曾经对于自我家族的以下几点确信不疑：

我们家族中没有人在革命和国内战争中牺牲。

没有人遭受镇压。

没有人死于屠犹。

没有人被杀。

亦没有杀人者。

但上面中的好几项突然变得布满疑团，甚至干脆是非真实的。”

——《记忆记忆》，玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃

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媒体推荐

近几年最重要的俄语小说。

——莫斯科回声（俄罗斯）

一本十年一遇的元小说——杰出的文学重构，创造了一种全新的文学体裁，叙述了记忆，时间，与历史的纠葛。

——《文学》杂志（俄罗斯）

其风格精妙绝伦，其出版切中时代。

——《新苏黎世报》（瑞士）

片段式的反思和有力的诗性。

——《柏林报》（德国）

玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃早在普京时代前就已经是一位相当重要，充满创造力的诗人，然而时代却呼唤更强硬更公众化的角色。非常不幸，西方对其的认可远远落后于其负盛名的俄罗斯。

——《洛杉矶书评》（美国）

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名人推荐

只凭《记忆记忆》这一部作品，玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃，就足以进入当代文学大师行列。

——作家，赵松

趋于宏大与归于微末，涉及时代又潜入生活，苦难与诗意难解难分，叙事与哲思纵横交错。这是一部无法界定文体、难以概括内容、不可能找到师承的个性之书。斯捷潘诺娃写尽记忆对于幸存者的意义与伤痛、记忆对于历史的抗争与补充、记忆对于记忆的执念与无能。就像本书的核心喻体瓷娃娃，它们在承载历史时受伤，也正是伤痕使得每个个体独一无二。而珍视记忆，就是为残缺的瓷娃娃树碑立传，使得它们不至沦为历史车轮下一粒看不到的微尘。

——学者、书评人，马凌

一次关于家族记忆和时代记忆的旅行，一次关于记忆本质的探寻。

——评论人、诗人，胡桑

《记忆记忆》，并非只是一本关于追忆（母系）家族的年谱，还带着同时作为一名女诗人关于社会的理性透视与“元”思考。亦如斯捷潘诺娃的诗歌，《记忆记忆》的“文学语言独具特色，语言所有层次上的异化处理均有建树，从而让新的思想潜能得以呈现”。

——诗人、俄语译者，骆家

《记忆记忆》是一位年轻女诗人关于家族往事的文学想象，也是她关于俄国历史、犹太人命运和记忆本质的哲学思索。

——中国俄罗斯文学研究会会长，俄语文学译者、学者，刘文飞

《记忆记忆》是一部极具探索性的作品，这一点从书名即可看出。读者既可以把前者理解为动词，而将后者看成名词，也可以全部当作名词。在这部书中，打破惯性思维的语词组合俯拾皆是，充分凸显了语言的诗性，由此照亮了现实中一部分被遮蔽的生活。

——俄语文学学者、“金色俄罗斯”系列主编，汪剑钊

玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃是当代俄罗斯最优秀的诗人之一，在这本书中她探索家族记忆（交流记忆）如何转化为文化记忆，俄国知识分子如何通过记忆保留白银时代精神。

——俄语文学译者、学者，李莎

这本书给我以极大震撼，有种要炸裂的感觉：那种无法言传和捋清的感受，各种记忆的碎片夹杂着情感，让我摸到了俄罗斯文化的不同层次，又好像摸到了自己童年生活的一些片段。

——书评人、俄罗斯历史文化学者，张猛

中文版序

第一部

第一章 他者日记

第二章 无数缘起

第三章 若干照片

第四章 死人之性

插 章 列昂尼德·古列维奇（1942 或1943）

第五章 阿莱夫与后续

第六章 后记忆

第七章 不公及其切割面

插 章 尼古拉·斯捷潘诺夫（1930）

第八章 自由与殖民

插 章 奥莉加·弗里德曼（1934）

第九章 选择问题

第二部

第一章 永远的漂泊者

插 章 萨拉·金兹堡（1905—1915）

第二章 戈德切恩＆伍德曼

第三章 曼德尔施塔姆＆塞巴尔德

插 章 奥莉加·古列维奇（1947 ？）

第四章 正面＆背面

第五章 夏洛特，或抗拒

插 章 斯捷潘诺夫一家（1980，1982，1983，1985）

第六章 雅各的声音，以扫的照片

第七章 廖吉克，或沉默

第八章 约瑟夫，或顺从

第九章 我所不知道的

第三部

第一章 命运难逃

第二章 儿童房来的廖尼奇卡

第三章 男孩们和女孩们

第四章 摄像师之女

译后记

玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃（Мария Степанова）

俄罗斯诗人、作家、知名出版人和媒体人。毕业于高尔基文学院，曾获德国传媒大奖“斑比奖” “帕斯捷尔纳克文学奖” “安德烈·别雷奖”等。著有十部诗集和三部散文集。代表作《记忆记忆》2018年一出版便夺得当年 俄罗斯文学界三项大奖：“大书奖”“鼻子奖”及以托尔斯泰庄园命名的“ 亚斯纳亚-波利亚纳”奖之“读者选择奖”，并迅速被译为德、英、法、意、瑞典、芬兰等多国语言，在欧洲获得巨大成功。创办并主编俄罗斯独立文艺资讯网站colta.ru，其月访问量近百万。

斯捷潘诺娃非常活跃，除创办和主编网站外，还曾受邀前往斯坦福大学、剑桥大学、基辅大学等欧美高校访学并作演讲和诗歌朗诵。于2019年受邀参加北岛主办的“香港国际诗歌之夜。

李春雨

1987年生人，祖籍河北易县，现居厦门。北京外国语大学俄罗斯文学博士，厦门大学助理教授，俄语译者。出版专著《老舍作品在俄罗斯》，译有《法国侯爵——克雷洛夫剧作集》《记忆记忆》等，与他人合译《我的中尉》《拉斯普京访谈录》。

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关于我们家族的历史，我想得越多，就越觉得它像是一部未偿夙愿的清单：别佳·利别尔曼和她那从未开始的医生梦；他的儿子廖尼亚做过那么多职业，却似乎终究未能找到最重要的、唯一的使命；旧俄律师米哈伊尔·弗里德曼四十出头便英年早逝，他那倔强的遗孀萨拉终究未能将家庭的小船拖到港湾；我的妈妈，娜塔莎·古列维奇一直在偷偷创作自己的“抽屉诗歌”，铅笔尖轻悬在稿纸上，留下淡而又淡的痕迹，专等时间将它慢慢褪色。我们斯捷潘诺夫家的人在这方面同样不甘落后：喜欢唱歌的加利娅姑妈，手抄了数不清的浪漫曲，专挑不会有人听见的时候低吟浅唱；科利亚爷爷痴迷绘画，在别热茨克的整个童年时代都是拿着画笔度过的，尝试过各种类型，画了无数草稿，一直没有放弃，“比你爸爸画的都好。”加利娅姑妈对我说——在她看来，我爸爸便是最具权威的画家。这些画作日积月累，直到1938年。加利娅清楚地记得那一天，家里人为预防被捕烧毁了各种文件，所有的家庭通信和照片都被扔进了火炉，末了，科利亚爷爷将厚厚一摞画稿，他毕生的心血，投入了火中。后来他虽然没被搜捕，但画笔从此再没摸过了。

就这样，他们所有人都没能成为自己。不过，我们家倒是有个远得不能再远的远房亲戚，每当她的歌声从广播里飞出，在公共厨房和走廊里回荡时，就好像在为整个甘于寂寞的家族鸣不平，为整个沉默的家族发声。但她本人自然从未这样想过，她只是度过了自己的一生而已。

在后院，我久久地摩挲着潮湿的萨拉托夫墙砖。院子里的一切完好如初。这个我从未见过、也从未听人描述过的太姥爷的院子，我准确无误地辨认出来。无论是圈着重瓣金光菊的木板栅栏，还是曲折的院墙和墙上的木料砖块，抑或是栅栏旁边随意摆放的那把凳面破损的凳子，都与我一见如故。它们在说，你终于来了。院子里有股强烈的猫骚味，但被花香盖住了。完全没有任何可以拿走留念的东西。

其实也根本不需要任何纪念品，在这些窗棂下，我清晰地回想起了一切，纤毫毕现地还原了家族当年在此地的生活：他们如何在这里居住，又为何离开了这里。院子将我抱在怀里。又驻足了十来分钟，我离开了，竭尽全力将其镌刻在脑海，像从镜框里取出镜面一样将画面拷贝下来，牢牢地嵌入工作记忆的榫槽，以免其跑偏错位。返程列车的窗外，长长的沟渠波光粼粼地沿路飞奔，一个小型灰尘龙卷在空荡荡的铁路道口打旋。

约莫过了一个礼拜，萨拉托夫的友人打电话过来，十分难为情地告诉我，地址搞错了。街道没错，门牌号错了。对不起，玛莎，实在抱歉。

关于记忆，我所知道的大抵如此。

记忆是传说，而历史是描述；记忆在乎公正，而历史要求准确；记忆劝谕训诫，而历史清算纠正；记忆是主观性的，而历史追求客观性；记忆并非基于知识，而是基于体验，比如感同身受，比如同情怜悯。从另一方面来讲，记忆的领域充斥着投射、幻想、扭曲，是将我们今天的幻影投向过去。

我的太姥姥，孤独而倔强的，自1908年起旅居巴黎。1911年11月，卡夫卡曾短暂到访此地；在旅行伊始，他和马克斯·勃罗德曾一道计划出版系列旅行指南。其构想十分充分，颇有些类似于半个多世纪以后问世的Lonely Planet，读者们可以在其帮助下放心大胆地乘坐廉价的三等车厢游遍意大利，选择乘坐公共电车而非出租马车。勃罗德草拟了指南框架，填充了关于折扣和免费音乐会的信息。卡夫卡总共只写了两句话，其中一句是“小费的准确数额”。指南中还包含购物建议：到巴黎必须享受菠萝、牡蛎和玛德琳贝壳蛋糕。彼时，距离令玛德琳贝壳蛋糕享誉全球的《追忆似水年华》首卷出版只剩下不到两年时间。

同样在这年十一月的这些天，巴黎街头还漫步着刚刚结束德国旅行的里尔克；各大报纸正在热议《蒙娜丽莎》失窃案，嫌疑犯之一便是默默无闻的诗人纪尧姆·阿波利奈尔。1911年是极为寻常的一年，比任何一年都既不好，也不坏。“俄国演出季”向公众推出斯特拉文斯基的《彼得鲁什卡》。《约翰·克利斯朵夫》正一部接一部，缓慢而准时地出版，这部长得没有尽头的巨著在我们家族的女性中间受到狂热追捧（却被普鲁斯特嗤之以鼻，他甚至打算撰文“反对罗曼·罗兰”）。

从四月开始，在格博兰街（拉丁区的另一条街道，太姥姥也曾在此居住），列宁成功地讲授了政治经济学课程。四月底，高尔基前来投奔，二人商议了当前局势，列宁认定：“战争不可避免。”阿赫玛托娃和莫迪利亚尼各自坐在卢森堡公园的长凳上——付费座位对他们而言过于奢侈。这些人当中的几乎任何一位都对其余人的存在毫不知情，每个人都各自为政，囿于自我命运的透明袖筒中。

引自章节：第一章 命运难逃

姑妈死了。八十出头。我们并不亲，由于一长串的家庭龃龉和恩怨。我妈我爸跟她，怎么说呢，关系复杂。我们不常走动，也谈不上什么感情。只是偶尔通个电话，再偶尔见个面；后来，她把电话线给掐了（“谁的电话也不想接！”），一头扎进了自己亲手打造的结界里：在一大堆物什和小玩意儿中间—这些东西挤满了她的小房子。

加利娅姑妈生前对美有不懈追求：家具挪来挪去，墙壁刷了又刷，窗帘换了又换。有一次，好几年前了，她发动了一场大清扫，清扫逐渐席卷了整个屋子：对于必需之物审视再三，屋内一切都分门别类，一碗一碟都费尽思量，书籍纸张八方汇聚，一堆堆，一叠叠，街垒纵横。总共就俩房间，随着东西不断侵吞地盘，姑妈带上必需之物，从一间迁居到了另一间。但那里随即展开了新一轮的审视与评估。房子还活着，内脏却被掏出来，塞不回去了。再无所谓重要与否，剩下的一切都或多或少有其价值，特别是那些数十年间积攒下来的泛黄的报纸，以及罗马柱一样支撑着床和墙壁的一摞摞剪报。女主人的立身之所只剩下一座坍塌的小沙发。

令我印象深刻的那次见面，我俩就坐在这片孤岛上，周围是明信片和电视杂志掀起的海浪。姑妈殷勤地给我做了点什么西葫芦，又往我嘴里塞待客专用的高级巧克力，都被我嫌弃了。离我最近的剪报柱最顶上一张是《十二星座专属圣像》，顶部工整地标注着报名和出版日期，漂亮的字体，蓝色的墨迹，死掉的纸张。

柏拉图在《斐德罗》中对于书面记忆的态度十分不屑：

记忆开始转向外部，付诸文字和符号，而非源自自我内心。这种手段其实不是记忆，而是提醒。你传授学生的乃是虚假的，而非真正的智慧。他们可能会道听途说很多东西，不必学习便可装出一副无所不知的样子，但实际上还是不学无术，无法与之沟通。他们会变成伪智者。

书籍介绍

《记忆记忆》是当代俄语世界著名诗人玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的新类型复合小说：既有历史，也有哲学，更是文学。

小说主要由两条线串起：一条是作者对于旧物，文献，以及试图“记忆”的人们——所作的文学和哲学的思辨：桑塔格，曼德尔施塔姆，茨维塔耶娃，塞巴尔德，夏洛特·萨洛蒙等 等等等皆 进 入了她的视野。在现在与过去中思考中得到新的诠释。

另一条则是作者通过寻找家族遗迹，回溯俄罗斯近代史中的自我家族史，拼凑出一个犹太家族几代人生命故事的历程：他们有的融入宏大叙事，刚满20岁便牺牲在伟大的卫国战争中；有的与历史擦肩而过：参与了20世纪初期的俄国革命，成为俄国第一批“留法学医女学生”，回国后却就此沉寂；有的参与了热火朝天的苏联大建设，然而在1991年苏联解体之时毅然决然移民德国，有的——诸如在书中隐形却又无处不在的作者本人，则同一个告别过去又满是记忆的国家一起迈入了新世纪，思考俄罗斯的当下，以及或近或远的未来……

这两条线相依相交，勾勒出巨大20世纪的诡谲风云与微小浪花。精巧复杂，娓娓道来，又包含了俄罗斯式的辽阔和沉思。在追溯与思辨中， “后记忆时代的俄罗斯”得到思考，包括俄罗斯在内的整个欧美文艺界的先贤们被重审，过去与现在、逝者与生者之间的关系和逻辑被再度梳理——“关于他们我所能讲述的越少，他们于我便越亲近。”

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编辑推荐

★ “近年来最重要的俄语小说”，宣告俄罗斯文学重返世界文坛之书。

★ 一部与整个欧美文艺界对话的俄语文学哲思录；一部解构重构犹太民族的20世纪俄罗斯犹太家族史。

★“当代俄罗斯是一个后记忆的时代”——后记忆时代的俄罗斯一部杰出的“反记忆”小说。

★ 2018年出版即获俄罗斯国内三项文学大奖：俄罗斯国民级文学奖“大书奖”、 新文学大奖“鼻子奖” ，以及以托尔斯泰庄园命名的文学大奖“亚斯纳亚-波利亚纳”奖之“读者选择奖”。入围 2021年美国国家图书奖翻译文学长名单、2021年国际布克奖名单、2022年法国费米娜奖（ Prix Feminar ）长名单等国际文学奖项。

★问世短短两年，迅速被译为德，法，英，意，荷兰，瑞典，芬兰等多种语言，在欧洲取得巨大成功。

★“我曾经对于自我家族的以下几点确信不疑：

我们家族中没有人在革命和国内战争中牺牲。

没有人遭受镇压。

没有人死于屠犹。

没有人被杀。

亦没有杀人者。

但上面中的好几项突然变得布满疑团，甚至干脆是非真实的。”

——《记忆记忆》，玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃

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媒体推荐

近几年最重要的俄语小说。

——莫斯科回声（俄罗斯）

一本十年一遇的元小说——杰出的文学重构，创造了一种全新的文学体裁，叙述了记忆，时间，与历史的纠葛。

——《文学》杂志（俄罗斯）

其风格精妙绝伦，其出版切中时代。

——《新苏黎世报》（瑞士）

片段式的反思和有力的诗性。

——《柏林报》（德国）

玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃早在普京时代前就已经是一位相当重要，充满创造力的诗人，然而时代却呼唤更强硬更公众化的角色。非常不幸，西方对其的认可远远落后于其负盛名的俄罗斯。

——《洛杉矶书评》（美国）

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名人推荐

只凭《记忆记忆》这一部作品，玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃，就足以进入当代文学大师行列。

——作家，赵松

趋于宏大与归于微末，涉及时代又潜入生活，苦难与诗意难解难分，叙事与哲思纵横交错。这是一部无法界定文体、难以概括内容、不可能找到师承的个性之书。斯捷潘诺娃写尽记忆对于幸存者的意义与伤痛、记忆对于历史的抗争与补充、记忆对于记忆的执念与无能。就像本书的核心喻体瓷娃娃，它们在承载历史时受伤，也正是伤痕使得每个个体独一无二。而珍视记忆，就是为残缺的瓷娃娃树碑立传，使得它们不至沦为历史车轮下一粒看不到的微尘。

——学者、书评人，马凌

一次关于家族记忆和时代记忆的旅行，一次关于记忆本质的探寻。

——评论人、诗人，胡桑

《记忆记忆》，并非只是一本关于追忆（母系）家族的年谱，还带着同时作为一名女诗人关于社会的理性透视与“元”思考。亦如斯捷潘诺娃的诗歌，《记忆记忆》的“文学语言独具特色，语言所有层次上的异化处理均有建树，从而让新的思想潜能得以呈现”。

——诗人、俄语译者，骆家

《记忆记忆》是一位年轻女诗人关于家族往事的文学想象，也是她关于俄国历史、犹太人命运和记忆本质的哲学思索。

——中国俄罗斯文学研究会会长，俄语文学译者、学者，刘文飞

《记忆记忆》是一部极具探索性的作品，这一点从书名即可看出。读者既可以把前者理解为动词，而将后者看成名词，也可以全部当作名词。在这部书中，打破惯性思维的语词组合俯拾皆是，充分凸显了语言的诗性，由此照亮了现实中一部分被遮蔽的生活。

——俄语文学学者、“金色俄罗斯”系列主编，汪剑钊

玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃是当代俄罗斯最优秀的诗人之一，在这本书中她探索家族记忆（交流记忆）如何转化为文化记忆，俄国知识分子如何通过记忆保留白银时代精神。

——俄语文学译者、学者，李莎

这本书给我以极大震撼，有种要炸裂的感觉：那种无法言传和捋清的感受，各种记忆的碎片夹杂着情感，让我摸到了俄罗斯文化的不同层次，又好像摸到了自己童年生活的一些片段。

——书评人、俄罗斯历史文化学者，张猛

• 作者：胡桑 发布时间：2020-10-30 13:42:34

  玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃说她想要写的是“后记忆”，不如说是要写“隐微的记忆”。但文本能说明一切，这本书终于给了我们一个别样的记忆世界，不再是成天沉溺在痛苦创伤记忆中的俄罗斯，而是一个个体如何面对自己的家族、亲友、历史上的作家尤其是微观生活。这本书让我们看到了俄罗斯文学终于又回到了当代文学的场域，关心当代世界的真实境况，不再期期艾艾于自己的民族历史特别是20世纪中期的历史。

• 作者：Berlinka 发布时间：2020-10-10 14:22:26

  文体把控力是惊人的，却非我所关注的重点。玛丽娅这本无法定义体裁的作品，有一种向内无限扩展的思想张力，她本人的经历和在作品中持续延展的经历，让我遥望到一种新鲜而颇具振奋力的视野：在全球悲哀性地趋于保守倒退的当下，俄国文学如何逆水行舟，开拓一种不同于俄国文学传统的、“时刻把眼睛睁大瞧世界”的新界。不过，这种看似新鲜的努力，也是一种危险的努力：如何保持自我的纯真，又接纳世界的冗杂多彩，这可不仅仅是俄国文学在当代的难题。

• 作者： 发布时间：2021-10-20 14:41:46

  这么多的图，如此糟糕的排版，做成大开本会死啊……

• 作者：malingcat 发布时间：2020-10-30 13:23:13

  承蒙信任，看了试读本。绝赞，一定是我今年的年度前三（有一个名额给了托卡尔丘克）。研究“记忆”的、研究“物质”的、研究“跨文体”的、研究“白银时代”和“犹太文学”的，各取所需，皆大欢喜。

• 作者：momo 发布时间：2020-11-24 18:41:40

  尊重作者，尊重译者，尊重编辑

• 作者：尸律鬼 发布时间：2020-11-24 22:32:56

  好书不应该被祸害

• 作者：中信大方 发布时间：2020-10-23 17:04:18

  引：反记忆

  尽管玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃本人在采访中否认“反记忆”的概念，我仍然“违背作者意愿地”将其作为了本书的定调：“一本写尽了记忆的反记忆小说”。

  记忆，诸如家族史，诸如自传，诸如口述史，甚至我们这个时代乐此不疲的对于历史事件的挖掘和试图还原——这构成了层出不穷的人文社科专著，而记忆则是一座可供挖掘的宝藏，对其的探究已成为全球性的事件和习俗：每年回溯过去的书不胜枚举；同为俄罗斯大书奖的获奖作品，便包含好几部传记。但在“挖掘真相，记住过去”的思潮下，斯捷潘诺娃这部30万字，结构复杂的跨文体小说，却提供了另一种思路：记忆之不可寻，以及饶过记忆。

  起：夏洛特

  《记忆记忆》一书的序幕从封面的瓷娃娃拉开，这种被称为“冰人夏洛特”（Frozen Charlotte）的娃娃由19世纪中期的德国批量生产，至今已成为欧美无人不知的小古董（eBay上就买得到，几美元一个），并且由于其天赋的瘆人感，成为恐怖小说的绝佳取材（顺便一提，瑞典版封面就由这些瓷娃娃铺成，看起来宛若B级小说）。冰人夏洛特作为意象，贯穿了《记忆记忆》一书，斯捷潘诺娃在《记忆记忆》一书中如是描写：

  “我在一个专卖各种妇女饰物的摊位发现了一个盒子，里面放着成堆的白瓷娃娃。奇怪的是，没有一个是完好无损的，多多少少都带着点残疾：缺胳膊断腿的，带豁口的，有疤痕的。

  我当然也随口问了问女摊主，还有没有更完好的，作为回答，她给我讲了一个故事。据她说，这些瓷娃娃出产于德国某城市，自19世纪80年代末开始，连续生产了半个世纪。当时它们随处可见，食品杂货铺和日用品商店都有卖。但这些造价低廉的瓷娃娃最主要的一个用途，是作为货物运输时的减震垫，以免贵重物品在运输途中相互磨损。换言之，这些瓷娃娃生来就是为了牺牲的。”

  线索：我“平凡的族人”与历史的“大人物”

  斯捷潘诺娃开始挖掘家族秘史的契机很简单，“不满于族人的平凡而好奇”：“小时候，我非常失望于家族成员的庸常职业：工程师啦，图书管理员啦，医生啦，会计啦，无一例外，全部普普通通、平凡无奇，任何快活或者冒险的气息都无从期待。”其方式也并不出奇：无非是搜集信件，照片，重访家族旧地，譬如全书末尾附上的照片，正是她在文中所描述的：“在低矮的天空下漫步的人群中间，有一位身姿笔直的女性。她独自一人背对镜头而立，穿着浅色夏装的纤细后背构成了照片的纵轴线，好似静止的旋转木马的中间立柱。戴着硬料帽子的头向后仰起，手捧一大束鲜花。面部虽然看不清楚，但我愿意相信，她就是我的太姥姥萨拉。”

  太姥姥萨拉·金兹堡中年丧夫，独自将女儿抚养长大。然而，少女时期的她正是因为参与了20世纪初的俄国革命，才被家人送去巴黎的索邦大学的。彼时索邦大学本地学生对抢占名额，土里土气却学习刻苦（可恶至极）的“俄国女留学生”颇为反感。太姥姥在一番艰难取得医生执照后，回到俄国，一生波澜不惊。她的闺蜜，曾经的革命密友，斯维尔德诺娃，其兄长斯维尔德诺夫正是英年早逝的革命先辈，也是列宁忠实的战友——一次完美的与历史擦肩而过。

  其他祖辈们似乎也并非那么“平凡”：另一先祖伊萨克·古列维奇，其名字竟已载入当地史册，更是有一条街以其为名，在当年给这位“工业大资本家”寄信，只须写上“古列维奇，赫尔松”，信件便会准确抵达。然而赫尔松地方志显示：此君并无后人。

  这种矛盾贯穿了斯捷潘诺娃的追寻：她一路颠簸抵达先祖的故居，站在院中，似乎能感受到自己与他们冥冥中的联系，心中充满奇异的柔情，几天后却被友人告知——“玛莎，似乎搞错地址了，非常抱歉”；她翻到了一张十分不苏联的裸女照片，又翻到了外祖父和外祖母年轻时（廖尼亚与廖利娅，天造地设）缠绵悱恻的往来情书，联系起来竟挖掘出两人婚后，在孙辈眼中恩爱下的貌合神离；她亢奋地写信给父亲，希望父亲提供其在远东“建设苏联祖国”时的信件——印象中如《鲁宾逊漂流记》一般妙趣横生的生活——却被父亲生气地拒绝：那不过是虚假繁荣。

  家族的个人记忆逐渐变得浑浊而令人迷茫，宏大历史节点：列宁格勒大围困，大清洗，排犹，医生案……与族人的平凡生活竟微妙地交织错落，一切宛如浮舟下幽微的黑色河水：

  “我曾经对于自我家族的以下几点确信不疑：

  我们家族中没有人在革命和国内战争中牺牲。

  没有人遭受镇压。

  没有人死于屠犹。

  没有人被杀。

  亦没有杀人者。

  但上面的好几项突然变得布满疑团，甚至干脆是非真实的。”

  ——那么，集体记忆如何？斯捷潘诺娃以新的视角切入了对欧美文艺圈的思辨，比如，犹太共同体：嘲笑曼德尔施塔姆“犹太崽子”的吉皮乌斯；“夸赞”“在和这些人交往的过程中完全不会想到犹太人，除了文化之外感受不到任何其他东西”的托马斯·曼；被以赛亚·柏林评价为“只是因为他不喜欢。他更希望犹太人能够被同化，不再成之为一个民族。我注意到，我每次提及犹太人或者巴勒斯坦都会给他带来明显的痛苦”的帕斯捷尔纳克——彼时不安与恶感平等地笼罩着整个欧洲的所有人，“人物”也不例外。

  而同时，有倾向性的，走向单一叙事和单一道德诉求的集体记忆同样具有非真实性。如夏洛特·萨洛蒙，在20岁出头闭关创作出762幅水彩——这便是后面惊世骇俗的展览“人生？如梦？”，波洛克评价道：“梵高花了10年的时间创作了大约850幅画作，而萨洛蒙则在不到一年的时间里创作了769幅画作，由此我们可以推测当时形势的紧急程度。”这也正是对其创作认知的一个基调，衍生一下，便是“反抗纳粹——属于犹太人的杰作”。斯捷潘诺娃详细分析了其创作，却认为：“画家化身为又一幅集体苦难的圣像画，变成了好莱坞电影的热门素材——但并非因为她所成就的，而是因为她所遭受的。”仅仅因为她极其偶然地遭遇了一系列历史事件，便将其归入其中，其创作动机和意义便被普遍地简化和扭曲了。

  带着这样的怀疑和逻辑，斯捷潘诺娃介入到对20世纪欧美文艺圈和事件的重审中，集体中分割个体，个体中“否认记忆”：从茨维塔耶娃和曼德尔施塔姆的论争，到约瑟夫·康奈尔的魔盒；从塞巴尔德的物件清单，到戈德切恩的摄影展览；从多布罗温为高尔基演奏的乐曲，到玛丽·塔廖尼的奇遇。纳博科夫，朗西埃，哈尔姆斯，桑塔格，夏里亚宾，塔可夫斯基，普拉斯，霍夫曼……皆成为玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃解构和重构的源泉和参考。

  终：幸存者

  如果说，斯捷潘诺娃在追寻家族故事时候，“生来便是为了牺牲”的夏洛特们映射了默默无闻，衬托了“历史的贵重物品”的族人们，那么当名为夏洛特的女画家在历史的集体记忆中同样失却自我这一事实，便重赋了“冰人夏洛特”以新的意义：死者同样破碎，生者同样残缺——温柔的别佳和坚毅的萨拉带着毫无二致的庄严去世，正如茨维塔耶娃和曼德尔施塔姆关于过去和未来的论战以同样的坟冢为终；市场出售的夏洛特必然残缺，却又不至于破到认不出来。“冰人夏洛特”由此成为了记忆本身，也成为了追逐着过去的，作为时代幸存者共同体的我们，正如斯捷潘诺娃在“中文版序”里所言：“这本书我写了一辈子……当下活着的我们所有人都是幸存者的后代，他们全靠奇迹和偶然才活过了多灾多难的20世纪。这一点将我们联系起来，就像无人荒岛上的一群幸存者，每个人都是亲人。我们的交谈足以跨越代际、跨越距离、跨越语言。我能感受到这一亲缘关系的温度，尽管不无悲凉……我很幸福，我的这本书如今将呈现在中国读者面前，或许，它能让我们之间的共同性变得更多一些。” 而过去，“关于他们我所能讲述的越少，他们于我便越亲近。”

  文章仅代表责编对此书的理解，期待读者能从中看到其他更丰富的内容。

• 《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿-Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  作者：熬夜看稿五百斤 发布时间：2020-07-31 11:52:33

  《洛杉矶书评》对玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃的专访原稿

  “Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia.”

  “玛丽亚·斯捷潘诺娃早在普京时代前就已经是一位相当重要，充满创造力的诗人，然而时代却呼唤更强硬更公众化的角色。非常不幸，西方对其的认可远远落后于其负盛名的俄罗斯。”

  Mad Russia Hurt Me into Poetry: An Interview with Maria Stepanova

  MARIA STEPANOVA IS AMONG the most visible figures in post-Soviet culture — not only as a major poet, but also as a journalist, a publisher, and a powerful voice for press freedom. She is the founder of Colta, the only independent crowd-funded source of information in Russia. The high-traffic online publication has been called a Russian Huffington Post in format and style, and has also been compared to The New York Review of Books for the scope and depth of its long essays. The Muscovite is the author of a dozen poetry collections and two volumes of essays, and is a recipient of several Russian and international literary awards, including the prestigious Andrei Bely Prize and Joseph Brodsky Fellowship. She was recently a fellow with Vienna’s highly regarded Institut für die Wissenschaften vom Menschen. Her current project is In Memory of Memory, a book-length study in the field of cultural history.

  Stepanova has helped revive the ballad form in Russian poetry, and has also given new life to the skaz technique of telling a story through the scrambled speech of an unreliable narrator, using manic wordplay and what one critic called “a carnival of images.” Stepanova relishes this kind of speech “not just for how it represents a social language but for its sonic texture,” wrote scholar and translator Catherine Ciepiela in an introduction to her poems. “She is a masterful formal poet, who subverts meter and rhyme by working them to absurdity. For her the logic of form trumps all other logics, so much so that she will re-accent or truncate words to fit rigorously observed schemes.” According to another of her translators, Sasha Dugdale, myth and memory play an important part in poems: “She shares with her beloved W. G. Sebald a sense of the haunting of history, the marks it leaves on the fabric of landscape.”

  Maria Stepanova was already an important and innovative poet by the time of Vladimir Putin’s accession, but the times called for a tougher, more public role. Unfortunately, her recognition in the West has lagged behind the high profile she has in Russia. In this interview, she talks about both roles, and the way politics and poetry come together in her work.

  ¤

  CYNTHIA HAVEN: You’re a poet, but also a journalist and the publisher of a major crowd-funded news outlet in Russia, Colta. Yet Joseph Brodsky said, “The only things which poetry and politics have in common are the letters P and O.” Presumably, you disagree.

  MARIA STEPANOVA: There is a third word with the same letters: postmemory. Contemporary Russia is a realm of postmemory. I think it is a territory where poetry and politics still can meet each other on equal terms.

  Equal? Politics is a much more crude beast, surely. Look at our current elections. Look at elections everywhere.

  Well, we know crude and not-so-crude animals coexist in nature — and sometimes even manage to get along.

  So talk about this unusual coexistence, Russian-style.

  Russian reality is wildly political, but what is meant by “politics” is also wildly different — and not only because the Russian political world is one of repression. Remember that the ways and means of talking politics or even doing politics have long been different in Russia — not for a decade or two, but for centuries. Political thinking was impossible in the open, so it had to disguise itself. In order to form your views, or even to take direct instructions on what to do, you had to read some novel, or even a poem.

  People built their political views on Nikolay Chernyshevsky [author of the programmatic utopian novel What Is To Be Done?] or Dostoyevsky, and thus expected a certain level of political engagement from authors, even from poets. This has a flip side: a reader may treat reality more lightly, as if it were a work of fiction. That’s why it was so easy to revise and rewrite official history — in Stalin’s time or right now, under Putin. You are always looking for an example — for something to imitate — but there is nothing final about it.

  This search for an example, for a predecessor, is pervasive. When Russian politicians try to achieve something, they look for validation from the past — to Ivan the Terrible, to Lenin, to Brezhnev, or whatever. The same with Russian poets, who still rely heavily on different traditions. You can choose the one you like. You can look back to Pushkin or Brodsky, but also to, well, T. S. Eliot or Lyn Hejinian. It doesn’t really matter. The important thing is, we behave as if we are ascending the staircase but looking back. One always needs to feel the bannister under one’s hand. That is, we need something solid and from the past, which makes the present feel more real for us.

  Do you find that poetry, for you, is a space of freedom, even though it’s affected by your political predicament?

  I feel that the poetry is a powerful tool of inner resistance, because what’s important, what really counts, is how much you let the outer forces deform you. Poetry keeps you in shape. More important than outward protests is inner freedom, the ability to stay yourself. That is usually the first thing you lose. You can imitate the motions and doings of free people but be utterly unfree inside. You become an expert in deforming your inner reality, to bring it into accord with what the state wants from you — and this could be done in a number of subtle, unnoticed ways. This kind of damage weighs on us the most.

  I like what you said at Stanford, that poetry is, by definition, a form of resistance, because the first thing it resists is death.

  Absolutely. After all, it is one of the few known forms of secular immortality — and one of the best: your name may well be forgotten, but a line or two still have a life of their own, as it happened to lines of classic poetry. They come to life anew every time people fill them with their own voice or meaning.

  In fact, any activity that involves creating something from nothing — or almost nothing — is a way of taming death, of replacing it with new forms of life. When you are making a pie out of disparate substances — grains of sugar, spoons of loose flour that are suddenly transformed into something alive and breathing — it’s a living miracle. But this is even more evident when it comes to poetry, where the operative space is pure nothing, a limited number of vowels and consonants, which doesn’t need anything to stay alive besides the human mind; poetry doesn’t even need ink and paper, because it can be memorized. We are more lucky than musicians or artists, who need working tools, and budgets, and audience halls — poetry is a lighter substance. You know it was essential in the concentration camps and gulags — if you knew a good amount of verse by heart, they couldn’t take it away from you. Maybe I’m overly optimistic, but I think that poetry is better equipped to withstand political oppression. If you want to make movies or build opera houses, you have to bargain with the state, to make deals, and inevitably to lose.

  And yet you are a publisher and journalist, too. How do you balance the two worlds you inhabit?

  Strange as it may seem, it was never a serious matter for me. I never felt that these two levels were connected, or even coexisted. Maybe this also has something to do with what I was referring to — the schizoid way of addressing the present. It’s quite common in Russia: you can be thinking “this” and “that” at the same time, as if two notions were commenting on each other. This is very typical of the Soviet or post-Soviet space, with its sharp cleavage between the official way of behavior and the way you behave at home, between the official history and the hidden familial history, or what we call the “minor history (malaya istoriia).”

  And come to think of it, maybe I also divide my official face from my inner life. When I was a teenager, a student, I saw how the people who belonged to the previous generation were traumatized by the crash of the Soviet system of literary education and literary work. The Soviet Writers’ Union had been able to give writers enough to live on after publishing a book or a collection of poems in some literary magazine — for the official writers, of course, not to the authors of samizdat. You could live for three years after publishing a book, but it had to be a bad book, because it was the result of an inner compromise. Nevertheless, lots of people had the feeling that they could stay themselves and still, somehow, occupy some cozy step on the enormous staircase of the official Soviet literary establishment. When the system crashed, people were disappointed and disorientated. By 1992 or 1993, it became evident that the utopia wasn’t working anymore, especially for poets. It became evident that a book of poetry would never have a press run of more than 2,000 copies. It would never bring you money or even fame. I saw people crushed, melted, changed because of that. They had relied on a system that had suddenly vanished into thin air. They were still willing to make compromises, but there was no longer anyone to make a compromise with.

  And where did you fit into that architecture? You weren’t tempted to put a foot on that staircase?

  I was quite young and opinionated, so my attitude was rather harsh. I didn’t want to have anything in common with them. I refused to rely on poetry to make a living, to attain a position in the world. I would find some other professional occupation and would be as free as I could be in terms of poetry. It was the easiest way for me to stay independent. I split my world into halves.

  And that’s how it worked. I started in the mid-1990s as a copywriter in a French advertising agency, and then I switched to TV. Journalism happened rather late in my life. I cannot say it doesn’t affect my poetry, because it does. Of course it does. The things I deal with as a journalist get mixed up with the problems that make me tick as a poet. That space I was hoping to make — you know, the enclosed garden — is not secluded enough. It’s not enclosed now — the doors are wide open, and the beasts of the current moment are free to enter. Because I’m changing, too. You have to open the doorways to let the world in — to make the words come in, in fact. Because if poetry is a means of changing language, and changing the language is a means of changing the world around you, you must make sure that you’re ready to receive new words — words you find foreign or even ugly.

  That awareness is evident in your poetry, which features different voices, different registers, and discordant uses of language. Is that how today’s Russia affects your poetry?

  I think so, yes — “mad Russia hurt me into poetry.” You could say that the poet — that is, the author as a working entity — always has a kind of narrative mask or an optical system to serve a special purpose in the moment. The need to invent and reinvent the self never stops: you cannot do it just once, and every single thing that happens demands a complete change. The “you” who deals with new phenomena — birth, death, shopping, an idle conversation at the bus stop — is a new entity that hardly recognizes the previous ones. You know that all the cells of the human body are constantly replacing each other, and in seven years not a single cell of your old body is left. All that holds our personalities together is mere willpower — and our selves are as replaceable as brain cells. The human mind is a flowing thing, it is a process, and it happens somehow that the only solid and constant thing we can cling to is the inner zoo of the soul. I mean the persons and stories from the past that have no relationship to our own stories. Antigone or Plato or Brutus, invented or real, are actors in the theater of the mind. They do not change; they are strong enough for us to test them with our projections and interpretations. You could call the destructive element in yourself Medea or Clytemnestra — but it is you who is switching from one identity to another. In a mental theater, a single person plays all the parts.

  And that’s how you see the poetic process?

  I guess it is a fair description. A play is being performed, or maybe improvised, and there is an actor for every part, and a certain idiosyncratic language for each of them. But it is all centered on some very urgent question that is formulated from the outside, something you’ve been dealing with all your life: you’re born with this question and the need to answer it again and again. W. H. Auden spoke of neurosis as a life-shaping experience that is to be blessed — we’d never become what we are without it. I’m totally sure that certain patterns are shared, extrapolated to the scale of the whole society, so that everyone you know is shaped, at least partly, by the same problem. I guess this could describe what’s going on in a number of post-Soviet states; one can only wonder if a country can undergo some kind of therapy, if it can do collective work on collective trauma. Especially in times that are rather allergic to any collective project.

  I definitely share my compatriots’, my generation’s full range of traumas and voids. A few years ago, in 2014, in the midst of the Ukrainian wars, I suddenly wrote a longish poem about Russia. It was titled “Spolia” — you know, the architectural term, the densely metaphoric way of building new things, using some bits and parts of previous constructions in the process. You see it everywhere in Rome or Istanbul — pieces of marble, columns, stelae are used as mere bricks in a new wall. Sometimes an old building is demolished in order to provide elements for the new one. This involuntary coexistence of old and new is a good description of what happens to language in “interesting times.”

  And my poem was the result of utter shock: language was changing all around me. Not only was it heavily peppered with hate speech, but it also became utterly hybrid. People were quoting Stalin’s speeches, or brilliantly and unconsciously imitated the style of Pravda’s columns from the 1930s or ’50s, never realizing that they hadn’t invented these words. You have a good example of this now in the United States. When Donald Trump speaks about enemies of the state, he doesn’t know whom he is quoting — or even if he is quoting. I was living in a red-hot climate, and I still needed to find some reasons to continue. I mean, you have to love the place you live in. If it becomes utterly unlovable, you need to leave — or to find some other grounds for love.

  In the poem I quoted some of the criticism I was getting from critics regarding my “impersonality.” After my latest book, a number of them claimed that my work was a trick of sorts, empty and unrelatable, because I didn’t have a distinct and constant lyrical voice. I use other people’s voices, so I’m sometimes seen as an imitator, like Woody Allen’s Zelig, never having a full-grown ego, never able to speak in the first person — of myself, of my own needs and fears.

  It rather reflects your views about your country, doesn’t it?

  Well, that is exactly what I can say about Russia. It doesn’t really know what it is; self-definition is not our strong suit. It’s a huge, beautiful, and misused piece of land, inhabited by more ghosts than mortals, full of histories no one cares to remember, so they just keep repeating themselves — full of larger-than-life possibilities and a complete inability to avoid disaster. That was an image of the country I could identify with; in fact, for a while I ceased seeing any difference between myself and Russia, bizarre as it sounds. The Russian Symbolist poet Alexander Blok had called Russia his wife. I had a feeling that Russia was me — that our stigmas were the same.

  I was, in fact, identifying with the country. Not with the awful thing that was happening — the invasion of Donbass, the annexation of Crimea; there is no explanation or excuse for acts of evil, pure and simple, and these are among them. But to oppose the evil you have to learn the language of love. And to love Russia at that moment was a hard job. One had to become Russia, with its wastelands, faded glory, and the horrifying innocence of its everyday life — to speak with its voices and see with its multiple eyes. That’s what I was trying to do: to change my optical system, to dress my hate in a robe of light. You have to be a trickster to do that effectively. Well, my way of writing poetry is distinctive, in that it has to irritate — not only to affect or penetrate, but also to irritate.

  I’m still not sure that I’m answering the question, but maybe it’s the question itself that is important. That multilayered, multifaceted thing I’m trying to create aligns with what is going on in the Russian mind, in the Russian world. There is something very distinctive in the presence of the country, in the way it tends to describe itself, or to be described.

  Of course, we’ve just given a Nobel Prize to a woman who tried to do much of what you’re speaking about in prose, in journalism.

  You’re right, but Svetlana Alexievich writes nonfiction, or documentary fiction, and that’s another story. She is giving voice to real people; there are some true stories behind the books, a number of interviews, the feeling that you are dealing with documented reality. I am speaking with imaginary voices; they are real, but they don’t belong to me. (One Russian poet from the 18th century, Vasily Trediakovsky, used to say that poetic truth doesn’t inhere in what really happened, but in what could and must have happened.) I’m appropriating, or annexing, other people’s lives and voices, as if I were editing an anthology of unused opportunities. Sometimes it means I have to embrace the language of state officials, or criminals, or propaganda. The goal of the poetic, as well as of the political, is to make things visible, to force them into the light, even if they would prefer to stay in the darkness.

  By the way, Marina Tsvetaeva also used those jumbled voices, those different registers. You feel a certain affinity with her, yes?

  My parents conscientiously taught me reading at a very young age — around two-and-a-half, I guess. When I was six, I was reading everything I could lay my hands on, from Pushkin to The Three Musketeers, and lots of suspense novels, too. Then, on New Year’s Eve, someone gave my mother a two-volume edition of Marina Tsvetaeva. That was a rarity in Soviet times. It was an unbelievable gift, a kind of miracle — you couldn’t just go into the bookshop and buy Tsvetaeva or Mandelstam, you had to be a Party member to get it, or spend a fortune on the black market. I knew nothing about Tsvetaeva at the time. I was only seven. My mom read me lots of poetry, but this was something different. I opened the second volume, which had her prose. It was unlike anything I had read before.

  I still have a special affinity with Tsvetaeva. Not in terms of working with the language, because my ways of treating it are different, but in terms of how I see reality. Tsvetaeva lived under ethical standards, a moral pressure that was a constant presence in her life — some moral entity or deity that shaped her life, literally telling her what to do. Sometimes she surrendered to it, sometimes she resisted wildly.

  Nevertheless, she placed all her literary work in some kind of moral coordinate system. I find her example compelling. Because the question that’s essential for me is not the question of “how” or “what,” but rather of “who.” In the case of Tsvetaeva, we get that “who” in its fullest range, larger than life. You still can feel her presence — and that’s what counts.

  https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/mad-russia-hurt-me-into-poetry-an-interview-with-maria-stepanova/