《罂粟与记忆》读后感摘抄
《罂粟与记忆》是一本由[德] 保罗·策兰（Paul Celan）著作，华东师范大学出版社出版的精装图书，本书定价：68.00元，页数：298，特精心从网络上整理的一些读者的读后感，希望对大家能有帮助。
《罂粟与记忆》精选点评：
●#我们彼此相望，我们说些黑暗的事。我们相爱如罂粟和记忆，我们睡了像螺壳里的酒，像海，在月亮的血色光芒里。#
●译得极好，又附上了德文原文，我这个半吊子是德语也能基本查一查读一读。
●想借另一个版本重温策兰，发现这个版本的策兰跟我记忆里的不太一样啊，果然不同版本的风格差异还是太大了。先入为主的原因吧，不是很喜欢这个译本。
●翻译真是要命。
●策兰的哀伤是民族灭亡而独活的悲凉，所以满满的无助与绝望。 心情不好的时候不推荐看策兰的诗。 感谢整合出版。
●怎麼講，總是覺得孟明的語言怪怪的（不是說譯文準確性），直譯得不靈活而生硬。注釋的幫助也不是特別大。另外，對Todesfuge裏的“黑奶”和“死神”這兩個譯法有意見。
●我就是很喜欢保罗策兰啊
●很不喜欢这个译本
●译者很认真。 再读策兰的诗，有凿壁偷光之感。 你要这奄奄一息的亮光做什么？为了翻看自身无可奈何的存在？为了在深夜用鲜血给自己的影子调色，量度自戕者的抑郁和绝望？ 然而，别把耳朵贴得太紧，我们过于敏感，会把彼此的呼吸误以为是世界的回应。 耻辱和罪孽正隔墙而泣，累了，便在对方施舍的亮光里酣睡。 我偷光，凿灭“科技文明”的灯，只为了独自赏阅这一镜黑暗。 亲爱的策兰先生，今夜，我可以坐上你的浮尸，等待被时代弹落的白雪彻底埋没吗？
●策兰的诗是正午星辰，在最光亮处闪烁黑暗光辉。双语本，排版佳，值得收藏。
《罂粟与记忆》读后感(一)：布科维纳
布科维纳是个多语族共存地区，当地人讲德语、意第绪语、罗马尼亚语和乌克兰语。在延续了150年的多语言、多宗教传统中，他们共同创造了被称为 “布科维纳文化版图” 的黄金时代；而当地烙下犹太德语印记的文化，造就了好几代杰出的诗人和文化人。
坐落在喀尔巴阡山北麓一片山脚下的故城切尔诺维茨，德裔犹太人的聚居区，更因人杰地灵而有 “小维也纳” 之称。
直到二次世界大战初期，诗人的故乡才成为一块被分割被兼并的沦陷之土。
《罂粟与记忆》读后感(二)：黑暗的梦
保罗策兰早期的诗，收入《死亡赋格》等几首名作。纵观全集，早期诗歌的发挥并不稳定，有些感觉写得很一般，还在摸索风格阶段，但是有几首却极其精彩，策兰应该属于直觉性写作的那一类型，天才型诗人，有一些意象是他反复使用的，比如“喝”这个动词，还有眼睛、头发，黑暗、墓穴等都营造了一种黑暗梦境美学，就像蒙着一层薄薄的黑纱，伤感从中源源不断地流出，读他诗的过程中，被深深地陷进去。著名画家基弗说受他的诗歌影响很深，在读到几首诗的时候我也有这种感觉，立刻想到了基弗一组“裙子”的作品。
《罂粟与记忆》读后感(三)：策兰的子午线
每一首诗必将寻到它的Pygmalion，所有虔诚的创作都是某种意义上的神灵感应。策兰在毕希纳奖致辞<子午线>中称艺术是一种无子嗣的存在，诗孤独且在路上。是怎样的一种状态，诗人与诗永远在追寻一个他者，以及一个灵性与感性际会的时刻。他所遗留的子午线般的轨迹，穿越了无尽的黎明与黄昏，最终指归于自身——那些相爱如罂粟的记忆，那些远方燃烧着的乌有之地，和那些数着杏仁的苦涩难眠的夜晚。
他所走的一直是条没有终点的路，但经过诗的子午线将不断回归于生命之始初，死亡也将指向重生。想象诗人在赋格之曲中复活，上帝称光为昼，称暗为夜，清晨的黑牛奶从天明喝到夜晚，他的诗就是那失手打碎的牛奶杯。我们可以听见牛奶滴落的声音，甚至可以就着碎片啜饮它。他昔日的爱人，英格褒·巴赫曼，也曾在自己的小说中啜饮他的生命碎片。她说：'我的生命结束了，因为他在被押送的途中溺死于河里，他曾是我的生命。我爱他胜过我的生命。'而策兰早已以诗遥相回应——
「在我流泪时，你头发又扬波。以你眼睛那片蓝
你为我们的爱摆下餐桌：一张床，在夏秋之间
我们对酌，不是我，不是你，也不是某个第三者酿造的：
我们呷饮一杯空无和残余。
我们相望于深海的镜子，更快地把酒菜夹给对方：
夜就是夜，它和黎明一同降临，
把我安顿在你身边。」
忍不住叹息。诗人的心不死且温柔，永远是我们凡庸过客的风烟岬，他献给爱人的一小罐蓝也是献给人间的港口、潮汐与暖流。
《罂粟与记忆》读后感(四)：对照英译+随感小注（随缘更新）
孟明的译本精妙之处颇多，其注释所涉及的资料更是价值无量，但一首译诗中总会有几句“古风”出离之言，读来好不畅快，只可惜不识德语，无法对照原文一探究竟——去年十一月，pierre joris大佬完成了策兰前四部正式出版诗集的全部英译，并为每一首做了些许注释，与2014的策兰后期诗合集合于一处，使我们得以看到策兰绝大多数诗歌的英译本，再加上汉博格，费尔斯坦纳，波波夫等前人的译本，一个更为丰富的英文版策兰便能为我们所认知了。
（部分中英对照后差别较大处做了加粗处理）
第一辑
骨灰瓮之沙 The Sand from the Urns
1、A SONG IN THE DESERT*
A wreath was woven from blackening leafage in the region of Acra: there I pulled my black stallion around and jabbed at death with my rapier. And from wooden vessels did I drink the ash of the wells of Acra while with lowered visor I rode toward the ruins of the heavens.
For dead are the angels and blinded was the Lord in the region of Acra, and there is no one who would guard while I sleep those laid to rest here. Battered and profaned, the moon, the little flower from the region of Acra: thus bloom, just as the thorns do, the hands with their rusty rings.
Thus in the end I’ll have to bend down for the kiss, when they pray in Acra … O flawed was night’s brigandine, the blood is seeping through the clasps! Thus became I her smiling brother, the iron cherub of Acra.、 Thus do I still utter the name and still feel the burn on the cheeks.
《策兰传》中费尔斯坦纳为该诗提供了详细阐释。
2、AT NIGHT*
AT NIGHT your body’s brown from God’s fever: my mouth swings torches above your cheeks. Be not swayed, to whom no lullaby’s sung. The hand full of snow, I came to you,
and unsure, how your eyes go blue in the hours’ round. (The erstwhile moon was rounder.) Sobbed out in empty tents is the wonder, iced over the little jar of dreams—what does it do？
Remember: a blackening leaf hung in the elder— the alluring sign for the beaker of blood.
特粉小注：
该诗值得注意的是“fever”一词，在这里与其说它指激情，不如说是“热病”，而随后“我”的一系列举动也更似治疗而非情爱。
第三行汉译不知所云，此处贴出的英译也不十分明晰，另一英译本将该行译作：“Nothing shall be lulled, to which they did not sing a lullaby.”似乎更为清楚地传达了意味——其为对第二行的补充，唯有”我“烛炬般的嘴方能给人以催眠曲的功效，平缓神给予的热病。随后第四行的满手雪花，表层意也并非玄而又玄之物，不过是为热病患者物理降温而已。
白色——雪——记忆，蓝色——水——遗忘，以此解读”The hand full of snow“与”your eyes go blue“的冲突，施热病的神与诗人治愈者间的对立。在这之后诗歌写的乃是烛炬般的嘴吐露的三句言辞：空帐篷里奇迹哭泣（奇迹自身的无能为力）；梦的小壶结冰已无法接近吸吮寻求慰藉；本该为碧绿或鲜红的接骨木已然只剩一片发黑叶子了，这正好似今日的圣杯（血杯）之形，引诱人的标识（孟译”好兆头“或不准确）而已，既如此，又何必染上热病沉醉于此呢——救赎是不存在的。
类似的思索呈现在同一部诗集中更知名情感更强烈的《晚与深》里，可与此诗互参。
3、FOR NAUGHT YOU DRAW HEARTS
FOR NAUGHT YOU DRAW HEARTS on the window: The Duke of Stillness recruits soldiers in the castle courtyard. He hoists his banner in the tree—a leaf that blues for him when it autumns; he shares the stalks of melancholy among the host and the flowers of time; with birds in the hair he goes forth to bury the swords.
For naught you draw hearts on the window: there’s a God among the hosts, wrapped in the coat that once sank from your shoulders on the staircase, at night time, once, when the castle stood in flames, when you spoke like the humans: Beloved … He knows not the coat and didn’t call the star and follows the leaf that floats ahead. “O stalk,” he thinks he hears, “O flower of time.”
4、MARIANNE*
Your hair lacks lilacs, your face is mirror-glass. From eye to eye the cloud drifts, like Sodom toward Babel: like leafage it shreds the tower and rages around the sulfur-bush.
Then lightning flickers at your mouth—that ravine with the violin’s remnants. With snowy teeth someone guides the bow: oh the sedge sounded finer!
Beloved, you too are the sedge and we all, the rain; your body a wine sans pareil, and we’re ten who imbibe; a boat in the grains of your heart, we row it nightward; a little jug of blueness, so you hop over us lightly, and we sleep …
Before the tent the hundred pull up, and carousing we carry you to the grave. Now the hard thaler of dreams resounds on the flagstones of the world.
5、TALLOWLIGHT*
The monks with hairy fingers laid open the book: September. Jason now throws snow at the sprouting seed. A necklace of hands the forest gave you, so dead you walk the rope. A darker blue becomes part of your hair, and I speak of love. Shells I speak and light clouds, and a boat buds in the rain. A little stallion gallops over the leaf-turning fingers— Black the gate leaps open, I sing: How did we live here？
6、THE HAND*
THE HAND full of hours, so did you come to me—I said: Your hair is not brown. So you lifted it easily onto the scales of grief; there it lay, heavier than I …
They come to you on ships loaded down with it, they put it up for sale on the markets of lust — You smile at me from the depths, I weep toward you from the scale that stays light. I weep: Your hair is not brown, they offer the water of the sea,and you give them locks of hair … You whisper: They do fill the world with me now, and for you I remain a narrow pass through the heart! You say: Treat yourself to the foliage of the years—it’s time you came closer and kissed me!
The foliage of the years is brown, your hair is not.
特粉小注：
该诗所写近乎一段对话，意味颇为模糊，与“我”对话的“你”身份不明，我们能确定的是，“你”为女性，经受苦难，贩卖欲望，试图靠近并诱惑“我”，而“我”最终给予拒绝。因此，我们不妨假设，自浅层意义上看来，“你”是一位多难的风尘女子，进而衍生出更多的象征意味——例如，某种风格的诗歌（表现主义？感伤主义？）与其缪斯。
“满手时间”，确切的说该是“满手时辰”，这些时辰乃是“我‘与”你“亲密的记录，是记忆中不可去除的部分。
“我”始终在强调一句话“你的头发不是褐色的”，兴许这里的褐色是属于诗人的私人记忆，是其苦难史上留给他深刻印象的女子特征——是“路得，拿俄米，米利暗”（见《在埃及》）中的一位。
”岁月的叶子“——流逝时间之喻，西方诗歌常见的隐喻，盖从《伊利亚特》衍生。此处的”你“仿佛罂粟，意图以情爱使我享受岁月之叶的更迭，忘却已然流逝的痛苦，并最终发出”亲亲我“的呼喊。而”我“再一次强调褐色的不可或缺，苦难记忆的不可或缺，在尾行中彻底回绝了”你“
7、HALF NIGHT*
Half night. With the daggers of the dream fixed in the spitting eyes. Don’t scream from pain: the clouds flutter like towels. Like a silken rug it was stretched between us, so that there be dancing from darkness to darkness. They carve for us a black flute from living wood, and now the dancer comes. Fingers spun from spume she dips into our eye: would one eye still want to weep？ None. So she blissfully whirls around, and the fiery drum resounds. Rings she throws at us, we catch them with our daggers. Is that how she weds us？ It sounds like shards, and I know it once again: you did not die the mallow-colored death.
8、YOUR HAIR OVER THE SEA*
Your hair too hovers above the sea with the golden juniper. With it, it turns white, then I dye it stone-blue: the color of the city where last I was dragged to the south … With ropes they bound me and tied a sail to each one and spat upon me from foggy mouths and sang: “O come over the sea!” But I as a pinnace paint the wings purple and rattled the breeze to myself and, ere they slept, put to sea. I was to dye them red, your locks, but loved them stone-blue: O eyes of the city, where I fell and was dragged southward! With the golden juniper your hair too hovers above the sea.
9、ASPEN TREE*
ASPEN TREE, your leaves gaze white into the dark. My mother’s hair ne’er turned white.
Dandelion, so green is the Ukraine. My fair-haired mother did not come home.
Rain cloud, do you dally by the well？ My quiet mother weeps for all.
Round star, you coil the golden loop. My mother’s heart was seared by lead.
Oaken door, who ripped you off your hinges？ My gentle mother cannot return.
10、CINERARIA*
Migrant bird spear, the wall flown over long ago, the branch above the heart white already and the sea above us, the hill of the depth enleafed by the stars of noonday— a poison-empty Green like that of the eye she opened in death …
We hollowed the hands to scoop the oozy torrent: the water of the places where it’s dark and the dagger is handed to no one. You sang a song too, and we wove a lattice in fog: maybe a hangman will still come and make our heart beat again; maybe a tower will roll over us still, and a gallows will raise the roof; maybe a beard will disfigure us and her fair hair turn red …
The branch over the heart is white already, the sea over us.
11、THE SECRET OF THE FERNS*
In the vault of swords the shadows’ leafgreen heart gazes at itself. Naked are the blades: who in death wouldn’t linger before mirrors？ Here too live melancholia’s served up in jars: flowery it darkens upward before they drink, as if it were not water, as if it were a daisy here, queried for a darker love, for a blacker pillow for the bunk, for heavier hair …
But here there’s dread only for the shimmer of the iron, and if anything still shines here, let it be a sword. We empty the jar from the table only because mirrors host us: let one of them split in twain where we’re green as the leaves.
12、THE SAND FROM THE URNS*
Moldgreen is the house of forgetting. Before each of the blowing gates your beheaded minstrel blues. For you he beats the drum made of moss and bitter pubic hair; with festering toe he draws your brow in the sand. Longer he draws it than it was, and the red of your lip. You fill up the urns here and nourish your heart.
13、THE LAST FLAG（该诗中译颇为酸腐）
A water-colored quarry is hunted in the dusking Marches. So tie on the face mask and dye your eyelashes green. The dish with dozing shot is proferred over ebony tables: wine foams here from spring to spring, so short is the year, so fiery the prize of these sharpshooters—the rose of the unknown: your erring beard, the tree stump’s idle flag.
Cloud-billows and baying! They’re riding delusion into the ferns! Like fishermen they cast nets after will-o’-the-wisp and thin air! They sling a rope around the crowns and invite to the dance! And wash the horns in the spring—thus they learn lure-calls.
Is what you choose as coat leak-proof and does it salvage the radiance？ They slink like sleep around the trunks, as though offering dream. The hearts they fling up high, the mossy balls of madness: O water-colored fleece, our own banner on the tower.
14、A CRUNCHING
A CRUNCHING of iron shoes there is in the cherry tree. Out of helmets summer foams up for you. The blackish cuckoo with diamantine spur draws his image on the gates of the sky. Bareheaded the rider towers above the foliage. On his shield he bears your dusking smile nailed to the enemy’s steel sweatband. He was promised the garden of the dreamers, and spears he holds at the ready, that the rose may ramble …
But shoeless through the air comes he who resembles you most: iron shoes strapped to frail hands, he sleeps through the battle and summer. The cherry bleeds for him.
15、THE BANQUET*
Drained be the night from the flasks in temptation’s high rafters, the threshold be ploughed with teeth, before dawn choler be sowed: a moss may yet shoot up for us, before they’ll arrive from the mill to find a quiet grain among us, their slow wheel …
Under the poisonous skies there lie other, likely fallower, stalks, there the dream is coined different than here where we throw dice for pleasure, than here, where in darkness oblivion and wonder are traded, where all’s valid but for an hour and is spat at by us in our revels, hurled into the windows’s avid water in luminous coffers—: it bursts on the pavement of humans, for the glory of clouds!
Now wrap yourselves in your coats and climb on the tables with me: how else to sleep now except standing up, amidst the chalices？ To whom shall we still drink our dreams, if not to the slow wheel？
16、DARK EYE IN SEPTEMBER
Stonehood Time. And lusher do the locks of pain well up around earth’s face, the drunk apple, browned by the breath of a sinful saying: fair and averse to the game they play in the baleful afterglow of their future.
A second time the chestnut blooms: a sign of the poorly enkindled hope for Orion’s quick return: the star-clear fervor of heaven’s blind friends calls him near.
Unconcealed at the gates of the dream a lonely eye contends. What happens daily is all it needs to know: at the eastern window nomad-figure of feeling.
Into the wet of its eye you dip your sword.