我在奧塞美術館看到梵谷的畫
於是我終於了解為什麼他的畫那麼震撼
了解在他的顏色與線條裡
他是多麼孤獨
是多麼不平衡
而他畫的深藍天空
是那麼瘋狂 那麼深情 又是那麼矛盾
他不是唯一有精神疾病的藝術家或文人
看 薩德 作品
很難不去想他的判逆
到底來自前衛的藝術創作
還是來自極端的孤獨與傷心
詩人普拉絲在世時
也深深被憂鬱症困擾
2003年 出了有一部電影她的故事
在世時 普拉絲的作品並不看好
直到她在三十歲因婚姻問題又加上憂鬱症導致自殺後
她的作品才漸漸的被重視
成為美國的一個重要詩人
一個代表人物
她的詩
是深刻的
很痛
也許很痛
所以人們才記得
可是
為什麼
人們這麼嗜血
總是狂愛那種毀滅性的矛盾
看別人的生命瘋狂的燃起與毀滅
然後呢 ？
然後呢 ？
然後呢 ？
Daddy
By普拉絲
You do not do, you do not do
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot
For thirty years, poor and white,
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.
Daddy, I have had to kill you.
You died before I had time---
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,
Ghastly statue with one gray toe
Big as a Frisco seal
And a head in the freakish Atlantic
Where it pours bean green over blue
In the waters off the beautiful Nauset.
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.
In the German tongue, in the Polish town
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.
My Polack friend
Says there are a dozen or two.
So I never could tell where you
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.
It stuck in a barb wire snare.
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.
And the language obscene
An engine, an engine,
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.
The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna
Are not very pure or true.
With my gypsy ancestress and my weird luck
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.
I have always been sacred of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You----
Not God but a swastika
So black no sky could squeak through.
Every woman adores a Fascist,
The boot in the face, the brute
Brute heart of a brute like you.
You stand at the blackboard, daddy,
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot
But no less a devil for that, no not
Any less the black man who
Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.
But they pulled me out of the sack,
And they stuck me together with glue.
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look
And a love of the rack and the screw.
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I'm finally through.
The black telephone's off at the root,
The voices just can't worm through.
If I've killed one man, I've killed two---
The vampire who said he was you
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.
There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through.
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