《匆匆》是中国现代杰出散文家朱自清的一篇优美脍炙人口的散文-CSDN博客

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编者按《匆匆》是中国现代杰出散文家朱自清的一篇优美脍炙人口的散文。文章主题关于时光流逝，内容紧扣题目“匆匆”二字，表达了作者对时光飞逝，人生短暂的无奈和惋惜。文章字句纯朴简练，清新隽永。该篇写于 1922 年 3 月，正值“五四”运动落潮期。当时的知识分子勇于图新救国，追求理想，虽迫于当时政治环境压迫，在经历彷徨，苦闷，静思之后，不甘沉沦，知难而上，不断进取。朱自清便是如此。此《匆匆》中，作者依托春景言情，消极彷徨中却对未来还是带有积极的美好憧憬。本次选五个英文译本，译者分别为许景城、张培基、朱纯深、张梦井、葛浩文。对于前四个译本的分析，厦门大学外文系口译专业的郭顺同学（已毕业）的《自建语料库初探——以《匆匆》四种译本的翻译批评为例》从语料库相关理论的视角分析探讨过。欲知详情，查看其文，此处不赘述。河北卫视新闻主播王益豪朗诵中文原文，双语主播李强朗诵许景城英译文，录音师张晖对音频进行编辑配乐。特此感谢。为你读诗（中文朗诵：王益豪英文朗诵：李强音频编辑：张晖）中英对照匆匆 The Flight of Time 朱自清 By Zhu Ziqing 许景城译

燕子去了，有再来的时候；杨柳枯了，有再青的时候；桃花谢了，有再开的时候。但是，聪明的，你告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？——是有人偷了他们罢：那是谁？又藏在何处呢？是他们自己逃走了罢：现在又到了哪里呢？

Gone are swallows, but they may come back again; withered are willows, but they may turn green again; fading away are peach blossoms, but they may ﬂower again. Now, you my sage would you please tell me, why should our days roll by, never to return? Are they stolen by someone? If so, who could it be, and where could they be hidden? If they run away by themselves, where are they now?

我不知道他们给了我多少日子；但我的手确乎是渐渐空虚了。在默默里算着，八千多日子已经从我手中溜去；像针尖上一滴水滴在大海里，我的日子滴在时间的流里，没有声音，也没有影子。我不禁头涔涔而泪潸潸了。 I have no idea how many days I am granted, but I could feel that their weight in my hands becomes less and less. In contemplation, I count, there are more than eight thousand days having slipped away through my ﬁngers. Like a drop of water falling oﬀ the point of a needle down to the sea, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless and traceless. Aware of this, I feel sweats exuding from my forehead, and tears brimming in my eyes. 去的尽管去了，来的尽管来着；去来的中间，又怎样地匆匆呢？早上我起来的时候，小屋里射进两三方斜斜的太阳。太阳他有脚啊，轻轻悄悄地挪移了；我也茫茫然跟着旋转。于是——洗手的时候，日子从水盆里过去；吃饭的时候，日子从饭碗里过去；默默时，便从凝然的双眼前过去。我觉察他去的匆匆了，伸出手遮挽时，他又从遮挽着的手边过去。天黑时，我躺在床上，他便伶伶俐俐地从我身上跨过，从我脚边飞去了。等我睁开眼和太阳再见，这算又溜走了一日。我掩着面叹息。但是新来的日子的影儿又开始在叹息里闪过了。 What should be gone will be gone for ever, and what should come will keep coming for good. Between going and coming, there is a ﬂight of time! When I get up in the morning, the sunshine the slanting sun sheds beams into my room, edging away gently and quietly,as if he is footed. Without awareness, I feel myself already echoing his revolution.Thus, when I wash my hands, the sink washes away the day. When I have a meal, the bowl vanishes the day. When I am in contemplation, my gazing eyes feel the day passing by. When I feel it in a rush, I try to hold it to only ﬁnd it slipping away from my outstretched hands. When night falls and I lie on my bed, it swiftly strides over my body and ﬂits past my feet. When I wake and see the sun again, another day rolls by already. Burying my face in my hands, I heave a sigh, and the new day begins thrilling through it. 在逃去如飞的日子里，在千门万户的世界里的我能做些什么呢？只有徘徊罢了，只有匆匆罢了；在八千多日的匆匆里，除徘徊外，又剩些什么呢？过去的日子如轻烟，被微风吹散了，如薄雾，被初阳蒸融了；我留着些什么痕迹呢？我何曾留着像游丝样的痕迹呢？我赤裸裸来到这世界，转眼间也将赤裸裸地回去罢？但不能平的，为什么偏要白白走这一遭啊？ Amid the ﬂeeting days, what could I do in the world of hustle and bustle, but roaming and sighing the ﬂight of time? What have I done in the ﬂight of eight thousand days, except roaming and roving? The bygone days like wisps of smoke, have been blown away by breezes and like clusters of thin mist, have been evaporated by the rising sun. What trace have I left behind me? Alas! Nothing! Nay, not even a gossamer-like trail! I have come to this world stark naked, and in a wink,

shall I go back as stark naked as the beginning? However, I can’t get over it: why must I get through this journey of life for nothing? 你聪明的，告诉我，我们的日子为什么一去不复返呢？ You my sage, please tell me, why should our days roll by, never to return? 翻译时间：2011-3-21 于北京林业大学外语学院修改时间：2016-2-1 于英国班戈大学英语文学院

gpt4-o

Here is a close, faithful English rendering of Zhu Ziqing’s “Hasty” (“Cong cong”):

Hasty
by Zhu Ziqing
1922

Swallows depart, yet they return in time; willows wither, yet they green again; peach blossoms fade, yet they bloom once more. But, you wise one, tell me—why do our days slip away never to return? Is it that someone steals them? Who, then, is the thief, and where do they hide? Or do the days themselves flee? If so, where have they gone?

I cannot count how many days have been granted me, yet surely my hands grow ever emptier. In silent reckoning, more than eight thousand days have already slipped from my grasp—like a drop of water from a needle’s tip into the boundless sea. My days drop into Time’s swift stream, without sound, without shadow. I cannot help but bow my head in sorrow, my tears flowing freely.

Days depart as they please, days arrive as they will—but in their coming and going, how fleetly they pass! When I rise in the morning, two or three narrow beams of sunlight slant into my little room. The sun has feet, it seems, moving ever so lightly and silently; and I, in my daze, turn as it turns. Thus—when I wash my hands, a day slips past in the basin; when I eat, a day flows away in the rice bowl; in silent moments, days vanish before my fixed eyes. I sense them hurrying onward; when I stretch out my hand to catch them, they slip between my fingers. At dusk, when I lie in bed, they bravely vault over my body and fly off by my feet. When I open my eyes and greet the sun again, another day has glided away. I cover my face and sigh—but already the shade of a new day begins to flicker within my sigh.

In these days that flee as if on wing, what can I do in the countless houses of this world? Only wander, only hurry; in the eight thousand or more hurrying days, beyond wandering, what else remains? The days that have passed are like thin smoke, dispersed by a gentle breeze; like light mist, dissolved by the rising sun—what trace do I leave behind? When have I ever left even a filament of memory? Naked, I came into this world; in the blink of an eye, shall I not leave it naked once more? But such wastefulness—why must we take this path in vain?

You, who are wise, tell me—why do our days slip away never to return?

R1

Transient Days
By Zhu Ziqin

Swallows may return, willows regreen, and peach blossoms rebloom, but tell me, wise one, why do our days vanish without return? Was it thieves who stole them? If so, who? Where are they hidden? Or did they flee of their own accord—to where, then?

I know not how many days I’ve been granted, yet my hands grow emptier by the hour. Counting silently, over eight thousand days have slipped through my grasp. Like a drop of water falling from a needle’s tip into the ocean, my days dissolve into time’s current—soundless, traceless. Cold sweat beads, tears flow.

What passes fades; what arrives presses near. Between farewell and greeting, how swiftly time races! At dawn, slanted sunlight spills into my room. The sun, with nimble feet, drifts stealthily onward, and I, dazed, turn with it. Thus—
Days vanish into the washbasin as I rinse my hands,
Slip through my rice bowl as I eat,
Glide past my fixed gaze as I ponder.
I sense their haste, stretch my hand to halt them, yet they slip through my fingers. At dusk, lying abed, they leap lightly over me, soar past my feet. When I open my eyes to greet the sun anew, another day has fled. I bury my face in sighs—but the shadows of fresh days already flit through those sighs.

In these fleeing days, what can I, a dweller in this vast world, do? Only linger, only rush. Amid eight thousand fleeting days, what remains beyond this lingering? Bygone days scatter like mist dispersed by wind, like haze dissolved by dawn. What traces have I left? None, not even gossamer threads. Bare I came, and bare I shall return—yet why must I tread this futile circle?

Tell me, wise one, why do our days never return?

1922

Translation Notes

Title & Tone: "匆匆" is rendered as "Transient Days" to evoke the ephemeral nature of time. The essay’s reflective and melancholic tone is preserved through phrases like "vanish without return" and "fleeing days."
Imagery: Natural cycles (swallows, willows, blossoms) contrast with time’s linear escape. Metaphors like "drop of water into the ocean" and "mist dissolved by dawn" retain poetic resonance.
Rhythm: Repetition of "slip," "vanish," and "flee" mirrors the原文’s urgency. En-dashes and line breaks mimic the introspective flow.
Philosophical Nuance: Questions like "why must I tread this futile circle?" capture Zhu’s existential angst while adapting classical Chinese lament to universal themes.

The translation balances fidelity to the text with readability in English, ensuring Zhu’s meditation on time’s passage remains poignant across languages.