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7. The Grindstone / New Hampshire(1923) - Robert Frost
grindstone : 회전식 숫돌
Having a wheel and four legs of its own
Has never availed the cumbersome grindstone
cumbersome : 성가신, 다루기 힘든
To get it anywhere that I can see.
These hands have helped it go, and even race;
Not all the motion, though, they ever lent,
Not all the miles it may have thought it went,
Have got it one step from the starting place.
It stands beside the same old apple tree.
The shadow of the apple tree is thin
Upon it now; its feet are fast in snow.
All other farm machinery's gone in,
And some of it on no more legs and wheel
Than the grindstone can boast to stand or go.
(I'm thinking chiefly of the wheelbarrow.)
wheelbarrow : 외바퀴 손수레
For months it hasn't known the taste of steel
Washed down with rusty water in a tin.
But standing outdoors hungry, in the cold,
Except in towns at night, is not a sin.
And, anyway, its standing in the yard
Under a ruinous live apple tree
Has nothing any more to do with me,
Except that I remember how of old
One summer day, all day I drove it hard,
And someone mounted on it rode it hard,
And he and I between us ground a blade.
I gave it the preliminary spin,
And poured on water (tears it might have been);
And when it almost gaily jumped and flowed,
A Father-Time-like man got on and rode,
Armed with a scythe and spectacles that glowed.
He turned on willpower to increase the load
And slow me down―and I abruptly slowed,
Like coming to a sudden railroad station.
I changed from hand to hand in desperation.
I wondered what machine of ages gone
This represented an improvement on.
For all I knew it may have sharpened spears
And arrowheads itself. Much use for years
Had gradually worn it an oblate
oblate : 조수사
Spheroid that kicked and struggled in its gait,
spheroid : 회전 타원체, 장구, 편구
Appearing to return me hate for hate
(But I forgive it now as easily
As any other boyhood enemy
Whose pride has failed to get him anywhere).
I wondered who it was the man thought ground―
The one who held the wheel back or the one
Who gave his life to keep it going round?
I wondered if he really thought it fair
For him to have the say when we were done.
Such were the bitter thoughts to which I turned.
Not for myself was I so much concerned.
Oh no!―although, of course, I could have found
A better way to pass the afternoon
Than grinding discord out of a grindstone,
And beating insects at their gritty tune.
gritty : 모래같은, 모래투성이의
Nor was I for the man so much concerned.
Once when the grindstone almost jumped its bearing
It looked as if he might be badly thrown
And wounded on his blade. So far from caring,
I laughed inside, and only cranked the faster
(It ran as if it wasn't greased but glued);
I'd welcome any moderate disaster
That might be calculated to postpone
What evidently nothing could conclude.
The thing that made me more and more afraid
Was that we'd ground it sharp and hadn't known,
And now were only wasting precious blade.
And when he raised it dripping once and tried
The creepy edge of it with wary touch,
And viewed it over his glasses funny-eyed,
Only disinterestedly to decide
It needed a turn more, I could have cried
Wasn't there danger of a turn too much?
Mightn't we make it worse instead of better?
I was for leaving something to the whetter.
whetter : 칼 가는 사람
What if it wasn't all it should be? I'd
Be satisfied if he'd be satisfied.
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회전식 숫돌
크고 무거운 그 회전식 숫돌이 자기의
바퀴 하나와 다리 네 개를 쓸 수 있었지만
어느 곳에도 당도하지 못한 것을 나는 안다.
그것은 내 두 손의 도움으로 가고, 달렸다.
그것은 내 손을 빌려서 움직이고 또 움직여,
여러 마일을 달렸다고 생각했겠지만,
출발점에서 한 발자국도 옮기지 못했다.
그것은 늙은 사과나무 옆에 변함없이 서있다.
지금 사과나무가 숫돌 위에 얇은 그림자를
드리운다. 숫돌의 발들은 눈 속에 묻혀있다.
다른 모든 농기구들은 안으로 들어갔다.
그중 일부는 회전식 숫돌만큼의 다리도 없고
바퀴도 없지만 보란 듯이 서거나 갈 수 있다.
(나는 주로 외바퀴 손수레를 생각하고 있다.)
몇 달간 그것은 깡통의 녹물에 씻기는
강철의 맛을 알지 못했다.
굶주린 채, 추위 속에 서 있는 것은
밤의 읍내가 아니라면, 죄가 아니다.
그리고 그것이 앙상한 사과나무 아래,
마당에 서있는 것은, 어쨌든,
이제 나와 아무 상관없는 일이다.
다만 옛날 어느 여름날에,
나는 종일 그것을 열심히 운전했고,
어떤 사람은 그것을 타고 열심히 달리며,
그와 나 둘이서 칼 갈던 일이 기억난다.
나는 그것을 미리 회전시켜 보고,
물을 부었다 (그건 눈물이었을 게다.)
그것이 거의 신나게 뛰듯 회전했을 때,
시간 할아버지 같은 사람이, 낫과
번쩍이는 안경으로 무장하고, 타고 달렸다.
그는 의지력을 가동시켜 하중(荷重)을
높여 내 속도를 늦췄고―갑작스런 철도역에
들어오듯, 나는 갑자기 감속했다.
나는 손과 손을 필사적으로 바꾸었다.
나는 이것이 옛날의 어떤 기계를
개선시킨 것인지 궁금했다.
모르긴 해도 그것은 창과 화살촉을
갈았던 기계이리라. 그것은 여러 해
많은 사용으로 발로 차면서 허우적대는
편구면(偏球面)으로 서서히 닳아서
내게 증오를 증오로 응수하는 듯했다.
(그러나 자부심에 반해서 어느 곳에도
당도하지 못한 어릴 적의 다른 어느 적을
대하듯 나는 지금 그것을 쉽게 용서한다.)
그 사람은 누가 갈았다고 생각했는지 궁금하다.
낫을 갈은 것은 바퀴를 억지(抑止)한 사람인가?
아니면 온 힘으로 바퀴를 계속 돌린 사람인가?
우리가 끝났을 때 그가 자신이 발언권을 갖는 것이
정말로 공평하다고 생각했는지 궁금했다.
나는 이런 씁쓸한 생각을 회고하였다.
나는 나 자신을 크게 신경 쓰지 않았다.
천만에!―하지만, 물론, 회전 숫돌을 갈아서
불협화음을 내고 모래 씹는 소리에서 곤충들을
이기는 것보다 더 즐겁게 오후를 보내는
방법을 발견할 수도 있었으리라.
나는 또한 그 사람을 크게 신경 쓰지도 않았다.
언젠가 회전 숫돌의 베어링이 튕길 뻔했을 때
그를 크게 팽개쳐서 그가 잡고 있던 낫의 날에
그가 부상을 당한 듯했다. 나는 걱정하기는커녕,
속으로 웃으며, 크랭크를 더 빨리 돌렸다.
(그것은 기름이 아니라 아교를 붙인 것처럼 달렸다.)
나는 분명 아무래도 끝내지 못할 짓을
미루기 위해 고의로 냈을지도 모르는
어지간한 사고라면 환영할 것이었다.
나를 점점 더 걱정하게 만든 것은
우리가 날카롭게 갈고도 그걸 미처 몰라서,
지금 귀중한 날을 그저 허비(虛費)하는 것이었다.
그가 한 번 물이 뚝뚝 떨어지는 낫을 들고
조심스런 감촉으로 시퍼런 칼날을 시험하면서,
그의 안경 너머 우스운 눈으로 그것을 살피고,
한 번 더 돌려야 된다고 그저 무심히
결정했을 때, 나는 외칠 수 있었으리라,
더 돌리면 너무 많이 돌리는 거 아닙니까?
날을 세우기는커녕 더욱 나쁘게 만들지 않겠어요?
나는 가는 이의 판단에 맡기기로 했다.
날이 제대로 서지 않는다 한들 어찌 하겠는가?
그가 만족하면 나도 만족할 것이다.
-신재실 옮김-
단상(斷想): “이렇게 만드신 모든 것을 하느님께서 보시니 참 좋았다. … 이리하여 하늘과 땅과 그 가운데 있는 모든 것이 다 이루어졌다. … 이렇게 하느님께서는 모든 것을 새로 지으시고, 이렛날에는 쉬시고 이 날을 거룩한 날로 정하시어 복을 주셨다,”(『창세기』 1: 11∼2: 3). 타락 이전의 하늘, 땅, 그리고 에덴은 완전했지만, 아담과 이브의 원죄로 인간들은 유전(流轉)의 지배를 받는 불완전한 땅에서 영원히 이루지 못할 완전을 꿈꾸며 산다.
눈 덮인 마당과 늙고 앙상한 사과나무는 불완전한 세계의 상징으로 충분하다. 회전 숫돌은 불완전에서 완전한 세계로의 회귀나 창조 가능성을 상징한다. 숫돌은 낫이나 칼의 무뎌진 날을 다시 세우는 농기구로 인간의 손이 돌리고 또 돌리지만, “출발점에서 한 발자국도” 발을 내딛지 못하고 제자리에 서있다. 창과 화살의 날을 갈던 원시적 숫돌이 오늘의 회전 숫돌로 진화했지만 제자리에서 한발자국도 나가지 못하는 것은 그때나 지금이나 여전하다. 문명이 아무리 발전한다 해도, 인간은 한 발자국도 에덴에 접근하지 못하지 않는가? 어느 시대건 종말론이 힘을 얻는 이유가 바로 이것이다.
비록 위축되고 불완전한 세계지만 인간 나름대로 어떤 완전한 성취를 달성하고 만족할 수는 없을까? 우리 대부분의 경험으로는 그것도 불가능하다. 이 시의 화자도 큰 낫과 모래시계를 든 시간 할아버지와 함께 회전 숫돌에 매달려 완전한 날 세우기에 도전한다. 화자는 숫돌을 돌리고, “시간 할아버지”가 그 숫돌에 낫을 대고 날을 간다. 점점 누르는 압력을 가중시키며 시간을 잰다. 그만 돌려도 되련만 할아버지는 멈출 줄을 모른다. 오랜 사용으로 숫돌의 면(面)도 편구면(偏球面)으로 닳아서 회전시키기가 점점 힘 든다. 지친 화자는 갑작스레 속도를 감속하여 반발해보기도 하고, 어떤 때는 편구면 때문에 자꾸 튕기는 베어링에 할아버지가 상해를 입고, 작업이 잠시 중단됐으면 싶은 때도 있었다. 화자가 항상 불안한 것은 날이 완전히 섰는데도 그걸 모르고 숫돌을 한 번 더 회전시키는 것이었다. 그러면 귀중한 날과 시간을 허비하고 말 것 아닌가? 100% 완전한 날을 세우기는 불가능하지 않을까?
그러니 날이 조금 덜 선 수준에서 멈추는 것이 좋겠다. 숫돌을 한 번 더 회전시키면 날이 뒤집히거나 이빨이 빠져서 낫을 망가뜨릴지도 모른다. 그렇지만 할아버지의 분부가 있을 때까지 멈추지 말고 계속 돌리는 것이 내가 할 일이다. 결정권은 할아버지가 쥐고 있지 않은가? 이 시의 화자는 어차피 도우미에 불과하고 낫을 가는 이는 결국 할아버지 아닌가? 화자는 낫을“가는 이의 판단에 맡기기로 했다./ 날이 제대로 서지 않는다 한들 어찌 하겠는가?/ 그가 만족하면 나도 만족할 것이다.” 어차피 인간은 세월과 역사에 종속된 존재가 아닌가? 인간은 영원한 조연이고 주연은 시간과 역사 그리고 하늘이다. 진인사대천명(盡人事待天命)이다.
-신재실 씀-
출처 : http://blog.naver.com/PostList.nhn?from=postList&blogId=js9660&categoryNo=31¤tPage=50
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持而盈之(지이영지) : 갖고 있음에도 다 채우려는 것은
不如其已(불여기이) : 그만 두느니만 못하고
揣而銳之(췌이예지) : 갈았음에도 아주 날카롭게 하면
不可長保(불가장보) : 오래 보존하기 힘들고
金玉滿堂(금옥만당) : 금과 옥이 집안에 가득하면
莫之能守(막지능수) : 능히 지킬 수가 없고
富貴而驕(부귀이교) : 부귀함에 교만하면
自遺其咎(자유기구) : 스스로에 허물을 남기게 된다.
功遂身退(공수신퇴) : 공을 이루었으면 스스로 물러나는 것이
天之道(천지도) : 하늘의 도(道)일 것이다.
출처 : http://cafe.daum.net/asitis-/VhBJ/9
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A book side to everything
Having lectured the previous evening to Dartmouth seniors in the Great Issues Course, Mr. Frost met the following morning with those students for a follow-up discussion session. Then, on the afternoon of that same day, May 19, 1953, he both talked and recited selections of his own poetry to undergraduates enrolled in the college’s first-year English classes, concentrating his remarks on the subject of books and reading.
SOMEBODY SAID to me—man well along in years, not a young man, anyway; lawyer in New York and a very cultivated man—he asked me if I took this magazine and that magazine and so on. I said, “No.” He said, “Don’t you read any reviews?” I said, “No.” He said, “How do you know what to read?” I said, “Oh, I kind of, you know—I pick it out of the air.”
(I’ll review books without reading them—never in writing, always in conversation. You hear me talk about a book, and somebody that I know will say, “You haven’t read that.”—under their breath. And I say, “Shut up!”)
He said to me, “You’ve got to read, haven’t you?” I said, “Yeah.” I said, “But what have you got to read?”
(You know the expression “you gotta live.” He said it like that, almost: “you gotta read.”) I said, “What have you gotta read?”
And it seems to me that’s an interesting question. What have you gotta read?
I’ve always sympathized with people who had four years of education where they had to read more books a year than I’ve read in a lifetime. And that’s no exaggeration. I’ve watched my granddaughters reading more books a week than I’d read in ten years. They look kind of jaded, and I hate to see girls look that way. (I’d rather see boys look jaded than girls!)
Well, I’ve thought of a way out of it all. I have said that the reason for coming to college is to learn how to read, in case you didn’t learn in the high school. If you learned to read in the high school, the same as I did, you didn’t have to go to college. […]
But what is all this book business, this crowded book business, in college? I’ll tell you. You’re not reading these books, you’re scanning ’em to see which ones of ’em you’re going to live with the rest of your life. That’s all it is—(You can’t call it “reading,” what you do. The quantity of it is too much to be called “reading,” from my point of view.)—scanning the books to see which ones of ’em you’ll want to live with the rest of your life.
I long since got so I don’t go to a library. I can’t live without certain books within reach of me, and I have to own ’em; can’t go to a library for ’em.
I’ve been talking about figures this morning to seniors—the other end of whatever it is; the agony. And this is the way I think of books. I have taken into my play, my mental play—one way and another, hook and crook, hearing about ’em, scanning ’em in school, and all that—I’ve taken into play a certain number of books. It’s quite a number. And I’ve got to have ’em in my head, mostly—but within my reach to renew ’em in my head whenever I feel they’re getting out of mental play, so they don’t come to me right.
And it reminds me of what I saw on the stage once. You’ve seen something like what I mean. I don’t believe you ever saw as elaborate a one as I saw. You’ve seen a juggler playing three balls in the air; four balls in the air; five balls in the air; six balls in the air—and keep ’em all going, all floating between his two hands.
Now, I’ve seen something more elaborate than that. I saw a man stand on a stage like this, and somebody behind him threw him—“scaled him,” as we say (You know the expression?) he scaled him a straw hat, wrong side up, with a stiff brim. And he took it on his finger and spun it, like this. And then they threw him another one, and he spun that on that hand. Then he began to fill the air with hat after hat. He took ’em, and he had ’em floating and coming and going. The whole theatre was full of his hats. And he never dropped one.
He had no more hats than he could keep in play. And someday you’ll reach that point with the books. You’ll add a little bit to it as your interests widen.
I have this weakness about it. If I go away for any length of time, I’m distressed at leaving all my books out of my reach. And I’ve taken, sometimes, with me more than I needed—the ones that I’m most apt to want a sentence from or the name of somebody from or an idea from. And I could name you those books. They’re not the hundred best books. But they’re some of the best books in the world, just the same.
I’ve been showing my prejudice too much to books that are in translation. Almost none of these are translated—(They’re almost always in the English language.)—that I depend on that way. And I don’t have to touch ’em too often. Once in a while I feel one growing dim to me, and I want it more in play, more where I can command it.
And how do I want to command it? In the many associations of life—(Associations; they come up.)—quite a good many of ’em, all things considered, considering who I am. But that’s with me.
My mind isn’t a card case, and I don’t live in a card case. There’s a free play of men and books. And the excuse I make for all this hard reading in school is that you’re merely scanning ’em. (You wouldn’t be able to stand what I call my kind of an examination in them, and you’re not expected to be.) They’re the books you’re going to live with. You’ll select among ’em.
Now, some of you won’t do any of that, and that’ll be your own good-bad loss, that’s all. One thing you come to college for—one thing you get educated for—is to learn that there’s a book side to everything, a book side.
You can get along without its book side. But the difference between you and people that haven’t ever been with books—and been sort of baptized in books—the difference is that you always, whatever you’re doing, you’ll be thinking: “Well, what’s the book? Where’s the book about this? What’s the book? There must be a book side to it; and I can find it.”
That’s all I want to say: book side to everything. And I’ve been surprised at the educated people I’ve known who hadn’t that in their nature.
I’ve had the amusing fortune to have lived in a good many sabbatical houses. I’ve been at colleges where somebody was away on a sabbatical, and I was there, a visiting professor or something, a lecturer; and I had a sabbatical house. I saw the inside of a good many minds that way.
And I’ve been surprised to be in the house of some old professor without any books, except on the parlor table—one or two gift books, you know; they got ’em for Christmas. And that’s the extent of it.
And then I’ve lived with the other extreme. I lived in a beautiful old, old house in Ann Arbor. I’ll never forget it. (We almost lost it by fire—not my fault, but the next house to us.) The whole house—every room in it, every bedroom, everything—was just simply covered with books.
The funny part of it was—(’Twas an old scholar that lived there. His widow rented the house, let the house to us. She went off to Washington to listen to the Senators, and we had the house.)—every book I ever opened there, every single book, had had its spelling and punctuation corrected; every one I opened. […]
But that was another kind of bookishness. That’s extreme. Then, the other extreme of no books at all. And I knew an old lady who always dismissed koine, the common man, as having been brought up in a “bookless home.” She always said, “He’d, poor man, been brought up in a bookless home.”
That’s what we’re talking about. Who’s bookless? And who’s partly booked? And who is booked enough? And who’s booked too much, maybe? […]
Then, I want to say just one thing more to you. One of the things that interests me most in life is how soon eyes find eyes. An infant, you know, finds eyes. Eyes find eyes, and eyes stay with eyes all our lives. And I’ve got a poem that begins like this:
Eyes seeking the response of eyes…
You see, that’s the depth of all our feeling.—
Eyes seeking the response of eyes…
It begins that way. I shan’t go far with it. But just a little of it is like this:
Eyes seeking the response of eyes…
So hungry for eyes—
Bring out the stars, bring out the flowers,
Thus concentrating earth and skies…
Our longing for eyes brings out the stars, brings out the flowers. That’s where they came from.—
Thus concentrating earth and skies…
You see. Why do we want to concentrate that great rubbish heap, the earth and sky? It’s a great rubbish heap. We have to concentrate it—
So none need be afraid of size….20
That’s what the poem is. I was thinking of that as I watched you. What am I doing here? Seeking the response of eyes. You’re not speaking to me at all. But I see a good many—don’t stay with any.
It’s a strange thing about we seek the eyes, but they’re almost as blinding to look at as the sun is. Isn’t that funny? We kind of keep easing off them, looking at ’em.
—at the dedication of a new wing of Choate School’s Mellon Library, May 5, 1962:
THIS is a book occasion, and I’m a book person from the word “go.”
I’ve wanted […] not to be a “book fool.” (You know, that’s one of our country sayings: “He’s a book fool.”) I wanted not to be a book fool, but at the risk of being a book fool, I’ve been a bookman—lived with the books. […]
I remember when it dawned on me that I liked to think that you couldn’t put a page of anything in front of me that I’d miss any tricks in. I always liked to think I could size up a page and that that was all of life to me—that I could size up a page.; they couldn’t hide anything from me. That’s been my life.