108 年 國立成功大學臺灣文學研究所《外文文學文獻解讀（英文）》

This text is an excerpt from "The Past as Legacy and Project: Postcolonial Criticism in the Perspective of Indigenous Criticism" by Arif Dirlik. Pls translate and interpret. Use examples from Taiwan to illustrate his points if you can.

"The historicity of identity does not make it any the less whole, nor does the constructedness of the past make it any the less significant in shaping history. Each generation may rewrite history, but it does so under conditions where it receives as its historical endowment previous generations' constructions of the past. For the marginalized and oppressed in particular, whose histories have been erased by power, it becomes all the more important to recapture or remake the past in their efforts to render themselves visible historically, as the very struggle to become visible presupposes a historical identity. In the face of a "historiographic colonialism" that denies them their historicity, capturing the truth of history, of oppression and the resistance to it, is a fundamental task that for its accomplishment requires constant reference to the precolonial past. But it is also the case that those who are engaged in a struggle for identity can least afford to dehistoricize or reify the past, for the struggle is always the struggle for the present and must address not just the legacy of the past but also problems of the present."

Please translate and interpret. From Orientalism by Said.

"I have spent a great deal of my life during the past thirty-five years advocating the rights of the Palestinian
people to national self-determination, but I have always tried to do that with full attention paid to the reality
of the Jewish people and what they suffered by the way of persecution and genocide. The paramount thing is
that the struggle for equality in Palestine/Israel should be directed toward a humane goal, that is, coexistence,
and not further suppression and denial. Not accidentally, I indicate that Orientalism and modern
anti-Semitism have common roots. Therefore, it would seem to be a vital necessity for independent
intellectuals always to provide alternative models to the reductively simplifying and confining ones, based on
mutual hostility, that have prevailed in the Middle East and elsewhere for so long....

The secular world is the world of history as made by human beings. Human agency is subject to investigation
and analysis, which it is the mission of understanding to apprehend, criticize, influence, and judge. Above all,
critical thought does not submit to state power or to commands to join in the ranks marching against one or
another approved enemy. Rather than the manufactured clash of civilizations, we need to concentrate on the
slow working together of cultures that overlap, borrow from each other, and live together in far more
interesting ways than any abridged or inauthentic mode of understanding can allow. But for that kind of wider
perception we need time and patient and skeptical inquiry, supported by faith in communities of interpretation
that are difficult to sustain in a world demanding instant action and reaction."

請把以下中文文字翻譯成英文。

小雪空手返鄉,文凱捧一束包著玻璃紙的玫瑰,和孩子們在機場等了一上午接她回家。那花,她
捨不得丟,晾乾後倒掛在前廊,不過秋涼多雨,枯黃的花束看來委靡可憐,風華已逝。
去年,文凱和小雪的弟弟也曾共赴越南開礦,又累又危險,一個月的收入六千元,爆破入坑都是提
著脖子不要命的工作,苦撐三個月還是打包回家了。媽媽說,男人有家有小孩,還是別賣命。她問過
文凱要不要去台灣,他不要,覺得人生地不熟,風險更勝礦坑。
「他被寵壞了,不會想,不知道我在馬來西亞在台灣有多苦,捨不得花錢,捨不得休息,錢全存給
家裡。只看到我拿錢回家,不知道我要賺這些錢多麼不容易。」
每個海外打工的人,都有這一層辛酸。渴望一種貼近的理解,那種不可言傳的、相濡以沫的、有淚
卻不曾真正留下的,人在異地的徬徨與掙扎。這個認識的落差,無以言傳,難以交流,唯有親身經歷。
顧玉玲,《回家》第五章〈浮木〉,新北市:INK印刻文學,2014,頁382。

請閱讀完以下關於 Leonard Cohen (加拿大)詩人的評論這篇文章後,用中文寫下這篇文章的重點。

When a poet dies, his publishers often hurry into print whatever scraps lie stuffed in his
desk drawers or overflow his wastebasket. This is the book business at its darkest and most
human, but many balance sheets have been balanced by a posthumous work or two. Death is
the moment when all eyes are upon the poet for the last time; beyond, for most harmless
drudges, lies the abyss. Leonard Cohen, who died two years ago, wore many a fedora - poet,
novelist, songwriter, a singer of sorts but only the last trade, which he took up reluctantly,
made him a star.
Cohen was never taken very seriously as a poet. He wasn't much of a singer, either; but the
gravelly renderings of his lyrics gradually attracted a mass audience that seemed more like a
cult. Many found him a bit much, his heart-on-his-sleeve misery no more appealing than
plunging your hands into boiling tar. Still, songs like "Suzanne," "Bird on the Wire" and the
rather preposterous hymn of praise "Hallelujah" have been so widely covered as to be nearly
inescapable. At any moment of the day, "Suzanne" is probably playing in an elevator
somewhere.
Such songs now form the hoarse, moaning soundtrack to countless movies and television
episodes. When a Cohen song rises from some awkward silence it's a good bet the director has
run out of ideas. The religiose sentimentality and painful growl, like a halibut with strep
throat, have patched a lot of plot holes. He'll give an emulsified version of everything the
scriptwriter left unsaid.
THE FLAME
POEMS NOTEBOOKS LYRICS DRAWINGS
LEONARD COHEN
"The Flame" has a little of everything for Cohen fans and nothing for anyone else. The
publicity matter claims the stray work has been "carefully selected"; but if this is the best of
his barrel scrapings, there's not much barrel to scrape. With a plan laid down by the singer
himself, the editors have included his own choice of some 60 poems, the lyrics from his last
four albums and a long dreary selection of notebook jottings. The pages have been decorated
with 70 or so rumpled self-portraits (the singer's amour propre came streaked in
self-loathing), but a dozen amateurish doodles of young women thrown in. That perhaps
represents the internal proportions of Cohen's famous vanity and his equally famous
lechery - I mean, of course, his search for a muse variously named Marianne, Sahara,
Vanessa, Charmaine, Anjani, Mara, Sheila, Heather, Carolina and Olivia. How awful had any
of his passing fancies passed unnoticed.
The poems are monotonous scribbles of the moody-undergraduate school, what young
Werther would have sung had he been Canadian:
O apple of the world
we weren't married on the surface
we were married at the core
I can't take it anymore.
The long miseries and brief graces of love are Cohen's obsessive subject. Some famous love
poems by Bernart de Ventadorn and Dante sound almost as bad when translated, but Cohen
doesn't have that excuse. The poems might seem that much better in Provençal or Tuscan.
Cohen favors an Audenesque quatrain with none of the puckish genius Auden used to
refashion the form. What we get instead is:
And from the wall a grazing wind
weightless and serene
wounds Me as I part Her lips
and wounds Us in between
And fastened here, surrendered to
My Lover and My Lover,
We spread and drown as lilies do-
forever and forever.
Cohen loves "poetic" lines that are nearly excruciating ("And now that I kneel / At the edge of
my years / Let me fall through the mirror of love"), rhymes that would cripple a musk ox
(plug/enough, sword/2005, art/Marx), and passages the C.I.A. should use only during
enhanced interrogation (a couple "waving at desire / as it rests in the foreground /
foothill-shaped, peaceful, / devoted as a dog made of tears").
The lyrics follow in cornucopian abundance, as if Cohen were possessed by a Dionysian mania
forever unassuaged. Genial, sloppy, full of conventional lines, they sometimes have little twists
that save them from disaster. Heavy on parallels and antitheses, they're even heavier on
abstractions, the words just a syllable or two, on rare occasions three, almost never four:
The parking lot is empty
They killed the neon sign
It's dark from here to St. Jovite
It's dark all down the line.
Cohen could turn this stuff out all day, and it's not half bad; but lyrics without music, even
decent lyrics, look like dried lungfish in someone's den, mounted on varnished plaques. The
difference between his lyrics and poems is tissue-paper thin except when he was writing some
wretched approximation of free verse:
His cry his perfect word pitched against
The baffled contradictions of the heart
Wrestling them embracing them
Strangling them with a jealous conjugal desperation.
Cohen was not a poet who accidentally became a lyricist; he was a lyricist who for years fooled
himself into thinking he was a poet. As poems these squibs are worthless; as lyrics, even sung
in that lizardy groan, they often moved millions. His voice, that broken, battered thing, could
make almost any song - even "God Save the Queen," perhaps - sound lonesome, miserable,
profound. If singing badly is no bar to stardom, everyone who stands caterwauling in the
shower should take hope. You might not even need a whiskey-and-battery-acid cocktail to get
there.
The final section consists of disordered entries from the hundreds of notebooks Cohen picked
up and pitched down over the years (one was discovered in his refrigerator freezer). Fans who
have pined for wisdom like "I think, therefore I am / right up there with / Mary had a Little
Lamb" or "I was thinking / of a room in Westminster / room / with a woman from Hell / who
thought she was hot" may at last be gratified. (The book reproduces the manuscript of the
latter. That extra "room" is a bad editorial decision - Cohen was probably just trying to clarify
his handwriting.) In the notebooks, the singer writes, "Whatever happened to my place / in
the Anthology of English Literature?" The better question is, Why should he be there in the
first place?
It's hard to understand the cult of Leonard Cohen, the thousands who flocked to concert after
concert, leaving with a feeling of illumination or exaltation, the sort of things for which people
usually receive get-well cards. There are artists we don't understand whom we are happy for
others to love, and artists who attract an adoration that seems such a colossal mistake we can
only shake our heads in bewilderment. Those who love Cohen may find in this gallimaufry the
answer to their prayers. For everyone else, the only proper reaction is to shutter the windows
and wait for the fever to pass.
William Logan is the author, most recently, of "Dickinson's Nerves, Frost's Woods: Poetry in the Shadow of
the Past."
On book:
THE FLAME
Poems, Notebooks, Lyrics, Drawings
By Leonard Cohen
Edited by Robert Faggen and Alexandra Pleshoyano
277 pp. Farrar, Straus & Giroux..