英譯漢原文

Great Possessions

By Aldo Leopold

[1] One hundred and twenty acres, according to the County Clerk, is the extent of my worldly domain. But the County Clerk is a sleepy fellow, who never looks at his record books before nine o’clock. What they would show at daybreak is the question here at issue.

[2] Books or no books, it is a fact, patent both to my dog and myself, that at daybreak I am the sole owner of all the acres I can walk over. It is not only boundaries that disappear, but also the thought of being bounded. Expanses unknown to deed or map are known to every dawn, and solitude, supposed no longer to exist in my county, extends on every hand as far as the dew can reach.

[3] Like other great landowners, I have tenants. They are negligent about rents, but very punctilious about tenures. Indeed at every daybreak from April to July they proclaim their boundaries to each other, and so acknowledge, at least by inference, their fiefdom to me.

[4] This daily ceremony, contrary to what you might suppose, begins with the utmost decorum. Who originally laid down its protocols I do not know. At 3:30 a.m., with such dignity as I can muster of a July morning, I step from my cabin door, bearing in either hand my emblems of sovereignty, a coffee pot and notebook. I seat myself on a bench, facing the white wake of the morning star. I set the pot beside me. I extract a cup from my shirt front, hoping none will notice its informal mode of transport. I get out my watch, pour coffee, and lay notebook on knee. This is the cue for the proclamations to begin.

[5] At 3:35 the nearest field sparrow avows, in a clear tenor chant, that he holds the jackpine copse north to the riverbank, and south to the old wagon track. One by one all the other field sparrows within earshot recite their respective holdings. There are no disputes, at least at this hour, so I just listen, hoping inwardly that their womenfolk acquiesce in this happy accord over the status quo ante.

[6] Before the field sparrows have quite gone the rounds, the robin in the big elm warbles loudly his claim to the crotch where the icestorm tore off a limb, and all appurtenances pertaining thereto (meaning, in his case, all the angleworms in the not-very-spacious subjacent lawn).

[7] The robin’s insistent caroling awakens the oriole, who now tells the world of orioles that the pendant branch of the elm belongs to him, together with all fiber-bearing milkweed stalks near by, all loose strings in the garden, and the exclusive right to flash like a burst of fire from one of these to another.

[8] My watch says 3:50. The indigo bunting on the hill asserts title to the dead oak limb left by the 1936 drouth, and to divers near-by bugs and bushes. He does not claim, but I think he implies, the right to out-blue all bluebirds, and all spiderworts that have turned their faces to the dawn.

[9] Next the wren—the one who discovered the knothole in the eave of the cabin—explodes into song. Half a dozen other wrens give voice, and now all is bedlam. Grosbeaks, thrashers, yellow warblers, bluebirds, vireos, towhees, cardinals—all are at it. My solemn list of performers, in their order and time of first song, hesitates, wavers, ceases, for my ear can no longer filter out priorities. Besides, the pot is empty and the sun is about to rise. I must inspect my domain before my title runs out.

[10] We sally forth, the dog and I, at random. He has paid scant respect to all these vocal goings-on, for to him the evidence of tenantry is not song, but scent. Any illiterate bundle of feathers, he says, can make a noise in a tree. Now he is going to translate for me the olfactory poems that who-knows-what silent creatures have written in the summer night. At the end of each poem sits the author—if we can find him. What we actually find is beyond predicting: a rabbit, suddenly yearning to be elsewhere; a woodcock, fluttering his disclaimer; a cock pheasant, indignant over wetting his feathers in the grass.

[11] Once in a while we turn up a coon or mink, returning late from the night’s foray. Sometimes we rout a heron from his unfinished fishing, or surprise a mother wood duck with her convoy of ducklings, headed full-steam for the shelter of the pickerelweeds. Sometimes we see deer sauntering back to the thickets, replete with alfalfa blooms, veronica, and wild lettuce. More often we see only the interweaving darkened lines that lazy hoofs have traced on the silken fabric of the dew.

[12] I can feel the sun now. The bird-chorus has run out of breath. The far clank of cowbells bespeaks a herd ambling to pasture. A tractor roars warning that my neighbor is astir. The world has shrunk to those mean dimensions known to county clerks. We turn toward home, and breakfast.

漢譯英原文

知 識 與 智 慧

文/林巍

【1】知識與智慧的關(guān)系，是人們歷來愿意談?wù)摱�又似乎談不清的問題;然而，它的確與人們的學(xué)習(xí)、教育、生活、科技等方面有關(guān)。

【2】“知識”可以理解為“人類至今對于物質(zhì)世界里客觀事實系統(tǒng)化的認知”，而“智慧”則很難定義。查閱了各種工具書，其解釋都難以令人滿意，因為所謂智慧常與能力或聰明相混淆。

【3】不同于許多人的觀點，我以為，知識是智慧的基礎(chǔ)，因為不可想象，一個有智慧的人是無知的。作為智慧化身的諸葛亮所以使出“借東風(fēng)”的計謀，是因他有著豐富的天文地理知識;“塞翁失馬”所以復(fù)得，是因他熟知馬的習(xí)性。故而，亞里士多德說，在某種意義上，智慧是一種知識。

【4】但是，有知識絕不等于有智慧。一個大字不識的人，可能把某個復(fù)雜的問題看得很透，而一個哲學(xué)教授卻可能在某些簡單事情上做出蠢事。

【5】孔子說，“學(xué)而不思則罔，思而不學(xué)則殆”;這里的“學(xué)”可理解為獲得知識，“思”則是對于知識的運用，形成智慧。

【6】知識可以占有，智慧只能發(fā)揮;知識向外求得，智慧于內(nèi)感悟;知識越獲越豐富，智慧越凝越升華。老子說，“為學(xué)日益，為道日損”。

【7】對于人的智力，知識是分學(xué)科的，而智慧則是打通的;知識具有客觀性、一致性、邏輯性，智慧則具主觀性、個體性、創(chuàng)造性;知識沒有善惡，智慧卻可善可惡;知識最終為智慧所推論、總結(jié)、應(yīng)用。

【8】能力，是智慧在某一具體環(huán)節(jié)上的運用;聰明，則可理解為狹義的智慧。

【9】智慧其實無法盡用語言概括——還包括情感、品格、觀念、德行、性情以及天時地利等綜合因素的整合, 而其最高境界是“大智若愚”。所以，應(yīng)當厘清概念：人工智能只可代替知識、能力和聰明，卻永遠也代替不了人的智慧。

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