Shrine: A Little Book About Paul Thek
There is a photograph of Paul walking on a lawn and carrying a life-sized version of the cross.
有一张保罗在草坪上行走的照片，他背着真人大小的十字架。
It appears to be quite heavy, made of wood.
它看起来很重，是木头做的。
It can be seen to rest upon his shoulders.
可以看到它靠在他的肩膀上。
I sleep now on a cot.
我现在睡在小床上。
I have giraffes over my chest of drawers and there are icons looking down at me at rest.
我的抽屉柜上挂着长颈鹿，还有一些图标在休息时低头看着我。
It is a coincidence of things and objects that should not belong together.
这是不应该属于在一起的事物和物体的巧合。
It is the desire to bring the distant close, summon the absent to our present place.
这是一种将遥远的事物拉近的愿望，将缺席的事物召唤到我们现在的地方。
The days, they race toward autumn, and my melancholy sets, these thoughts of parting and of death.
日子快到秋天了，我的忧郁，这些关于离别和死亡的想法。
He is himself impassive, participating in a process where there is no distinction made between himself and all the other things that now have found their place.
他本人是冷漠的，参与了一个过程，在这个过程中，他自己和所有其他现在已经找到自己位置的事物之间没有区别。
It is the scraps of language that collect.
收集的是语言的碎片。
This precondition for annihilating self.
这是消灭自我的前提。
I’m just a mouthpiece for these bits I’ve conjured up and glued and set to rest.
我只是这些我想出的、粘合起来的碎片的代言人。
I have found a different body borne by fish.
我发现了鱼的不同身体。
And the shabby things are now becoming precious.
而那些破旧的东西现在也变得珍贵了。
Healing pieces of meat.
治愈肉块。
He will work with what he finds, an old crate for bottles of milk, almost an antique, worn but somewhat fancy, that he found at some bazaar, made of larch, and the lid, he went to the dumpster and he found some glass, little rectangular panes, a neighbor, it was a neighbor, he saw it from his window, was a man, who threw them out the night before, and miraculously they remain, sharp-edged, intact, his fingers have been bleeding.
他会用他找到的东西来工作，一个装牛奶瓶的旧板条箱，几乎是古董，破旧但有点奇特，是他在某个集市上发现的，用落叶松制成的，还有盖子，他去了垃圾箱，发现了一些玻璃，长方形的小玻璃，一个邻居，这是一个邻居，他从窗户看到它，是一个男人，他前一天晚上把它们扔了出去，奇迹般的是它们仍然存在，锋利的边缘，完好无损，他的手指一直在流血。
It is filled with unmailed letters, filled with pictures, filled with objects, filled with notes.
它充满了未邮寄的信件，充满了图片，充满了物体，充满了笔记。
He refers to it as Shrine .
他将其称为神社。
He takes it out from underneath his bed, this crate, he says, a crate for milk, where I contain my life, and reads, and for music we have the sea, or is it the rhythm of the sea, the sea I splatter over news in blue and pink, and feel over my body when I try and rock myself to sleep.
他从床底下拿出来，他说，这个板条箱是装牛奶的板条箱，里面装着我的生活和读书，音乐方面我们有大海，或者说这是大海的节奏，大海是我用蓝色和粉红色泼洒在新闻上的，当我试图摇晃自己入睡时，感受我的身体。
I kept this notebook with me when I was in Rome and then on Ponza.
当我在罗马和庞扎时，我随身带着这本笔记本。
Always on Ponza.
永远在庞扎。
Look at the dates.
看看日期。
This was in 1973.
这是1973年的事。
What I can offer you, he says, is the memory of church I had as a boy.
他说，我能给你的是我小时候对教堂的记忆。
What I can offer you is something that right now does not exist.
我能为你提供的是目前还不存在的东西。
He remembers the church of his childhood as a special place where care was given to make a beautiful world.
他记得童年时的教堂是一个特殊的地方，在那里人们精心呵护，创造了一个美丽的世界。
He remembers the darkness and the flicker of the candles and the incense and the beeswax, smelling it in the air.
他记得黑暗、蜡烛的闪烁、熏香和蜂蜡的味道，还记得空气中的味道。
He remembers the order and the passion of the liturgy, all those seemingly simple human gestures, the processions.
他记得礼拜仪式的秩序和激情，所有那些看似简单的人类手势和游行。
His voice is very beautiful and he whispers things sometimes to me in an aside.
他的声音非常好听，有时他会在一旁低声对我说话。
I sang in church.
我在教堂唱歌。
I was in the choir.
我在唱诗班。
I especially enjoyed the Easter songs that I could sing, though sometimes my voice would break, and I would have to leave.
我特别喜欢我能唱的复活节歌曲，尽管有时我的声音会破裂，我不得不离开。
This is the epigraph, I tell him, I’ve selected for the piece.
我告诉他，这是我为这首作品选择的题词。
Regardless of my own beliefs and my own doubts, it is my opinion that art lost its basic creative drive the moment it was separated from worship.
不管我自己的信仰和怀疑如何，我认为艺术一旦脱离崇拜就失去了基本的创作动力。
It severed an umbilical cord and now lives a sterile life, generating and degenerating itself.
它切断了脐带，现在过着不育的生活，自我生成和退化。
In former days the artist remained unknown and his work was the glory of God.
以前，这位艺术家仍然默默无闻，他的作品是上帝的荣耀。
He lived and died without being more or less important than other artisans: “eternal values,” “immortality,” and “masterpiece” were terms not applicable in his case.
他的生与死与其他工匠相比并不重要：“永恒的价值”、“不朽”和“杰作”这些术语不适用于他的情况。
The ability to create was a gift.
创造的能力是一种天赋。
In such a world flourished invulnerable assurance and natural humility.
在这样一个世界里，坚不可摧的自信和自然的谦逊蓬勃发展。
These are the words, I tell him, of the Swedish theater and film director, Ingmar Bergman.
我告诉他，这是瑞典戏剧和电影导演英格玛·伯格曼的话。
Paul tells me that he met him once.
保罗告诉我他见过他一次。
I was with Karl Johansson.
我和卡尔·约翰逊在一起。
They knew each other from a film.
他们是通过电影认识的。
Karl did some stills for Winter Light .
卡尔为《冬日之光》制作了一些剧照。
He was a little pompous, though not entirely unkind.
他有点自负，但也不完全不友善。
I was grateful.
我很感激。
He came to see my show at the Museet.
他来博物馆看我的展览。
This is from a letter to Olle Granath for the show, dated September ’71.
这是一封写给 Olle Granath 的信，日期为 71 年 9 月。
On or about Swedish Christmas, for a period of one week, please have 12 large candles burning in the chicken coop.
在瑞典圣诞节当天或前后，请在鸡舍内点燃 12 支大蜡烛，为期一周。
Also – sticking through the chicken wire please stick sections of orange, fresh fruit oranges – and those oranges should be replaced when needed.
另外，在穿过铁丝网时，请粘上橙子、新鲜水果橙子的部分，这些橙子应该在需要时更换。
We are standing on the tenement rooftop.
我们站在公寓的屋顶上。
He shows me the bottoms of his feet and they are dirty.
他给我看了他的脚底，脚底很脏。
He has planted a garden here.
他在这里开辟了一个花园。
It has been some years, he tells me.
已经好几年了，他告诉我。
He started it with someone else.
他是和别人一起开始的。
A friend, he says.
一个朋友，他说。
I ask him who.
我问他是谁。
Fenrir was his name.
芬里尔是他的名字。
He says he’s dead.
他说他死了。
He was Norwegian.
他是挪威人。
He got sick.
他生病了。
But it is growing now.
但现在它正在增长。
I tell him I enjoy the flowers.
我告诉他我喜欢这些花。
I show him the microphone and ask him to speak up.
我给他看了麦克风并请他发言。
He looks down again and at his feet, and out beyond the roofs.
他再次低下头，看看自己的脚，然后望向屋顶之外。
I am recording this, I tell him, for the interview.
我告诉他，我正在录制这个，以便接受采访。
And it will appear next year, I say, in ARTSYMPOSIA .
我说，它将于明年出现在 ARTSYMPOSIA 中。
And I repeat that this will change things.
我再说一遍，这将会改变一切。
People have forgotten you but after this appears they won’t forget.
人们已经忘记了你，但在这个出现之后他们就不会忘记了。
He laughs and points away and toward the twins.
他笑了，指着别处，指着双胞胎。
He calls them Sodom and Gomorrah, rising up in glass and steel to blot the sky.
他称它们为所多玛和蛾摩拉，它们在玻璃和钢铁中升起，遮蔽了天空。
He tells me he has painted them before.
他告诉我他以前画过它们。
On newspaper.
报纸上。
I ask him about his newspaper paintings.
我向他询问他的报纸画作。
This is from a letter written just a month ago.
这是一个月前写的一封信。
It is addressed to Franz Deckwitz.
它是写给弗朗茨·德克维茨的。
I only want to do BAD paintings, to shock and hurt them here, etc etc, but it hurts MY spirit ALWAYS to do the bad paintings, so I miss Ponza.
我只想画糟糕的画，在这里震惊和伤害他们，等等，但总是画糟糕的画会伤害我的精神，所以我想念庞扎。
I miss eternity.
我怀念永恒。
When I come in he takes a yellow notebook out of Shrine .
当我进来时，他从神社拿出一本黄色笔记本。
He opens it to a drawing of a phallic head in blue and white below a date: June 19th 1969.
他打开它，看到一幅蓝色和白色的阳具头像，下面写着日期：1969 年 6 月 19 日。
Here I wrote about my first encounter with the poetry of Ezra Pound.
在这里，我写下了我第一次接触埃兹拉·庞德的诗歌。
“The River-Merchant’s Wife.” The Pisan Cantos .
“河商的妻子。”比桑诗章。
I have chosen a dozen copies of his New York Times obituary as the ground for this new piece.
我选择了十几份他的《纽约时报》讣告作为这篇新文章的基础。
It is a painting and it is also in blue, also in yellow, also in white.
它是一幅画，也是蓝色的，也是黄色的，也是白色的。
Pound too believed in Paradise.
庞德也相信天堂。
Before he was imprisoned, he believed that he’d been touched by God.
在入狱之前，他相信自己受到了上帝的感动。
I want to present an atmosphere – an ambiance – which is so peaceful that you’re shattered when you leave.
我想呈现一种氛围——一种氛围——如此平静，以至于当你离开时你会心碎。
This is from a letter to Olle Granath, dated 9th of December 1971.
这是 1971 年 12 月 9 日写给 Olle Granath 的一封信。
I would very much like also that the inside of the pyramid should be kept fairly clean, especially the table.
我也非常希望金字塔的内部保持相当干净，尤其是桌子。
And the napkins should be white.
餐巾应该是白色的。
We go again downstairs.
我们又下楼去。
I sit beside him on the bed.
我坐在他旁边的床上。
He tells me he is already tired.
他告诉我他已经累了。
I can go a little more and then that’s it.
我可以再多走一点，然后就这样了。
At least for today.
至少今天是这样。
My mother was a poet, or rather, she sometimes wrote a poem.
我的母亲是一位诗人，或者更确切地说，她有时会写一首诗。
Her lips were usually wet with drink and the poems usually rhymed.
她的嘴唇通常被酒浸湿，诗也通常押韵。
They were never happy.
他们从来没有快乐过。
She read me Finnegans Wake when I was six.
我六岁时，她给我读了《芬尼根守灵夜》。
She liked the puns and all the curse words.
她喜欢双关语和所有咒骂的话。
She’s got a cancer now you know.
现在你知道她得了癌症。
In the gut.
在肠道里。
I visited her last week and watched the nurse remove her filthy drawers.
上周我去看望了她，看着护士把她肮脏的抽屉移开。
She calls the whole thing “shit.”
她称整件事为“狗屎”。
But really, it’s an ark.
但实际上，它是一艘方舟。
That’s what I’m building.
这就是我正在构建的。
Cages into lilies.
笼入百合花。
Mice.
老鼠。
And always there are fish.
而且总是有鱼。
Bits.
比特。
Cut glass.
切割玻璃。
Prayer.
祷告。
I am clutching a pencil.
我抓着一支铅笔。
A concussion of waves.
一阵阵海浪的震荡。
Light.
光。
This is an interior, a liturgical space.
这是一个内部空间，一个礼拜空间。
It is an offering.
这是一种奉献。
Just a note: Much rushing as tomorrow I am off to Rome again.
请注意：由于明天我再次前往罗马，所以非常匆忙。
Everything here is just about finished now that the Stedelijk is down.
由于市立博物馆已经倒塌，这里的一切都即将完成。
The Mickery show will be up all summer and it is, I think, and largely due to the pear tree, the prettiest I’ve ever done.
米克利秀将持续整个夏天，我想，这很大程度上要归功于梨树，它是我做过的最漂亮的。
From Shrine: A Little Book About Paul Thek by V.H.
来自 Shrine：一本关于 Paul Thek 的小书，作者：V.H.
Wildman .
野人。
Used with permission of the publisher, Red Nun Collective.
经出版商 Red Nun Collective 许可使用。
Copyright © 2026 by V.H.
版权所有 © 2026 V.H.
Wildman.
野人。