沉默为诗—–佩英文学访谈录

编者按：
2026年7月，新西兰作家佩英应邀接受国际多家媒体访问，分享文学与人生。访问媒体有美国洛杉矶网络传媒、比利时奥托尼斯媒体集团、亚洲之声等。访谈内容如下。

问一
您的文学之路始于三岁时诵读中国古典诗词。这些早年的经历如何塑造了您作为诗人的哲学，又如何影响了如今定义您作品的主题？
回答
记忆总是悄悄地把过去简化。当人们问起我作为写作者的旅程始于何处时，他们常常期待我指出某一本书，或某个决定性的时刻。可我做不到。诗歌从来不是我生命中的一个事件，它只是我成长的氛围的一部分。
那时我还太年幼，无法理解我所诵读的那些古诗的含义。最先触动我的不是其中的哲理，而是它们的韵律。那种音乐性仿佛独立于释义而存在。直到许多年后，我才渐渐明白，早在我拥有足够的语言去描述之前，那些诗句就已经在教导我一些东西了。它们教我放慢脚步，教我留意，教我相信意义并非总是即刻到来。
是母亲培养了我这种观看世界的方式。她拥有科学的头脑，却从未将知识与文化割裂开来。在家中，学习自然而然地融入日常生活。每逢节庆，家中的传统从不是被机械重复的仪式。每一个符号都承载着一个故事，每一种习俗都是一段记忆，每一次庆祝都是与先人的一场对话。回想起来，我意识到文学进入我的生命，并非只通过书本，而是通过日常生活被静静诠释的方式。
或许正因如此，我从未把诗歌视为自我表达的练习，而始终将其看作一种专注凝视的行为。在动笔之前，我们必须先学会观看。傍晚渐变的光线、雪后的寂静、水流拍打石头的动态、老树的耐心——对我而言，这些并不只是美丽的意象，它们是温柔的提醒，告诉我们这个世界一直在诉说，只是很少用语言。
年岁越长，我越感激那些早年诗篇留下的馈赠。它们教会我，克制往往比阐释承载更深的情感真实；沉默并非语言的缺席，而是语言最有意义的伴侣之一。一首诗不必解答所有的问题，有时它的意义仅仅在于陪伴读者片刻，留下一个念头，在合上书页之后仍继续生长。
如果说我所有的写作中贯穿着一条线索，那大概就是这种对简朴的静默信念。这个世界本已足够喧嚣，我从不愿再添一分。我只希望，以自己微薄的方式，创造一个小小的空间，让语言足够安静，使人们不仅能听见诗歌本身，或许也能听见自己内心的某些东西。

问二
在成为享誉国际的诗人、编辑和翻译家之前，您曾学习科学。在您的一生中，科学思维与创造性表达是如何相辅相成的？
回答
人们有时会惊讶地得知，我所受的学术训练是科学。他们以为科学与诗歌属于两个不同的世界，仿佛一个由理性主宰，另一个由想象主宰。而我自己的经历却大不相同。我从未觉得有必要在二者之间做出取舍，因为它们都始于同一种静默的举动：专注地凝视。
科学教会我不满足于表象，它鼓励耐心、细致的观察，以及对复杂性的尊重。它提醒我，确定性绝不应先于理解而到来。这些教诲远远超出了课堂，一直伴随着我，持续塑造着我写作、编辑，乃至阅读他人作品的方式。
诗歌要求另一种专注，却同样严谨。它要求我们留意那些难以轻易度量的东西——记忆中细微的转变、沉默所承载的分量、那些常常超出解释之外的情感。如果说科学审视的是可见世界的结构，那么诗歌倾听的则是不可见世界的静静律动。我从未将二者视为相互对立的追求，对我而言，它们始终是彼此的伴侣，各自提醒着对方的局限。
回想起来，我猜想科学教育使我的写作免于不必要的雕饰。它推崇清晰胜于繁复，精确胜于装饰。每当我修改一首诗时，我问自己的往往不是这句话是否优美，而是它是否真实。倘若美丽会掩盖真诚，那它便没有多少价值。在我看来，一个精准的意象，永远比连篇累牍的铺陈描写更能长久留存。
移居的经历加深了这种理解。生活在不同文化之间教会我，单凭事实很少能使人心靠近，正如缺乏理解的情感容易沦为多愁善感。我们既需要清明的头脑，也需要慈悲的心怀。或许正因如此，我一直乐于站在不同学科、不同语言、不同传统的交汇之处——它们各自拓宽了我观看世界的方式。
随着岁月流逝，我对划分知识领域的那些界限越来越不感兴趣。自然世界本身并不会将自己分割为科学、哲学或诗歌，这些区分是我们人为创造的。生命本是一个整体地呈现在我们面前，我们学得越多，就越能体会到万物之间深刻的关联。
如果说我的作品中还留有那些早年科学学习的印迹，我希望那不是技术性的知识，而是一种细致观察的习惯——愿意多看一会儿，愿意更温和地发问，并始终愿意相信，惊奇与理解并非彼此对立，而是同一场终生求索的不同表达。

问三
您的诗作已传播至许多国家的读者手中，并被译为多种语言。在这个常常显得分裂的世界里，您认为文学在促进和平、增进不同文化之间的相互尊重与理解方面，能够发挥怎样的作用？
回答
这些年来，我对”文学应当说服人”这一观念越来越不感兴趣。我认为，文学更为静默的馈赠，在于它帮助我们彼此相认。
每一种语言都承载着自己的历史、自己的音乐、自己观看世界的方式。乍看之下，这些差异似乎将我们分隔开来。然而，随着写作、旅行、翻译的岁月渐长，随着我结识越来越多来自世界各地的作家，我愈发意识到，在这些差异之下，我们最深切的关怀其实惊人地相似。我们都在寻找归属，都经历着爱、失去、希望、不确定，以及时间的流逝。文学提醒我们这份共同的遗产，却并不要求我们放弃各自的独特性。
翻译以我未曾预料到的方式加深了这种理解。每当我的一首诗在另一种语言中找到归宿，我都会想起，词语从不孤单地旅行，它们携带着记忆、文化、沉默，以及那些未必能被解释清楚的感受方式。一次用心的翻译，绝非仅仅是词汇的转换，而是一种倾听的行为。它要求我们怀着谦卑走进另一种文化，明白意义是需要共同发现的，而非被单方面占有的。
或许正因如此，我始终觉得文学是在静默中架起桥梁。它不会抹去差异，也不应该抹去。倘若失去众多的语言、传统与历史，这个世界将会贫瘠许多。文学所能做的，是创造一个空间，让人们以好奇而非恐惧去面对这些差异，让陌生成为对话的开端，而非分裂的根源。
近年来，我们的世界比以往任何一代人所能想象的都更加紧密相连。然而，连接并不等同于理解。我们轻易地交换信息，但要真正理解另一个人，仍然需要耐心、想象力，以及不急于评判、愿意倾听的心。优秀的文学正是要求我们做到这一点。它使我们放慢脚步，邀请我们哪怕只在几页纸间栖居于另一种人生，并在这个过程中，静静地拓展了我们自己的生命。
如果说我的作品跨越了国界，我希望那是本着这样的精神。它不是为了提供答案，更不是代替他人发言，而仅仅是以某种微小的方式，参与到那场始终属于全人类的对话之中。我从不相信一首诗能为世界带来和平，但我相信它能软化一颗心，拓宽一种视角，或让某个人多一分愿意倾听的心意。有时候，历史正是从这样静默的开端向前迈进的。

问四
作为编辑、翻译家和导师，您鼓励并扶持了许多来自世界各地的作家。对于那些希望建立起有意义的文学人生的新锐作者，您想对他们说些什么？
回答
我大概会首先鼓励他们对自己多一些耐心。
我们生活在一个崇尚速度的时代。书籍迅速问世，观点瞬间传播，而人们常常在作家尚未有机会发现自己的声音之前，就期待着认可的到来。文学却始终有着自己不同的节奏。它要求我们先观察后言说，先倾听后论断，也要求我们接受，有些理解只能通过时间去换取。
年轻时，我以为写作主要是寻找恰当的词语。这些年来，我渐渐感到，写作同样是在学习如何观看。一位始终保持好奇心的作家，永远不会缺少素材。这个世界对那些用心留意的人，总是无尽地慷慨。每一次交谈、每一段旅程、每一个季节、每一刻沉默，只要我们愿意不急不躁地去领受，都有值得我们学习的东西。
正因如此，我总是鼓励年轻作家广泛而不带成见地阅读。要读本国文学之外的作品，既要读那些挑战你固有假设的声音，也要读那些能够抚慰你的声音。每一种语言都承载着不同的思维节奏，每一种文化都提供了理解”何以为人”的另一种方式。倾听他人，并不会使我们迷失自己；相反，我们往往能因此更清晰地发现自己。
与此同时，我也希望他们能抵御模仿的诱惑。仰慕是一个自然的起点，但绝不应成为终点。真正的文学声音，是从一个人自身的经历、疑问与价值观中静静生长出来的，它无法借来，也无法被催促。它只会在诚实的写作、细致的修改，以及持续学习的谦逊之中，一点点显露出来。
多年的编辑生涯，让我比以往任何时候都更坚信一件事：每一份手稿都值得尊重，因为每一次真诚的写作，都代表着某个人生命的一部分。对我而言，编辑从来不是纠正他人声音的工作，而是一种足够专注的倾听，帮助那个声音更加完整地成为它自己。我相信，同样的宽厚，理应存在于每一个文学共同体的核心之中。
如果只能给年轻作家留下一个想法，那便是：不要以能见度来衡量自己的旅程。认可总是难以预料，成功也有着许多种定义。不如问问自己，今天的写作是否比昨天更真实、更富有同情心、更专注。这些是更为安静的成就，却能走得更加长远。归根结底，文学不仅仅是留下文字，更是要成为那种言语值得被信任的人。

问五
回顾您作为诗人、编辑、翻译家和文化倡导者的一路历程，您希望为后代留下怎样的遗产？
回答
我一直不太愿意把”遗产”看作一个人可以自行定义的东西。那是时间替我们做出的判断。我们所能做的，只是尽可能诚实地完成自己的工作，其余的，留给后来的人去评说。
如果说我希望留下些什么，那不是人们对我名字的记忆，而是一种静静的可能——我的作品或许曾帮助某个人，以多一分耐心、多一分善意、多一分好奇心去看待这个世界。在我看来，这些品质，远比声名更为长久。
我一生有幸遇见来自许多不同文化、语言与传统的人们。每一次相遇都提醒我，智慧从不属于某一个民族或某一种文明，它是在交流中生长起来的。我们倾听得越多，就越能意识到彼此之间还有多少可以互相学习之处。或许正因如此，我将自己生命中相当一部分，投入到编辑、翻译与文学合作之中，不亚于写作本身。对我而言，文学从未是一种孤独的追求，它始终是一场跨越世代、跨越国界、持续进行的共同对话。
我也希望年轻的作家们能获得一种自信，忠实于自己的声音。这个世界并不要求我们写得千篇一律，恰恰相反，正因为每一种文化、每一种语言、每一段生命都提供着各自观看世界的方式，文学才因此愈发丰富。真诚拥有一种静默的力量，是任何流行风尚都无法模仿的。以真诚写就的文字，往往比那些仅仅为了引人注目而写的文字，走得更远。
随着年岁渐长，我发现自己一再回到一个非常简单的信念：我们很少能预知，哪些文字会留在另一个人的心中。有时被记住的，并非那首我们耗费数月精心打磨的诗，而是恰好在某人生命中某个关键时刻与之相遇的一句话。这个想法让我不再那么执着于写出令人难忘的文字，而更在意写出真实的文字。
倘若多年以后，有人翻开我的某一本书，哪怕只在片刻之间，感受到与自然、与另一种文化，或与自己内心更深的联系，我便别无所求了。在我看来，文学始终是一种静默的陪伴。我们之所以写作，是因为没有人应当独自一人走完这世间的旅程。如果我的文字曾为哪怕少数几位读者带去过陪伴，那么我便认为，此生已然值得。

佩英最新译作【生命帷幕上的尘埃】Dust in the curtains of life于26年出版。

Your literary journey began with reciting classical Chinese poetry at the age of three. How did those early experiences shape your philosophy as a poet and influence the themes that define your work today?
Answer
Memory has a quiet way of simplifying the past. When people ask where my journey as a writer began, they often expect me to point to a particular book or a decisive moment. I cannot. Poetry was never an event in my life. It was simply part of the atmosphere in which I grew up.
I was still too young to grasp the meanings of the classical poems I recited. What reached me first was not their philosophy but their cadence. Their music seemed to exist independently of explanation. Only many years later did I begin to understand that those verses had been teaching me something long before I possessed the language to describe it. They were teaching me to slow down, to notice, and to trust that meaning does not always arrive immediately.
My mother nurtured that way of seeing. She had a scientific mind, yet she never separated knowledge from culture. At home, learning was woven naturally into ordinary life. During festivals, family traditions were never presented as rituals to be repeated without question. Every symbol carried a story, every custom a memory, every celebration a conversation with those who had come before us. Looking back, I realise that literature entered my life not through books alone, but through the way everyday life was quietly interpreted.
Perhaps that is why I have never thought of poetry as an exercise in self-expression. I have always regarded it as an act of careful attention. Before we write, we must first learn to see. The changing light at the end of an afternoon, the silence after snowfall, the movement of water against stone, the patience of an old tree these are not simply beautiful images to me. They are gentle reminders that the world is constantly speaking, though rarely in words.
The older I become, the more I appreciate what those early poems left behind. They taught me that restraint can carry greater emotional truth than explanation, and that silence is not the absence of language but one of its most meaningful companions. A poem does not need to resolve every question. Sometimes its purpose is simply to accompany the reader for a little while, leaving behind a thought that continues unfolding long after the page has been turned.
If there is a thread that runs through everything I have written, it is probably this quiet faith in simplicity. The world already contains enough noise. I have never wished to add to it. I have only hoped, in my own modest way, to create a small space where language becomes still enough for people to hear not only the poem, but perhaps something within themselves as well.

Question 2

Having studied science before becoming an internationally recognised poet, editor, and translator, how have scientific thinking and creative expression complemented one another throughout your life?

Answer

People are sometimes surprised to learn that my academic training was in science. They imagine that science and poetry belong to different worlds, as though one is governed by reason and the other by imagination. My own experience has been rather different. I have never felt the need to choose between them because both begin with the same quiet act: paying attention.

Science taught me not to be satisfied with appearances. It encouraged patience, careful observation, and respect for complexity. It reminded me that certainty should never arrive before understanding. Those lessons have remained with me far beyond the classroom. They continue to shape the way I write, edit, and even the way I read the work of others.

Poetry asks for a different kind of attention, yet it is no less disciplined. It requires us to notice what cannot be measured so easily the subtle shifts in memory, the weight carried by silence, the emotions that often exist beyond explanation. If science examines the structure of the visible world, poetry listens for the quiet movements of the invisible one. I have never regarded these as opposing pursuits. To me, they have always been companions, each reminding the other of its limitations.

Looking back, I suspect my scientific education protected me from unnecessary ornament in writing. It encouraged clarity over excess and precision over decoration. Whenever I revise a poem, I find myself asking not whether a sentence is beautiful, but whether it is true. Beauty has little value if it distracts from honesty. A single accurate image has always seemed more enduring to me than pages of elaborate description.

Migration deepened this understanding. Living between cultures taught me that facts alone rarely bring people closer, just as emotion without understanding can easily become sentimentality. We need both the clear mind and the compassionate heart. Perhaps that is why I have always felt comfortable standing at the meeting point of different disciplines, different languages, and different traditions. Each has enlarged my way of seeing the world.

As the years have passed, I have become less interested in the boundaries that separate fields of knowledge. The natural world does not divide itself into science, philosophy, or poetry; those are distinctions we create. Life presents itself as a whole. The more we learn, the more we realise how deeply everything is connected.

If my work reflects anything from those early years of scientific study, I hope it is not technical knowledge, but a habit of careful observation a willingness to look a little longer, to question a little more gently, and to remain open to the possibility that wonder and understanding are not opposites, but different expressions of the same lifelong search.

Question 3

Your poetry has reached readers in many countries and has been translated into numerous languages. In a world that often feels divided, what role do you believe literature can play in fostering peace, mutual respect, and understanding between cultures?

Answer

Over the years, I have become less interested in the idea that literature should persuade people. Its quieter gift, I think, is that it helps us recognise one another.

Every language carries its own history, its own music, its own way of seeing the world. At first, these differences may appear to separate us. Yet the longer I have written, travelled, translated, and met writers from different parts of the world, the more I have realised that beneath those differences, our deepest concerns remain remarkably familiar. We all search for belonging. We all experience love, loss, hope, uncertainty, and the passing of time. Literature reminds us of that shared inheritance without asking us to surrender our individuality.

Translation has reinforced this understanding in ways I could never have anticipated. Whenever one of my poems finds a home in another language, I am reminded that words do not travel alone. They carry memory, culture, silence, and ways of feeling that cannot always be explained. A careful translation is not simply an exchange of vocabulary; it is an act of listening. It asks us to enter another culture with humility, recognising that meaning is something to be discovered together rather than possessed.

Perhaps this is why I have always felt that literature builds bridges quietly. It does not erase differences, nor should it. The world would be much poorer without its many languages, traditions, and histories. What literature can do is create a space where those differences are approached with curiosity instead of fear, and where unfamiliarity becomes the beginning of conversation rather than the source of division.

In recent years, our world has become more connected than any previous generation could have imagined. Yet connection is not the same as understanding. We exchange information effortlessly, but understanding another human being still requires patience, imagination, and the willingness to listen without rushing to judgement. Good literature asks exactly that of us. It slows us down. It invites us to inhabit another life, if only for a few pages, and in doing so it quietly enlarges our own.

If my writing has crossed borders, I hope it has done so in that spirit. Not to offer answers, and certainly not to speak on behalf of others, but simply to contribute, in however small a way, to a conversation that has always belonged to humanity itself. I have never believed that a poem can bring peace to the world. But I do believe it can soften a heart, widen a perspective, or leave someone just a little more willing to listen. Sometimes, history moves forward through such quiet beginnings.

Question 4

As an editor, translator, and mentor, you have encouraged and supported writers from many parts of the world. What would you say to emerging authors who hope to build a meaningful literary life?

Answer

I would probably begin by encouraging them to be patient with themselves.

We live in a time that celebrates speed. Books appear quickly, opinions travel instantly, and recognition is often expected long before a writer has had the opportunity to discover their own voice. Literature has always moved at a different pace. It asks us to observe before we speak, to listen before we conclude, and to accept that some understanding can only be earned through time.

When I was younger, I believed that writing was primarily about finding the right words. Over the years, I have come to feel that it is just as much about learning how to see. A writer who remains curious will never lack material. The world is endlessly generous to those who pay attention. Every conversation, every journey, every season, every moment of silence has something to teach us if we are willing to receive it without haste.

For that reason, I always encourage young writers to read widely and without prejudice. Read beyond the literature of your own country. Read voices that challenge your assumptions as well as those that comfort you. Every language carries a different rhythm of thought, and every culture offers another way of understanding what it means to be human. We do not lose ourselves by listening to others; more often, we discover ourselves more clearly.

At the same time, I hope they will resist the temptation to imitate. Admiration is a natural beginning, but it should never become a destination. A genuine literary voice grows quietly from one’s own experiences, questions, and values. It cannot be borrowed, and it cannot be hurried. It reveals itself gradually through honest work, careful revision, and the humility to keep learning.

My years as an editor have reinforced one belief above all others: every manuscript deserves respect because every sincere piece of writing represents a part of someone’s life. Editing has never been, for me, an exercise in correcting another person’s voice. It is a process of listening closely enough to help that voice become more fully itself. That same generosity, I believe, belongs at the heart of every literary community.

If I could leave young writers with one thought, it would simply be this: do not measure your journey by visibility. Recognition is unpredictable, and success has many definitions. Instead, ask yourself whether your writing has become more truthful, more compassionate, and more attentive than it was yesterday. Those are quieter achievements, but they endure far longer. In the end, literature is not only about leaving words behind. It is about becoming the kind of person whose words are worth trusting.
Question 5

Looking back on your journey as a poet, editor, translator, and cultural advocate, what kind of legacy would you hope to leave for future generations?

Answer

I have never been comfortable thinking about legacy as something a person can define for themselves. That is a judgement time makes on our behalf. We simply do our work as honestly as we can and leave the rest to those who come after us.

If I hope to leave anything behind, it is not the memory of my name, but the quiet possibility that my work may have helped someone look at the world with a little more patience, a little more kindness, and a little more curiosity. Those qualities have always seemed to me more enduring than recognition.

Throughout my life, I have been fortunate to encounter people from many cultures, languages, and traditions. Every encounter has reminded me that wisdom is never the possession of one nation or one civilisation. It grows through exchange. The more we listen, the more we realise how much we still have to learn from one another. Perhaps that is why I have devoted as much of my life to editing, translation, and literary collaboration as to writing itself. Literature has never felt like a solitary pursuit. It has always been a shared conversation that continues across generations and across borders.

I also hope that younger writers will discover the confidence to remain faithful to their own voices. The world does not ask us to write alike. On the contrary, literature becomes richer because every culture, every language, and every life offers its own way of seeing. Authenticity has a quiet strength that fashion can never imitate. What is written with sincerity may travel further than what is written merely to attract attention.

As I have grown older, I find myself returning to a very simple belief. We rarely know which words will remain with another person. Sometimes it is not the poem we spent months perfecting that is remembered, but a single sentence that happened to meet someone at the right moment in their life. That thought has made me less concerned with writing something memorable and more concerned with writing something truthful.

If, many years from now, someone were to open one of my books and feel, even for a brief moment, a deeper connection with nature, with another culture, or with their own inner life, I would ask for nothing more. Literature has always seemed to me an act of quiet companionship. We write because none of us should have to make the journey through this world entirely alone. If my words have offered companionship to even a handful of readers, then I shall consider that a life well spent.