متن زیر را به بهترین شکل به زبان فارسی برگردان
Forster works particular magic with a pair of horses. At one point still fairly
early, Aziz plays a friendly chukker of polo against a young British subaltern.
This aspiration to the middle class as defined by the occupying British defines
the delusions under which the young doctor operates. He can never be treated as
an equal, even if the subaltern thinks him a fine fellow. It’s false from the start.
He must borrow a pony from his better-heeled friend Hamidullah to practice in
the first place, and although he rides well, he’s no natural at the game; rather, he
must think his way through it like the outsider he is. The sham camaraderie
between Indian physician and English soldier can only exist in the artificial
world of the maidan, and only because the two avoid all the differences between
them: there is no topic on which they can engage except polo. Aziz again rides a
horse at the end of the novel, this time on a sort of farewell outing with his old
friend Fielding. They talk; they ride; they quarrel over matters of Indian identity
and possible nationhood, topics Aziz could never have discussed with the young
subaltern, or with virtually any other English person in the novel. It is precisely
because they are friends that they can argue so frankly and even heatedly. Yet the
friendship is doomed. In the marvelous final paragraph, the horses answer
Fielding’s question about why the two can’t be friends in the here and now of
India.
But the horses didn’t want it—they swerved apart; the earth didn’t want
it, sending up rocks through which riders must pass single file; the
temples, the tank, the jail, the palace, the birds, the carrion, the Great
House, that came into view as they issued through the gap and saw Mau
beneath: they didn’t want it, they said in their hundred voices, “No, not
yet,” and the sky said, “No, not there.”
This passage shows the difficulties of genuine friendship, with its missteps
and uneven ground, its rocks and impediments, as against the artificially smooth
surface and bogus amity of the polo maidan.
These are mere things, conveyances and animals, associated with Aziz, yet
they are also the means by which we can evaluate character, explore thematic
implications, and gauge the political implications of the narrative. Pretty
amazing achievement with just a few modes of travel.
More importantly, look what’s avoided. Dull exposition about character
traits. Heavy-handed reminders about what’s important. Overt message
statements from the author. None of which is dramatic in the least. Action is
dramatic. A triumphant ride in a landau, a spirited chukker on the maidan, even a
simple bicycle ride. They move. They show the character doing something. And
in doing, he reveals elements of himself. That’s what novels do: they reveal.
They’re not very good at explicating, at declaiming, or even at essaying. But
they’re excellent at revealing. It was a poet, William Carlos Williams, who said,
“No ideas but in things,” but he could just as well have been talking about
novels. Here then, is the Law of People and Things: Characters are revealed not
only by their actions and their words, but also by the items that surround them.
This last element is often overlooked in creative writing texts, which advise the
aspiring fictionist to eschew lengthy explanations of character in favor of
revelation through actions and words. Sage advice, as far as it goes, but it needs
to go a bit beyond. The things—the trinkets and baubles, the essentials and frills,
the tools and toys—associated with a character typically reveal aspects of his
personality as well as key ingredients of the story: plot, significance, idea, motif,
theme.
Okay, so how does that work?