奥斯卡.王尔德 | 自深深处
奥斯卡.王尔德
为了自己，我必须饶恕你。
一个人，不能永远在胸中养着一条毒蛇；不能夜夜起身，在灵魂的园子里栽种荆棘。
--王尔德 《自深深处》
第一次有意识地知道王尔德源于这句话（无意识是因为不知道快乐王子是他写的 = =），当时的背景环境是我在工作上和同事之间存在很大的矛盾，我的内心充满仇恨几近奔溃，精神压力特别大，搞得自己睡不好无数个夜晚突然惊醒后大哭，委屈、想不通、没人理解，我意识到周围没人能帮助我，我只能自己解救自己。无意中看到这句话，我觉得我就是那个夜夜起身栽种荆棘的笨蛋，虽然现在也没太想通，内心还是有条毒蛇，但是精神负担比以前自我摧残要好些了。在书吧无意中看到《自深深处》，赶紧翻找这句话，然而大海捞针并没有找到，而且书的内容看着确实没有能吸引我的地方，也就不了了之。（哈哈哈，翻到2016.9.15日写了一篇看到这句话的内容，居然都快一年了）
为了阐述自己以前自我精神摧残是多么的不应该，在后面无数个日子里我向周围的人提起这段话，所以留给了别人我是一个看王尔德书籍的人的假象，诶，然后顺利被借到《自深深处》了 = =。这一次，我认真拜读。
我曾定义这本书为“一个失恋男人的碎碎念”，当然这是片面的，也是我调侃性的话语，如果真的只是碎碎念，这篇读书笔记就不会出现在今天了~
我很佩服王尔德的记性，这本书是他写给波西的信，时间跨度以年为单位，他却能把具体发生在某年某月某日和波西因为什么原因吵架，波西如何对他，他内心又是怎样一种心情，记得清清楚楚，所以我说这本书就是他的碎碎念~但是赞就赞在这些碎碎念写得富有诗意，看着让人欲罢不能。
从王尔德表示决定饶恕波西后——“饶恕你的敌人，但这不是因为你敌人的缘故，而是为了你本人，还因为爱比狠美。”画风就开始变成了对基督的阐述。“假如有任何爱向我们显露了，我们应该认识到这爱自己是很不配的。没有谁配得到爱。上帝爱世人，这一事实显示，在神定下的事物的理想法则中，写明了要把永恒的爱给予那些永远不配的人。倘若那话你不高兴听，那就这么说吧，每个人都配得到爱，除了那些自认为配得到爱的人。爱是神圣的，必须双膝跪接，承受的人嘴里和心里都要默念‘主啊，我不配。‘我希望你有时会想想这一点。这对你太需要了。”这段算是“教育”波西的话满满的嘲讽感啊，说是饶恕了，其实只是这碎碎念已然上升到了一个新的高度！我觉得拿到现代校园里，此人就是一个骂人不带脏字但辩论时能把对方瘪得够呛的风云学长~，拿到现代职场，就是舌战群雄的商场谈判精英~如果说这些话时气宇轩扬一气呵成，啧啧，我觉得我就是在下面仰望的两眼闪光并且流口水的迷妹嚯嚯嚯。
后半部分对于基督的阐述我是真的看不懂。。。这些文字从我眼睛里过，从我脑袋里过，但就是没从我思想里过，他们像是被拒之门外的物质，让我理解不能，说白点感觉就是一篇关于基督的论文，我境界不够，只能当一个懵逼的观众，尴尬、尴尬。
“假如出去后，哪位朋友设宴而不请我，我一点也不会介意。一个人我就可以快乐无边了。有了自由、书籍、鲜花，还有月亮，谁能不快乐呢？”这样独乐乐的自我世界超喜欢，然而身不由己。
后面又阐述了波西的种种恶性，并与王尔德的其他朋友进行对比。但是等等，为什么最后两段亲爱的王尔德同学还没出狱呢，就开始计划何时与波西见面，以何种方式见面，来见面时都有什么要求，还鼓励波西不要惧怕过去，而且从字里行间都能感受到他那种欢愉的心情，想久别的情侣期待再次重逢一样，= =我有点懵逼啊，前面的那一大啪啦果然都是毫无意义的碎碎念么，在狱里反省了两年，该发泄的也发泄完了，所以回来吧我的波西，你可不能再像以前那样了。我想打人（泪笑）
看了想打人系列：（真的是骂人不带脏字的典范）
“你不欣赏作为艺术家的我，情有可原。那是气质使然。你也没办法。但你本可以欣赏作为自为主义者的我。因为这并不需要任何文化修养。”
“事实上，你又有什么东西我影响得了的？你的头脑？发育还不全呢。你的想象力？死了。你的心？还没长出来呢。”
“你硬闯进了一个对你来说是太大了的生活，其轨道之高远，为你的圆周运动能力所不逮，也非你的目力所能及，其思想、激情和行动举足轻重，备受关注，动辄充满了——的确是充得太满了”
“你那不顾轻重的挥霍并非犯罪。青春总是意味着挥霍。可耻的是你逼我为你的挥霍付账。找个朋友可以从早到晚地陪你消遣，你的这个愿望倒很可爱，简直充满了田园诗意。但你紧拽不放的朋友不该是个文学家、艺术家。对这样的人，你老守在跟前，实在叫创作的官能麻痹瘫痪，这样的厮守，那什么美好的作品都灰飞烟灭了。”
摘抄：
你必须从头至尾读完这封信，尽管对你来说，每个字可能都会变成使柔嫩的肉体燃烧或流血的外科医生的手术刀。要记住上帝眼中的傻瓜与人眼中的傻瓜是有很大区别的。一个对革新中的艺术形式或发展中的思想情绪、对拉丁诗的华丽或元音化了的希腊语的丰富音乐性、对托斯卡纳的雕刻或伊莉莎白时代的歌曲一无所知的人，仍然可能充满着最甜蜜的智慧。真正的傻瓜，如上帝所嘲弄、毁灭的那些人，是不了解自己的人。
You must read this letter right through, though each word maybecome to you as the fire or knife of thesurgeonthat makes thedelicateflesh burn orbleed. Remember that the fool in the eyes of the gods and the fool in the eyes of man are very different. One who is entirely ignorant of the modes of Art in its revolution or the moods of thought in its progress, of the pomp of the Latin line or the richer music of the vowelled Greek, of Tuscansculptureor Elizabethan song may yet be full of the very sweetest wisdom. The real fool, such as the gods mock or mar, is he who does not know himself.
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生活里，每一种人际关系都要找着某种相处之道。与你的相处之道是，要么全听你的要么全不理你，毫无选择余地。就我来说，因为在你身上寄托了不该寄托的厚爱，因为对你的脾性和气质上的缺陷的伟大的同情，因为我自己的众所周知的好品质和凯尔特人的慵懒，因为艺术家对粗俗争吵和丑言恶词的宽容，因为我当时的性格还无力忍受对任何人的憎恨，因为我不愿意因我的原因而使生活变得酸苦和不美好，也因为我当时的注意力在别的事情上，所以你的所作所为在我看来只是小事一桩，最多也就是能引起我瞬间的注意或兴趣——也就是因为这些原因，尽管这听起来很简单，我才一直屈从于你。
In every relation of life with others one has to find somemoyendevivre. In your case, one had either to give up to you or to give you up. There was no otheralternative. Through deep if misplacedaffectionfor you: throughgreat pity for your defects of temper and temperament: through my ownproverbialgoodnature and Celtic laziness: through an artisticaversiontocoarsescenes and ugly words: through that incapacity to bear resentment of any kind which at that time characterised me: through my dislike of seeing life made bitter anduncomelyby what to me, with my eyes really fixed on other things, seemed to be mere trifles toopettyfor more than a moment’s thought or interest — through these reasons, simple as they may sound, I gave up to you always.
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最终当然是我被捕入狱，而你父亲则成了一时英雄。何止是一时英雄，你们家莫名其妙地跻身于神仙圣人之列。好像历史也带上了一点哥特式的离奇古怪，从而使历史和史诗之神克里奥成了众缪斯中最不正经的一位。靠着这份离奇古怪，结果是你父亲在主日学校的文学里将永远活在那些个心地和善纯良的父母之中，你将与少年塞缪尔并列，而在地狱最底层的污渎中，我将与崇拜撒旦的雷斯和性变态的萨德侯爵为伍。
At the end, I was of course arrested and your father became the hero of the hour: more indeed than the hero of the hour merely: your family now ranks, strangely enough, with the Immortals: for with that grotesqueness of effect that is as it were a Gothic element in history, and makes Clio the least serious of all the Muses, your father will always live among the kind pure-minded parents of Sunday school literature, your place is with the Infant Samuel, andin the lowest mire of Malebolge. I sit between Gilles de Retzand the Marquis de Sade.
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我与记忆中的欢乐之间，隔着一道深渊，其深不亚于我和现实的欢乐之间隔着的深渊。假如我们在一起的生活真的如世人所想象的那样，纯粹是享乐、挥霍和欢笑，那我就会一丁点也记不起来。正因为那生活时时刻刻都包孕着悲剧、痛苦、恶毒，一幕幕单调地重复着乏味可怕的吵闹和卑劣的暴力，所以那些事一件件一点点都历历如在眼前，切切似在耳边，说实在的别的什么就很少能看得到听得见了。这里的人们是如此的苦中度日，所以我同你的友谊，照我那样被迫去记住的样子，总显得像是一支序曲，与眼前变换着的痛苦一脉相承。这些痛苦每一天我都得体会领悟；不仅如此，甚至得靠它们度日；似乎我的生活，不管在我本人还是在别人眼里曾经是什么样子，从来就是一部真正的悲怆交响曲，一个乐章一个乐章有节奏地推向其必然的结局，一切是那样的必然，简直就是艺术上处理每个伟大主题的典型手法。
Between myself and the memory of joy lies agulfno less deep than that between myself and joy in its actuality. Had our life together been as the world fancied it to be, one simply of pleasure,profligacyand laughter, I would not be able to recall a single passage in it. It isbecause it was full of moments and days tragic, bitter,sinisterin their warnings, dull or dreadful in their monotonous scenes and unseemly violence, that I can see or hear each separate incident in its detail, can indeed see or hear little else. So much in this place do men live by pain that my friendship with you, in the way through which I am forced to remember it, appears to me always as a preludeconsonantwith those varying modes of anguish which each day I have to realise; nay more, tonecessitatethem even; as though my life, whatever it had seemed to myself and to others, had all the while been a real Symphony of Sorrow, passing through its rhythmically-linked movements to its certain resolution, with that inevitableness that in Art characterises the treatment of everygreat theme.
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用不着提醒你，当时我是怎样地伺候照顾你，不只是源源不断的水果鲜花、礼物书籍诸如此类用钱买得到的东西，还有那份感情、那份亲切、那份爱，不管你怎么想这些都是用钱买不来的。
I need not remind you how I waited on you, and tended you, not merely with every luxury of fruit, flowers, presents, books, and the like that money can procure, but withthat affection, tenderness and lovethat, whatever you may think, is not to be procured for money.
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当然，你我所有的交往，我看不光是命中注定，而且是在劫难逃：劫数从来是急急难逃，因为她疾步所向的，是血光之地。因为你父亲的缘故，你所出身的这个家系，与之联姻是可怕的，与之交谊是致命的；其凶残的手，要么自戮，要么杀人。在每一个小小的场合当你我命途相交，在每一个或至关紧要或像是无关紧要的时刻，你来我处寻乐或者求助，在那些不起眼的机缘和不足道的偶然之中——对生活而言，它们像是浮沉于光影中的纤尘、飘落于树荫下的枯叶——在这些时候，毁灭都尾随左右，像哀号的回声，像猛兽扑食的阴影。
Of course I discern in all our relations, not Destiny merely, but Doom: Doom that walks always swiftly,because she goes to the shedding of blood. Through your father you come of a race, marriage with whom is horrible, friendship fatal, and that lays violent hands either on its own life or on the lives of others. In every little circumstance in which the ways of our lives met; in every point ofgreat, or seemingly trivial import in which you came to me for pleasure or for help; in the small chances, the slight accidents that look, in their relation to life, to be no more than the dust that dances in abeam, or the leaf that flutters from a tree, Ruin followed, like the echo of a bitter cry, or the shadow that hunts with the beast of prey.
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我呢，也有我的幻想。我以为生活会是一出绝妙的喜剧，而你会是剧中一个风雅备至的人物。后来却发现它原来是一个令人反感、令人恶心的悲剧。而带来大灾难的险恶祸端，其险其恶在于苦心孤诣、志在必得，就是剥去了欢娱和喜乐面具的你本人。那面具不但骗了我，也骗了你误入歧途。
I also had my illusions. I thought life was going to be abrilliantcomedy, and that you were to be one of many graceful figures in it. I found it to be a revolting andrepellenttragedy, and that the sinister occasion of the great catastrophe, sinister in its concentration of aim and intensity of narrowed willpower, was yourself, stripped of that mask of joy and pleasure by which you, no less than I, had been deceived and ledastray.
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对你我友谊的回忆，就是在这里随我左右的影子，像是永不分离似的——深夜里唤我醒来，一遍又一遍地说着同一个故事，直磨得人睡意全无，醒到天明；天明时分又开始了，跟着我到牢房外的院里，害得我一边步履沉重地走着一边喃喃自语——我被迫回想着每一个痛苦时刻的每一点细节， 在那些个倒霉的年头里发生的事，没有哪一件我不能在那留给悲伤和绝望的脑室里再造重演：你每一点不自然的话音、每一个紧张兮兮的手势、每一句冷言恶语，都涌上了心头；我记着我们到过的街道和河流，四周的墙壁和树林，时钟的针正指着哪一点，风正吹向哪一面，月色月影又是什么模样。
the memory of our friendship is the shadow that walks with me here: that seems never to leave me: that wakes me up at night to tell me the same story over and over till itswearisomeiterationmakes all sleep abandon me till dawn: at dawn it begins again: it follows me into the prison-yard and makes me talk to myself as I tramp round: each detail that accompanied each dreadful moment I am forced to recall: there is nothing that happened in those ill-starred years that I cannot recreate in that chamber of the brain which is set apart for grief or for despair: everystrainednote of your voice, everytwitchand gesture of your nervous hands, every bitter word, every poisonous phrase comes back to me: I remember the street or river down which we passed, the wall or woodland that surrounded us, at what figure on thedialstood the hands of the clock, which way went the wings of the wind, the shape and colour of the moon.
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你对你父亲的仇恨是如此之强烈，完全超过了、压倒了、掩盖住了对我的爱。你的爱恨之间根本就没有过孰是孰非的斗争，要有也很少：你仇恨之深之大，是如此的面面俱到、张牙舞爪。你并未意识到，一个灵魂是无法同时容纳这两种感情的。在那所精雕细刻出来的华屋中它们无法共处一室。爱是用想象力滋养的，这使我们比自己知道的更聪慧，比自我感觉的更良好，比本来的为人更高尚；这使我们能将生活看作一个整体；只要这样、只有这样，我们才能以现实也以理想的关系看待理解他人。惟有精美的、精美于思的，才能供养爱。但不管什么都供养得了恨。在所有那些年里，你喝的每一杯香槟，吃的每一盘佳肴，没有哪一样不能用来养你的仇恨，使它发胖膨胀。为了满足你的仇恨之需，你拿我的生命下赌，一如你拿我的金钱下赌，漫不经心、满不在乎，不管后果如何。要是你输了，输的，你心想，也不是你的；要是你赢了，赢的，你明白，将是胜者的狂欢和赢家的实惠。
In you Hate was always stronger than Love. Your hatred of your father was of suchstaturethat it entirely outstripped, o'erthrew, and overshadowed your love of me. There was nostrugglebetween them at all, or but little; of suchdimensionswas your Hatred and of suchmonstrousgrowth. You did not realise that there is no room for both passions in the same soul. They cannot live together in that faircarvenhouse. Love is fed by the imagination, by which webecome wiser than we know, better than we feel, nobler than we are: by which we can see Life as a whole: by which, and by which alone, we can understand others in their real as in their ideal relations. Only what is fine, and finely conceived, can feed Love. But anything will feed Hate.There was not a glass of champagne you drank, not a rich dish you ate of in all those years, that did not feed your Hate and make it fat. So to gratify it, you gambled with my life, as you gambled with my money, carelessly, recklessly,indifferent to the consequence. If you lost, the loss would not, you fancied, be yours. If you won, yours, you knew, would be the exultation, and the advantages of victory.
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仇恨，你还不知道呢，以心智论是永恒的否定，以感情论是萎缩退化的一种形式，它消灭一切，除了自己。
Hate,you have yet to learn,is,intellectually considered,the Eternal Negation.Considered from the point of view of the emotions it is a form of Atrophy,and kills everything but itself.
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不管怎样，我必须心中存着爱。要是不带着爱进监狱，那我的灵魂该怎么办？
At all costs I must keep Love in my heart.If I go into prison without Love what will become of my Soul?
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肉体之罪算不了什么。如果该治的话，也是留给医生诊治的疾患。只有灵魂之罪才是可耻的。假使通过这种手段使自己获判无罪，对于我将是永生的磨难。但是你真的就认为自己配得上我那时对你表示的爱吗？真的就认为我有哪一刻觉得你配得上吗？你真的就认为在我们的友谊之中，有哪一段时期你配得上我对你表示的爱吗？真的就认为我有哪一刻觉得你配得上吗？我知道你配不上的但爱不在商场上交易，也不用小贩的秤来称量。爱的欢乐，一如心智的欢乐，在于感受自身的存活。爱的目的是去爱，不多，也不少。你是我的敌人，从来没有谁有过像这样的敌人。我曾把自己的生命给了你，然而为了满足一己私欲，那人情人性中最低下最可鄙的欲望——仇恨、虚荣还有贪婪——你把它丢弃了。在不到三年时间里，你把我完完全全给毁了。为了我自己的缘故，我别无选择，唯有爱你。我知道，假如让我自己恨你的话，那在＂活着＂这一片我过去要、现在仍然在跋涉的沙漠之中，每一块岩石都将失去它的阴影，每一株棕榈都会枯萎，每一眼清泉都将从源头变为毒水。
Sins of the flesh are nothing.They are maladies for physicians to cure,if they should be cured.Sins of the soul alone are shameful.To have secured my acquittal by such means would have been a life-long torture to me.But du you really think that you were worthy of the love I was showing you then,or that for a single moment I thought you were?Do you really think that at any period in our friendship you were worthy of the love I showed you,or that for a single moment I thought you were?I knew you were not.But Love does not traffic in a marketplace,nor use a huckster’s scales.Its joy,like the joy of the intellect,is to feel itself alive.The aim of Love is to love:no more,and no less.You were my enemy:such an enemy as no man ever had.I had given you my life,and to gratify the lowest and most contemptible of all human passions,Hatred and Vanity and Greed,you had thrown it away.In less than three years you had entirely ruined me from every point of view.For my own sake there was nothing for me to do but to love you.I knew,fi I allowed myself to hate you,that in the dry desert of existence over which I had to travel,and am travelling still,every rock would lose its shadow,every palm tree be withered,every well of water prove poisoned at its source.
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今天我必须把爱留存心间，否则这一天怎么过？
I must keep Love in my heart today,else how shall I live through the day.
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我恍然大悟，记得在我囚徒生活中，那是第一次也是最后一次笑了。天下所有鄙夷尽在那一笑中了。百合花王子！我看到了——而以后的事情说明我没看错——所发生的这一切，丝毫没让你有一丁点的领悟。你在自己眼里仍然是一出小喜剧中风度翩翩的王子，而非一出悲剧演出中忧郁伤心的人物。所发生的一起，子不过是帽子上的一根羽饰，装点着一个气度狭隘的脑袋，只不过是别在马甲上的一朵花，遮掩着一颗仇恨，只有仇恨，才能温暖的心。那颗心中，爱，只有爱，会觉得寒冷。
It all flashed across me,and I remember that,for the first and last time in my entire prison-life,I laughed.In that laugh was all the scorn of all the world.Prince Fleur-de-LLys!I saw-and subsequent events showed me that I rightly saw-that nothing that had happened had made you realise a single thing.You were in your own eyes still the graceful prince of a trivial comedy,not the sombre figure of a tragic show.All that had occurred was but as a feather for the cap that gilds a narrow head,a flower to pink the doublet htat hides a heart that Hate,and Hate alone,can warm,that Love,and Love alone,finds cold.
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但是，对这珍贵的、微妙的、美好的一切，你却如此的不聪不敏、不痛不痒，迟迟不能发现与欣赏，竟至于自己提出要发表这些信件；须知正是在这些信件、通过这些信件，我想保有爱的神与魂，使之存活在我的肉体中，熬过那副肉体蒙受屈辱的漫长岁月而不死。——这曾经是、现在仍然是令我最悲最痛，最最失望的心结。你为什么要这么做，恐怕我是太清楚了。如果仇恨蒙蔽了你的眼睛，那虚荣便是用铁丝把你的眼皮缝在一起了。那种＂通过它，只有通过它，才能即以其理想关系也以其真实关系来理解他人＂的才能，被你狭隘的利己之心磨钝了，而长久的荒废又使它不复可用了。你的想象力同我的人一样，囚禁在监牢里。虚荣是铁条封住了窗口，看守的名字叫仇恨。
But that you should have been so slow to see,so lacking in all sensitiveness,and so dull in apprehension of what is rare,delicate and beautiful,as to propose yourself to publish the very spirit and soul of Love,that it might dwell in my body through the long years of that body’s humiliation——this was,and still is to me,a source of the very deepest pain,the most poignant disappointment.Why you did so,I fear I know but too well.If Hate blinded your eyes,Vanity sewed your eyelids together with threads of iron.The faculty”by which,and by which alone,one can understand others in their real as in their ideal relations,”your narrow egotism had blunted,and long disuse had made of no avail.The imagination was as much in prison as I was.Vanity had barred up the windows,and the name of the warder was Hate.
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对于我们，只有一个季节，悲怆的季节。那太阳、那月亮，似乎都从我们的天穹拿掉了。外面也许是蓝天丽日，但是透过头顶小小的铁窗那封得严严的玻璃，漏下的只是一点点灰暗的光线。牢房里整天是晨昏不辨，一如内心中整天是半夜三更。思维也同时间一样，不再有任何运动。你自己早已忘却的事，或者很容易就忘却的事，现在我正身历其境，明天还将再历其境。
For us there is only one season, the season of Sorrow. The very sun and moon seem taken from us. Outside, the day may be blue and gold, but the light that creeps down through the thickly-muffled glass of the small iron-barred windowbeneathwhich one sits isgrey andniggard. It is always twilight in one’s cell, as it is always midnight in one’s heart. And in the sphere of thought, no less than in the sphere of time, motion is no more. The thing that you personally have long ago forgotten, or can easily forget, is happening to me now, and will happen to me again tomorrow.
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你还得弄明白，发财、享乐、出人头地，这些可以是大路货, 但悲怆却是所创造的一切中最敏感的。在整个的思想和运动的空间内，只要稍有动静，它便会以既精妙又可怕的律动，与之共振。那敲得薄薄的金箔，能用来检测肉眼看不见的力的方向，可再敏感，相比之下也显得粗糙了。悲怆是一道伤口，除了爱的手，别的手一碰就会流血，甚至爱的手碰了，也必定会流血的， 虽然不是因为疼。
You have yet to learn that Prosperity, Pleasure and Success may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but that Sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought or motion to which Sorrow does notvibratein terrible if exquisitepulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf oftremulousgold that chronicles the direction of forces that the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of Love touches it and even then must bleed again, though not for pain.
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我将它存在内心的宝库中。将它存在那儿，作为我暗暗欠下的一笔债，我很高兴地想，这债是永远也还不清的。将它存在那儿，让滴滴泪珠化作没药与肉桂，使它永远芬芳，永远甜美。在这个智慧于我无益，达观于我无补，引经据典安慰我的话于我如同灰土的时候，那小小的、谦恭的、无声的爱之举动，想起它，就为我开启了所有怜悯的源泉：让沙漠如玫瑰盛开，带我脱离囚牢的孤单与苦痛，让我与世界那颗受伤的、破碎的、伟大的心相依相连。
I store it in the treasury-house of my heart.I keep it there as a secret debt that I am glad to think I can never possibly repay.It is embalmed and kept sweet by the myrrh and cassia of many tears.When Wisdom has been profitless to me,and Philosophy barren,and the proverbs and phrases of those who have sought to give me consolation as dust and ashes in my mouth,the memory of that little lowly silent act of Love has unsealed for me all the wells of pity,made the desert blossom like a rose,and brought me out of the bitterness of lonely exile into harmony with the wounded,broken and great heart of the world.
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爱是讲策略的，文学是讲策略的：这两样你都不敏感。
There is a tact in love,and a tact in literature:you were not sensitive to either.
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你非常清楚地知道，每隔十二星期罗比都写信给我，说一点文坛消息。再没有什么比他的信更令人如沐春风了：那份机智，那些精辟的批评，那轻巧的笔触——这才真叫写信，就像在跟人谈天，很有法国人称之为 “密友闲聊”的况味。他把对我的敬服表现得含蓄优雅，一会儿诉诸我的理性判断，一会儿投合我的幽默感，一会儿与我的审美直觉呼应，一会儿与我的文化修养合拍，处处微妙地让我记起自己曾经在许多人眼里是品评艺术风格的一方盟主，对一些人来说是最高盟主。他既显示了自己文学的策略，也显示了他爱的策略。他的信是我与那个美丽的非现实的艺术世界之间的小小信使，在那个世界里我曾经尊贵为王。的确，本来会继续为王的，只是我让自己受诱惑，掉进了一个不完美的世界，掉进了粗鄙而不圆满的激情、正邪不辨的嗜好、没有止境的欲望、散漫无定的贪婪之中。
You knew perfectly well that every twelve weeks, Robbie was writing to me a little budget of literary news. Nothing can be more charming than his letters, in their wit, their clever concentrated criticism, their light touch: they are real letters: they are like a person talking to one: they have the quality of a French causerie intime: and his delicate modes of deference to me, appealing at one time to my judgment, at another to my sense of humour, at another to my instinct for beauty or to my culture, and reminding me in a hundred subtle ways that once I was to many an arbiter of style in Art, the supreme arbiter to some, he shows how he has the tact of love as well as the tact of literature. His letters have been the little messengers between me and that beautiful unreal world of Art where once I was King, and would have remained King, indeed, had I not let myself be lured into the imperfect world of coarse uncompleted passions, of appetite without distinction, desire without limit, and formless greed.
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为了自己，我必须饶恕你。一个人，不能永远在胸中养着一条毒蛇；不能夜夜起身，在灵魂的院子里栽种荆棘。
For my own sake I must forgive you.One cannot always keep an adder in one’s breast to feed on one,nor rise up every night to sow thorns in the garden of one’s soul.
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我视艺术为最高的现实，而生活不过是一个虚构的形态；我唤醒了这个世纪的想象力，它便在我身边创造神话与传奇；万象之繁，我一言可以蔽之，万物之妙，我一语足以道破。
I treated Art as the supreme reality, and life as a mere mode of fiction: I awoke the imagination of my century so that it created myth and legend around me: I summed up all systems in a phrase, and all existence in an epigram.
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我忘了，日常生活中每一个细小的行为都能培养或败坏品格，因此，一个人在暗室里干的事，总有一天要在房顶上叫嚷出去的。
I forgot that every little action of the common day makes orunmakescharacter, and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some day to cry aloud on the housetops.
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东西很多的人常常贪婪成性，自己没什么的人总是与人分享。只要心中存有爱，我不介意夏天里在凉气袭人的草地上过夜，冬天里在干草堆边、在大谷仓下避寒。
Those who have much are often greedy.Those who have little always share.I would not a bit mind sleeping in the cool grass in summer,and when winter came on sheltering myself by the warm closethatched rick,or under the penthouse of a great barn,provided I had love in my heart.
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我所触及的，当然是自己灵魂最深处的本质。我曾多方与它为敌，没想到它却像朋友一样等着我。当人同灵魂相交时，就变得像小孩一样单纯，正如基督所要的那样。可悲的是，能在死前“ 拥有自己灵魂” 的人，又有几个？ “任何人当中，”埃默森说过，“最难得的莫过于出自本人的行为。” 这话还真不假。大多数人都是别人的人。他们的思想是别人的想法，他们的生活是对别人的模仿，他们的激情是袭人牙慧的情感。
It was of course my soul in its ultimate essence that I had reached. In many ways I had been its enemy, but I found it waiting for me as a friend. When one comes in contact with the soul it makes one simple as a child, as Christ said one should be. It is tragic how few people ever “possess their souls” before they die. “Nothing is more rare in any man,” says Emerson, “than an act of his own.” It is quite true. Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their life amimicry, their passions aquotation
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难道不像我所说的吗，艺术的真谛即是“外形表达着内涵；使灵魂获得肉身，使肉体充满精神；以形式揭示内容”？
For is not truth in Art,as I have said,”that in which the outward is expressive of the inward;in which the soul is made flesh,and the body instinct with spirit:in which Form reveals”?
