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Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion.
如果创作者不能做到这一点，那么就永远无法写出佳作。他不是写爱情而是写情欲，他写的失败是不会被认为可贵的，他写的胜利是没有希望的，甚至是没有怜悯和缺乏同情的。
His grieves grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes the glands.
因为他的悲伤不是出自世上生灵，不是发自内心，所以留下不深刻的痕迹。
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man.
只有懂得这些，他才能创作——仿佛身临其境般地去创作世人所关注的人类的最终结局。
I decline to accept the end of man.
我拒绝接受人类的终结。
It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure:
我们有足够的理由相信，人类是永但的，是世代相传的。因为人类懂得承受。
that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening,
当最终的结局在那个血色的死亡夜晚从最后的那个毫无价值的高悬不动的巨石上鸣叫远去时，
that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.
一定还有另外一种微弱的，无穷尽的声音在述说。
