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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.
如果創作者不能做到這一點，那么就永遠無法寫出佳作。他不是寫愛情而是寫情欲，他寫的失敗是不會被認為可貴的，他寫的勝利是沒有希望的，甚至是沒有憐憫和缺乏同情的。
His grieves grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes the glands.
因為他的悲傷不是出自世上生靈，不是發自內心，所以留下不深刻的痕跡。
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man.
只有懂得這些，他才能創作——仿佛身臨其境般地去創作世人所關注的人類的最終結局。
I decline to accept the end of man.
我拒絕接受人類的終結。
It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure:
我們有足夠的理由相信，人類是永但的，是世代相傳的。因為人類懂得承受。
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,
當最終的結局在那個血色的死亡夜晚從最后的那個毫無價值的高懸不動的巨石上鳴叫遠去時，
that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.
一定還有另外一種微弱的，無窮盡的聲音在述說。
