今昔都成了没有的马背上的亡灵

I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at
the lonely moon.

I offer you whatever insight my books may hold. whatever manliness or
humour my life.

I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.

I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic
and surprising news of yourself.

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I
am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

自身用哪些才能留给你?
  我给您贫穷的大街、绝望的日落、破败郊区的月亮。
  我给您一个旷日持久地望着孤月的人的哀愁。
  我给你自我已逝世的先辈,人们用玉溪石回忆他们的在天之灵:
  在苏黎世边防阵亡的自身岳父的阿爸,两颗子弹射穿了他的胸膛,蓄着胡子的她死去了,士兵们用牛皮裹起他的遗体;我大姨的二伯——时年二十四岁——在秘鲁领队三百名新兵冲锋,目前都成了过眼烟云的马背上的在天之灵。
  我给你自我写的书中所能包含的全方位悟力、我生活中所能有的男人气概或诙谐。
  我给你一个不曾有过信仰的人的忠贞。
  我给你我灵机一动保全的本人自己的着力——不营字造句,不和
梦想交易,不被岁月、欢乐和逆境触动的中央。
  我给你,早在您出生前连年的一个迟暮看来的一朵黄玫瑰的记得。
  我给您你对自己的解释,关于你协调的论争,你协调的真实而惊心动魄的信息。
  我给你自己的落寞、我的黑暗、我心的饥渴;我试图用困惑、危险、败北来触动您。

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I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the
lonely moon.

I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men have
honoured in bronze:

I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am
trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the jagged
suburbs.

I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you
were born.

my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets
through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide
of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twentyfour– heading a charge
of three hundred men in Peru, now ghosts on vanished horses.

I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.

I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow –the
central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams, and is
untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved somehow -the central
heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched
by time, by joy, by adversities.

I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or
humour my life.

I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghosts that living men have
honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos
Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his
soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather -just twentyfour-
heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished
horses.

I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.

I offer you explanationsof yourself, theories about yourself, authentic
and surprising news of yourself.

What can I hold you with?

I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the jagged
suburbs.

What can I hold you with?

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