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¥i¬O¡A²{¥N¤å©úªÀ·|®e±o¤F§A³¬¼L¶Ü¡H¡I·íµM¤£¦æ¡A¨S¦³¸Ü¤]±o§ä¸ÜÁ¿¡B¨S¦³·N¨£¤]±o»¡±o¹³¯uªº¦³¤°»ò¸Ü­n«Å§G¦üªº¡C·Pı´N¦n¹³¦Ñ¬O¦³¤H¦b±j­¢§Ú­Ì¤W§@¤å½Ò¡F¦Ñ®v­Ì¦Ñ¬O¥X¨º´X­Ó¤£ª¾©Ò¤ªªºÄêÃD¥Ø¡A¹G§Ú­Ì±oªá³\¦hµh­Wªº¤ß«ä¥h²q¹ï¤è¨ì©³¬O¦b»¡¤°»ò¡AµM«á§V¤Oªï¦X¨º­Ó®Ø®Ø©M½Õ½Õ©ÎµL½ìªºªKªK¸`¸`¡C


·RÀq¥Í»¡¥L§Æ±æ¥L¯à¼g±o¤ñ¡u§Y¿³¡v¦n¤@ÂI¡A¦ý¬O¡A¥L¹ê¦b¤£·Qªá®É¶¡¥h¡u¸ÑÄÀ¡v¦Û¤vªº·Qªk¡C¡]I hope it is somewhat better than whim at last, but I cannot spend the day in explanation.¡^

§Ú­Ì¯à¤ñ¡u§Y¿³¡v¦³§ó¦nªººt¥X¶Ü¡H·íµM¨S¦³¡I¸£³U¦pªGªÅªÅªº¡A¦p¦ó¯àµL¤¤¥Í¦³¡H¡I¦pªGµw­n¼g¡A¨º´N¹³§@¤å½Ò³Q­¢¼g¥X¨Óªº¡u§@¤å¡v¤@¼Ë¡A¤FµL¥Í¾÷¡C­õ¾Ç®aCavell¤]»¡¡A¡u§Y¿³¡v¬O§Ú­Ìªº¤~µØ³Ì¦nªº¤@ºØºt¥X¡C¡]The call of one's genius presents itself with no deeper authority than whim,¡^

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¦Ó¥B¡A¨S¦³¤ñ©¾©ó¦Û¤v§ó¡u¹D¼w¡vªº¨Æ¤F¡FªÀ·|¤]¨S¤°»ò¦nÃöÃhªº¡A¤£­n¦Ñ¬O·QÃöÃh¥¦¡A´N¬O¹ï¥¦³Ì¤jªºÃöÃh¡C¹³§ù´µ§´¤]¤Ò´µ°ò»¡ªº¡A¤@­Ó¤H°£¤FÄm¤W¡u¦Û¤v¡vµ¹³o­Ó¥@¬É¡AÁٯ঳¤°»ò§ó°¶¤jªºÂ§ª«¡H¡I©ÎªÌ¹³·RÀq¥Í»¡ªº¡A¦³¤°»ò¤ñ¡u¤ßÆFªº§¹¾ã©Ê¡v§ó¯«¸tªº¨Æ¡H¡]nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind.¡^

©Ò¥H¡A§Ú­Ì¤£¦ý¤£Åwªï¡uŪªÌ¡v¡A¤]¨S¦³¤H¸Ó§â¦Û¤v·í¦¨¤@­Ó¡uŪªÌ¡v¡C¦³¤°»ò¦nŪªº©O¡H§O¤H¼g¥Lªºµh­W©M²n¡A¤z¡u§A¡v¤°»ò¨Æ¡H¡I§A¦Û¤v¨S¦³µh­W¶Ü¡H§A¦Û¤v¤£·Q²n¤@¤U¶Ü¡H¥§ªö¦³¤@¬q¸Ü¡A³\¦h¤H¯u¸Ó¨C¤ÑÂлw¤T¹M¡A¥Ã«O¥Í¬¡´r§Ö¡C¥L»¡¡G"Follow yourselves and you will find me; follow me and you will lose both me and yourselves."¡]·N«ä¬O»¡¡G¶¶±q§A¦Û¤v¡A§A¦ÛµM·|§ä¨ì§Ú¡F¶¶±q§Ú¡A§A·|¥¢¥h§A©M§Ú¡C¡^

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¬Æ¦Ü¦³¤H³s¦p¦ó¡u³y¥y¡v¤]­nºÞ¡B¤]­n¡uµû¡v¡C§Û¤@¬q¦n¤F¡A­n¤£µM¯u¬O«ÜÃø¬Û«H¡C¤ñ¦p»¡¡Õ·í¥N¡Ö²Ä162´Á±äªø«C¼gªº¡u¬Ó«Òªº·s¦ç¡Gµû¡ÕÆF¤s¡Ö¡v¡C±ä¥ý¥Í»¡°ª¦æ°·«ä·Q¡u²LÁ¡¡v¡A¦Ó¥B¤å¦r¥\¤O¤]¡u«D±`ÁV¿|¡v¡A³s¡u³y¥y¡v³£³y¤£¦n¡B¡uªí¹F§O§á¡v¡]¬O¡u¹û¡v§á§a¡H¡I¡^¡A»¡¥L³y¥X¤@°ï¡u¯f¥y¡v¡B¡u¤£³qªºµü¥y¡v¡C

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«D±`¦n¯º¡AÁ|¤£§¹¡C±ä¥ý¥Í¦ü¥GÁÙ¯uªº¥h¡u¼Æ¡v¡A³Ì«áµ²½×»¡¡G°ª¦æ°·ªº¡uÆF¤s¡v¤¤ªº¡u»y¯f¡B¤£³qªºµü¥y©M¿ù§O¦rµ¥µ¥¦³¤W¦Ê³B¡A¦Ó¼ÐÂI²Å¸¹¨Ï¥Îªº¿ù»~´N§ó¦h±o¨Sªk´£¤F¡A¥Ñ©ó½g´T©Ò­­¡AµLªk¦b¦¹¦CÁ|¡C¡v

«Ü¦n¯º§a¡H¡IÃD¥~¸Ü¡C

Á`¤§¡A§Ú­Ì¬J¤£¸Ó­n¨D¥ô¦ó¤HÃö¤ßªÀ·|¡A¤]¤£¸Ó´Á«Ý¤@­Ó¤å¤H¡]©ÎªÌ»¡¤@­Ó¡u´¶³q¤H¡v¡^¸ò¬F«È¤@¼Ë¤f¤~«Kµ¹¡B³q±¡¹F²z¡C¤@­Ó¤å¤H¬Ý°_¨ÓÀRÀRªº¡B¶w¶wªº¡B©Ç©Çªº¡A¹³­Ó¤g³J¡A¹³­Ó°×¤Ú¡A¹³­Ó¦Û³¬¯g¤pªB¤Í¡A¹³­Ó§N¦å°Êª«¡A³£À³¸Ó¬O«Ü¥¿±`ªº¨Æ¡CÃø¹D§Ú­Ì´Á«Ý¥L·í³õ¤f­YÄaªe¡B¹³­AµUÀ¸¤@¼Ë¦a¡uªíºt¡v¥Lªºµh­W©Î§Ö¼Öµ¹§A¬Ý¡C

§Û¤@¬q»ô§JªGªº¸Ü¡] <Either/Or> ²Ä¤@­¶¡^¡A¯u¬O»¡¨ì§Úªº¤ß§¢ùØ¡A¼g±o¤Ó¦n¡A§Ú¤£¡u½Ķ¡v¤F¡G

What is a poet? An unhappy person who conceals deep torments in his hearts but whose lips are so formed that as sighs and cries pass over them they sound like beautiful music.  His fate is like that of those unfortunates who in Philaris's bronze bull were slowly tortured over a slow fire; their screams could not reach the tyrant*s ears to terrify him; to him they sounded like sweet music.  And people crowd around the poet and say to him: "Sing again at once"-which is so much to say, May new sufferings torture thy soul, and may thy lips continued to be formed as before, because thy scream would only alarm us, but the music is charming.  And the reviewers step up and say, "That is just right, so it must be according to the rules of aesthetics."  Well, of course a reviewer resembles a poet to a hair, except that he has no torments in his heart, so the music on his lips. I tell you that I would rather be a swineherd upon the flats of Amager and be understood by swine than be a poet and be misunderstood by people.

¤@­Ó¥¿±`¤H¡A¬¡¦b³o¼Ë¤@­Ó«U¤£¥i­@ªº¤å©úªÀ·|¡A¯u¬O«Ü¨¯­W¡C¤@°ï¨S¤ô·ÇªºÆ[²³¼T­ù³å°Õ¡A±Ð©¾±Ð§µ¡B±Ð§»ª±Ð³W¯x±Ð«C¦~¦u«h±Ð°ê¥Á¥Í¬¡¶·ª¾±Ð¤T¥Á¥D¸q¡A¤°»ò³£­nÁ¿±o¸ò¯uªº¤@¼Ë¡C¦n¹³¥Ã»·¤À¤£²M¡u«C¦~¦u«h¡v©M¡u¸Ö¡v¦³¤°»ò¤£¦P¦üªº¡C

«C¦~¦u«h¬OÄÝ©ó¤j®aªº¡BÄÝ©ó¤å©ú¡BÄÝ©óªÀ·|ªº¡F¸Ö¤£¬O¡B¤å¾Ç¤£¬O¡A·P±¡¤£¬O¡B³ß¦n¤£¬O¡A¼Ö½ì¤£¬O¡A­µ¼Ö¤£¬O¡A´d¶Ë¤£¬O¡A­õ¾Ç¤]¤£¬O¡A³o¨Ç²Î²Î¥u©¾©ó¡u§Ú¡v¦Û¤v¡C

¥i¬O¡A³o­Ó²Ê¼É¥i»À¡B¾ã¤Ñ¹ï¡u§Ú¡v¤W¤U¨ä¤âªº¶Â·t®É¥N¡A¦Ñ¬O·Q±j­¢§Ú­Ì¦b¨j¥X¥Í¡B¬Ý¨ì¤l®c¤fªº²Ä¤@¹D¥ú½uªº¨º¤@«b¨º¡A´N§â¡u§Ú¡v·í¦¨²½«~, ¨Ñ©^µ¹¦UºØ¡u¤T¥Á¥D¸q¡v©M¡u«C¦~¦u«h¡v¡C

«X°ê¬y¤`§@®a¥¬¬¥´µ°ò¡]Joseph Brodsky¡^¦b1987¦~Àò±o¿Õ¨©º¸¤å¾Ç¼ú¡A¦³³o»ò¤@¤j¬qºt»¡µü¡A§Û´X¬q¦p¤U¡G¡]©³¤U¤j·N¦¡ªº¡u½Ķ¡v·íµM¤£¬O½Ķ¡A¬O³Q§Ú«§ï¡B¼W´î¹Lªº¡A½ÐŪªÌ¤£­n¼g«H¨Ó¸ò§Ú¡u§n¡v»¡­þ¤@¥y½¹ï½¿ù¡C¡^

If art teaches anything (to the artist, in the first place), it is the privateness of the human condition. Being the most ancient as well as the most literal form of private enterprise, it fosters in a man, knowingly or unwittingly, a sense of his uniqueness, of individuality, of separateness--thus turning him from a social animal into an autonomous "I". Lots of things can be shared: a bed, a piece of bread, convictions, a mistress, but not a poem by, say, Rainer Maria Rilke. A work of art, of literature especially, and a poem in particular, addresses a man tete-a-tete, entering with him into direct--free of any go-betweens--relations.

It is for this reason that art in general, literature especially, and poetry in particular, is not exactly favored by the champions of the common good, masters of the masses, heralds of historical necessity. For there, where art has stepped, where a poem has been read, they discover, in place of the anticipated consent and unanimity, indifference and polyphony; in place of the resolve to act, inattention and fastidiousness. In other words, into the little zeros with which the champions of the common good and the rulers of the masses tend to operate, art introduces a "period, period, comma, and a minus", transforming each zero into a tiny human, albeit not always pretty, face.

¤j·N¬O¡GÃÀ³N¦pªG±Ð¤F§Ú­Ì¤°»ò¡A¨º´N¬O¤HÃþªº¤@ºØ¡u¨p¤H©Ê¡v¡C°µ¬°¤@ºØ³Ì¥j¦Ñªº¨p¤H¨Æ·~¡AÃÀ³N¦b¤@­Ó¤H¨­¤W¡A¦³·NµL·N¦a°ö¾i°_¤@ºØ¿W¯S©Ê©M¤ÀÂ÷©Ê¡AÅý¥L±q¤@ºØ¡uªÀ·|°Êª«¡vÅܦ¨¤@­Ó¿W¥ß¦Û¥Dªº¡u§Ú¡v¡C³\¦hªF¦è¥i¥H¤À¨É¡A¦ý¤£·|¬O¤@­º¸Ö¡C¤å¾Ç´N¹³¬O¤@ºØ¨p¤H½Í¸Ü¡A§â¹ï¤è±a¤J¤@­Ó¨S¦³²Ä¤TªÌ·í¹q¿Oªwªº¤@¹ï¤@Ãö«Y¡C

¥¿¬O¥X©ó³o¼Ëªº²z¥Ñ¡A¤å¾Ç¤]¤£·|¨ü¨ì¨º¨Ç¬°¤½¸q¾Ä°«ªº°«¤h¡B«C¦~¾É®v©ÎªÌ¾ú¥v¹w¨¥®aªºÅwªï¡C¦b¤@­ÓÃÀ³N¯A¨¬¡A¸Öºq³Q®Ô»wªº¦a¤è¡A³o¨Ç¤jÃa³J­Ìµo²{¡A¡uºzµM¡v©M¡u¤C¼L¤K¦Þ¡v¨ú¥N¤F¡u¶ñÀn¡v©M¡u²§¤f¦PÁn¡v¡F¡u²Ê¤ß¤j·N¡v©M¡u§j¤ò¨D²«¡v¡A¨ú¥N¤F¦æ°Êªº¡u¨M§Ó¡v¡C¤]´N¬O»¡¡A¦b¨º¨Ç¥¿¸q°«¤h©M«C¦~¾É®v³ßÅw¤W¤U¨ä¤âªº¦a¤è¡AÃÀ³N¤Þ¶i¤F¤@°ï@#%&!#$%^¡A§â³o¨Ç¤p¤pªº§Ú§Ú§Ú¡AÂà´«¦¨¤@±i±i¤p¤pªº¡BÁöµM¤£¨£±oº}«GªºÁy¡C

The great Baratynsky, speaking of his Muse, characterized her as possessing an "uncommon visage". It's in acquiring this "uncommon visage" that the meaning of human existence seems to lie, since for this uncommonness we are, as it were, prepared genetically. Regardless of whether one is a writer or a reader, one's task consists first of all in mastering a life that is one's own, not imposed or prescribed from without, no matter how noble its appearance may be. For each of us is issued but one life, and we know full well how it all ends. It would be regrettable to squander this one chance on someone else's appearance, someone else's experience, on a tautology--regrettable all the more because the heralds of historical necessity, at whose urging a man may be prepared to agree to this tautology, will not go to the grave with him or give him so much as a thank-you.

¤j·N¬O»¡¡G¸Ö¯«¡uÂÕ´µ¡v¾Ö¦³¤£´M±`ªº®e»ª¡C³o¼Ëªº¤@­Ó¤£´M±`ªº®e»ª¡A¦ü¥G·N¨ýµÛ¤HÃþªº¥Í¦s·N¸q§Ï©»¤]¤Ñ¥Í¦U¦³¤@µf¯S¦â¡C¨C¤@­Ó¤HÀ³¸Ó¦³Åv¤O¾Þ±±¥L¦Û¤vªº¥Í©R¡A¦Ó¤£¬O³Q¤@¨Ç¾¨ºÞ«Ü°¶¤jªº¨Æ©Ò±j­¢¡A¦]¬°¨C­Ó¤H³£¥u¦³¤@­Ó¥Í©R¡A§Ú­Ìª¾¹D¸Ó«ç»ò¬¡¡A¥Í©R¸Ó«ç»òµ²§ô¡C¦pªG§â¦Û¤vªº¥Í©R©M§O¤Hªº²V¦b¤@°_®ö¶O±¼¡A¬O¥L¶ýªº«ÜÁV¿|ªº¨Æ¡C

On the whole, every new aesthetic reality makes man's ethical reality more precise. For aesthetics is the mother of ethics; The categories of "good" and "bad" are, first and foremost, aesthetic ones, at least etymologically preceding the categories of "good" and "evil". If in ethics not "all is permitted", it is precisely because not "all is permitted" in aesthetics, because the number of colors in the spectrum is limited.

¤j·N¬O»¡¡G¨C¤@ºØ¬ü¾ÇÅéÅç¡A³£¯à¨Ï¤@­Ó¤Hªº¹D¼w·P§ó¥[©ú½T¡C¬ü¾Ç¬O¹D¼wªº¶ý¶ý¡F¦n©MÃa³o¨Ç¹D¼w¦r²´´N¬O¥Ñ¬ü¾Ç¦Ó¨Ó¡C¦pªG¦b¹D¼w¤W¤£¬O¤°»ò³£¥i¥H¡A¦b¬ü¾Ç¤W·íµM¤]¤@¼Ë¡A¦]¬°¦â±mªº¨t¦C¡B²Õ¦X¬O¦³­­ªº¡C

Aesthetic choice is a highly individual matter, and aesthetic experience is always a private one. Every new aesthetic reality makes one's experience even more private; and this kind of privacy, assuming at times the guise of literary (or some other) taste, can in itself turn out to be, if not as guarantee, then a form of defense against enslavement. For a man with taste, particularly literary taste, is less susceptible to the refrains and the rhythmical incantations peculiar toany version of political demagogy. The point is not so much that virtue does not constitute a guarantee for producing a masterpiece, as that evil, especially political evil, is always a bad stylist. The moresubstantial an individual's aesthetic experience is, the sounder his taste, the sharper his moral focus, the freer--though not necessarily the happier--he is.

¤j·N¬O¡G¨ÆÃö¬ü¾Çªº¿ï¾Ü¡A®Ú¥»´N¬O§Ú®aªº¨Æ¡A¬ü¾Çªº¸gÅç§ó¬O§ÚªºÁô¨p¡C¨C¤@ºØ¯u¹êªº¬ü¾ÇÅéÅç¡A¦]¬°³£¬O¡u§Ú§Ú§Ú¡v°µ¬°¥Dµü¡A©Ò¥H¡A¥¦¤]¨Ï±o§Ú­Ì¨C¤@­Ó¤Hªº¥Í¦sª¬ªp§ó¬°¿W¯S¡BÁô±K¡C°£¤F¡u§Ú¡v¤§¥~¡A§O¤HµLªk´¡¼L¡A¤£¯à¦b¨ºÃä¹ïµÛ¡u§Ú¡vggyy¡C³oºØÁô¨p©Ê¡A©¹©¹¥H¤@ºØ¬ü¾Çªº«~¨ý¥X²{¡F¥¦¬J¬O¥H§Ú§Ú§Ú¬°³Ì°ª»ù­È¡A·íµM¤]´N¨¬¥H¹ï§Ü¥£§Ð©MÀ£­¢¡C

³o¼Ëªº¤@ºØ§Ú§Ú§Úªº¤H¡A¸û¤£®e©ö³Q¤T¥Á¥D¸q§^ÄÒ©Ò©v©Ò¬~¸£¡BÀ£¨î¡A¤]¤£®e©ö³Q¬Fªv»y¨¥©Òº´°Ê¡C³o¨Ã¤£¬O»¡¬ü¼wµLªkºc¦¨¸Ö¡A¦Ó¥u¬O»¡¬Fªv¤W¨º¨Ç§¯¨¥¡A¤£¬O¸Ö¡A¦Ó¬O¤å«Å¡C¤@­Ó¤Hªº¬ü¾Ç¸gÅç¶VÂ×´I¡A¥Lªº¬ü¾Ç«~¨ý¤]´N¶V²`¨è¡A¥Lªº¹D¼wÃö¤Á¤]·|¶V¦³µJÂI¡A©Î³\¤]·|¶V¦Û¥Ñ§Ö¼Ö¡C

What's wrong with discourses about the obvious is that they corrupt consciousness with their easiness, with the quickness with which they provide one with moral comfort, with the sensation of being right. Herein lies their temptation, similar in its nature to the temptation of a social reformer who begets this evil.

¤j·N¬O¡GºØºØ©Î·ÅÄɩοE¯Pªº¡u¤T¥Á¥D¸q¡v¡B¡u«C¦~¦u«h¡v¤§¯à§¯¨¥´b²³¡B±ÑÃa¨}ª¾¡A¬O¦]¬°¥¦­Ì¦³¤@ºØ¤£¥²¸g¤j¸£¡B²z©Ò·íµMªº¤Ï´¼¡u¨ý¹D¡v¡A³o¨³³t´£¨Ñ§Ú­Ì¤@ºØ¡u¹D¼wªº¦w«D¥L©R¡v¡AÅý§Ú­Ì§l¤F¤§«á¯í¶p¶p¡A«Ü²n¡A¥H¬°¦Û¤v¬O·R¤ß¤Ñ¨Ï¡A¥H¬°¦Û¤v¬O¥¿¸q¤Æ¨­¡A°Ê¤£°Ê´N­n¡u¥H¤Ñ¤U¬°¤v¥ô¡v¡A°Ê¤£°Ê´N­n¥s¤j®a¡u§â·R§ä¦^¨Ó¡v¡CªÀ·|§ï­²ªÌ©M¥L©Ò­n§ï­²ªº¹ï¶H¨S¤°»ò¨â¼Ë¡A¥b¤ç¤K¨â¡A³£©Û¨Ó¤F¨¸ÆFªþ¨­¡C

The one who writes a poem writes it above all because verse writing is an extraordinary accelerator of conscience, of thinking, of comprehending the universe. Having experienced this acceleration once, one is no longer capable of abandoning the chance to repeat this experience; one falls into dependency on this process, the way others fall into dependency on drugs or on alcohol. One who finds himself in this sort of dependency on language is, I guess, what they call a poet.

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¦n¤ñ»¡¡A¤@­Ó¡u§@®a¡v¦pªG¤£®É¡u©IÆ~¡vªÀ·|¤j²³¡A¤£®É°Ñ¥[¦UºØ®y½Í¡B¦£µÛºtÁ¿©MªÀ¥æ¡A³ßÅw¡u¤ÀªR¡v¦Û¤vªº¡u§@«~¡v¡A¦Ó¥BÁ`¬O¡u¤ÀªR¡v±oÀYÀY¬O¹D¡B¬z¬z¦³¨ý¡A³o¼Ëªº§@®a¡A¨ä¹êÀ³¸Ó¥ß¨è²¾°eªk¿ì¡B±j­¢§ï¦æ¤~¹ï¡A¦]¬°¡A¥L¥¿¦b°µ³Ì¤£¾A¦X¥L°µªº¨Æ¡C

¸Ö¤H¤£¤@©w®³µ§¡A®³ºj®³¾SÀY³£¥i¥H¡F¥¦¤]¤£¬O¤@ºØ¦æ·~¡A¦W¤ù¤WµLªk¦LÀY»Î¡A¨­¥÷ÃÒ¤W¨Sµn°O¡A¥~ªí¤W¤]¬Ý¤£¥X¨Ó¡F¥L¤£¤@©w¥ú©úÀéÄê¡A°½·m©äÄF±jµs¾Û±°«e¬ì²Ö²Ö¬°ªê§@­Î³£¨SÃö«Y¡C¥L¤å¤£¸ü¹D¡A¥u¸ü¦Û¤v¡F¥L¬J¤£±Ñ¼w¡A¤]¤£¹D¼w¡F¨S¦³«ä·Q´N¬O¥Lªº«ä·Q¡A¨S¦³¥D±i´N¬O¥Lªº¥D±i¡F¤@¤Á³£«ê¦p¨ä¥÷¡A¦ÓµL¥i¨ú¥N¡C¥L¬J¤£¦b¤Ñ¡A¤]¤£¦b¦a¡A¥LÄÆ¯B¦b³o¨âªÌ¤§¶¡¦ÓµL®a¥iÂk¡C

³\¦h¨Æ¯Âºé¬O©R¹B¡A¦Ó¥B¬O¤@ºØ¾µ¹B¡A¥¦µLªk³Q¡u¥ß§Ó¡v¡A·Q°k¤]°k¤£¶}¡F¤£¥i¯à¦³¤H·|¥ß§Ó©b¦V¾µ¹B¡A´N¦n¹³¤£·|¦³¤H¥ß§Ó­nºÆ¨g¤@¼Ë¡A¤]¤£¸Ó¦³¤H¥ß§Ó­n·í¸Ö¤H©Î·íÃÀ³N®a¡A¥ß³o¼Ëªº¡u§Ó¡v¯u¬O¤Ó¨S¡u¤ô·Ç¡v¤F¡C

©R¹B¬JµMµLªkÁ×§K¡A¨º»ò¡A³Ì¦n¬O¤£­n¥X¥Í¡A¥i¬O¡A¬JµM³£¥X¥Í¤F«ç»ò¿ì¡H¡I¨º»ò¡A´N§Æ±æ¯à»°§Ö¦º§a¡C-¨â¤d¤­¦Ê¦~«e¡A¤@¦ì¥j§ÆÃ¾¼@§@®a³o»ò»¡¡C(Not to be born is the most to be desired; but having seen the light, the next best is to die as soon as possible.-Sophocles¡G<Oedipus at Colonus>)

¬G¨Æ¦n¹³¬O³o¼Ë¡A¤@­Ó°ê¤ýMidas¦b´ËªLùضe¨ì¼Ä¤H¡A¬O¤@­Ó´¼ªÌ¡A¥s°µSilenus¡C°ê¤ý«Ü²n¡A¹ï¥L¤@µf¦D¨D¹G¨Ñ¡A­n¥L©Û¨Ñ¥@¬É¤W³Ì´Îªº¨Æ¡CSilenus¤£ªÖ»¡¡A°ê¤ý´N¥[­«­h«Ý¡A²×©ó¡A´¼ªÌ§N¯º´XÁn¡A¥L»¡¸Ü¤F¡A¥L»¡¡G

Oh, wretched ephemeral race, children of chance and misery, why do you compel me to tell you what it would be most expedient for you not to hear? What is best of all is utterly beyond your reach: not to be born, not to be, to be nothing.  But the second best for you is-to die soon.

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