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hope it is somewhat better than whim at last, but I cannot spend the day
in explanation.¡^
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¥ô¦ó§@«~¨S¿ìªk±j¢¨CÓ¤H³£³ßÅw¡A¦ý¬O¡A§åµû¡B˼u¤]±o¥ÎÓ¹³¼Ëªº²z¥Ñ¡A³oºØ§åµû¡A¥u¬O¤Þ¤Hµo¯º¡A¤£¬O¶Ü¡H¡I³Ð§@´N¬O³Ð§@¡A¼gªF¦è´N¬O¼gªF¦è¡A¸ò¤°»òÃöÃhªÀ·|¦³¤°»òÃö«Y¡H¡I
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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§Ṳ́£¦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¡^
¤°»ò¼vµû¤åµûõµûµ¼Öµû³oÓµû¨ºÓµûªº¡A¯u¬O«Ü©Ç²§ªº¨Æ¡C§A°£¤F¦Û¤v¤]³Ð§@¤§¥~¡A¦³¤°»ò¦nµûªº¡H¡I§O¤H¤£¬O¦b°Ñ¥[¡u¼g§@¤å¡v¤ñÁɰڡI¤å¦r¬O·|©I§lªº¡A¦³¦å²G´`Àôªº¡A§An«ç»òµû¤@Ó¤Hªº©I§l¡H¦p¦óµû¥Lªº¦å¬y¡H¬Ý¥¦¬y±o¬ü¤£¬ü¡B¦n¤£¦n©Î¹ï¤£¹ï¶Ü¡H§O¤H¼g¥Lªº¥Í©R¤§ºq¡A§A°£¤F¹ï¥L¥H©R¬Û³\¡B°µ¬°¡u¦^³ø¡v¤§¥~¡A¦³¤°»ò¦nµûªº¡H
¬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
¤ñ¤è»¡¡A°ª¦æ°·¼gµÛ¡G¡u¦o»¡¦o¥h¬Ý¦o©h¶ý¡v¡A±ä¥ý¥Í´NÀ°¥L¡u§ï¥¿¡v¬°¡u¦o»¡¥h¬Ý©h¶ý¡v¡A»¡¥L¼g¤FÂØ¦r¡C
¤ñ¤è»¡¡A°ª¼gµÛ¡G¡u§Ú¾¨ºÞ¯h³Ò¤£³ô¡AµLªk¤JºÎ¡v¡A±ä¤S¡u§ï¥¿¡v¬°¡u§Ú¾¨ºÞ¯h³Ò¤£³ô¡A¦ý«oµLªk¤JºÎ¡C¡v
¤ñ¤è»¡¡A°ª¼gµÛ¡G¡u¸Ëº¡¤ì§÷ªº¥d¨®³s³s±ÈµÛ°ªµ³â¥z¡v¡A±ä§ó¤£º¡¤F¡A»¡³â¥z¡un«ç»òӱȪk¡H¡v
«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§Ú̬J¤£¸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¡A³oӲʼɥi»À¡B¾ã¤Ñ¹ï¡u§Ú¡v¤W¤U¨ä¤âªº¶Â·t®É¥N¡A¦Ñ¬O·Q±j¢§Ú̦b¨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§Ṳ́°»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¤jÃa³J̵o²{¡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¤@ӥͩR¡A§Ú̪¾¹D¸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§Ų́C¤@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§Ṳ́@ºØ¡u¹D¼wªº¦w«D¥L©R¡v¡AÅý§Ú̧l¤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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¤Ó¦h¤F¡A¤£§Û¤F¡C§Û¥¦·íµM¤£ªí¥Ü§Ú§¹¥þ¦P·N¡C
¦³¨Ç¸Ü¡A¥»¨Ó´NÀ´ªº¤H¡A¤£¥²Á¿¸Ñ´N·|À´¡F¦³¨Ç¸Ü¡A¤£À´ªº¤H¡A¤j·§¥Ã»·¤]¤£¥i¯àÀ´¡AÁ¿¦A¦h¤]¨S¥Î¡C¦]¬°¡A³o¨Ç¸Ü¤£¬O·s»D½Z¡A¤£¬O¤å«Å¡A¤£¬O¬ì¾Ç¥y¤l¡A¦Ó¬O¡u¸Ö¡v¡C¸Ö¡A¬O¤@ºØ©_©ÇªºªF¦è¡A¥¦¥u¼gµ¹¦Û¤v©M¨º¨Ç¸ò¦Û¤v¦P¤@°êªº¤H¬Ý¡C
³oÓ¥@¬É¡AÅ޿褣¬O¦Ñ¤j¡A¤]¤£¬O¥Ñ¸gÅç²Õ¦¨¡A·§©À¤ÀªR¤]¤ÀªR¤£¤F¤°»ò¸J¿|¡A¦³Ó¦a¤è¡A¬OÓ¯«¯µªººÞ¨î°Ï¡A¥u¦³¸Ö¤H¤~¶i±o¥h¡C¦b¨ºùØ¡A¨S¦³ªÀ¥æ¡A¤]¨S¦³¬ã°Q·|¡F¨S¦³©w¸q¡A¤]¨S¦³¼Ð·Ç¡F¨S¦³¤f¸¹¡A¤]¨S¦³¼Ð»y¡F§ó¨S¦³ÄÒ¤¤¥¡©Mĵ³ÆÁ`³¡¡F½Ñªk¬ÒªÅ¡A¤Z¨Æ¬Ò¦æ¡C
§Ṳ́£ª¾¹D½Ö¬OÃÀ³N®a¡A¦ý§ÚÌ«oª¾¹D½Ö¤£¬O¡C«Ü²³æ¡A¨º¨Ç·Q·íÃÀ³N®a©Î´r§Ö¦a·í¡uÃÀ³N®a¡v©Î·Q¡u¤å¥H¸ü¹D¡vªº¤H¡Aµ´¤£·|¬OÃÀ³N®a¡A¦Ü¤Ö¤£·|¬O¤@Ó¦nªºÃÀ³N®a¡C
¦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§@㣨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.
·N«ä¬O»¡¡G¥i´dªºßì碤H¥Í¡A¨º°¸µM©M´d¼@¤Uªº²£ª«°Ú¡I§A¥L¶ýªº¦ó¥²¹G§Ú©O¡H¨º¥@¬É¤W³Ì´Îªº¨Æ¡A¬O§A®Ú¥»±o¤£¨ìªº¡C¨º´N¬O¡G§A³Ì¦n±q¨Ó³£¨S¦³¥X¥Í¡C¤£¹L¡AÁÙ¦³²Ä¤G´Îªº¿ï¾Ü¡A¨º´N¬O»°§Ö¥h¦º§a¡C
³oÓ´d¶Ëªº§ÆÃ¾¯«¸Ü¡A¨S¦³±aµ¹§Ú§ó¦h´d¶Ë¡A«o±aµ¹§Ú§ó¦h¬¡µÛªº«i®ð¡C
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