评论
打印
Don't you know me, Linda?
你不认识我了吗，琳妲？
He felt the faint answering pressure of her hand.
他隐约感觉到了她的手在捏紧，作为回答。
The tears started into his eyes. He bent over her and kissed her. Her lips moved.
泪水涌进了他的眼睛，他弯过她的身子亲了亲她。
"Popé!" she whispered again, and it was as though he had had a pailful of ordure thrown in his face.
她的嘴唇动了动，“波培！”她低声说道。他像是被劈头盖脸泼了一桶大粪。
Anger suddenly boiled up in him. Balked for the second time,
怒火突然在他心里沸腾。他第二次受到挫折，
the passion of his grief had found another outlet, was transformed into a passion of agonized rage.
他忧伤的情绪找到了另一个出路，转化成了激动的悲愤。
"But I'm John!" he shouted. "I'm John!" And in his furious misery he actually caught her by the shouder and shook her.
“可我是约翰！”他叫了起来。“我是约翰！”他因为激怒的痛苦实际上抓住她的肩膀摇晃起来。
Linda's eyes fluttered open; she saw him, knew him–"John!"–but situated the real face, the real and violent hands, in an imaginary world.
琳妲的眼睛瞬动了一下，睁开了，认出了他。“约翰！——可又把他那张现实的面孔，现实的粗暴的手放进了一个想象的世界。
among the inward and private equivalents of patchouli and the Super-Wurlitzer,
把他跟隐藏在她心里的薄荷香、超级伍丽策一样看待，
among the transfigured memories and the strangely transposed sensations that constituted the universe of her dream.
跟变了形的回忆，跟构成她那梦幻世界的离奇的错了位的种种感受一样看待。
She knew him for John, her son, but fancied him an intruder into that paradisal Malpais where she had been spending her soma-holiday with Popé.
她认得他是她的儿子约翰，可又把他幻想成闯进她马尔佩斯乐园的人，而她正在那儿跟波培一起度着唆麻假日。
He was angry because she liked Popé, he was shaking her because Popé was there in the bed–as though there were something wrong, as though all civilized people didn't do the same.
约翰生气了，因为她喜欢波培，约翰在摇晃她，因为波培在她床上——好像那是什么错误，好像文明人都不那么干似的。
"Every one belongs to every …" Her voice suddenly died into an almost inaudible breathless croaking.
“每个人都彼此相属……”她的声音突然消失了，转化成了一种喘不过气的，几乎听不见的咯咯声。
Her mouth fell open: she made a desperate effort to fill her lungs with air.
她的嘴唇耷拉了下来，做了极大的努力要让肺里充满空气，
But it was as though she had forgotten how to breathe.
可却像忘掉了怎么样呼吸。
