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A convincing thunder rumbled through the words. He lifted another spadeful of earth.
一声有说服力的霹雳通过这话隆隆炸出。他铲起了另一锹土。
Why had Linda died? Why had she been allowed to become gradually less than human and at last … He shuddered.
琳妲是为什么死的？为什么要让她慢慢地变，变得越来越没有个人样，然后终于？……他打了一个寒碜。
A good kissing carrion.
一块大可亲吻的臭狗肉。
He planted his foot on his spade and stamped it fiercely into the tough ground.
他把脚踏在铲子上狠狠地往结实的土地里踩。
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.
我们在上帝面前就像顽童眼里的苍蝇；他们杀死我们只为了取乐。
Thunder again; words that proclaimed themselves true–truer somehow than truth itself.
又是一声炸雷。那可是千真万确的道理——在一定的意义上比真理还要真实。
And yet that same Gloucester had called them ever-gentle gods.
可是那同一个格罗斯特又把他们叫做永远温柔的神灵。
Besides, thy best of rest is sleep and that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st thy death which is no more.
你最好的休息是睡眠，你也常常渴望睡眠，可你又愚蠢地怕死，而死只是不存在而已。
No more than sleep.Sleep. Perchance to dream. His spade struck against a stone; he stooped to pick it up.
死亡不过是睡觉，睡觉，也许还做梦。他的铁锹铲在一块石头上，他弯下身子要拣起石头。
For in that sleep of death, what dreams? …
因为在那死亡的梦里，会出现什么样的梦？……
A humming overhead had become a roar; and suddenly he was in shadow, there was something between the sun and him.
头顶的嗡嗡声变成了轰鸣；一片阴影突然遮住了他，有什么东西插到他和阳光之间了！
He looked up, startled, from his digging,
他吃了一惊，停下挖土和思想，抬头一看。
from his thoughts; looked up in a dazzled bewilderment,
眼前的景象使他头昏眼花，混乱糊涂。
his mind still wandering in that other world of truer-than-truth, still focused on the immensities of death and deity;
他的心还在另外一个世界游荡，在那比真实还真实的世界里，还集中在死亡与神灵的汗漫天涯里，
looked up and saw, close above him, the swarm of hovering machines.
抬头却看见了那黑压压一大片悬浮的直升机向他的头顶逼了过来。
Like locusts they came, hung poised, descended all around him on the heather.
直升机像蝗虫一样飞着，悬浮在空中，在他四面八方降落，落到石南丛里，
And from out of the bellies of these giant grasshoppers stepped men in white viscose-flannels,
然后从这些硕大无朋的蝗虫肚子里走出了穿白色黏胶法兰绒衫的男士，
women (for the weather was hot) in acetate-shantung pyjamas or velveteen shorts and sleeveless, half-unzippered singlets–one couple from each.
和因为怕热穿着人造丝山东宽袍、天鹅绒短裤、或无袖坦胸连衣裙的女士——每架飞机一对。
In a few minutes there were dozens of them, standing in a wide circle round the lighthouse, staring, laughing, clicking their cameras,
几分钟之内已经下来了好几十对。他们围着灯塔站成了一个大圆圈，瞪着眼看着，哈哈地笑着，照相机咋哒咋哒响着，
throwing (as to an ape) peanuts, packets of sex-hormone chewing-gum, pan-glanduar petite beurres.
向他扔着花生、性激素口香糖和泛腺小奶油饼，像扔给猴子一样。
And every moment–for across the Hog's Back the stream of traffic now flowed unceasingly–their numbers increased.
他们的人数在每时每刻增加，因为现在野猪背上飞机的洪流还在不停拥来。
As in a nightmare, the dozens became scores, the scores hundreds.
几十个立即变成了上百个，然后是几百个，仿佛是一场噩梦。
