“老刀比你的年级低，
‘Dockery was junior to you,
是不是”，系主任说，“他的儿子已经在这里上学了。”
Wasn’t he?’ said the Dean. ‘His son’s here now.’
身穿嘉宾的葬礼正装，我点头。“你和他还有联系吗，
Death-suited, visitant, I nod. ‘And do
或者你还记得那次我们穿着内裤套着黑长袍，没吃早饭，
You keep in touch with—’ Or remember how
站在桌前，讨论‘关于昨天的乱子我们咋说好？’”
Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight
我试着开住过的寝室的门：
We used to stand before that desk, to give
‘Our version’ of ‘these incidents last night’?
上锁了。草坪那么宽阔让人头晕。
I try the door of where I used to live:
熟悉的铃声在敲响。让它去响吧，我上了火车。
两旁的水渠、云朵、宿舍慢慢出离视野。但是老刀，我的老天爷，
Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.
如果他的儿子现在那么大，应当是1943年生人，我当时21岁。
A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.
如果他比我年纪小，那么他应当19岁就得了儿子，或者20岁？
Canal and clouds and colleges subside
Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,
你是说那个不合群的，领子高高竖起的公立学校男生，
Anyone up today must have been born
和这次死的那个老卡同寝室的那个？好吧，这说明
In ’43, when I was twenty-one.
他这个人是这么，是那么……我打起哈欠，
If he was younger, did he get this son
应该是睡着了，到了谢菲尔德在炉火的强光和烟雾中醒来，
At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn
在这里我换衣服，吃糟透了的馅饼，沿月台走到头，
看那些离离合合的铁道线反射着无遮无拦的
High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms
With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows
强烈月光。现在我没有儿子，没有老婆，没有房子或土地还看起来相当自然。
How much ... How little ... Yawning, I suppose
只是一种麻木感召示着刚才的冲击多么强烈。
I fell asleep, waking at the fumes
这冲击来自于我自己的人生已经失去了多少，别人的人生
And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,
又得到多少。人家老刀，只有19岁的时候，
And ate an awful pie, and walked along
他一定已经入手了自己想要的，而且有能力……
The platform to its end to see the ranged
不，不对，他是否下定决心给自己的人生做加法，
Joining and parting lines reflect a strong
这不是我们之间的区别。
Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,
他为什么要认为做加法就会增加？
No house or land still seemed quite natural.
对我来说，做加法意味着稀释。这种天生的假定从何而来？
Only a numbness registered the shock
不是来自我们对真实的思考，或者我们最想做的事：
Of finding out how much had gone of life,
这些倾向被紧密包藏，就像紧闭的门。它们更多是一种风格
How widely from the others. Dockery, now:
我们的人生和它们一同到来：开始时是习惯，
Only nineteen, he must have taken stock
突然它们硬化，成为我们已经拥有的一切，以及我们为得到这一切
Of what he wanted, and been capable
Of ... No, that’s not the difference: rather, how
走过的路程。
回首望去，它们就像沙尘暴一样升起，厚重紧实，
Convinced he was he should be added to!
在老刀那里它现形为一个儿子，在我这里现形为啥都没有，
Why did he think adding meant increase?
还有因为人家有儿子带来的碎碎念。
To me it was dilution. Where do these
生命开始时是厌倦，然后是恐惧。
Innate assumptions come from? Not from what
不管我们是否利用它，它都会走，留下一些被“选择”所掩盖的东西，
We think truest, or most want to do:
还有年龄，以及年龄唯一的尽头。
Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They’re more a style
Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,
Suddenly they harden into all we’ve got
And how we got it; looked back on, they rear
Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying
For Dockery a son, for me nothing,
Nothing with all a son’s harsh patronage.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
Whether or not we use it, it goes,
And leaves what something hidden from us chose,
And age, and then the only end of age.