我做过的蠢事可以填满几多账簿。

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

有几本专记着无意识的行动，

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,

仿佛飞蛾扑火，即便事先知会，

Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,

依然不能抵抗火焰的诱惑。

Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle’s flame.

有几本只记着隐隐的担忧，

Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,

那些细微的心声，被忽略的警告。

The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.

我要把自满和骄傲大书特书，

I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,

曾经我也是这二者的信徒，

The time when I was among their adherents

趾高气扬，毫无顾忌。

Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

然而所有的蠢事都有同一个起因，欲望，

But all of them would have one subject, desire,

但凡是自己的欲望也好，可惜不是；唉，

If only my own—but no, not at all; alas,

我被驱使着总想跟别人一样，

I was driven because I wanted to be like others.

我怕心底藏着的狂野和不羁。

I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

我做过的蠢事罄竹难书，也罢。

The history of my stupidity will not be written.

毕竟为时已晚，而真相来之不易。

For one thing, it’s late. And the truth is laborious.