The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

我做过的蠢事可以填满几多账簿。

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,

有几本专记着无意识的行动，

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

仿佛飞蛾扑火，即便事先知会，

Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle’s flame.

依然不能抵抗火焰的诱惑。

Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,

有几本只记着隐隐的担忧，

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

那些细微的心声，被忽略的警告。

I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,

我要把自满和骄傲大书特书，

The time when I was among their adherents

曾经我也是这二者的信徒，

Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

趾高气扬，毫无顾忌。

But all of them would have one subject, desire,

然而所有的蠢事都有同一个起因，欲望，

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

但凡是自己的欲望也好，可惜不是；唉，

I was driven because I wanted to be like others.

我被驱使着总想跟别人一样，

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

我怕心底藏着的狂野和不羁。

The history of my stupidity will not be written.

我做过的蠢事罄竹难书，也罢。

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

毕竟为时已晚，而真相来之不易。