a long time ago, when i was living in my favorite apartment behind a bamboo patch in tuscaloosa, alabama, i wrote my first love letter. it was a liquid hot afternoon, and i was sitting on my screened porch, enjoying my boredom, thinking that i was full up with the very thought of her. i drew a pretty cool heart on a piece of newsprint, rolled that into a manual typewriter, and then pecked out about 15 sentences. i took more than an hour. i had to. i couldn’t edit, and i couldn’t use wite-out. it worked too. that woman was happy.
很久以前,我住在亚拉巴马州塔斯卡卢萨市。有一天在我最喜欢的那套公寓里时,我写下了我的第一封情书。公寓在一片竹林后面。那是一个天气炎热的下午,阳光穿透竹林在门廊里留下许多斑点,我坐在门廊里无聊着,却满脑子里想的都是她。我在一张新闻用纸上画下了一颗相当漂亮的心,把它放进手动打印机里,然后打印出了大约15个句子。我花了一个多小时。这是必须的。我不能编辑,我也不能用修正液涂改。见效了。那个女人高兴了。
so happy that she stuck it on the door of her refrigerator, where it clung to a magnet-laden collage of birthday cards, easter cards, thinking-of-you cards. this irked me. “it’s a love letter,” i told her. “it’s only for you. you’re supposed to save it. it’s supposed to be folded up in a book somewhere.” she didn’t get it. she treated it like a card.
她很开心,于是她把情书贴在冰箱门上。冰箱门上贴满了生日贺卡、复活节卡片和思念卡,它们仿佛组成了一幅拼图。这个让我很恼火。我对她说:“这是一封情书。只写给你一个人的情书。你应该保存它。它应该夹在一本书里什么的。” 她不听。她把情书当一张明信片一样对待了。
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