あなたの本を繁体字中国語から英語へ。

我常想在紛擾中尋出一點閒靜來，然而委實不容易。目前是這麼離奇，心裏是這麼蕪雜。一個人做到只剩了回憶的時候，生涯大概總要算是無聊了罷，但有時竟會連回憶也沒有。中國的做文章有軌範，世事也仍然是螺旋。前幾天我離開中山大學的時候，便想起四個月以前的離開廈門大學；聽到飛機在頭上鳴叫，竟記得了一年前在北京城上日日旋繞的飛機。我那時還做了一篇短文，叫做《一覺》。現在是，連這“一覺”也沒有了。廣州的天氣熱得真早，夕陽從西窗射入，逼得人只能勉強穿一件單衣。書桌上的一盆“水橫枝”，是我先前沒有見過的：就是一段樹，只要浸在水中，枝葉便青蔥得可愛。看看綠葉，編編舊稿，總算也在做一點事。做著這等事，真是雖生之日，猶死之年，很可以驅除炎熱的。前天，已將《野草》編定了；這回便輪到陸續載在《莽原》上的《舊事重提》，我還替他改了一個名稱：《朝花夕拾》。帶露折花，色香自然要好得多，但是我不能夠。便是現在心目中的離奇和蕪雜，我也還不能使他即刻幻化，轉成離奇和蕪雜的文章。或者，他日仰看流雲時，會在我的眼前一閃爍罷。我有一時，曾經屢次憶起兒時在故鄉所吃的蔬果：菱角、羅漢豆、茭白、香瓜。凡這些，都是極其鮮美可口的；都曾是使我思鄉的蠱惑。後來，我在久別之後嘗到了，也不過如此；惟獨在記憶上，還有舊來的意味存留。他們也許要哄騙我一生，使我時時反顧。這十篇就是從記憶中抄出來的，與實際容或有些不同，然而我現在只記得是這樣。文體大概很雜亂，因為是或作或輟，經了九個月之多。環境也不一：前兩篇寫於北京寓所的東壁下；中三篇是流離中所作，地方是醫院和木匠房；後五篇卻在廈門大學的圖書館的樓上，已經是被學者們擠出集團之後了。

I often long to find a little peace and quiet amid the tumult, but it is truly no easy thing. The present is so strange, and my mind so cluttered. When a man is reduced to nothing but memories, his life must surely be counted rather dreary; yet at times even the memories are gone. In China there are set rules for writing essays, and the affairs of the world still go round in spirals. A few days ago, when I left Sun Yat-sen University, I thought of my departure from Xiamen University four months before; hearing aeroplanes droning overhead, I even recalled the planes that circled day after day over the city of Beijing a year ago. At that time I wrote a short essay called "A Moment of Awakening." Now, even that "awakening" is gone. The weather in Guangzhou turns hot remarkably early. The evening sun streams in through the west window, forcing one to wear nothing but a single thin garment. On my desk stands a pot of "shuihengzhi," which I had never seen before: it is simply a section of a tree, and so long as it is steeped in water, its branches and leaves stay a lovely fresh green. Gazing at the green leaves and editing my old manuscripts, I am at least doing something. To be doing such work—one may call these days of life, years of death—is indeed a fine way to dispel the heat. The day before yesterday I finished compiling Wild Grass; now it is the turn of the pieces serialized in Mangyuan under the title "Old Tales Retold," to which I have also given a new name: Dawn Blossoms Plucked at Dusk. To pluck a flower while the dew is still upon it would naturally mean far better color and fragrance, but that I cannot do. Even the strange, tangled images now before my mind's eye I cannot at once conjure into essays equally strange and tangled. Perhaps, some day when I look up at the drifting clouds, they will flash for an instant before my eyes. For a time I kept recalling the vegetables and fruits I had eaten as a child in my hometown: water caltrops, broad beans, wild rice stems, sweet melons. All of these were wonderfully fresh and delicious; all were enchantments that made me homesick. Later, after a long absence, I tasted them again, and they were nothing much; only in memory does their old savor still linger. They may perhaps deceive me all my life, making me look back time and again. These ten pieces were copied out from memory; they may differ here and there from the facts, but at present this is all I remember. The style is probably rather uneven, since they were written by fits and starts over as long as nine months. Nor were the surroundings the same: the first two were written against the east wall of my lodgings in Beijing; the middle three were written while I was adrift, in a hospital and a carpenter's shop; the last five were written upstairs in the library of Xiamen University, by which time I had already been squeezed out of the fold by the scholars.