和自己冲突的人类之心
福克纳
人类今天的悲剧在于一种通用普适的肉体恐惧到现在被坚持如此之久以致于我们已经习以为常。不再有关于精神的问题。只剩下一个问题：我什么时候会被爆掉？由于这个原因，今天在写作的年轻人已经忘记了和自己冲突的人类之心，忘记了这个问题本身就能产生出好的作品，忘记了这个问题才真正值得书写，真正值得那些痛苦和那些汗水。
他必须重新学习。他必须教会自己说所有事情的根基是怀有敬畏之心；并且，教会自己说，永远忘掉那些，在自己的书房里除了那些关于人心的规律和真理，除了那些无论任何故事缺少了都只能昙花一现，快速毁灭的普适规则，也就是爱，荣誉，怜悯，骄傲，同情，牺牲，除了这些什么都不要留下。在他没做到这些之前，他是在诅咒下工作。他写的不是爱情而是欲望；他写的那些失败，中间没人损失任何有价值的东西；他写的那些胜利，是没有希望，甚至更糟，没有同情或怜悯的胜利。他的悲伤无可悲之物，也留不下伤痕。他不是为心在书写，而是为肾上腺在书写。
直到他重新学习这些事情，他的写作就好像是已经置身于并观察着人类的终结。我拒绝接受人类的终结。本来可以简单地说，人类将永垂不朽是因为他将忍受: 就好像当悬挂在那个血红垂死的最后一个夜晚的最后一块毫无价值的石头，已经敲响了灭亡的最后一声叮咚，直到那时还有剩下一个声音：那是人类微小但是无法熄灭的嗓音，还在述说。但我拒绝接受这些。我相信人类将不仅仅忍受:他还将获胜。他是永垂不朽，不仅仅因为他于万灵中独享无法熄灭的嗓音，并且因为他有一个灵魂，一个能够同情和牺牲和忍受的精神。诗人还有作家的职责就是书写这些东西。他的权利就是通过升华人类的心灵，通过提醒人类说勇气，荣誉，希望，骄傲，同情，怜悯，牺牲这些都是他曾经的光荣，通过这些，来帮助人类忍受。诗人的声音不仅应该成为人类的记录，它更应该成为帮助人类忍受和获胜的支柱和支架之一。
The Human Heart in Conflict with Itself
William Faulkner
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
人类今天的悲剧在于一种通用普适的肉体恐惧到现在被坚持如此之久以致于我们已经习以为常。不再有关于精神的问题。只剩下一个问题：我什么时候会被爆掉？由于这个原因，今天在写作的年轻人已经忘记了和自己冲突的人类之心，忘记了这个问题本身就能产生出好的作品，忘记了这个问题才真正值得书写，真正值得那些痛苦和那些汗水。
他必须重新学习。他必须教会自己说所有事情的根基是怀有敬畏之心；并且，教会自己说，永远忘掉那些，在自己的书房里除了那些关于人心的规律和真理，除了那些无论任何故事缺少了都只能昙花一现，快速毁灭的普适规则，也就是爱，荣誉，怜悯，骄傲，同情，牺牲，除了这些什么都不要留下。在他没做到这些之前，他是在诅咒下工作。他写的不是爱情而是欲望；他写的那些失败，中间没人损失任何有价值的东西；他写的那些胜利，是没有希望，甚至更糟，没有同情或怜悯的胜利。他的悲伤无可悲之物，也留不下伤痕。他不是为心在书写，而是为肾上腺在书写。
直到他重新学习这些事情，他的写作就好像是已经置身于并观察着人类的终结。我拒绝接受人类的终结。本来可以简单地说，人类将永垂不朽是因为他将忍受: 就好像当悬挂在那个血红垂死的最后一个夜晚的最后一块毫无价值的石头，已经敲响了灭亡的最后一声叮咚，直到那时还有剩下一个声音：那是人类微小但是无法熄灭的嗓音，还在述说。但我拒绝接受这些。我相信人类将不仅仅忍受:他还将获胜。他是永垂不朽，不仅仅因为他于万灵中独享无法熄灭的嗓音，并且因为他有一个灵魂，一个能够同情和牺牲和忍受的精神。诗人还有作家的职责就是书写这些东西。他的权利就是通过升华人类的心灵，通过提醒人类说勇气，荣誉，希望，骄傲，同情，怜悯，牺牲这些都是他曾经的光荣，通过这些，来帮助人类忍受。诗人的声音不仅应该成为人类的记录，它更应该成为帮助人类忍受和获胜的支柱和支架之一。
The Human Heart in Conflict with Itself
William Faulkner
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking. I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
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