Marching Through a Novel by John Updike

每天早晨我刻画的人物
都带着一张模糊不清的脸问候我
乐意，虽然有点害怕的感觉，
鼓起另一天的进步
透过弥眼的流沙，
在空白纸上行进。
瞬间就俯首帖耳
他们换了衣服，改变了言谈举止，
减少了讲话口吃，
朝反方向发展一个动机
为适合行为的得体。
他们伸展瘦骨嶙峋的手臂
为戴上精巧设计的手铐，
温顺地埋头于
巧合的操演，
满怀希望地看着我，
他们平庸的军需官，
为了一张更清晰的脸，一颗更强壮的心，
我做我能为他们所做的一切，
但那还不够。
前进是我的命令，
虽然他们的绷带解开了
有些没有骨气
有些变成了叛徒
像双面人
有些阵亡的被遗忘了
在没捻紧线的作品的战壕里，
草图的高射炮喷出不好的烟雾。
前进。相信我，我爱他们
虽然我强迫他们终结他们。
Each morning my characters
greet me with misty faces
willing, though chilled, to muster
for another day’s progress
through dazzling quicksand,
the march of blank paper.
With instant obedience
they change clothes and mannerisms,
drop a speech impediment,
develop a motive backwards
to suit the deed’s done.
They extend skeletal arms
for the handcuffs of contrivance,
slog through docilely
maneuvers of coincidence,
look toward me hopefully,
their general and quartermaster,
for a clearer face, a bigger heart.
I do what l can for them,
but it is not enough.
Forward is my order,
though their bandages unravel
and some have no backbones
and some turn traitor
like heads with two faces
and some fall forgotten
in the trench work of loose threads,
poor puffs of cartoon flak.
Forward. Believe me, I love them
though I march them to finish them off.