adv. 充分地；完全地；彻底地
n. (Fully)人名；(法)菲利
国外生活必备英文词汇全搜索-住宿篇1-bokee.... ...
available 可用的，合用的，可得到的，可到达的
fully 完全地，彻底地
name 名字，姓，姓名，名称 ...
基于672个网页-
菲利 (瓦莱州)
中文:菲利 (瓦莱州);英语:Fully;法语:Fully;
基于500个网页-
有效市场是指 这样一个资本市场，即市场上所有证券的价格都快速地（Quickly）和 充分地 （ Fully ） 反映了所有关于资产的可获得的信息。
基于208个网页-
available可用的,诛仙网，合用的，可患上到的，可达到的
fully彻底地，彻底地
name名字，姓，姓名,劲舞团繁体字网名，名称 ...
基于180个网页-
有十足抵押
全面投产开工
羽毛长满的
完好的最佳
全扩展状态
全扩大状况
齐扩年夜自遇
更多收起网络短语
充分地；完全地；彻底地
- 引用次数：3
参考来源 - 粗糙海面的电磁特性研究
&2,447,543篇论文数据，部分数据来源于
to the great co (`full' in this sense is used as a combining form)
&fully grown&; & he didn't fully understand&
more than adequately
&the evidence amply (or fully) confirms our suspicions&; & they were fully (or amply) fed&
referring to a quantity
以上来源于:
完全地，充分地，彻底地
充分地，充裕地
足足，至少
以上来源于：《21世纪大英汉词典》
Fully means to the greatest degree or extent possible. 完全地
She was fully aware of my thoughts.
她完全了解了我的想法。
You use fully to say that a process is completely finished. 彻底地
[ADV with v]
He had still not fully recovered.
他还没有彻底康复。
If you describe, answer, or deal with something fully, you leave out nothing that should be mentioned or dealt with. 毫无遗漏地
[ADV with v]
Fiers promised to testify fully and truthfully.
菲尔斯承诺毫无保留地、如实地作证。
[经]全部付讫
adv. 充分地；完全地；彻底地
完全的，完整的；满的，充满的；丰富的；完美的；丰满的；详尽的
十分，非常；完全地；整整
全部；完整
充满；丰富；完全；成熟
把衣服缝得宽大
She is fully justified in doing so.
她这样做是完全有道理的。
Her last hope rested fully upon her husband.
她最后的希望完全寄托在丈夫身上。
She fully sensed the danger of her position.
她充分感到她处境的危险。
Some parents take their children's birthday parties very seriously, even when the child is too young to fully understand the celebration.
VOA: special.
But they were fully formed adults and intellectuals, and that was a heady experience for a kid from Chicago.
但他们是很成熟的成人和知识分子，而这对一个来自芝加哥的小孩来说很不同。
stem cell researchers have found a way to get
perfectly usable stem cells from fully grown human beings.
干细胞研究者已经找到了一种方法，可以从成年人身上获取可用的干细胞。
Hinkley Point C is set to take between 8 and 10 years to become fully operational.
"The internet can allow many people to realise their identities more fully, " the authors write.
Three apartments have small but cosy bedrooms and sitting rooms, and fully equipped kitchens.
[经]全部付讫
$firstVoiceSent
- 来自原声例句
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请问您想要如何调整此模块？
感谢您的反馈，我们会尽快进行适当修改！fully是什么意思，词典释义与在线翻译：
adv.(副词)
完全地，全部地，彻底地
充分地，足够地
至少，整整，足足
suf.(后缀)
用以构成-ful结尾的形容词对应的副词
to the great co (`full' in this sense is used as a combining form);
"fully grown"
"he didn't fully understand"
"knew full well"
"full-grown"
"full-fledged"
"the evidence amply (or fully) confirms our suspicions"
"they were fully (or amply) fed"
"the amount was paid in full"
fully的用法和样例：
用作副词 (adv.)
We are fully aware of the gravity of the situation.
我们十分清楚形势的严峻性。
He is fully satisfied with his income.
他对他的收入十分满意。
I don't fully understand his reasons for leaving.
我不完全理解他离开的理由。
These rosebuds haven't fully opened.
这些蔷薇花蕾还没有完全开放。
He never fully recovered, and had to spend the rest of his life as an invalid.
他没能完全康复，于是不得不成了一名残疾者度过余生。
Her time is fully occupied with her three children.
她的时间全部用在她的三个孩子身上了。
Our suppositions were fully confirmed.
我们猜测的事实已全部证实。
The journey will take fully two hours.
走这一趟足足要花两小时。
羽毛丰满的; 发育全...
完全合格域名...
完全发育的
完全可以使用...
[经] 担保充分...
[经] 全部折旧完毕...
全封闭式的
全部开动的
fully的海词问答与网友补充：
fully的相关资料：
fully&:&完全地,充 ...
在&&中查看更多...
【近义词】
全部地, 不省略地...
充分地(完全地)...
fully:fully adv. 充分地, 完全地, 足足, 至少…
相关词典网站：[私人藏书]试译了约翰·厄普代克的最新小说《父亲的眼泪》
今年2月约翰·厄普代克在《纽约客》上发表了一个短篇小说《父亲的眼泪》，看后觉得挺感人的，尤其是前面部分，有点《背影》的感觉，是美国式的《背影》吧。我试着翻译了出来，把它贴在这里，当然还有很多问题，有待进一步修改，如果这里有朋友愿意，我会把问题帖在下面，一起讨论。
想起来，我只见父亲哭过一次。那是在艾尔顿火车站，当火车还在开时。我要去费城，赶那趟火车回波士顿和学校的火车。我急切想走，觉得家和父母亲对我而言已经有点不那么真实了，而学校，连同它的课程，还有它们激起我未来的希望，当然，还有我二年纪时交上的女朋友，每个学期都那么真实。看到父亲的眼睛时——就像以往一样，催着我上路——我震惊了，他握着我的手，道再见，眼里泪光闪烁。我觉得这是握手造成的：十八年来，我们还没有机会履行这样的仪式，男人间的接触，几年前我们才摸索着开始。他个头比我高，但我也不矮，我感到他的手在我手掌中温热，同时他还努力朝我笑笑。我也发现他看问题的角度和我不一样。不管我去哪儿，他都送我。我按着自己的想法长大，而对他来说，我却变得越来越小了。他一直爱我，但我以前却没觉得。以前这是些无须用言语表达的东西，现在他的眼泪说出来了。老艾尔顿火车站是他喜欢的地方，散发着城市变迁、城市生活中小小隐秘的快乐味道。我在这里买了生平第一包香烟，竟没有惹起报亭卖报人的怀疑，尽管我才十五岁，满脸稚气。他只是找给我零钱，还给了我一叠印有阳光牌啤酒的火柴，那是艾尔顿本地产啤酒。艾尔顿是个中等工业城市，自从纺织厂南迁后，逐渐萧条起来。但同时，它还给居民们整齐划一的街道，美食，连同惯有的舒适和富足的假象。我记得，离火车站才一个街区，我就点燃了一根香烟，虽然我压根都不会吸，只觉得神经好像遭到猛的一击，人行道朝我竖了起来，整个世界都变得轻飘飘的，从那天起我开始赶上了那些早已吸烟的同龄人，开始了跟那些充满魅力的人的交往。甚至我那常年在家的母亲，非旅行者而是阅读者的母亲，与这个车站也有联系：这是城里唯一一个可以买到《The American Mercury》和《The Atlantic 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Line回哈佛广场，一路上她告诉我她这一周发生的事情。一场意外的暴风雪，弄得我们身边的路到现在还是脏兮兮的。她气得哭着说，学校的课业、打临工的餐馆，餐馆分配给她的活是在地下室里统计，而其他的女招待却把所有小费都揣进自己腰包。我告诉她我所能记得的费城，大部分都已在记忆中消退了，只有一些细节的碎片还停留在脑海中，在闪光——比如父亲的眼泪。我自己的眼睛在叮里哐啷的火车上经过一天的阅读后，又干又痒；只有火车旅行在新伦敦附近的伸展的铁轨上，经过那片闪亮的湖水时，我才会抬眼欣赏一下。刚结婚还没有孩子的那几年，我和德布会和一方的父母一起消夏。她父亲是基督教唯一教派的著名牧师，在华盛顿大学校园附近的一幢灰色的新哥特式大教堂里布道。每年六月，他都要举家从Lindell Boulevard那宽敞的砖砌牧师住宅搬到佛蒙特一座废弃的农庄去住上一段时间，那是他二十世纪三十年代花了不到五百美元买下的。有几年的六月，德布父亲的教区同意他休假前，在他家其他成员：妻子、另外两个女儿到来之前，我和德布先到那里。那个地方寒冷、人烟稀少，只有起码的冷水，没有电，房子位于一条肮脏的羊肠小路的高处，从他家唯一可看见的另一幢房子，在半英里外，是另一位唯一教派牧师的。这一切让我强烈感到我上升进入到另一个全新的、更加开阔的领域了，感谢我蓝眼睛的新娘。浴室是间独立的、长条形房间，灰泥墙和木地板都裸露着，一小束强烈的光柱神出鬼没，一天中随着太阳的移动，光线射过医药箱镜子上斜边，在墙上变换着角度。当我们嫌白天洗澡得在煤油炉上烧水麻烦时，光柱和入浴者做伴。当房屋在脚步或一阵风下颤抖时，它也来来地跳跃着、抖动着。在我看来，这精灵般的现象就是基督教唯一教派苦行的神奇产物，是崇高态度的象征，把从舒适的郊区房屋搬到原始小屋看作一种救赎。必须如此，我知道，凭借我刚刚用理想主义、用爱默生、梭罗、用自立武装起来的知识，以自然的条件来接受自然。远在煤油炉那狭窄温暖的区域外，有间大的偏房，里面有一架大的织布机框架，一直在房里，还有一套破旧的百科全书，一套书脊都已磨损，颇有历史但很少有人翻看的《世界哲学大师著作》。当我首开先例，抽出其中一卷，它那做工良好的书脊布封面给我的手指带来一阵不太愉快的兴奋感。这一册书里有爱默生的小品文。例如，“每一个自然的真相是某些精神真相的象征，”我读到，还有“任何东西都是由其身后隐藏的东西所构成，”还有“每一个英雄最后都会变成讨厌鬼，”还有“我们在不同的温度下沸腾。”这间大房子的外面是藤蔓遮蔽的石头门廊，德布就在这间房里画她那精雕细作的油画或苍白的水彩画。如果阳光明媚，在煤油炉上烧热自来水又实在太麻烦，我们就在屋外没多远的山间小溪里、一个小水塘内洗澡，她父亲以前还为这个水塘设计建造了堤坝。我想用我的Brownie Hawkeye相机给她拍几张裸照，但是她拘谨地拒绝了。一天，趁她趟水时，我不管三七二十一，从那座旧桥上偷偷拍了几张快照，她的惊呼声淹没了按快门的喀哒声，随即纵身跳入池塘中。事后算起来，我们是在佛蒙特州，在其他人到来之前，意外地怀上了第一个孩子，但我们一点也不后悔。在我脑海中，新娘体内的微小生灵跟浴室墙壁底部的光斑合为一体，折射出我们那可爱的小淘气。她父亲来了，是那种我不太习惯的父亲。我父亲，虽然有充分的生存本领，在人生舞台上却扮演着失败者的角色，每天，不管在学校还是在哪里，他总会遇到一些麻烦，陷入窘境。汽车又点不着火啦，学生表现又不好啦。他需要人们，和他们接触来往，寻求鼓励。威特华斯牧师喜欢佛蒙特，因为，与圣路易斯相比，这里人少。他有时候好几周都不离开他的小山头，让我们其他人开车走上两小时的土路，去最近的村落买东西，那里杂货店、五金店、邮局都在一幢房子内，属一个老板，同时他还管理着当地一家锯木厂。回来时，我们带回来一些当地发生的小故事、迟了一天的报纸，我岳父歪着头，侧着脸笑着，听我们兴奋地讲外面大世界的故事，那神情让我们觉得他一个字也没听进去。他有很多事情做：砌石头墙，整修他自制的水库工程，睡睡午觉，那时候我们大家都要安静。他面容英俊，一头硬如铁丝的头发，虽已发白，却并不因此稀少，他少年时代在缅因州得了风湿热，身体虚弱。乡村田园的安宁、树林里的静谧，煤油灯灯光的摇曳闪烁，燃烧的灯芯，灯光从这间房到那间房——这就是他喜欢的自然环境，而喧嚣忙碌的城市却不是。在山顶度假的那几个月里，他在我们中间活动——他的妻子、他的三个女儿、他的女婿，他妻子的老处女姐姐——像不受重力吸引法则约束的一颗行星。他主要通过游戏与人交流，玩游戏时为了赢别人他煞费心机——下午一家人玩槌球戏，晚上一家人在煤油炉和桌上煤油灯的混合气味下玩红心牌。这灯很特别，在灯罩里，火焰的热很强，光很白，这灯罩是用白蜡木做成的圆锥形网，十分脆弱，一不留神，放玻璃灯座在桌上的手重了点，也会打破它。威特华斯牧师对他手里的每样东西都小心翼翼到了夸张的地步，我怀着年轻人那不愿宽恕的仇视心态，对此十分憎恨。我讨厌他过分烦琐的吸烟动作，往烟斗里装烟丝，点火，吐烟；我讨厌他严格遵守午睡习惯，讨厌他纯正的蓝眼睛（德布就遗传了他的），讨厌他那平静的唯一神教义。不知何故，在我们宾西法尼亚一带，蓝眼睛很少，少得有点稀奇——就连浅褐色在普遍的棕色中也很冒险了，那是来自威尔士和德国南部的移民带到斯库基尔山谷的。至于唯一神论，似乎过于温顺、过于自满含混、过于逃避现状：当我第一次接触它时，它还披着路德教派的外衣，无可指责的平凡，是稀释了的基督教——一幅完全虚幻的、多姿多彩而舒适的画面：道成肉身和博士、圣诞颂歌和圣诞老人，亚当和夏娃，赤身露体和分别善恶的知识树，毒蛇和秋天，花园里的背叛和十字架上的救赎，“为什么你要抛弃我？”彼拉多洗着他的手，第三日复苏，死后在高处房间的晚餐，怀疑的多马和天使在耶路撒冷周边徘徊，给门徒的指令，保罗在去大马士革的路上从驴背上掉下来，信徒们说方言（在这种作法上，艾尔顿那些麻木的天天去教堂的人们和艾尔顿周围的环境划定了界线）。启蒙教育总是从阅读圣经和祈祷上帝开始，我们的老师、银行家、保险人和邮差们，所有的人都公开宣称是传统的基督徒。我觉得以前我以为凡是对基督徒有好处的东西对唯一神论者也应该一样。我读了够多的克尔凯威尔、巴什和乌纳穆诺，知道了信念的飞跃。威特华斯牧师没有制造这样的飞跃；相反他在打盹，在建他的石头墙。在他的卧室里，我看见过一本简装版蒂利希的《存在的勇气》，也许，但我从没看见他读过，还有一本《世界哲学名著》。唯一一次让我觉得他还是个神职人员的是，他用温柔的语调说起他的女儿，顺口说出少年时代教友派常用的“汝”、“尔”。在他去世前，日子过得有点屈辱，所有的尊严都消失殆尽。与其说老年痴呆症对他大脑造成伤害，还不如说加深了一直就有的善意的糊涂和成见。在岳母的纪念仪式上，仪式开始前，他转身朝我，脸上是温和但迷惑的笑容，说，“呃，詹姆斯，我一点也不明白这是在干什么，但我猜一切就会真相大白了。”他没有发现这是在纪念与他共度四十五年的妻子。岳母走后，他衰老得很快。我们最后一次送他去护理中心时，他在接待处呜呜哭了，浑身筛抖着，好像裤子里有什么东西在跳。我知道他想小便了，但是我却不像个男人，没有快步把他领到厕所，替他把他的阴茎从裤子里掏出来，结果他尿湿了裤子，地板也尿湿了。在与德布离婚前的那些年间，我是这个大家庭里年龄最大的女婿，第一对，虽然到现在我还引以为荣，但我却没有很好地担起这一责任。奇怪的是，自从在佛蒙特过第一个夏天后，岳父就特别信任我，放心地把他女儿的幸福托付给我，后来又相信我能帮他举起石块，放在墙上合适的位置上，虽然我很可能夹着他的手，或掉块石头砸着他脚指头。事实上，我爱他。他像我父亲一样没什么恶意、无辜，对周围的人要求更少。现在看来，他午休时的一点点安静实在算不得什么要求，可那时却惹恼了我。他的理论，或者说无理论似乎是最宏大的观点，我得感谢他。他的理论体系是个大宇宙，在那里迷信的云雾被澄清。他位于西部的盖特威的教区，包括大学的存在主义者，他们某些新潮的哲学淡化了他那过时的先验论说教，他传达这些观点时语调优美。虽然他是唯一神论者，却不过是唯一神论的小教派而已，德布在床上告诉我这些，希望能调和我们。据回忆，我还没有粗鲁到常常与他争吵，但他却没有忽视我的哈佛新正统主义，以及艾略特般痛苦的潜流。在佛蒙特，派给我的家务活就是在屋后斜坡上的一个大桶内焚烧当天的废纸，那里面对着供我们冷水的一口泉。人们可以望见二十里外树木葱茏的山谷，看到格林山的下一座桥。在威特华斯牧师的祝福下，我已为长长风景、冰泳和新英格兰的缄默这样一个世界所接纳。他是个显而易见的好人，有点缅因州的风趣，爱记忆中的人容易，难的是爱身边的人、面前的人。对我和德布来说，宾夕法尼亚州让我们有另一种紧张。我们开了个不好的头，我第一次带她回家见我父母时，下早了车，从费城开出的车是当地火车，有一个站是离艾尔顿七英里远的山区工厂小镇，沿着斯古吉尔河，紧靠着几英里远的一片村舍，战后在母亲的怂恿下，我们全家搬到这里来了。我们夹在一群旅客中下了车，月台两边都是树，是一条长长的甬道。月台上一下子就空荡荡了，没有人来接我们。尽管我觉得一切都安排得很好了，父母亲——我想省得他们跑路——去了艾尔顿。现在我常想，手机发明前的年代人们是如何联系的。那个时候，一些小型火车站还是由人控制的；也许站长将我们的困境拍电报到了艾尔顿，在充满回声嘈杂的大站里，广播通知我父母。或者，也许是过去在落后地区使用的精神电报，我们没有出站，父母亲猜出我们在哪里，简单开车过来而已。那时我是个堕入情网的年轻人；而德布在圣路易斯或剑桥她的生存环境里非常安心，在我家乡却似乎迷失了自己。我没能使她不受我们传统方式的影响。她经常把事情搞砸，还无法责备她。虽然那时我们还没结婚，她已经把我的脏袜子、内裤和在她要洗的衣服放在一起，洗干净、叠好后又放在她的衣箱里。我母亲在客房里走来走去，看有什么要帮忙的时候，注意到这个变化，沉默的暴怒一泻而出，一阵阵无情的怒火堆积在她的额头上，眉峰间成了个红色的V形。愤怒在这个沙石结构的小房子里的每个角落、楼上楼下蔓延。我小时候住在欧林葛镇，只有有轨电车可到艾尔顿，那房子是长条形狭窄的砖石结构，有个长长的后院，所以当我母亲——用父亲迷惑的话来说——“在掷空气”时，我们有地方躲避。但是在这幢新房子内，我们无处可逃，夜里大家只能听着彼此在床上翻来覆去，无法入睡。甚至在屋外，她的怒火与昆虫一样聒噪，与野草一样沸腾，我们真是无处可逃离她的心理热。我从小耳闻目睹，生活在她的怨气里，这种怨气来自于大人之间的冲突，她可以连续好多天一直怒气冲冲，不论我是放学回家，还是从朋友家回来，她都在生气，可是突然有一天我发现她的怒火又奇迹般地消散了。她的脾气成了我生活中的一部分，就像宾夕法尼亚的酷暑期，能杀死闷热排房中的老人，使街上的铁轨变宽，让有轨电车出轨。在母亲发火时，我小声耳语，试着为此向德布道歉。母亲的愠怒让餐桌旁的人噤若寒蝉，可是还不止于此，她的愠怒从她的卧室直传到楼下的起居室。她插门锁的咔塔声像一声惊雷在我们头顶炸响。“你没有错，”我向德布保证，尽管在我心里觉得冒犯母亲也是不对的，是最起码的罪过。我埋怨德布，不该将我的内衣和她的混在一起，她本该预料到这个问题，预料到会产生什么后果。“她就是这样的。”“好吧，她一觉醒来就会好的”这是德布的反应，这么大声，我害怕楼上听得到。我惊奇地发现，对我母亲一浪接一浪的怒火，她和我的反应一点都不协调。在我们坐的沙发附近，父亲在摇椅上消沉地修改着数学论文，他说，“米尔德丽德这样没什么，不过是女人的老毛病又发作了。”对他那一代男性主义至上者而言，女人病可以用来解释一切，一切都情有可原。但对我这一代不行。这种紧张令我苦恼万分。那时候母亲在后门廊附近种了一小块三色堇，但没时间打理，那一次回家时，也许是后来的哪一次，一个礼拜天清晨，德布动手为它们除草，她觉得是在做一件好事。当我解释说，这里礼拜天没人干活，他们都去教堂做礼拜。德布不解地站在那里，赤脚踩在柔软的泥地里，就像英格丽·褒曼在《斯特隆波里岛》（Stromboli）里一样。“多愚蠢，”德布说。“我父亲整个夏季每个礼拜天都在砌他的墙或忙别的什么事。”“他是不同的教派。”“吉姆，我不明白。我真的不懂。”“嘘——，她在里面，在敲盘子。”“好吧，让她去。反正是她的盘子。”“我们得为去教堂做准备。”“我没有带去教堂的衣服。”“穿上你在火车上衣服和鞋子就行了。”“呸，我才不会。我看起来会很可笑。我宁愿留在这里除草。你爷爷奶奶会留在家里，对不对？”“我奶奶会，但爷爷会去教堂。他每天都坐在沙发上读《圣经》，你没注意？”“我不知道美国现在还有这样的地方。”“好吧——”我的回答肯定苍白无力，她看出了这一点，所以插嘴说，“我现在知道你的一派胡言是从哪里来的了，对爸爸那么粗鲁。”她的眼睛那么蓝。我很没面子，不过又很激动，因为发现居然可以反抗我母亲。结果，德布留下来陪我祖母，她得了帕金森症，不能走路，也无法说话。我对威特华斯牧师的粗鲁遭到了报应。我们的第一个孩子出生在一个彻底的唯一神教派家庭，却在她的路德教派的祖父母家接受洗礼，威特华斯牧师小小嘲弄了一番“圣水”——用的是从我们自家的泉水，这里的泉水位于房子的下面，跟佛蒙特的不同，那里水是在房子上面的。我母亲在余下的一整天里都紧绷着脸，很不高兴，一提起凯瑟琳，我们的第一孩子，就说“没受过洗礼的孩子。”三个孩子都出世后，我和德布搬到马萨诸塞洲，那是我们相遇、相恋的地方，在那里我们加入了基督教公理会，算是一种妥协吧。我们被圣水包围了，到处都是水，我们那化学母亲，是圣洁的。从波士顿飞往纽约的飞机上，我习惯性地坐在飞机的右手边，但那天，我却坐在左边，像是对我的奖赏，上午10点多时，康涅狄格水面上阳光反射过来——不是那些大河或大湖，只不过是些小池塘、小水面而已，水面跳跃闪烁的光芒有几秒钟向天空直射入我眼帘，银光闪闪的。有一刻，受到光线的影响，我父亲流泪了，至少我是这样看的。他去世后，我和德布也离婚了，为什么会这样，很难说清。我们的沸点不同，爱默生说，一个与我有着相同沸点的女人出现了。那次我给德布拍的快照，裸体的，离婚时她声称那是她的。可我看它们是我的——因为是我照的，可她说身体是她的。我们离婚后，母亲告诉我，说我父亲，“从第一天你带她来家里开始，他就为你们俩操心。他觉得对你而言，她太小女人了。”“他太热衷于什么女性气质了，”我说，不知道能不能相信她说的。死者的话很容易被错误引用。虽然是我想离婚，可我总习惯性地为德布辩护。在高中同学聚会上，我的同学们告诉我，他们更喜欢我第二任妻子时，我很吃惊。这倒是真的，西尔维亚真的能跟他们打成一片，而德布却羞于这样。但是那时德布认为他们是我过去的一部分，是我已抛在身后的东西，尽管每五年左右我们要聚会一次，而西尔维亚呢，理解上了年岁的我，知道我从来就没有真正离开过宾西法尼亚，那里是我最看中的自我藏身之所，无论我审视它的次数是如何稀少。最近一次聚会，是第五十五次，可能会让德布很沮丧——所有人都几乎70出头，大部分一直生活在乡村，生活在离他们出生地不远之处，甚至就住在他们长大的房子旁边，半独立屋内。有些人是坐着轮椅来的，有些病得太厉害，无法驾车，只好由他们已到中年的子女充当司机，送过来。聚会节目表背面是去世同学的名单，越来越长了，从前的班花们有的发胖，有的瘦骨嶙峋，都成了老太婆，昔日的体育健将和普通人一样，借着心脏起博器、塑胶护膝才能移动，在父辈们早已体谅地去世的年纪，我们才退休，代替了他们的位置。但是我们却不是那样看待自己，一点都不觉得自己瘸了、老了。我们看到的是幼儿园里的孩子——同样圆圆、新鲜的脸、同样的圆耳朵、长长睫毛大眼睛。我们听到小学校里课间休息时愉快的尖叫声，高中舞会上，体育馆里蓝色射灯灯光闪烁，诱人的萨克斯风，本地摇摆乐队喑哑的喇叭，演奏着小夜曲。我们长期共同生活在小镇才有的简单淳朴之中，大萧条也没有改变它，世界大战的炸弹也从来炸不到我们这里，尽管这里也实行食品配给、尽管我们也有玩具坦克、也进行空袭演习。以前的竞争对手又点燃了竞争的烈火，然后又搁到一边了。老情人一度旧情复炽，又慢慢归于平和的温情，融入到广泛的爱中去了。当我们的班长，亲爱的安·马隆，拿着麦克风，考考大家过去的一些事情——老师的外号啦，早已消失的小吃店、冷饮摊啦，我们三年级和毕业那年演出的剧目名称啦、三年级时废物利用比赛的获胜者啦——四面八方传来答案的喊叫声。没什么能难倒我们。那时我们都在一起，在那里，我的另一半，西尔维亚也在他们中间，为那些长期珍藏的无用知识，友好地、起劲地鼓掌。他们不仅仅是我的同学，还曾是我父亲的学生，关于他的回忆经常冒出来。好几次都是正确答案——“威勒先生！”——在安·马隆的问题里。曲奇本，曾经留过一年级，留到我们班上，他比我们大一岁，现在已经得了老年痴呆病，晚餐会后他还很活跃，他走到我跟前，斜眼看着我，好像有强光照着他的眼睛，热情地问我，声音沙哑，“你父亲，基波，还跟我们在一起吗？”他忘了实际情况，但还知道说“活着”就跟说“死亡”一样，是不太礼貌的。“没有了，曲奇，”我每次都这么说。“他1972年就过世了，第二次心脏病发作时就过世了。”很奇怪，我叫一个七十四岁的老人做曲奇，一点也不觉得唐突。他点点头，表情庄重，又有些疑惑，“听到这消息，我很难过，”他说。我回答说，“我也很抱歉告诉你，”虽然我父亲可能活过一百岁，在看护院里欠下一大笔钱。“你母亲呢，吉姆？”曲奇锲而不舍地追问。“她比他多活了十七年，”我简短地告诉他，好像我憎恨这个事实。“她是个快乐的寡妇。”“她是位高贵的女士。”他慢吞吞地说，还点点头，似乎是同意自己的说法。我有点感动，他在努力回忆我母亲，毕竟，在她的亲戚那里、在外面的世界里，他说的是真的。她表面上很高贵，而且，她年轻时，很美丽，或者，在她长长的寡居年月中，在她越来越率直的时候，有一次，曾跟我提起，“不是那么美丽。”我和德布在意大利时，我父亲去世了。我们和另一对婚姻有问题的夫妇去的，想看看我们能不能让婚姻“接着运转。”我们住在佛罗伦萨的一间小小酒店里，可以瞥见阿诺河，从菲索莱游玩回来后——菲索莱是古罗马露天竞技场，一个小小的博物馆——我们一时冲动，决定四个人去酒店楼上的咖啡馆里喝下午茶，而不是像往常回自己房间关禁闭去。那个地方没什么人，只有几个德国人呆在一个角落里喝啤酒，几个意大利人站在吧台旁喝意式浓咖啡。即使我最后是听到了电话铃，我也没想到会是找我的。但是服务生从吧台后走出来，走到我旁边，说，“威勒先生吗？有电话找你。”谁会知道我在这儿呢？是母亲，声音听起来很小，咔嚓嚓的，“是吉米吗？你们玩得还好吗？我很抱歉打扰你们。”“我很感动你能找到我。”“接线员帮的忙。”她解释到。“出什么事了，妈妈？”“你父亲在医院。第二次心脏病发作。”“情况有多糟？”“哦，我开车送他去艾尔顿，他是坐在车里的。”“那好，不是太坏。”她的回答有点迟延，我把这归咎于隔着大西洋的电缆。她最后说，“我不太肯定。”除了我们在电话里交谈外，我从没发现过母亲很浓重的宾西法尼亚口音。我们面对面时，她的声音听起来透明得就像我自己的。“他醒来觉得胸口有压迫感，平时他都不理会，但今天他受不了。这里现在是中午了。”“所以你想我回来，”我责怪她。“我知道父亲不想给我添麻烦。我们定了明天乌菲兹的房。”她叹了口气，大洋底下的电缆也劈啪作响。“吉米，我想你最好回来，你和德布，当然，除非她宁愿呆在那里，欣赏那里的艺术。史瑞克医生不太高兴他所听到的，你知道，平时要打动他有多难。”这是发生在开胸腔手术和心梗血管成形术之前的事情，医生除了用听诊器听听心跳，开硝化甘油片外，没多少事可以做。酒店前台帮我们查了去罗马的火车，那一对夫妇送我们到佛罗伦萨火车站，梅第奇教堂就在旁边，我们一直想去，而又注定没法一同参观。在罗马，的士司机找到一间还营业的航空公司。我永远也忘不了那个年轻办事员的礼貌及耐心，他用教课书上学来的英语，为我们定了下周去波士顿的机票，第二天又转成去费城的。那时去费城的飞机更多些。我们定了夜班飞机飞伦敦，只好在伦敦耽搁一晚。在从伦敦到西斯罗机场的路一边，全新的、高高的酒店林立，全是为了中转的旅客。半夜我们总算住进了酒店，在房间里，我打电话给母亲——宾西法尼亚那边正是晚饭时间——知道我父亲去世了。对母亲而言，这已是十几个小时的旧闻了。她疲劳地回顾说，一下午她都坐在艾尔顿医院里，收到无数可怕的报告。她说，“史瑞克医生说他最后的搏斗。可怕极了。”我挂了电话，把这消息告诉了德布。我们躺在床上，她搂着我，说，“哭吧。”虽然这是哭的时候，我哭也的确无可厚非。可我相信我没有哭。父亲已经把我的眼泪流光了。
作为短篇小说，可能太长了。现在还有谁耐得烦，在网上看这么长的文字呢，再说，还不是太吸引人。渴望大家的鼓励。
应该鼓励！他的短篇我在《美国短篇小说选》读到过一篇，挺不错的。不过谈不上伟大。他的长篇也读过几部。如今他也老啦……比较悠哉大师，他的小说艺术质量差3个档次左右吧。《兔子跑吧》等系列（共四部作品）不错；但是他的毛病是：艺术手法东抄一点，西趸一点，总也落在别人的后面，无法站在最前列。天分还是不足啊……
上面的这位“大师”在作协挂号了吗？在医院挂号了吗？你让人比较烦。好像是国家干部，建议去检查一下，花不了几个钱，再说应该可以刷医疗卡。
希望对译文提出指正,至于约翰·厄普代克怎么样,自有公论.
约翰·厄普代克的短篇，历来是英语翻译比赛的好材料。悠哉大师对于翻译也很有研究，楼主别误会。本帖没有原文，期望对译文如何讨论呢？
我以前老上《纽约客》网战读文章。略略读了翻译，有些地方有翻译腔，如“我感到他的手在我手掌中温热”；文字也还欠老道。总体不错。我是没这个耐心和能力。
我们的二手车要不发动不了，要不就卡在暴风雪中。--可否将“要不”，改成“要么”！一句一句读完了，文字里笼罩了一种阴霾的感觉，这种感觉让人忍不住叹息---每个人都会这样来过。无法知道约翰·厄普代克本身的文字风格，因为我读他的东西很少。但非常喜欢你翻译过来的这些文字。我读的时候，仿佛自己就身在美洲。那个老人的泪从来都不是直接的，而是一直隐在文字的背后，一个儿子把这样的属于另一个赋予自己生命的男人的泪，看成是自己最隐秘的一种记忆，也是作为某种到死才会忘记的宝贝一样的珍藏品。这种感觉属于任何一个“儿子”对人生的隐秘感受。朱自清的《背影》也极好，但约翰·厄普代克的《父亲的眼泪》要更为宽厚，因为它铺展开了。谢谢PC817！
ernie： 原文来了，就是太长。sam：谢谢你的评价，多指出我的毛病啊，我自己又看了一下，还有好多不通和要改的地方。我现在还是上《纽约客》网站读小说，看不完的就拷下来存着，虽然以后读的机会可能很少。谢谢斑竹的鼓励。MY FATHER’S TEARSby JOHN UPDIKEIssue of Posted Come to think of it, I saw my father cry only once. It was at the Alton train station, back when the trains still ran. I was on my way to Philadelphia to catch the train that would return me to Boston and college. I was eager to go, for already my home and my parents had become somewhat unreal to me, and college, with its courses and the hopes for my future they inspired and the girlfriend I had acquired in my sophomore year, had become more it shocked me—threw me off track, as it were—to see that my father’s eyes, as he shook my hand goodbye, glittered with tears. I blamed it on our shaking hands: for eighteen years, we had never had occasion for this ritual, this manly contact, and we had groped our way into it only in the past few years. He was taller than I, though I was not short, and I realized, his hand warm in mine while he tried to smile, that he had a different perspective than I. I was going somewhere, and he was seeing me go. I was growing in my own sense of myself, and to him I was getting smaller. He had loved me, it came to me as never before. It was something that had not needed to be said before, and now his tears were saying it.The old Alton station was his kind of place, savoring of transit and the furtive small pleasures of city life. I had bought my first pack of cigarettes here, with no protest from the man running the newsstand, though I was a young-looking fifteen. He simply gave me my change and a folder of matches advertising Sunshine beer, Alton’s local brand. Alton was a middle-sized industrial city that had been depressed ever since the textile mills began to slide South. In the meantime, with its orderly street grid and hearty cuisine, it still supplied its citizens with traditional comforts and an illusion of well-being. I lit up a block from the station, as I remember, and even though I didn’t know how to inhale,
the sidewalk seemed to lift toward me and the whole world felt lighter. From that day forward I began to catch up, socially, with the more glamorous of my peers, who already smoked.Even my stay-at-home mother, no traveller but a reader, had a connection to the station: it was the only place in the city where you could buy The American Mercury and The Atlantic Monthly. Like the stately Carnegie library two blocks down Franklin Street, it was a place you felt safe inside. It had been built for eternity, when the railroads looked to be with us forever—a foursquare granite temple with marble floors, a high ceiling whose gilded coffers glinted through a coating of coal smoke, and tall-backed waiting benches as grave as church pews. The radiators clanked and the walls murmured as if giving back some of the human noise they absorbed, day and night. The newsstand and coffee shop were usually busy, and the waiting room was always warm, as my father and I had discovered on more than one winter night. We had been commuters to the same high school, he as a teacher and I as a student, in secondhand cars that on more than one occasion failed to start, or got stuck in a snowstorm. We would make our way to the station, one place sure to be open.We did not foresee, that moment on the platform as the signal bells a half mile down the tracks warned of my train’s approach, that within a decade passenger service to Philadelphia would stop, and that eventually the station, like stations all across the East, would be padlocked and boarded up. It stood on its empty acre of asphalt parking space like an oversized mausoleum. All the life it had once contained was sealed into silence, and for most of the rest of the century it ignominiously waited, in this city where progress was slow, to be razed.But my father did foresee, the glitter in his eyes told me, that time consumes us—that the boy I had been was dying if not already dead, and we would have less and less to do with each other. I had taken my life from his, and now I was stealing away with it. The train appeared, the engine, with its shining long connecting rods and high steel wheels, out of all proportion to the little soft bodies it dragged along. I boarded it. My parents looked smaller, foreshortened. We waved sheepishly through the smirched glass. I opened my book—“The Complete Poetical Works of John Milton”—before Alton’s gritty outskirts had fallen away.At the end of that long day of travel, getting off not at Boston’s South Station but at Back Bay, one stop earlier and closer to Cambridge, I was met by my girlfriend. How swanky that felt, to read Milton all day, the relatively colorless and hard-to-memorize pentameters of “Paradise Regained,” and, in sight of the other undergraduates disembarking, to be met and embraced on the platform by a girl—no, a woman—wearing a gray cloth coat, canvas tennis sneakers, and a ponytail. It must have been spring break, because if Deb was greeting me the vacation had been too short for her to go back and forth to St. Louis, where her home was. Instead, she had been waiting a week for me to return. She tended to underdress in the long New England winter, while I wore the heavy winter coat, with buckled belt and fleecy lining, that my parents had bought me, to my embarrassment, to keep me from catching colds up in New England. She told me, as we rode first the Green Line and then the Red back to Harvard Square, what had happened to her that week. There had been an unpredicted snow squall, whose sullied traces were still around us, and she was angry to the point of tears at having been given, because of her college education, in the restaurant where she was a part-time waitress, the assignment of adding up numbers in the basement while the other waitresses pocketed all the tips. I told her what I could recall of my week in Pennsylvania, already faded in memory except for the detail lodged there like a glittering splinter—my father’s tears. My own eyes itched and burned after a day of reading I lifted them only to admire the shining water as the train travelled the stretch of track around New London.In the years when we were newly married and still childless, Deb and I would spend a summer month with each set of parents. Her father was an eminent Unitarian minister, who preached in a gray neo-Gothic edifice built for eternity near the Washington University campus. Each June he moved his family from the roomy brick parsonage on Lindell Boulevard to an abandoned Vermont farmhouse he had bought in the nineteen-thirties for less than five hundred dollars. Some Junes, Deb and I arrived before her father’s parish duties permitted him and the rest of his family, a wife and two other daughters, to be there. The chilly solitude of the place, with basic cold-water plumbing but no electricity, high on a curving dirt road whose only visible house, a half mile away, was occupied by another Unitarian minister, reinforced my sense of having moved up, thanks to my blue-eyed bride, into a new, more elevated and spacious territory.The lone bathroom was a long room, its plaster walls and wooden floor both bare, that was haunted by a small but intense rainbow, which moved around the walls as the sun in the course of the day glinted at a changing angle off the bevelled edge of the mirror on the medicine cabinet. When we troubled to heat up enough water on the kerosene stove for a daylight bath, the prismatically generated rainbow kep it quivered and bobbed when footsteps or a breath of wind made the house tremble. To me this Ariel-like phenomenon was the magical child of Unitarian austerity, symbolic of the lofty attitude that sought out a primitive farmhouse as a relief from well-furnished urban comfort. It had to do, I knew, drawing upon my freshly installed education, with idealism, with Emerson and Thoreau, with self-reliance and taking Nature on Nature’s terms. A large side room in the house, well beyond the kerosene stove’s narrow sphere of warmth, held a big loom frame that had come with the house, and an obsolete encyclopedia, and a set, with faded spines, of aged but rarely touched books entitled “The Master Works of World Philosophy.” When I broke precedent by taking one of the volumes down, its finely ridged cloth cover gave my fingers an unpleasant tingle. It was the volume containing selections from Emerson’s essays. “Every natural fact is a symbol of some spiritual fact,” I read, and “Everything is made of one hidden stuff,” and “Every hero becomes a bore at last,” and “We boil at different degrees.”Deb used this large room, and the vine-shaded stone porch outside, to paint her careful oils and pale watercolors. When the day was sunny, and heating the tub water on the kerosene stove seemed too much trouble, we bathed in the mountain creek an easy walk from the house, in a pond whose dam her father had designed and built. I wanted to take her nude photograph with my Brownie Hawkeye, but she primly declined. One day I sneaked a few snapshots anyway, from the old bridge, while she, with exclamations that drowned out the noise of the shutter, waded in and took the plunge.It was in Vermont, before the others arrived, that, by our retrospective calculations, we conceived our first child, unintentionally but with no regrets. This microscopic event deep within my bride became allied in my mind with the little rainbow low on the bathroom wall, our pet imp of refraction.Her father, when he arrived, was a father I wasn’t used to. Mine, though he had sufficient survival skills, enacted the role of an underdog, a man whose every day, at school or elsewhere, proceeded through a series of scrapes and embarrassments. The car wouldn’t start, the students wouldn’t behave. He needed people, the rub of them, for stimulation. Reverend Whitworth liked Vermont because, compared with St. Louis, it had no people in it. He didn’t leave his hill for weeks at a time, letting the rest of us drive the two miles of dirt road to the nearest settlement, where the grocery store, the hardware store, and the post office all occupied one building, with one proprietor, who also managed the local sawmill. We would come back with local gossip and a day-old newspaper, and my father-in-law would listen to our excited tales of the greater world with a tilted head and a slant smile that let us guess he wasn’t hearing a word. He had things to do: he built stone walls, and refined the engineering of his dam, and took a daily nap, during which the rest of us were to be silent.He was a handsome man, with a head of tightly wiry hair whose graying did not diminish its density, but he was frail inside from rheumatic fever in his Maine boyhood. Rural peace, the silence of woods, the sway and flicker of kerosene light as drafts blew on the flaming wick and lamps were carried from room to room—these were his elements, not city bustle. During these hilltop vacation months, he moved among us—his wife, his three daughters, his son-in-law, his wife’s spinster sister—like a planet exempt from the law of gravitational attraction.His interactions came mostly with games, which he methodically tended to win—family croquet in the afternoons, family Hearts in the evening, in the merged auras of the kerosene stove and the mantle lamp on the table. This was a special lamp, which intensified and whitened the glow of a flame with a mantle, a kind of conical net of ash so delicate it could be broken by even a carelessly rough setting-down of the glass base on the table. Reverend Whitworth was ostentatiously careful in everything his hands did, and I resented this, with the implacable ressentiment of youth. I resented his fussy pipesmoker’s gestures as he tamped an I resented his strictly observed naps, his sterling blue eyes (which Deb had inherited), his untroubled Unitarianism. Somehow, in my vicinity of Pennsylvania blue eyes were so rare as to be freakish—hazel was as far as irises ventured from the basic brown the immigrants from Wales and southern Germany had brought to the Schuylkill Valley.As for Unitarianism, it seemed so milky, so smugly vague and evasive: an unimpeachably featureless dilution of the Christian religion as I had met it in its Lutheran form—the whole implausible, colorful, comforting tapestry of the Incarnation and the Magi, Christmas carols and Santa Claus, Adam and Eve, nakedness and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, the serpent and the Fall, betrayal in the garden and Redemption on the Cross, “Why hast Thou forsaken me?” and Pilate washing his hands and Resurrection on the third day, posthumous suppers in an upper room and doubting Thomas and angels haunting the shadier margins of Jerusalem, the instructions to the disciples and Paul’s being knocked from his donkey on the road to Damascus and the disciples talking in tongues (a practice at which the stolid churchgoers of Alton and its environs did draw the line). Our public-school day began with a Bible reading and the Lord’s P our teachers and bankers and undertakers and mailmen all professed to be conventional Christians, and what was good enough for them should have been, I think I thought, good enough for Unitarians. I had read enough Kierkegaard and Barth and Unamuno to know about the leap of faith, and Reverend Whitworth was
he was taking naps and building stone walls instead. In his bedroom I spotted a paperback Tillich, “The Courage to Be,” probably, but I never caught him reading it, or “The Master Works of World Philosophy,” either. The only time I felt him as a holy man was when, speaking with deliberate tenderness to one of his three daughters, he slipped into a “thee” or “thou” from his Quaker boyhood.He was to be brought low, all dignity shed, before he died. Alzheimer’s didn’t so much invade his brain as deepen the benign fuzziness and preoccupation that had always been there. At the memorial service for his wife, dead of cancer, he turned to me before the service began and said, with a kindly though puzzled smile, “Well, James, I don’t quite know what’s up, but I guess it will all come clear.” He didn’t realize that his wife of forty-five years was being memorialized.With her gone, he deteriorated rapidly. At the nursing home where we finally took him, he began to whimper at the admission desk, and jiggle up and down as if bouncing something in his pants, and I knew he needed to urinate, but I lacked the manliness to lead him quickly to the lavatory and take his penis out of his fly for him, so he wet himself and the floor. I was, in those years just before my divorce from Deb, the eldest son-in-law, the first mate, as it were, of the extended family, and I was failing in my role, though still taking a certain pride in it. My father-in-law had always, curiously, from those first summers in Vermont, trusted me—trusted me first with his daughter’s well-being, and then with helping him lift the stones into place on his wall, where I could have pinched one of his fingers or dropped a rock on his toes. I loved him, in fact. As innocent of harm as my own father, he made fewer demands on those around him. A little silence during his nap does not seem, now, too much to ask, though at the time it irritated me. His theology, or lack of it, seems one of the spacious views I enjoyed thanks to him. His was a cosmos from which the mists of superstition had almost cleared. His parish, there in the Gateway to the West, included university existentialists, and some of their hip philosophy buffed up his old-fashioned transcendentalist sermons, which he delivered in a beautiful voice, tentatively. Though Unitarian, he was of the theist branch, Deb would tell me in bed, hoping to mediate between us. I wasn’t, as I remember it, graceless enough to quarrel with him often, but he could not have been ignorant of my Harvard neo-orthodoxy, with its Eliotic undercurrent of panic.In Vermont, my household task was to burn the day’s wastepaper, in a barrel up the slope behind the house, toward the spring that supplied our cold water. One could look across twenty miles of wooded valley to the next ridge of the Green Mountains. With Reverend Whitworth’s blessing, I had been admitted to a world of long views and icy swims and New England reticence. He was a transparently good man who took himself with a little Maine salt. It is easy to l the hard trick is to love them when they are there, in front of you. Pennsylvania had its different tensions for Deb and me. We had gotten off to a bad start. The first time I brought her home to meet my parents, we disembarked at the wrong train station. The train from Philadelphia was a local. One of its stops was a hilly factory town seven miles from Alton, also along the Schuylkill and closer by a few miles to the country farmhouse to which we had moved, at my mother’s instigation, after the war. We were among a handful of passengers to get off the train, and the platform in its tunnel of trees soon emptied. No one had come to meet us. My parents, in spite of arrangements clear in my own mind—I was trying to save them mileage—had gone to Alton. Now I wonder how, in that era before cell phones, we managed to make contact. But in that same era even little railroad statio perhaps the stationmaster telegraphed word of our plight to Alton and had my parents paged in the echoing great station. Or perhaps, by the mental telegraphy that used to operate in backward regions, they guessed the truth when we didn’t disembark and simply drove to where we were. I was a young swain, and Deb, so securely in her element in St. Louis or Cambridge, seemed lost in my home territory. I kept failing to protect her from our primitive ways. Blamelessly, she kept doing things wrong.Though we were not yet married, she had put some dirty socks and underwear of mine through her own laundry, and packed them, clean, in her suitcase. When my mother, helpfully hovering in the guest bedroom, noticed this transposition, she let loose one of her silent bursts of anger, a merciless succession of waves that dyed an angry red V on her forehead, between the eyebrows, and filled the little sandstone house to its corners, upstairs and down. The house of my childhood, in the town of Olinger, a mere trolley-car ride from Alton, had been a long narrow brick one, with a long back yard, so there were places to escape to when my mother was, in my father’s bemused phrase, “throwing an atmosphere.” But in the new house we could all hear one another turn over in bed at night, and even the out-of-doors, buzzing with insects and seething with weeds, offered no escape from my mother’s psychological heat. I had grown up with her aggrieved moods, turned on usually by adult conflicts out of my sight and hearing. She could maintain one for days until, coming home from school or a friend’s house, I would find it miraculously lifted. Her temper was part of my growing up, like Pennsylvania mugginess and the hot spells that could kill old people in their stifling row houses and expand the steel tracks on the street enough to derail trolley cars. Whispering, I tried to apologize for this climate to Deb, while my mother’s sulk, which had frozen all our tongues during dinner, continued to emanate from her bedroom down into the living room. The click of her latch had reverberated above us like a thunderclap. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I assured Deb, though in my heart I felt that offending my mother was wrong, a primal wrong. I blamed Deb for mixing up my she should have anticipated the issue, the implications. “It’s the way she is.”“Well, she should wake up and get over it” was Deb’s response, so loud I feared it could be heard upstairs. Amazed, I realized that she wasn’t tuned as finely as I to the waves of my mother’s anger.Near the sofa where we sat, my father, dolefully correcting math papers in the rocking chair, said, “Mildred doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s her femininity acting up.”Femininity explained and justified everything for his sexist generation, but not for mine. I was mortified by this tension. That same visit, perhaps, or later, Deb, thinking she was doing a good deed, began on Sunday morning to weed the patch of pansies my mother had planted near the back porch and then neglected. Deb stood uncomprehending, her feet sweetly bare in the soft soil, like Ingrid Bergman’s in “Stromboli,” when I explained that around here nobody worked on S they went to church. “How silly,” Deb said. “My father all summer does his walls and things on Sundays.”“He’s a different denomination.”“Jim, I can’t believe this. I really can’t.”“Sh-h-h. She’s inside, banging dishes around.”“Well, let her. They’re her dishes.”“And we have to get ready for church.”“I didn’t bring church clothes.”“Just put on shoes and the dress you wore down on the train.”“Shit I will. I’d look ridiculous. I’d rather stay here and weed. Your grandparents will be staying, won’t they?”“My grandmother. My grandfather goes. He reads the Bible every day on the sofa, haven’t you noticed?”“I didn’t know there were places like this left in America.”“Well—” My answer was going to be lame, she saw, so she interrupted, with those sterling blue eyes. “I see now where you get your nonsense from, being so rude to Daddy.”I was scandalized but thrilled, perceiving that a defense against my mother was possible. In the event, Deb stayed with my grandmother, who was disabled and speechless with Parkinson’s disease. My rudeness to Reverend Whitworth was revenged when, baptizing our first child, his first grandchild, in a thoroughly negotiated Unitarian family service in the house of her Lutheran grandparents, he made a little joke about the “holy water”—water fetched from our own spring, which was down below the house instead of, as in Vermont, up above it. My mother sulked for the rest of the day about that, and always spoke of Catherine, our first child, as “the baby who didn’t get baptized.” By the time the three other babies arrived, Deb and I had moved to Massachusetts, where we had met and courted, and joined the Congregational Church as a reasonable compromise.We are surr all water, our chemical mother, is holy. Flying from Boston to New York, my habit is to take a seat on the right-hand side of the plane, but the other day I sat on the left, and was rewarded, at that hour of midmorning, by the sun’s reflections on the waters of Connecticut—not just the rivers and the Sound but little ponds and pools and glittering threads of water that for a few seconds hurled silver light skyward into my eyes. My father’s tears for a moment
that is how I saw them. When he was dead, Deb and I divorced. Why? It’s hard to say. We boil at different degrees, Emerson said, and a woman came along who had my boiling point. The snapshots I took of Deb naked, interestingly, she claimed as part of her just settlement. It seemed to me they were mine—I’d taken them. But she said her body was hers.After our divorce, my mother told me, of my father, “He worried about you two from the first time you brought her home. He didn’t think she was feminine enough for you.”“He was big on femininity,” I said, not knowing whether to believe her or not. The dead are so easy to misquote.My reflex is always to come to Deb’s defense, even though it was I who wanted the divorce. It shocks me, at my high-school class reunions, when my classmates bother to tell me how much they prefer my second wife. It is true, Sylvia really mixes it up with them, in a way that Deb shyly didn’t. But then Deb assumed that they were part of my past, something I had put behind me but reunited with every five years or so, whereas Sylvia, knowing me in my old age, recognizes that I have never really left Pennsylvania, that it is where the self I value is stored, however infrequently I check on its condition. The most recent reunion, the fifty-fifth, might have depressed Deb—all these people in their early seventies, most of them still living in the county within a short drive of where they had been born, even in the same semi-detached house where they had been raised. Some came in wheelchairs, and some were too sick to drive and were chauffeured to the reunion by their middle-aged children. The list of our deceased classmates on the back of the
the class beauties are gone to f the sports stars and non-athletic alike move about with the aid of pacemakers and plastic knees, retired and taking up space at an age when most of our fathers were considerately dead.But we don’t see ourselves that way, as lame and old. We see kindergarten children—the same round fresh faces, the same cup ears and long-lashed eyes. We hear the gleeful shrieking during elementary-school recess and the seductive saxophones and muted trumpets of the homebred swing bands that serenaded the blue-lit gymnasium during high-school dances. We see in each other the enduring simplicities of a town rendered changeless by Depression and then by a world war whose bombs never reached us, though rationing and toy tanks and air-raid drills did. Old rivalries are rek old romances flare for a moment and subside into the general warmth, the diffuse love. When the class secretary, dear Ann Mahlon, her luxuriant head of chestnut curls now whiter than bleached laundry, takes the microphone and runs us through a quiz on the old days—teachers’ nicknames, the names of vanished luncheonettes and ice-cream parlors, the titles of our junior and senior plays, the winner of the scrap drive in third grade—the answers are shouted out on all sides. Not one piece of trivia stumps us: we were there, together, then, and the spouses, Sylvia among them, good-naturedly applaud so much long-hoarded treasure of useless knowing.These were no they had been my father’s students, and his memory kept coming up. He was several times the correct answer—“Mr. Werley!”—in Ann Mahlon’s quiz. Cookie Behn, who had been deposited in our class by his failing grades and who, a year older than we, already had Alzheimer’s, kept coming up to me in the circulation after dinner, squinting as if at a strong light and huskily, ardently asking me, “Your father, Jimbo—is he still with us?” He had forgotten the facts but remembered that saying “still alive,” like the word “dead,” was somehow tactless.“No, Cookie,” I said each time. “He died in 1972, of his second heart attack.” Oddly, it did not feel absurd to be calling a seventy-four-year-old man on a pronged cane Cookie.He nodded, his expression grave as well as mildly puzzled. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.I said, “I’m sorry to tell you,” though my father would have been over a hundred and running up big bills in a nursing home.“And your mother, Jim?” Cookie persisted.“She outlived him by seventeen years,” I told him, curtly, as if I resented the fact. “She was a happy widow.”“She was a very dignified lady,” he said slowly, nodding as if to agree with himself. It touched me that he was attempting to remember my mother, and that what he said was, after all, true enough of her in her relations with the outside world. She had been outwardly dignified and, in her youth, beautiful or, as she once put it to me during her increasingly frank long widowhood, “not quite beautiful.”My father had died when Deb and I were in Italy. We had gone there, with another couple in trouble, to see if we couldn’t make the marriage “work.” Our hotel in Florence was a small one with a peek at the A returning from a trip to Fiesole—its little Roman stadium, its little museum—we had impulsively decided, the four of us, to have an afternoon drink in the hotel’s upstairs café, rather than return to the confinement of our rooms. The place was empty except for some Germans drinking beer in a corner, and some Italians standing up with espressos at the bar. If I heard the telephone ring at all, I assumed it had nothing to do with me. But the bartender came from behind the bar and walked over to me and said, “Signor Wer-lei? Telephone for you.” Who could know I was here?It was my mother, sounding very small and scratchy. “Jimmy? Were you having fun? I’m sorry to disturb you.”“I’m impressed you could find me.”“The operators helped,” she explained.“What’s happened, Mother?”“Your father’s in the hospital. With his second heart attack.”“How bad is it?”“Well, he sat up in the car as I drove him into Alton.”“Well, then, it isn’t too bad.”There was a delay in her responses that I blamed on the transatlantic cable. She said at last, “I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” Except when we talked on the telephone, I never noticed what a distinct Pennsylvania accent my mother had. When we were face to face, her voice sounded as transparent as my own. “He woke up with this pressing feeling on his chest, and usually he ignores it. He didn’t today. It’s noon here now.”“So you want me to come back,” I accused her. I knew my father wouldn’t want me inconvenienced. We had reservations for the Uffizi tomorrow.S the cable under the ocean crackled. “Jimmy, I think you better. You and Deb, of course, unless she’d rather stay there and enjoy the art. Dr. Shirk doesn’t like what he’s hearing, and you know how hard to impress he usually is.”This was before open-heart sur there was little for doctors to do then but listen with a stethoscope and prescribe nitroglycerin. The concierge looked up the next train to Rome, the other couple saw us to the Florence station—just beyond the Medici chapels, which we had always wanted to see, and were destined never to see together. In Rome, the taxi-driver found an airline office that was open. I will never forget the courtesy and patience with which that young airline clerk, in his schoolbook English, took our tickets to Boston the next week and converted them into tickets to Philadelphia the next day. More planes flew then. We made an evening flight to London, and had to lay over for the night. On the side of Heathrow away from London there turned out to be a world of new, tall hotels for passengers in transit. We got into our room around midnight. I called my mother—it was suppertime in Pennsylvania—and learned that my father was dead. To my mother, it was news a number of hours old, and she described in weary retrospect her afternoon of sitting in the Alton hospital and receiving increasingly dire reports. She said, “Doc Shirk said he fought real hard at the end. It was ugly.”I hung up, and shared the news with Deb. She put her arms around me in the bed and told me, “Cry.” Though I saw the opportunity, and the rightness of it, I don’t believe I did. My father’s tears had used up mine.
我猜E筒子可能在读这个：）期望E筒子的意见！
我把自己在翻译中遇到的问题列了份清单，本应把所有问题解决了再贴出来，可是想到这里高手多，直接请教更快。只是译文对不起观众了：）下面是我列的清单，大家看了也许针对性更强一点：It was at the Alton train station, back when the trains still ran.那是在艾尔顿火车站，当火车还在开时。it shocked me—threw me off track, as it were—to see that my father’s eyes, as he shook my hand goodbye, glittered with tears.看到父亲的眼睛时——就像以往一样，催着我上路——我震惊了，他握着我的手，道再见时，眼里泪花闪烁。I was growing in my own sense of myself, and to him I was getting smaller.我按着自己的想法长大，而对他来说，我却变得越来越小了。I had taken my life from his, and now I was stealing away with it.我从他那里获得的生命，现在我和它一起溜走了。as the train travelled the stretch of track around New London.只有火车旅行在新伦敦附近的伸展的铁轨上Every natural fact is a symbol of some spiritual fact, Everything is made of one hidden stuff, Every hero becomes a bore at last, We boil at different degrees.每一个自然的真相是某些精神真相的象征，“任何东西都是由其身后隐藏的东西所构成，”“每一个英雄最后都会变成讨厌鬼，”“我们在不同的温度下沸腾。”He needed people, the rub of them, for stimulation.他需要人们，和他们接触来往，寻求鼓励。His interactions came mostly with games, which he methodically tended to win他主要通过游戏与人交流，玩游戏时为了赢别人他煞费心机the disciples talking in tongues信徒们说方言The only time I felt him as a holy man was when, speaking with deliberate tenderness to one of his three daughters, he slipped into a “thee” or “thou” from his Quaker boyhood.唯一一次让我觉得他还是个神职人员的是，他用温柔的语调说起他的女儿，顺口说出少年时代教友派常用的“汝”、“尔”。I was, in those years just before my divorce from Deb, the eldest son-in-law, the first mate, as it were, of the extended family,在与德布离婚前的那些年间，我是这个大家庭里年龄最大的女婿，第一对，His theology, or lack of it, seems one of the spacious views I enjoyed thanks to him. His was a cosmos from which the mists of superstition had almost cleared. His parish, there in the Gateway to the West, included university existentialists, and some of their hip philosophy buffed up his old-fashioned transcendentalist sermons, which he delivered in a beautiful voice, tentatively.他的理论，或者说无理论似乎是最宏大的观点，我得感谢他。他的理论体系是个大宇宙，在那里迷信的云雾被澄清。他位于西部的盖特威的教区，包括大学的存在主义者，他们某些新潮的哲学淡化了他那过时的先验论说教，他传达这些观点时语调优美。With Reverend Whitworth’s blessing, I had been admitted to a world of long views and icy swims and New England reticence.在威特华斯牧师的祝福下，我已为长长风景、冰泳和新英格兰的缄默这样一个世界所接纳。Mildred doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s her femininity acting up.米尔德丽德这样没什么，不过是女人的老毛病又发作了。Femininity explained and justified everything for his sexist generation, but not for mine.对他那一代男性主义至上者而言，女人病可以用来解释一切，一切都情有可原。但对我这一代不行。I was scandalized but thrilled, perceiving that a defense against my mother was possible.我很没面子，不过又很激动，因为发现居然可以反抗我母亲。We are surr all water, our chemical mother, is holy.我们被圣水包围了，到处都是水，我们那化学母亲，是圣洁的。My father’s tears for a moment 有一刻，受到光线的影响，我父亲流泪了，He worried about you two from the first time you brought her home. He didn’t think she was feminine enough for you.从第一天你带她来家里开始，他就为你们俩操心。他觉得对你而言，她太小女人了。He was big on femininity,他太热衷于什么女性气质了，My reflex is always to come to Deb’s defense, even though it was I who wanted the divorce.虽然是我想离婚，可我总习惯性地为德布辩护。I have never really left Pennsylvania, that it is where the self I value is stored, however infrequently I check on its condition.我从来就没有真正离开过宾西法尼亚，那里是我最看中的自我藏身之所，无论我审视它的次数是如何稀少。the sports stars and non-athletic alike move about with the aid of pacemakers and plastic knees, retired and taking up space at an age when most of our fathers were considerately dead.昔日的体育健将和普通人一样，借着心脏起博器、塑胶护膝才能移动，在父辈们早已体谅地去世的年纪，我们才退休，代替了他们的位置。We see in each other the enduring simplicities of a town rendered changeless by Depression and then by a world war whose bombs never reached us, though rationing and toy tanks and air-raid drills did.我们长期共同生活在小镇才有的简单淳朴之中，大萧条也没有改变它，世界大战的炸弹也从来炸不到我们这里，尽管这里也实行食品配给、尽管我们也有玩具坦克、也进行空袭演习。Old rivalries are rek old romances flare for a moment and subside into the general warmth, the diffuse love.以前的竞争对手又点燃了竞争的烈火，然后又搁到一边了。老情人一度旧情复炽，又慢慢归于平和的温情，融入到广泛的爱中去了。Sylvia among them, good-naturedly applaud so much long-hoarded treasure of useless knowing.西尔维亚也在他们中间，为那些长期珍藏的无用知识，友好地、起劲地鼓掌。Though I saw the opportunity, and the rightness of it, I don’t believe I did. My father’s tears had used up mine.虽然这是哭的时候，我哭也的确无可厚非。可我相信我没有哭。though my father would have been over a hundred and running up big bills in a nursing home.虽然我父亲可能活过一百岁，在看护院里欠下一大笔钱。请高手指点。
下周得便挑几句学习一下。看了这句：though my father would have been over a hundred and running up big bills in a nursing home.我的想法：虽然我父亲本有可能活过一百岁，从而在看护院里欠下一大笔钱。
等有空时好好读读原文译文,再来好好讨论。粗粗看了一下问题清单的前两个，有不同看法。It was at the Alton train station, back when the trains still ran.那是在艾尔顿火车站，当火车还在开时。----我觉得这里的RAN有可能指的是“运营”；因为现在火车运输日渐势微，很可能原先的一些线路已经停运。要翻译好这句，最好查阅下资料，看看这个ALTON站的情况。it shocked me—threw me off track, as it were—to see that my father’s eyes, as he shook my hand goodbye, glittered with tears.看到父亲的眼睛时——就像以往一样，催着我上路——我震惊了，他握着我的手，道再见时，眼里泪花闪烁。----在这一句，从上下文看，threw me off track应是个有一定意义的词组，我感觉和shocked意思相近。还没有查字典确定，但如翻成“催着我上路”，的确语义上很奇怪，也难怪你觉得这句翻译有问题。再者，as it were不应该翻出“以往”的意思。整个故事都用过去时态，这中间插入的一句，同样用一般过去时，并没有过去的过去之义。我以为threw me off track, as it were是强调shocked的，as it were中的IT就是it shocked me中的IT。这一句其实要翻得没有翻译腔，我个人意见，一定不要按照原文语序，要适当地调整成中文习惯，抛个砖：“当父亲和我握手道别，我惊愕地看到他眼睛里闪烁着泪光，这可实在是把我给惊骇住了。”老实讲，threw me off track我也一时没找到合适的词，但我以为大体意思是差不太多的。BTW，我觉得楼主这样翻译并讨论，很有意义，又有趣。等有时间，再来好好品味品味。：））
等着排队学习。：）
threw me off track：让我找不着北
it shocked me—threw me off track, as it were—to see that my father’s eyes, as he shook my hand goodbye, glittered with tears.看到父亲的眼睛时——就像以往一样，催着我上路——我震惊了，他握着我的手，道再见时，眼里泪花闪烁。谈点看法：as it were是“似乎是。。。”的意思。threw sb off ( the ) track
摆脱某人的追踪，让某人迷失方向，找不着北（cf.
to be on the track of sb 追踪某人）父亲和我握手道别的时候，看到他眼睛里充盈着的泪光，我感到震惊 ——甚或迷惘了。
感觉E筒子这句翻译的更自然，更符合情感自然发生的过程！
一石兄过奖！我也跟着故园MM 抛砖引玉。迷惘，也许用“迷茫”更好些？总之，意思大概是“搞糊涂了”。
呵，试试这个：惊愕啊，近乎于昏眩，当父亲与我握别时，我看到他眼中扑簌着泪光。
故园遥望,你的提醒很对，因为下面紧接着就写了这个小火车站被关闭，因此run 很有可能是运营的意思，我怎么没想到？还有threw me off track，我确实不知道什么意思，只好糊弄过关，心里没底的，大家的翻译都比我好，我还要再琢磨琢磨。如果各位不嫌麻烦，后面还有好多句子在排队等着帮助呢：）
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