无影无形

We are , and must be , one and all, burdened with faults in this world, but the time will soon come when ,I trust we shall put them off in putting off our corruptible bodies; when debasement and sin will fall from us with this cumbrous frame of flesh , and only the spark of the spirit will remain ,--the impalpable principle of light and thought , pure as when it left the Creator to inspire the creature :when it came it will return ;perhaps again to be communicated to some being higher than man-perhaps to pass through gradations of glory ,from the pale human soul to brighten to the seraph !

人活在世上，任何人都会有许多罪过，而且肯定会这样，不过我相信，不久就会有这么一天，我们在摆脱了腐朽的躯壳时，同样会摆脱这些罪过。到那个时候，堕落和罪过将会连同累赘的血肉之躯一起离开我们，只剩下精神的火花---无影无形的生命和思想之源，就象刚开始离开上帝来赋予世界万物灵魂的时候一样纯洁，它从什么地方来，还会返回到什么地方去，或许又会和某种比人来还要高级的东西息息相通---或许会通过各个光荣的阶段，从照耀人类苍白的灵魂，到照耀最高级的天使。

Words are thoughts and are therefore an invisible and invincible power which will finally objectify themselves in the form they are given.

语言就是思想，因此也是一种无影无形、战无不胜的力量。它们被赋予怎样的形式，最终也会在客观存在中怎样实现。

Light holds between its hands The white hill and black oaks, The path that goes o, The tree that stays; Light is a stone that breathes By the sleepwalking river, Light: a girl stretching, A dark bundle dawning; Light shapes the breeze in the curtains, Makes a living body from each hour, Enters the room and slips out, Barefoot, on the edge of a knife; Light is born a woman in a mirror, Naked under diaphanous leaves, Chained by a look, Dissolved in a wink; It touches the fruit and the unbodied, It is a pitcher from which the eye drinks clarities, A flame cut in blossom, a candle watching Where the blackwinged butterfly burns; Light opens the folds of the sheets And the creases of puberty, Glows in the fireplace, its flame becomes shadows That climb the walls, yearning ivy; Light does not absolve or condemn, Is neither just or unjust, Light with impalpable hands raises The buildings of symmetry; Light escapes through a passage of mirrors And returns to light: Is a hand that invents itself, An eye that sees itself in its own inventions.

光 双手拥着白色山峦与黑色橡树林，前行的路，停留的树；光是梦游的河旁呼吸的石光：一个女孩舒展，一束暗色破晓。光勾勒出帘中微风的形状，每时每刻造出一个鲜活的身体，光著脚，踩著刀刃；蹑入房间，又溜走；光是镜中诞生的女人，裸露在透明的叶底，被目光锁定，瞬间消逝；它触摸著果实和无形，眼睛在它的水罐饮著清晰，火焰绽放如花，蜡烛目睹黑翅的蝴蝶燃烧光展开被单的折皱与青春期的皱痕在壁炉里光芒焕发，它的火焰成影在墙上攀爬，怀恋著长春藤光既不赦免也不谴责无公平与不公平而言光，用无法察觉的双手举起对称的建筑；光在镜子的通道里逃遁返回于光：一只发明自己的手，一只在自己的发明中看到自己的眼。

But as we sat on an empty fruit crate in the living-room, staring at the beloved walls with their unbleached rectangles where the pictures and mirrors had been, staring at the radiators whose first winter whisperings we will not hear this year, we knew that not even the stalwart movers could wrench loose something that was still there, invisible and in eradicable; we knew that people must inevitably leave something of themselves behind----something besides the mere residue of dust and bent paper clips and fallen coat hangers.

但是当我们坐在客厅一个空的水果箱上，凝望着镜子和画像在我们心爱的墙上留下的矩形痕迹时，当我们凝望着暖气片想到今年我们再也听不到它们运作时发出的如耳语般的声音时，我们才明白，即使是最强壮的搬运工，也无法移动那些注定留在那里的东西，它们无影无形却又无处不在，无从避免。我们懂得了每个人都有一些无法舍弃的东西，也许仅仅只是尘土的残余，弯曲的夹子，或者是那些落下的衣架。

But we don't care about Battlegrounds.

但我们并不在乎沙场中的显露。

Ah! don't mention it, the butcher's shop is a horror.

啊！不用提了。提到肉，真是糟透了。