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<p class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin:0cm 0cm 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman"><font size="1"><span lang="EN-US">I was born in 1910, in </span><city><place><span lang="EN-US"> aris</span></place></city><span lang="EN-US">. My father was a gentle, easy-going person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the </span><place><span lang="EN-US">Danube</span></place><span lang="EN-US"> in his veins. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy-blue picture-postcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on the </span><state><place><span lang="EN-US">Riviera</span></place></state><span lang="EN-US">. His father and two grandfathers had sold wine, jewels and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an English girl, daughter of Jerome Dunn, the alpinist, and granddaughter of two </span><place><span lang="EN-US">Dorset</span></place><span lang="EN-US"> parsons, experts in obscure subjects — paleopedology and Aeolian harps, respectively. My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.</span></font></font></p><p class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin:0cm 0cm 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman" size="1"><span lang="EN-US"></span></font></p><p class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin:0cm 0cm 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman" size="1"><span lang="EN-US">看来确实是这一段</span></font></p><p class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin:0cm 0cm 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman" size="1"><span lang="EN-US"></span></font></p><p class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin:0cm 0cm 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman" size="1"><span lang="EN-US">拙译如下</span></font></p><p class="MsoBodyText2" style="margin:0cm 0cm 0pt"><font face="Times New Roman" size="1"><span lang="EN-US"></span></font></p><font face="Times New Roman"><span lang="EN-US"><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin:0cm 0cm 0pt;text-indent:24pt;mso-char-indent-count:2.0"><font size="1"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:;mso-fareast-font-family:宋体;mso-bidi-font-family:&quot:;times new roman&:;quot:">1910</span><span style="font-family:宋体;mso-ascii-font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:;mso-hansi-font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:">年我生在巴黎。我的父亲是个温和的谦谦绅士,混合了众多种族的血缘:瑞士籍,法国和奥地利人的后裔,血液中掺和着少许多瑙河水。我会给大家传看几张光滑碧蓝的漂亮明信片。我的父亲在拉文纳拥有一家豪华的饭店,他的父亲、祖父和曾祖父分别做过酒、珠宝和丝绸生意。</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:;mso-fareast-font-family:宋体;mso-bidi-font-family:&quot:;times new roman&:;quot:">30</span><span style="font-family:宋体;mso-ascii-font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:;mso-hansi-font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:">岁的时候他娶了一个英国姑娘,登山家杰罗姆·登的女儿,两位多赛特牧师的孙女,他俩分别精通极冷僻的古土壤学和风奏琴。在我</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:;mso-fareast-font-family:宋体;mso-bidi-font-family:&quot:;times new roman&:;quot:">3</span><span style="font-family:宋体;mso-ascii-font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:;mso-hansi-font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:">岁的时候,我那非常上相的母亲死于一次奇特的事故(野游中遭遇雷击),除了黑暗的往昔中一小袋温暖,她没有在我记忆的空穴与幽谷中留下任何印象,而在这一切之上,我幼年的太阳已经沉落——如果你还能忍受我的文风的话(我在监视下写作)——相信你们都了解悬浮的白日那芬芳的余辉(在夏日的暮霭中,在山谷的谷底处),盘旋在开花的树篱周围,或者被突然出现的漫游者闯入和越过;此外还有柔软而温暖的金色小虫四处飞舞。</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family:&quot:;courier new&:;quot:;mso-fareast-font-family:宋体;mso-bidi-font-family:&quot:;times new roman&:;quot:"><p></p></span></font></p></span></font> |
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