e did something finer and better。 There is not enough energy； or call it money； to carry anyone who is dead weight and I am angry and resentful in my soul when I feel that I am doing this。 People like—and your mother must be carried because their illness makes them useless。 But it is a different story that you have spent two years doing no useful work at all； improving neither your body nor your mind； but only writing reams and reams of dreary letters to dreary people； with no possible object except obtaining invitations which you could not accept。 Those letters go on； even in your sleep； so that I know your whole trip now is one long waiting for the post。 It is like an old gossip who cannot still her tongue。
You have reached the age when one is of interest to an adult only insofar as one seems to have a future。 The mind of a little child is fascinating； for it looks on old things with new eyes—but at about twelve this changes。 The adolescent offers nothing； can do nothing； say nothing that the adult cannot do better。 Living with you in Baltimore（and you have told Harold that I alternated between strictness and neglect； by which I suppose you mean the times I was so inconsiderate as to have T。 B。 o or to retire into myself to write； for I had little social life apart from you） represented a rather too domestic duty forced on me by your mother's illness。 But I endured your Top Hats and Telephones until the day you snubbed me at dancing school； less willingly after that…
To sum up： What you have done to please me or make me proud is practically negligible since the time you made yourself a good diver at camp （and now you are softer than you have ever been）。 In your career as a “wild society girl”； vintage of 1925； I'm not interested。 I don't want any of it— it would bore me； like dining with the Ritz Brothers。 When I do not feel you are“going somewhere”； your pany tends to depress me for the silly waste and triviality involved。 On the other hand； when occasionally I see signs of life and intention in you； there is no pany in the world I prefer。 For there is no doubt that you have something in your belly； some real gusto for life—a real dream of your own—and my idea was to wed it to something solid before it was too late—as it was too late for your mother to learn anything when she got around to it。 Once when you spoke French as a child it was enchanting with your odd bits of knowledge— now your conversation is as monplace as if you'd spent the last two years in the Corn Hollow High School— what you saw in Life and read in Sexy Romances。
I shall e East in September to meet your boat—but this letter is a declaration that I am no longer interested in your promissory notes but only in what I see。 I love you always but I am only interested by people who think and work as I do and it isn't likely that I shall change at my age。 Whether you will—or want to—remains to be seen。
Daddy
P。 S。 If you keep the diary； please don't let it be the dry stuff I could buy in a tenfranc guide book。 I'm not interested in dates and places； even the Battle of New Orleans； unless you have some unusual reaction to them。 Don't try to be witty in the writing； unless it's natural— just true and real。
P。 P。 S。 Will you please read this letter a second time？ I wrote it over twice。
。。
埃米莉·狄金森致威廉·奥斯汀·狄金森
埃米莉·狄金森（1830—1886），美国著名女诗人。生于安贺斯特；曾在安姆斯特学院和芒特霍尔里约克女子神学院学习。从25岁开始弃绝社交，足不出户，在家务劳动之余埋头做诗，故被称做“安姆斯特修女”。埃米莉一生共创作1775首诗，她生前仅发表七首，其余部分都是她死后30年内由其亲人整理、出版的。埃米莉的诗风独特，以文字细腻、观察敏锐、意象突出著称，题材方面多半是自然、死亡和永生。
亲爱的奥斯汀——今天早上我一直在想你离家已有几周——时间过得是如此之慢，一天就如同一年，一周就如同二十年——不再用分钟计算时间以后，我不知道该怎么区分真实的时间与“虚幻”的时间。对于你来说，或许觉得回到波士顿已过了很长时间——我多么希望你能待在这里，永远别再回去啊！这里的每一件事物仍然如往常般静立，乌云密布，寒气袭人。啊，我是如此孤单！你在一个刮风的晚上回到了波士顿，我们千万次地思念你，并且希望你不要着凉。我们身旁的炉火正旺，我忍不住想起，在这里，我们有多少次相聚，有多少次分离，又有多少次我希望你能在漫长的夜晚把门打开，回到家来。家是一个神圣的地方，任何怀疑或疑虑都无法侵入它神圣的领地。当时间的巨轮向前推进，你信任的人也一个个离你而去，我越来越感到家的神圣和温暖，家里看上去确实有点像伊甸园，没有任何罪恶可以彻底破坏它——事实上，家是小了一些，或许也并不美好，但是比起整个世界来，家却更加美丽，更加温馨。
我希望今年你不会在波士顿损害健康，我也希望你将如同以前那样快乐。我不会怀疑你离开上帝的祝福会非常镇定——如果在我力所能及的范围内，我将每天早晨把这里纯净、芳香、清凉的空气转送给你。我多希望你能拥有它啊——早上的徐徐清风把它吹到我的面前，伴随着森林里的树叶和清新的秋果的芬芳。我将非常愿意把自己今天所得的那份空气送给你，并用它取代海上那苦涩的空气……
您亲爱的
埃米莉
1851年秋于安姆斯特
Emily Dickinson
To
Amherst；
Autumn；1851。
Dear Austin； —I've been trying to think this morning how many weeks it was since you went away — I fail in calculations； it seems so long to me since you went back to school that I set down days for years； and weeks for a score of years — not reckoning time by minutes； I don't know what to think of such great discrepancies between the actual hours and those which “seem to be”。 It may seem long to you since you returned to Boston — how I wish you could stay and never go back again。 Everything is so still here； and the clouds are cold and gray — I think it will rain soon。 Oh； I am so lonely！… You had a windy evening going back to Boston； and we thought of you many times and hoped you would not be cold。 Our fire burned so cheerfully I couldn't help thinking of how many were here； and how many were away； and I wished so many times during that long evening that the door would open and you e walking in。 Home is a holy thing； — nothing of doubt or distrust can enter its blessed portals。 I feel it more and more as the great world goes on； and one and another forsake in whom you place your trust； here seems indeed to be a bit of Eden which not the sin of any can utterly destroy； — smaller it is indeed； and it may be less fair； but fairer it is and brighter than all the world beside。
I hope this year in Boston will not impair your health； and I hope you will be as happy as you used to be before。 I don't wonder it makes you sober to leave this blessed air — if it were in my power I would on every morning transmit its purest breaths fragrant and cool to you。 How I wish you could have it — a thousand little winds waft it to me this morning； fragrant with forest leaves and bright autumnal berries。 I would be willing to give you my portion for today； and take the salt sea's breath in its bright； bounding stead…
Your affectionate
Emily
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托马斯·哈代致玛丽·哈代
托马斯·哈代（1840—1928），英国小说家、诗人；1840年6月2日生于英国西南部的一个小村庄。他的父亲是石匠，但爱好音乐。父母都重视对哈代的文化教育。1856年，哈代离开学校，给一名建筑师当学徒。1862年前往伦敦，任建筑绘图员，并在伦敦大学进修语言，开始文学创作。哈代的