For more than a week my pen has lain untouched. I have written nothing for seven whole days, not even a letter. Except during one or two bouts of illness, such a thing never happened in my life before. In my life; the life, that is, which had to be supported by anxious toil; the life which was not lived for living's sake, as all life should be, but under the goad of fear. The earning of money should be a means to an end; for more than thirty years ---I began to support myself at sixteen --- I had to regard it as the end itself.
I could imagine that my old penholder feels reproachfully towards me. Has it not served me well? Why do I, in my happiness, let it lie there neglected, gathering dust? The same penholder that has lain against my forefinger day after day for --- how many years? Twenty, at least; I remember buying it at a shop in Tottenham Court Road. By the same token I bought that day a paper-weight, which cost me a whole shilling --- an extravagance which made me tremble. The penholder shone with its new varnish, now it is plain brown wood from end to end. On my forefinger it has made a callosity.
我已经有一周没有动笔了;整整七天,我甚至连一封信都没有写过。除了有一两回因为生病而暂时搁笔外，还从未出现过这样的情况。在我的一生中，在我那以令人忧虑焦灼的辛劳苦苦支撑的一生中,生活偏离了正常生活所应沿袭的轨迹，不再以其本身为目的,而是终日在恐惧中残喘挣扎。赚钱本应是达到目的的手段,可是三十多年来——我从十六岁起就开始自力更生一一我却不得不把赚钱本身当做目的。
我能够想象得到，我的老笔杆一定在责备我。难道它没有尽心尽力地服务于我吗?为什么我在幸福的时候，却对它不闻不问,任其落满尘埃呢?这支每日于我的指间工作的笔杆已经伴随我多少年了呢?至少有二十年了。我记得还是在托特纳姆法院路上的一家商店里买下它的。出于和买这支笔相同的原因,那天我还买了一个镇纸，花了整整一个先令一对于当时的我来说，这真是穷奢极欲之举,令我浑身颤抖不已。刚买下它的时候,这支笔还闪耀着新漆的光泽,而现在它的两端均已磨损，呈现出原本的棕色木料。我的食指上也被它磨出了一层老茧。
Old companion, yet old enemy! How many a time have I taken it up, loathing the necessity, heavy in head and heart, my hand shaking, my eyes sick-dazzled! How I dreaded the white page I had to foul with ink! Above all, on days such as this, when the blue eyes of spring laughed from between rosy clouds, when the sunlight shimmered upon my table and made me long, long all but to madness, for the scent of the flowering earth, for the green of hillside larches, for the singing of the skylark above the downs. There was a time --- it seems further away than childhood --- when I took up my pen with eagerness; if my hand trembled it was with hope. But a hope that fooled me, for never a page of my writing deserved to live. I can say that now without bitterness. It was youthful error, and only the force of circumstance prolonged it. The world has done me no injustice; thank heaven I have grown wise enough not to rail at it for this! And why should any man who writes, even if he write things immortal, nurse anger at the world's neglect? Who asked him to publish? Who promised him a hearing? Who has broken faith with him? If my shoemaker turn me out an excellent pair of boots, and I, in some mood of cantankerous unreason, throw them back upon his hands, the man has just cause of complaint. But your poem, your novel, who bargained with you for it? If it is honest journey-work, yet lacks purchasers, at most you may call yourself a hapless tradesman. If it come from on high, with what decency do you fret and fume because it is not paid for in heavy cash? For the work of man's mind there is one test, and one alone, the judgment of generations yet unborn. If you have written a great book, the world to come will know of it. But you don't care for posthumous glory. You want to enjoy fame in a comfortable arm-chair. Ah, that is quite another thing. Have the courage of your desire. Admit yourself a merchant, and protest to gods and men that the merchandise you offer is of better quality than much which sells for a high price. You may be right, and indeed it is hard upon you that fashion does not turn to your stall.
它是我的故友,但也是我的宿敌!有多少次当我为了生计而被迫拿起它时,真是头重心沉、双手颤抖、目眩眼花!我是多么害怕用墨水去弄污白纸啊! 特别是在像今天这样的好日子里:在玫瑰色的云朵间,春天那碧蓝色的双眼展露笑意,阳光铺洒在我的书桌上,光斑跳跃闪耀，这令我发狂般地渴望百花吐艳的大地的芬芳,以及山坡上落叶松的翠绿，还有高地上云雀的鸣啭。在似乎比童年还遥远的某一个时期，我总是受到内心之中的渴望的驱使而提笔; 如果我的手在颤抖,那也是因为我满怀希望。然而,这希望欺骗了我,因为我所写的东西没有一页值得留存世间。如今的我已经可以平静地说出这番话而丝毫不感到痛苦了。那是年轻时犯下的错误，但后来在环境的逼迫下,这种错误被延续了下来。这个世界并没有不公平地对待我;感谢上苍，我已经成熟到不再去为此怨天尤人了!为什么一个写作的人要对世人的忽视心存怒意呢? 难道写出了不朽的作品就该如此吗?谁要求他出版作品了吗?谁承诺过倾听他的心声吗?谁违背了与他之间的承诺吗?如果我的鞋匠为我做出了一双非常好的靴子,而我却有些无理取闹地将靴子扔回到他的手中,那么,他会抱怨也是情有可原的。然而,谁为你的诗文和小说与你达成协议了呢?如果因为你的作品的确是平庸之作而没有买主，那么你最多也只能自认是个倒霉的商人;如果它们是博大精深之作,你却为没有得到重金回报而焦虑、恼怒，这是否应该呢?对于用心灵创作的作品，有一种,而且也只有一种检验标准,那就是让后世的人去评判。如果你所写出的真的是一部伟大的作品，它自然会流传后世。但流芳百世并非你心中所求，你只想坐在舒适的扶手椅上享受有生之年的名望。哈,那就得另当别论了。鼓起勇气,去满足自己的欲望吧!承认自己是一个商人,向诸神与世人提出抗议,说你的商品比许多高价兜售的货物更优质。如果这样做了,你的货品也没能风行一时,那么对你来说,的确是有些过分了,这时,你也就有理由去抱怨了。
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