Is there at this moment any boy of twenty, fairly educated, but without means, without help, with nothing but the glow in his brain and steadfast courage in his heart, who sits in a London garret and writes for dear life? There must be, I suppose; yet all that I have read and heard of late years about young writers shows them in a very different aspect. No garreteers, these novelists and journalists awaiting their promotion. They eat -- and entertain their critics -- at fashionable restaurants; they are seen in expensive seats at the theatre; they inhabit handsome flats -- photographed for an illustrated paper on the first excuse. At the worst, they belong to a reputable club, and have garments which permit them to attend a garden party or an evening "at home" without attracting unpleasant notice. Many biographical sketches have I read, during the last decade, making personal introduction of young Mr. This or young Miss That, whose book was -- as the sweet language of the day will have it--"booming"; but never one in which there was a hint of stern struggle, of the pinched stomach and frozen fingers. I surmise that the path of "literature" is being made too easy. Doubtless it is a rare thing nowadays for a lad whose education ranks him with the upper middle class to find himself utterly without resources, should he wish to devote himself to the profession of letters. And there is the root of the matter; writing has come to be recognized as a profession, almost as cut-and-dried as church or law; a lad may go into it with full parental approval, with ready avuncular support. I heard not long ago of an eminent lawyer, who had paid a couple of hundred per annum for his son's instruction in the art of fiction -- yea, the art of fiction -- by a not very brilliant professor of that art. Really, when one comes to think of it, an astonishing fact, a fact vastly significant. Starvation, it is true, does not necessarily produce fine literature; but one feels uneasy about these carpet-authors. To the two or three who have a measure of conscience and vision, I could wish, as the best thing, some calamity which would leave them friendless in the streets. They would perish, perhaps. But set that possibility against the all but certainty of their present prospect --fatty degeneration of the soul; and is it not acceptable?
就在此刻,是否会有一位二十岁的年轻人一一他受过良好的教育,但身无分文，无人帮助,除了头脑中的热情和心中的坚定勇气之外，一无所有一一正坐在伦敦的阁楼上,为了谋生而写作呢?我想,一定有这样的人。但近些年我所读到的和听说的关于年轻作家的一切,却表明他们现在的境遇已是今非昔比。这些等待提拔的小说家和新闻记者们，并不住在阁楼上。他们在高级餐厅里用餐,并款待评论家们;他们在剧院里坐的是高价的席位;他们在体面的公寓里居住——经常借着各种由头把自己的照片刊登在有插图的报纸上。在最糟糕的情况下,他们也是某个著名俱乐部的会员,并且他们的着装使他们能够参加游园会或家庭晚宴而不会引起令人不愉快的注意。最近十年间,我曾读过许多介绍这位年轻的先生或那位年轻的小姐的个人小传，他们的作品一一用现代的可爱语言来说——非常“畅销”;但没有一本传记提及艰辛奋斗、忍饥挨饿或手指冻僵的经历。据我猜想,“文学”这条路,正在变得过于平坦易行了。毋庸置疑,如果一个所受教育使他能够跻身上流社会的少年,发现自己完全没有资财而又愿意投身文学事业，这种情况在今天是非常罕见的。事情的根本就在于此:写作已被公认为一种职业,几乎像教会与法律一样，变成约定俗成的了。一个准备在写作道路上发展的少年,可以得到父母的费同和叔伯长辈的大力支持。不久前,我听说一位著名的律师每年拿出两百多英镑来供儿子学习小说艺术一一没错,是小说艺术一一从师于一个并不精通此道的教授。的确,每当我们想到这件事的时候，都会感到惊讶,这真是一-件意义非凡的事情。当然,饥饿并不是产生优秀文学作品的必要条件,但人们却不得不为这些养尊处优的作家感到忧虑。如果其中真有两三个道德健全、想象力丰富的可造之材，我希望最好能让他们遭遇一些不幸,流落街头。或许他们会因此而丧生，但如果他们继续如此发展，必定会变得脑满肠肥、灵魂堕落一一与这样的结果相比较,那种不幸难道不可接受吗?
I thought of this as I stood yesterday watching a noble sunset, which brought back to my memory the sunsets of a London autumn thirty years ago; more glorious, it seems to me, than any I have since beheld. It happened that on one such evening I was by the river at Chelsea, with nothing to do except to feel that I was hungry, and to reflect that before morning I should be hungrier still. I loitered upon Battersea Bridge -- the old picturesque wooden bridge, and there the western sky took hold upon me. Half an hour later, I was speeding home. I sat down, and wrote a description of what I had seen, and straightway sent it to an evening newspaper, which to my astonishment published the thing next day -- On Battersea Bridge. How proud I was of that little bit of writing! I should not much like to see it again, for I thought it then so good that I am sure it would give me an unpleasant sensation now. Still, I wrote it because I enjoyed doing so, quite as much as because I was hungry; and the couple of guineas it brought me had as pleasant & ring as any money I ever earned.
昨天,思考这个问题的时候，我正在观赏辉煌的落日美景。那景象使我回想起了三十年前伦敦的秋天,在伦敦看到过的落日——对我来说,它似乎比我迄今为止看到过的任何一次日落都更加壮美。也是在这样的一个黄昏,无事可做的我偶然来到了切尔西河畔,那时,我感到有些饥饿,并想到第二天早上一定会更饿。我徘徊在巴特西桥上一一就是那座风景如画的古老木桥;在那里,我被西方天空的景色所吸引。半个小时之后,我疾步走回家,坐下来,记述下我所见到的景象，并立刻寄给了一家晚报。没想到，次日它便被发表了一一标题是《在巴特西桥上》。这篇短小的文章令我感到多么骄傲啊!我不会再去读它了，因为那时的我不自觉地将其美化了，,我敢肯定它会带给我一种不愉快的感觉。尽管如此,我写它是因为我喜欢这样做,正如同因为感到饥饿而用餐一样。它为我带来了两个几尼的收入,它们发出的响声令我感到十分愉快,就像我以往所赚到的钱一样。
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