去看海明威和惠特曼,没有朝拜的心情,倒是有走亲戚串门的感觉,从前看的是中文版的,这次我却想把象形文字的他们统统再翻译回去

Went to see Hemingway and Whitman, not worship the mood, there is the feeling of walking relatives, once to see the Chinese version, this time I want the hieroglyphic them then translated back, have a look of alphabetic writing them, I want to know if they had. On the road I always can think of "eight in," the name, the earth is round, so I kept going, Hemingway home, Whitman home, Thoreau house, through Dickinson's window, finally will go back to my eight wa.
The poem was written later. I still go back to the other side of the globe, covered with dust in the sky, along will waft cabbage flavor street turn into the alley, walked into the dark mottled corridor, back to that belongs to my little corner, to sit in the window with window under the South Poplar tree. I felt myself facing the whole world.
That a full jar crickets jumping out, every Chinese characters is an irrepressible healthy embryo, are unfolded to open branches and leaves, extract the stem, to open a flower, the radar in Chinese airspace to the signal, find the target.