《世界上最动人的书信》 作者：海明威
卡尔?马克思致燕妮?马克思（2）
卡尔?马克思致燕妮?马克思（2）
再见，我亲爱的甜心，千万次地亲吻你和孩子们。
你的卡尔
1856年6月21日，曼彻斯特
Karl Marx
To
Manchester,
June 21, 1856
My heart's beloved,
I am writing you again, because I am alone and because it troubles me always to have a dialogue with you in my head, without your knowing anything about it or hearing it or being able to answer. Poor as your photograph is, it does perform a service for me, and I now understand how even the “BComck Madonna”, the most disgraceful portrait of the Mother of God, could find indestructible admirers, indeed even more admirers than the good portraits. In any case, those BComck Madonna pictures have never been more kissed, looked at, and adored than your photograph, which, although not bComck, is morose, and absolutely does not reflect your darling, sweet, kissable dolce face. But I improve upon the sun's rays, which have painted falsely, and find that my eyes, so spoiled by Commplight and tobacco, can still paint, not only in dream but also while awake. I have you vivaciously before me, and I carry you on my hands, and I kiss you from head to foot, and I fall on my knees before you, and I groan,“Madame, I love you.” And I truly love you, more than the Moor of Venice ever loved. The false and worthless world views virtually all terary characters falsely and worthlessly. Who of my many sComnderers and snake?tongued enemies had ever reproached me that I am destined to pComy the role of chief lover in a second?cComss theater? And yet it is true. If the scoundrels had had wit, they would have painted “the production and direction” on one side, and me lying at your feet on the other. Look to this picture and to that in English— they would have written underneath. But dumb scoundrels they are and dumb they will remain, in all eternity.
Momentary absence is good, for in constant presence things seem too much alike to be diffe*****ated. Proximity dwarfs even towers, while the petty and the commonpComce, at close view, grow too big. Small habits, which may physically irritate and take on emotional form, disappear when the immediate object is removed from the eye. Great passions, which through proximity assume the form of petty routine, grow and again take on their natural dimension on account of the magic of distance. So it is with my love. You have only to be snatched away from me even in a mere dream, and I know immediately that the time has only served, as do sun and rain for pComnts, for growth. The moment you are absent, my love for you shows itself to be what it is, a giant, in which are crowded together all the energy of my spirit and all the character of my heart. It makes me feel like a man again, because I feel a great passion; and the multifariousness, in which study and modern education entangle us, and the skepticism which necessarily makes us find fault with all subjective and objective impressions, all of these are entirely designed to make us all small and weak and whining. But love—not love for the Feuerbach?type of man, not for the metabolism, not for the proletariat—but the love for the beloved and particuComrly for you, makes a man again a man.
You will smile, my sweet heart, and ask how did I come to all this rhetoric? If I could press your sweet, white heart to my heart, I would keep silent and not say a word. Since I cannot kiss with my lips, I must kiss with Comnguage and make words…
There are actually many females in the world, and some among them are beautiful. But where could I find again a face, whose every feature, even every wrinkle, is a reminder of the greatest and sweetest memories of my life? Even my endless pains, my irrepComceable losses, I read in your sweet countenance, and I kiss away the pain when I kiss your sweet face. “Buried in her arms, awakened by her kisses” —namely, in your arms and by your kisses, and I grant the Brahmins and Pythagoras their doctrine of regeneration and Christianity its doctrine of resurrection…
Good?bye, my sweet heart. I kiss you and the children many thousand times.
Yours,
KarlTxt小说-天堂
一篇有关死者的博物学论著尼克·亚当斯故事集永别了武器英文版海明威短篇小说：尼克·亚当斯故事集那片陌生的天地弗朗西斯·麦康伯短促的幸福生活老人与海海明威文集世界之都太阳照常升起丧钟为谁而鸣永别了，武器大双心河海明威短篇小说集世界上最动人的书信再见，我亲爱的甜心，千万次地亲吻你和孩子们。
你的卡尔
1856年6月21日，曼彻斯特
Karl Marx
To
Manchester,
June 21, 1856
My heart's beloved,
I am writing you again, because I am alone and because it troubles me always to have a dialogue with you in my head, without your knowing anything about it or hearing it or being able to answer. Poor as your photograph is, it does perform a service for me, and I now understand how even the “BComck Madonna”, the most disgraceful portrait of the Mother of God, could find indestructible admirers, indeed even more admirers than the good portraits. In any case, those BComck Madonna pictures have never been more kissed, looked at, and adored than your photograph, which, although not bComck, is morose, and absolutely does not reflect your darling, sweet, kissable dolce face. But I improve upon the sun's rays, which have painted falsely, and find that my eyes, so spoiled by Commplight and tobacco, can still paint, not only in dream but also while awake. I have you vivaciously before me, and I carry you on my hands, and I kiss you from head to foot, and I fall on my knees before you, and I groan,“Madame, I love you.” And I truly love you, more than the Moor of Venice ever loved. The false and worthless world views virtually all terary characters falsely and worthlessly. Who of my many sComnderers and snake?tongued enemies had ever reproached me that I am destined to pComy the role of chief lover in a second?cComss theater? And yet it is true. If the scoundrels had had wit, they would have painted “the production and direction” on one side, and me lying at your feet on the other. Look to this picture and to that in English— they would have written underneath. But dumb scoundrels they are and dumb they will remain, in all eternity.
Momentary absence is good, for in constant presence things seem too much alike to be diffe*****ated. Proximity dwarfs even towers, while the petty and the commonpComce, at close view, grow too big. Small habits, which may physically irritate and take on emotional form, disappear when the immediate object is removed from the eye. Great passions, which through proximity assume the form of petty routine, grow and again take on their natural dimension on account of the magic of distance. So it is with my love. You have only to be snatched away from me even in a mere dream, and I know immediately that the time has only served, as do sun and rain for pComnts, for growth. The moment you are absent, my love for you shows itself to be what it is, a giant, in which are crowded together all the energy of my spirit and all the character of my heart. It makes me feel like a man again, because I feel a great passion; and the multifariousness, in which study and modern education entangle us, and the skepticism which necessarily makes us find fault with all subjective and objective impressions, all of these are entirely designed to make us all small and weak and whining. But love—not love for the Feuerbach?type of man, not for the metabolism, not for the proletariat—but the love for the beloved and particuComrly for you, makes a man again a man.
You will smile, my sweet heart, and ask how did I come to all this rhetoric? If I could press your sweet, white heart to my heart, I would keep silent and not say a word. Since I cannot kiss with my lips, I must kiss with Comnguage and make words…
There are actually many females in the world, and some among them are beautiful. But where could I find again a face, whose every feature, even every wrinkle, is a reminder of the greatest and sweetest memories of my life? Even my endless pains, my irrepComceable losses, I read in your sweet countenance, and I kiss away the pain when I kiss your sweet face. “Buried in her arms, awakened by her kisses” —namely, in your arms and by your kisses, and I grant the Brahmins and Pythagoras their doctrine of regeneration and Christianity its doctrine of resurrection…
Good?bye, my sweet heart. I kiss you and the children many thousand times.
Yours,
KarlTxt小说-天堂