is a heroic couplet composed by John Francis Shade (July 5, 1898-July 21, 1959) in the last twenty days of his life Poetic long poem, a total of four chapters, nine hundred and ninety-nine lines, written at his residence in Newway, Appalachia, USA.This manuscript, which consists of eighty medium-sized index cards, is mostly a clear copy of the final manuscript, and the poetry and prose of this book have been faithfully printed in full accordance with the manuscript.On each card, Shade reserved the top pink line for writing the title (indicating the chapter and date of creation), and the fourteen lines of light blue line for writing poetry, all written with a fine nib , the handwriting is thin and neat, very clear, a blank line means an alternate line, and he always starts a new chapter with a new card.

The first chapter (one hundred and sixty-six lines) is relatively short, consisting of thirteen cards, and contains an interesting depiction of the parasol of birds.Chapter 2, your favorite chapter, and the astounding masterpiece, Chapter 3, are equal in length (both 334 lines) and occupy twenty-seven cards each.The fourth chapter returned to the same length as the first chapter, occupying only thirteen cards, of which the last four were written on the day he died, leaving only the revised draft instead of the clear one. John Scheider was an orderly man, and always copied out his daily quota of verses in the middle of the night, and even if he did it again afterwards, I suppose he did that sometimes, and he didn't have a note on that card or cards. Indicate the date of the last revision, but instead the revised or first cleared date.I mean, he keeps the date of the actual creation, not the date of the second or third retouching revision.My current residence is in front of a noisy playground.

We have thus mastered the entire calendar of his creation.The first chapter started writing in the middle of the night on July 2nd and was completed on July 4th.He started another chapter on his birthday and finished it on July 11th.Another week is devoted entirely to Chapter Three.Chapter Four began on July 19, and, as stated, the last third (lines 949-999) is only a revised draft.The appearance of this part is extremely rough, full of destructive deletions and greatly changed insertions, and the handwriting does not strictly follow the bars printed on the card as in the clear manuscript, and often crosses the line.In fact, once you jump in and force yourself to peer under the chaotic surface and see the clear bottom, it turns out to be beautifully accurate.Not a single line of it is broken and disjointed, not a single line is called into question.This fact is enough to show that a report published by a certain newspaper (July 24, 1959) was seriously inaccurate. It was an interview with a self-proclaimed Schneider researcher by a reporter of the newspaper. Having seen the draft of the poem, and asserting that it was "put together from a fragmentary draft, and that no chapter deserves to be called a final draft"-this slander is purely a vicious fabrication by those who are not so much To express regret at the interruption of a great poet's work by death is rather to discredit the competence of the present editor and commentator of the poem, and perhaps to cast doubt on his honesty.

Another statement, made publicly by Professor Hurley and his clique, concerns the structure of poetry.I quote from the same interview: "No one can say how long John Scheider intended to write the poem, but the posthumous manuscript he left may represent only a small part of the glass of wine he vaguely observed composition, it is by no means impossible." Another piece of nonsense!Leaving aside the clarion call of genuine inner evidence that resounds throughout Chapter 4, Sybil Scheider (in a July 25, 1959 document) affirms She said that her husband "had no intention of making the poem more than four parts".For Shade, the third chapter was the penultimate chapter, and I heard him say so myself once on a sunset walk with him, when he seemed to be talking aloud to himself as he recalled the whole story. gesturing with that forgivably complacent gesture, while his cautious companion tried in vain to make his long-legged staggering gait resemble that of the shaggy-haired old man. The poet's jolting shuffle adapted.Not only that, I can even assert (just as our shadows, even if we are gone, still go forward) that there is only one line left in this poem (that is, the 1000th line), which must be related to the first line. The similarity must also complete the structural symmetry of the whole poem; that is to say, the two equal, rich and solid parts in the middle, and the shorter parts on both sides of them together form a pair of lines of 500 lines each. wings, so the sonorous music can be said to be absolutely perfect.I know Shade's compositional talents and keen sense of harmonious balance, so it is impossible to imagine him expanding randomly and disfiguring his crystal as others guessed. If all this is not convincing enough-it is quite enough. Enough, enough--I also heard my poor friend declare from his own lips, on that frightening occasion on the evening of July 21st, that his creative labors were at an end, or nearly at an end. (See my comment on line 991.)

After I read the precious content on these eighty cards for the last time, I tied them with rubber bands and put them away religiously.There was also a dozen thin stacks of cards on which some additional antithetical verses had fulfilled their brief and sometimes vague missions in the chaos of their initial drafting, and I clipped them as well, with the batch The main products were put together in a vellum pocket, and Scheider's usual attitude with his drafts was to burn them as soon as they were no longer needed: I vividly remember standing on the porch one bright sunny morning There witnessed him burn a whole pile in the backyard, and he stood in front of the dim fire of that cremator, like an official mourner looking down, the paper melted in this kind of execution similar to the burning of heretical books in the Middle Ages. For the black butterfly drifts away with the wind.But he kept the twelve cards, because there were good unused lines on them that gleamed in the waste pile of drafts, and perhaps he vaguely expected to pick out a few more from these discarded and lovely backup lines to replace the clear ones. Some passages in the manuscript, either, more likely, because he secretly preferred this or that beautiful verse, but reluctantly cut it for structural considerations; It had to be put aside for the time being, until the final, flawless, marble-smooth typescript would prove to be of value, or make the substituted, most refreshing line seem cumbersome and cumbersome. impure.Besides, with all due respect to this, he meant to read his poems to me for my opinion, because I knew he meant it.

Readers will find those deleted lines in my notes.Their original places are marked, or at least hinted at, near the given lines which replace them.In a sense, many of them are of more artistic and historical value than some of the finest passages in the final draft.It's time for me to explain how it fell into my hands to edit this story. No sooner had my dear friend died than I persuaded his deranged widow to sign a contract, to the effect that the poet had entrusted me with the manuscript, and that I would, without delay, add notes and publish it as soon as possible. Published by a publishing company of my choice, and all benefits, except the publisher's profits, shall go to her alone, and on the day of publication, the original manuscript will be immediately transferred to the Library of Congress for permanent preservation; way to neutralize and destroy beforehand the commercial zeal and academic intrigue that would surely have harassed her husband's manuscript (which I had already removed to a safe place before his body was in the grave) trick.I don't see how any serious reviewer can say this contract is unfair.However, this was described by (Scheid's former lawyer) as "a whimsical hodgepodge of evil", while another person (his former literary agent) smiled contemptuously, doubting Mrs. Scheid's trembling signing It will not be signed "under the threat of some special pressure".Such a vile heart, such a dirty mind, cannot comprehend that one's obsession with a masterpiece can completely overwhelm everything, especially the woven underside that fascinates the spectator-maker Fascinated, it is there that his own past is inextricably linked with the fate of the naive poet.

I think, as I mentioned in my last note, Shade's death was the depth charge that destroyed our personal friendship, and also caused a lot of dead fish to float out, forcing me to work with the jailed murderer. The criminal left Newwick after his last conversation.The annotation work had to be postponed until I could find a quieter environment and adopt a new pseudonym, but the specific publication matters had to be settled at once.So I flew to New York, got a copy of the manuscript, and talked to one of Shade's former publishers (we were sitting in a small walnut and glass room on the fifty floors of a building; On the street, countless beetles are crawling in a constant stream), but at the moment when an agreement was about to be reached, my interlocutor suddenly and casually interjected the following sentence in the beautiful scenery of the huge sunset: "Golden Potter Doctor, you must be pleased to learn that Professor So-and-so (a member of the Shedd committee) has agreed to be our advisor as we edit this stuff."

The word "happy" seems too subjective here.We Zambara have a rather stupid saying: It's the lost glove that's secretly happy.I immediately buckled my briefcase and went off to another publisher without a word. Think of a bumbling, mild-mannered giant, a historical figure whose knowledge of money was limited to abstract billions in national debt, and a prince in exile who didn't know Your own cufflinks are worth a fortune!Which means—oh, exaggeratedly—that I'm the most unrealistic guy in the world.Such a person dealing with an old fox in the publishing industry, the relationship between them is very touching and friendly from the first meeting, and they are not restrained, and they are cheerfully teasing and joking with each other, and saying some kind and high-sounding polite words, I have no reason to suspect What will happen in the future will prevent the long-term stability of my incipient friendship with my present publisher, good old Frank.

From here I sent the proofs back to Frank, who replied that he had received them without error, and asked me to mention in the preface--which I am of course willing to do--that any errors in the notes would be my own responsibility.Actually inserted such a sentence in front of an expert.A professional proofreader carefully checked the proof of the whole poem against the copy of the manuscript, and found several small typographical errors that I had overlooked. This is of course thanks to the assistance of the outside world.Not to mention how much I have been expecting Sybil Shede to provide me with a lot of relevant biographical information, but unfortunately she left Newwick before I did, and is now living with her relatives in Quebec.Of course, I could still have a fruitful correspondence with her, but those Shade researchers were unwilling to be left behind.No sooner had I been with her, disconnected from her vagaries of mood, than they swarmed to Canada and swooped on the poor lady.I sent her a letter from my cavern in Sedan, setting out some vital questions, such as what is the real name and surname of "Jem Coates", and asking her for advice, But instead of answering my month-old letter, she suddenly sent me a telegram, asking me to accept Professor He (!) and Professor Ke (!) as associate editors for her husband's poem .How surprised and saddened I was by this!This automatically precluded any cooperation between me and my friend's misguided widow.

The poet himself was a very dear friend!The calendar showed that I had only known him for a few months, but our friendship had developed inwardly into a rapport, undisturbed by the successive vicious clamors and perpetuated forever.Nor will I ever forget that when I moved into that suburban house (which I rented from Judge Goldsworth, who was on a sabbatical year in England) on February 5, 1959, I found that it had How happy I was to be right next to the home of this famous American poet!Twenty years ago I attempted to translate his poems into Zambala.Readers will find that I mention this in a note.Apart from this charming neighbour, I soon discovered that the chateau in Goldsworth had little to offer.The heating system is purely a sham. It is supposed to rely on underground pipes that regulate the air flow, but when the boiler in the basement is twitching and groaning, sending lukewarm steam to the rooms, the steam is like the last leftover of a dying person. Like a faint breath.I blocked the valve to the upstairs pipes and tried to heat the living room a little more, but the temperature remained hopelessly cold, proving to be of no use, since it was only a short distance from the Arctic-like region outside. Thin front door, and there is no barrier like a hallway—probably the house was built by a naive settler in midsummer, who never expected that Newway would prepare him for such a cold winter ; or because of the prudishness of the old days that a visiting visitor could, with a glance at the threshold, make sure that nothing unseemly was going on in the drawing-room.

In Zambala, February and March (the last two of the four "white-nosed months" we call them) are often too cold, but even the country house remains a warm entity—and Not an overwhelming ventilation mesh.I was told that, as newcomers often do, I had indeed chosen to come to this town in one of the worst winters I had seen in years—it was actually on the same latitude as Palermo.When I first arrived, I was heading to college one morning in my powerful new red car when I spotted the Shedders, whom I hadn't yet met socially (I later learned they still thought I wasn't in love. man) were on the slippery driveway struggling with their troubled old Parker, which whined and whined but couldn't get a tortured rear wheel out of a dented ice Break free from hell.John Shade was clumsily carrying a pail, throwing handfuls of brown sand over the icy, smooth blue ground, in the manner of a farmer planting seed.He was wearing snow boots, his vicuña collar was turned up, and his gray hair seemed to be covered with a layer of hoarfrost in the sun.Knowing that he had been ill for several months, I thought my neighbor should just go to campus with me in that powerful machine, so I hurried towards them.I was about to step across an alley that wound around the slightly raised lot on which my rented castle stood, and separated it from my neighbour's driveway; My buttocks fell on the surprisingly hard snow. My somersault acted like a chemical reaction on Shade's car. John slapped me on top of me; Sybil kept talking to John, who was grinning smugly at the wheel.I dare not say which of them saw me. However, a few days later, on Monday, February 16, I was introduced to the old poet at a staff club lunch.I jotted down the following sentence in my notepad with some sarcasm: "I have finally submitted my credentials." He and four or five other well-known professors invited me to have dinner with him at the table he always liked to sit at. On the wall behind the desk hung a large photograph of Wordssmith College, taken on an unusually gloomy summer in 1903, which looked startlingly poor.I was amused by his succinct advice to "try this pork."I am a strict vegetarian and love to cook my own meals.I then explained to some ruddy meat-eaters that it would be as disgusting to me to eat food that had been processed by one of my kind as to eat any living thing, and by that I meant, of course, —I lowered my voice—that chubby schoolgirl with the ponytail, who was serving us at the moment, licked the tip of the pencil in her hand with the tip of her tongue.Besides, I've already finished the fruit I brought in my briefcase, so a college ale wouldn't be too bad.My frank and free demeanor put everyone at ease.So I was bombarded with the same questions that people always ask, whether a person like me would touch eggnog and milk ice cream mixes, and so on.For him, Scheider says, it's the opposite: It takes a lot of effort to finish a plate of vegetables.Starting the first salad was like stepping into sea water on a cold day; in order to attack an apple fortress, he had to gather his energy beforehand.I wasn't quite used to the rather tiring one-liners and jokes played among these narrow-minded academic intellectuals in America at the time, so I didn't say to Shade in front of those grinning old guys how much I admired him. works, lest a serious literary discussion be reduced to a farce.So I told him about a student I had recently won, a melancholy and squeamish nice boy, for he was also taking Scheider's class, and the old poet shook the gray lock of hair decisively on his forehead , replied that he could not remember the names and faces of the students for a long time, and the only thing he could remember was a lady in his poetry class who came from outside the school to attend the class on crutches. "Come on, come on," said Professor Hurley, "you mean, John, that blond girl in the black tights who haunts the 202 literature class is also in your mind or your heart Is there really no trace of her dazzling beauty left?" Shade's eyebrows brightened, his wrinkles glistened, and he patted Hurley's wrist benevolently, telling him to stop talking.Another tormentor asked me if I really had two ping pong tables in the basement of my house.I asked back. Is that a crime?No, he said, but why put two? "Crime?" I retorted, and everyone laughed. Shade, despite an irregular heartbeat (see line 735), a slight limp, and some inexplicable misinterpretation of the methods of physical rehabilitation, was too fond of long walks, but the snow prevented him, and he had to wait in winter after school. His wife came to pick him up by car.I was leaving Parsonios House - also known as the Main Building (alas, now called Shedd's Building) - a few days after our last acquaintance, and I saw him standing outside waiting for Mrs. Shedd to arrive. pick him up.I stood for a moment next to him on the colonnade steps, putting on my gloves, and pressing my ten fingers firmly inwards, and looking ahead, as if expecting a legion in review. "It's a very careless business," commented the poet.He checks his watch.A snowflake just happened to fall on the surface. "Crystalline and quartz are competing against each other," Scheider said.I offered to give him a ride in my powerful Kremler. "Mr. Shade, ladies are often forgetful." He tilted his unshaven head and glanced at the wall clock in the library.At that moment, two young men in bright winter clothes with glowing faces were smiling as they slid across the desolate expanse of turf covered with snow.Shade glanced at his watch again, shrugged, and accepted my suggestion. I wondered if he didn't mind taking a detour and stopping in the middle of town because I was going to get some chocolate cookies and a little caviar.He said it was okay.I walked into the supermarket alone, and saw the old guy get out of the car and walk into a liquor store through a thick glass window; when I came back from shopping, he was back in the car, reading a vulgar tabloid with relish Well, I thought no poet would degrade to touch that kind of stuff.He had a nice hiccup, which meant there must be a bottle of brandy hidden in his warm coat.As we turned into the driveway in front of his house, I saw Sybil parked ahead and I politely jumped out of the car.She said, "My husband isn't very good at introductions, so let's introduce ourselves to each other: You're Dr. Kim Porter, aren't you? I'm Sybil Scheider." Then she said to her husband, He was supposed to wait another minute in the office; she honked again, called him again, and ran all the way upstairs to find him, blah, blah, blah.I didn't want to listen to an argument between husband and wife, so I turned and walked away, but she stopped me, "Come with us for a drink," she said, "Why don't you talk to me, because the doctor won't let John drink anymore I'm done." I explained that I couldn't stay for long, because I had already arranged such a small discussion meeting at home, and then I would play a few rounds of table tennis, with two identical, cute twin brothers and another One guy, another guy made an appointment. From then on, I saw my famous neighbor more and more often.The sight I observed from one of the windows had always afforded me first-rate entertainment, especially while I waited for the arrival of a belated visitor with an itchy, impatient heart.As long as the branches of the deciduous trees between our houses were bare, the window of Shade's living room could be seen quite clearly from the second floor of my house, and almost every night I could see the old poet's slippered foot. Swaying gracefully.You can deduce from this that he is sitting on a low chair reading a book, but you can never see anything but the foot and its dark shadow under the lamplight according to the owner. The rhythm of inner concentration swayed up and down.At the same moment, the brown morocco slipper would fall from the wool socked foot, which continued to move, but at a slightly slower pace.You know in your heart that the time for sleep and nightmares is inexorably approaching, and in a few minutes the toes will harass and poke at the slipper, and all disappear from my golden vision, which passes through a It was the dark, bent branches that got there.Sometimes Sybil Scheider, as if in a sudden fit of temper, would scurry past my field of vision with her arms flailing, but presently she would come back with slow steps, as if forgiving her husband and an odd man. Neighbors seem friendly.This behavior of hers was a real mystery to me, but I finally solved it one night when, while dialing their home phone number, I watched their windows closely, and I magically coaxed her to come back again. Complete that jerky, rather innocuous movement that has always puzzled me. Alas, my peace of mind was soon spoiled.As soon as the outer circles of academia realized that John Shade was more friendly to me than everyone else, that thick venom of jealousy began to spray on me.My dear Mrs. Cole, your sniggering did not escape either of us when I was helping the weary old poet to find his overshoes after that dreary party at your house.Another day, I walked into the English department office looking for a magazine with pictures of the royal palace in An Hava, and wanted to show it to my friends, when I overheard a man in a green velvet jacket whom I later magnanimously praised. The young lecturer, whom he fondly called Gerald Emerald, was casually answering a question from the department secretary: "Mr Scheider probably went away with the big beaver." I was quite tall, with a rather bushy and shiny brown beard, a stupid nickname which was clearly given to me, but which was not worthy of attention; so I calmly took the magazine from a table littered with pamphlets, As he was going out, he passed by Gerald Emerald, grabbed the bow tied around his neck with deft fingers, and shook it loose.Another morning, the dean of the department to which I belonged, Dr. Netosh Dag, solemnly begged me to sit down, shut the door behind him, and, frowning dejectedly, went back to his swivel chair. , and then vigorously advised me to "be more careful in the future".Tsk, what are you careful about?A lad complained to his mentor.What are you complaining about, for God?Say I criticized a literature course he took ("by making ridiculous reviews of ridiculous writing under the tutelage of a ridiculous mediocrity").I breathed a sigh of relief, laughed and hugged my good old man Netoshka, and told him that I would never be mischievous again.I take this opportunity to pay tribute to him.He was always so courteous to me that I sometimes wondered if he had guessed what Shade suspected, something that only three people, the dean and two trustees, knew for sure. Oh, there are so many such things.A group of drama students put on a satirical skit that portrayed me as a pompous misogynist with a German accent, frequent quotes from Hausmann, and a fondness for eating raw carrots.A week before Scheider's death, there was this fierce lady, because I once refused to talk about the subject of "Halevali" in her club (she mistook the name of a Finnish epic with the temple of Odin mixed together), she said to me in public at a grocery store, "You, you are a very difficult guy. I wonder how John and Sybil put up with you." I was polite to her She gave a slight smile, which made her add in exasperation: "Besides, you're a madman." Let me stop enumerating this nonsense.Regardless of what others may say, I have been amply rewarded in my friendship with Shade.What is so precious about this friendship is that it hides affection, especially when we are not alone; the rigidity towards each other is driven by what may be called inner dignity.John Scheider wore a mask all his life, and kept his secret, and his appearance was so inconsistent with his calm heart that people tended to think that he was either a poor disguise or a fashion.If the poets of the Romantic era, in order to show their masculinity in order to follow the fashion, exposed their attractive necks, modified the sides of their cheeks, and made the shadows of mountains and lakes reflected in their staring oval eyes, So today's bards may have more opportunities to age, and they have to look like gorillas or vultures to be more in line with the requirements of the trend.There might be something pleasing to the eye in my sublime neighbor, had he only had the majestic face of a lion, or that of an Iroquois.Unfortunately, however, these two characteristics blend together to recall only the sex-ambiguous, meaty alcoholics painted by Hogarth.His misshapen figure, his tousled gray hair, the yellow nailcaps on his stubby fingers, the pouches under his dull eyes, we can only see them as the spirit that refined his verses. Only the waste products that the perfect power makes him eliminate from within himself can be explained.He self-destroys his own image. I have a photograph of him, a color snapshot which I am particularly fond of, taken by a one-time friend of mine on a bright spring day, with Shade leaning on a tree that had belonged to his Aunt Maud (cf. No. 86 ok), I was wearing a white windbreaker from a local sporting goods store and baggy lavender trousers from Cannes.My left hand is half-raised—it looks like I want to pat Shade on the shoulder, but in fact I want to take off my sunglasses, but that action is cut off in the photo, and it will never be completed in mid-air; The library book I had under my arm was a monograph on a certain kind of calisthenics in Zambara, and I was going to show it to the lad who was boarding with me, the guy who took the picture, so that it might be aroused. his interest.Who knew that a week later he betrayed my trust in him by committing a dastardly act while I was in Washington on errands.I only found out when I came back.He's been using that opportunity to hang out with a fiery red-haired whore in Exton, and I've got her combing hair and a stench all over the place in my three bathrooms.We parted at once, of course; and I saw Bob, a bad boy with a crew-shaven head, standing forlornly, with his battered duffel bag and the pair of sleds I had given him, through a chink in the curtains. On the side of the road, wait for a classmate to drive to pick him up, and never see each other again.I can forgive anything, except betrayal. Neither of us, John Shade and I, have ever discussed my personal misfortunes at length.Our close friendship is based on a higher, purely rational basis, where one can shed emotional troubles rather than share them.The kind of admiration I have for him is a kind of spiritual elevation for me.Whenever I saw him, especially when I saw him in front of other people, the inferior people, I experienced a strange sense of amazement.I knew that they had not my feeling, not my awareness, to take Shade's presence for granted, instead of sinking every nerve, so to speak, into the romance of his presence. , which intensified my sense of astonishment.He stood there, and I thought to myself how different was the brain in that skull from the synthetic jelly-like paste brains preserved in the skulls around him.He was on the balcony (that night in March, standing at Professor Ke’s house) overlooking the lake in the distance, and I stayed by and watched him.I have witnessed a rare physiological phenomenon: John Shade transforms the world while understanding, absorbing, dismantling, and reorganizing its components in the process of storing, so as to produce a marvel of combination one day , a fusion of image and music, a line of poetry.I also experienced this exciting feeling as a teenager.Once I was in my uncle's castle, looking across a tea table at the magician, who had just finished a wonderful trick, and was eating a plate of vanilla ice cream.I gazed at his powdered face, at the magic flower in his buttonhole, which had just changed colors and was now fixed as a carnation.I also stared at those incredible, fluid fingers that could, if he wanted, twirl that little spoon and turn it into a ray of sunlight, or throw that little saucer into the air, and instantly Become a dove. Really, Scheider's poems are one of those sudden magic tricks: my gray-haired friend, the sweet old magician, puts a stack of index cards into his hat--and shakes them out A poem comes. Now we have to talk about the poem.I believe this preface is not too perfunctory.All the annotations are arranged in a manner of commentary on the spot, sure to satisfy the most voracious readers.Although these annotations are all placed at the end of the poem according to the usual practice, I would like to advise readers to read them first, and then rely on them to help them turn back to read the poem. Review these notes a third time after reading the poem to complete the full picture in your mind.In this case, in order to eliminate the trouble of turning pages back and forth, in my opinion, the wise way is to either cut out all the previous poems and prose page by page, pin them together, and compare them with the annotations.要么干脆买两本这部作品，紧挨着放在一张舒适的桌子上面阅读，那可就方便多了——桌子当然不能像眼下我的打字机挺悬乎地置于其上的这张摇摇晃晃的小桌。我目前住在离纽卫镇几英里之外的一家破烂的汽车旅馆里，对面游乐场那个旋转木马在我脑海里进进出出，转个不停。容许我声明一下，如果没有我的注释，谢德这首诗根本就没有一丁点儿人间烟火味儿，因为像他写的这样一首诗（作为一部自传体作品又未免太躲躲闪闪，太言不尽意了），竟让他漫不经心地删除否定了许多行精辟的诗句，其中包含的人间现实不得不完全依靠作者和他周围的环境以及人事关系等等现实来反映，而这种现实也只有我的注释才能提供。对这项声明，我亲爱的诗人也许未必同意，但是不管怎么样，最后下定论的人还是注释者。 查尔斯·金波特 赛达恩镇