悠长假期

   There are all kinds of silences and each of them means a different thing. There is the silence that comes with morning in a forest, and this is different from the silence of a sleeping city. There is silence after a rainstorm, and before a rainstorm, and these are not the same. There is the silence of emptiness, the silence of fear, the silence of doubt. There is a certain silence that can emanate from a lifeless object as from a chair lately used, or from a piano with old dust upon its keys, or from anything that has answered to the need of a man, for pleasure or for work. This kind of silence can speak. Its voice may be melancholy, but it is not always so; for the chair may have been left by a laughing child or the last notes of the piano may have been raucous and gay. Whatever the mood or the circumstance, the essence of its quality may linger in the silence that follows. It is a soundless echo.
    勉为其难翻译成这样：

   “世间有许多种不同的静默，每一种都带着不同的意味。有种寂静是伴随清晨的树林一同降临的，它有别于一座安睡的城市的寂静。有暴风雨前的寂静以及暴风雨后的寂静，这两者也不尽相同。虚无之静默，惊惧之静默，疑惑之静默。还有种静默可以从没有生命的物体中散发出来，比如说从一把新近使用过的椅子上，或者从一架琴键蒙尘的钢琴里，甚至从任何一件曾为人所用的物品之中——为了取乐或为着工作。这样的静默会说话。它的嗓音或许忧郁，却也并非总是如此，因为，椅子可能是某个欢笑的孩子留下的，或者，钢琴的最后几个音符曾经喧闹而欢快。无论氛围与场景如何，事物的本质将在随之而来的静默中延展。它是无声的回响。”

“Every saint has a past and every sinner has a future.”
— Oscar Wilde (Irish Poet, Novelist, Dramatist and Critic, 1854-1900) …

电视里，阿娇在一片闪光灯里显得很晃眼。