I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I'm old, and you said, I don't think you're old. And you put your hand in my hand and you said, You aren't very old, as if that settled it. I told you you might have a very different life from mine, and from the life you've had with me and that would be a wonderful thing, there are many ways to live a good life. And you said, Mama already told me that. And then you said, Don't laugh! because you thought I was laughing at you. You reached up and put your fingers on my lips and gave me that look I never in my life saw on any other face besides your mother's. It's a kind of furious pride, very passionate and stern. I'm always a little surprised to find my eyebrows unsigned after I've suffered one of those looks. I will miss them.
It seems ridiculous to suppose the dead miss anything. If you're a grown man when you read this--it is my intention for this letter that you will read it then--I'll have been gone a long time. I'll know most of what there is to know about being dead, but I'll probably keep it to myself. That seems to be the way of things.
I don't know how many times people have asked me what death is like, sometimes when they were only an hour or two from finding out for themselves. Even when I was a very young man, people as old as I am now would ask me, hold on to my hands and look into my eyes with their old milky eyes, as if they knew I knew and they were going to make me tell them. I used to say it was like going home. We have no home in this world, I used to say, and then I'd walk back up the road to this old place and make myself a pot of coffee and a fried-egg sandwich and listen to the radio, when I got one, in the dark as often as not. Do you remember this house? I think you must, a little. I grew up in parsonages. I've lived in this one most of my life, and I've visited in a good many others, because my father's friends and most of our relatives also lived in parsonages. And when I thought about it in those days, which wasn't too often, I thought this was the worst of them all, the draftiest and the dreariest. Well, that was my state of mind at the time. It's a perfectly good old house, but I was all alone in it then. And that made it seem strange to me. I didn't feel very much at home in the world,that was a fact. Now I do.
家书
昨天晚上，我对你说，说不定哪天我就走了。你问："上哪儿？"我说："到主那儿。"你又问："为什么？"我说："因为我老了。"你说："我不觉得你老。"你把手放到我的手里，说："你还不太老。"好像这事儿你说了就算。我对你说，你的生活或许和我的生活、和你跟我一起过的日子有很大的不同。真奇妙，过好日子的方式会有那么多。你说："妈妈已经对我讲过了。"然后，又说："别笑！"因为你以为我在嘲笑你。你伸出手，用手指捂住我的嘴，用那样一种眼神看着我。这种眼神，我这辈子除了在你妈妈脸上见过，在哪儿都没见过。那是一种桀骜不逊、恼怒而又严厉的目光。我一直有点惊讶，经历了这种目光的烤灼之后，我的眉毛居然没有烧焦。将来，我一定会想念这目光。
以为人死之后还会想念什么，真是荒唐可笑。如果读这封信时，你已经长大成人--我的目的就是等你成年之后再读--我一定已经走了许久，人死之后应该知道的东西，大多数也已知道。但是，我或许会把这些东西藏在心里。看起来，事情就是这个样子。
我记不得有多少次人们问我，死会是怎样一种感觉。有时候，离他们亲自体验那种感觉只剩下一、两个小时。甚至在我很年轻、而他们已经像我现在这样垂垂老矣的时候，提出这个问题。他们抓着我的手，充满恐惧的老眼看着我的眼睛，认为我知道答案，打算让我告诉他们。我经常对他们说，那是一种回家的感觉。我常说，在这个世界，我们没有家。然后，我就沿着这条路，回到老地方，给自个儿煮上一壶咖啡，做个煎鸡蛋三明治，有收音机之后，多半在黑暗中听广播。你还记得这幢房子吗？我想你一定还记得一点儿。我在教区牧师住宅里长大，大半辈子都在这儿度过。我还去许多教区牧师住宅造访，因为父亲的朋友和我们家大多数亲戚都住在那种住宅里。那些日子，每逢想起这幢房子--这种时候并不很多--我就觉得它是教区牧师住宅中最糟糕的一座，穿堂风吹得最猛，也最沉闷乏味。哦，这是我那时候的心境。其实，这幢旧房子几近完美，但是那时候，只有我一个人住在这儿，生疏之感油然而生。在这个世界，我不觉得像在家里那样自如。这是事实。现在，自是一种全然不同的感觉。
关键字:双语故事
生词表:
It seems ridiculous to suppose the dead miss anything. If you're a grown man when you read this--it is my intention for this letter that you will read it then--I'll have been gone a long time. I'll know most of what there is to know about being dead, but I'll probably keep it to myself. That seems to be the way of things.
I don't know how many times people have asked me what death is like, sometimes when they were only an hour or two from finding out for themselves. Even when I was a very young man, people as old as I am now would ask me, hold on to my hands and look into my eyes with their old milky eyes, as if they knew I knew and they were going to make me tell them. I used to say it was like going home. We have no home in this world, I used to say, and then I'd walk back up the road to this old place and make myself a pot of coffee and a fried-egg sandwich and listen to the radio, when I got one, in the dark as often as not. Do you remember this house? I think you must, a little. I grew up in parsonages. I've lived in this one most of my life, and I've visited in a good many others, because my father's friends and most of our relatives also lived in parsonages. And when I thought about it in those days, which wasn't too often, I thought this was the worst of them all, the draftiest and the dreariest. Well, that was my state of mind at the time. It's a perfectly good old house, but I was all alone in it then. And that made it seem strange to me. I didn't feel very much at home in the world,that was a fact. Now I do.
家书
昨天晚上，我对你说，说不定哪天我就走了。你问："上哪儿？"我说："到主那儿。"你又问："为什么？"我说："因为我老了。"你说："我不觉得你老。"你把手放到我的手里，说："你还不太老。"好像这事儿你说了就算。我对你说，你的生活或许和我的生活、和你跟我一起过的日子有很大的不同。真奇妙，过好日子的方式会有那么多。你说："妈妈已经对我讲过了。"然后，又说："别笑！"因为你以为我在嘲笑你。你伸出手，用手指捂住我的嘴，用那样一种眼神看着我。这种眼神，我这辈子除了在你妈妈脸上见过，在哪儿都没见过。那是一种桀骜不逊、恼怒而又严厉的目光。我一直有点惊讶，经历了这种目光的烤灼之后，我的眉毛居然没有烧焦。将来，我一定会想念这目光。
以为人死之后还会想念什么，真是荒唐可笑。如果读这封信时，你已经长大成人--我的目的就是等你成年之后再读--我一定已经走了许久，人死之后应该知道的东西，大多数也已知道。但是，我或许会把这些东西藏在心里。看起来，事情就是这个样子。
我记不得有多少次人们问我，死会是怎样一种感觉。有时候，离他们亲自体验那种感觉只剩下一、两个小时。甚至在我很年轻、而他们已经像我现在这样垂垂老矣的时候，提出这个问题。他们抓着我的手，充满恐惧的老眼看着我的眼睛，认为我知道答案，打算让我告诉他们。我经常对他们说，那是一种回家的感觉。我常说，在这个世界，我们没有家。然后，我就沿着这条路，回到老地方，给自个儿煮上一壶咖啡，做个煎鸡蛋三明治，有收音机之后，多半在黑暗中听广播。你还记得这幢房子吗？我想你一定还记得一点儿。我在教区牧师住宅里长大，大半辈子都在这儿度过。我还去许多教区牧师住宅造访，因为父亲的朋友和我们家大多数亲戚都住在那种住宅里。那些日子，每逢想起这幢房子--这种时候并不很多--我就觉得它是教区牧师住宅中最糟糕的一座，穿堂风吹得最猛，也最沉闷乏味。哦，这是我那时候的心境。其实，这幢旧房子几近完美，但是那时候，只有我一个人住在这儿，生疏之感油然而生。在这个世界，我不觉得像在家里那样自如。这是事实。现在，自是一种全然不同的感觉。
关键字:双语故事
生词表:
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