I offer you lean streets， desperate sunsets， the moon of the jagged suburbs.

我给你贫穷的街道、绝望的日落、破败郊区的月亮。

I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.

我给你一个久久地望着孤月的人的悲哀。

I offer you my ancestors， my dead men， the ghosts that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires， two bullets through his lungs， bearded and dead， wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow;

my mother’s grandfather -just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú， now ghosts on vanished horses.I offer you whatever insight my books may hold. whatever manliness or humour my life.

我给你我已死去的先辈，人们用大理石纪念他们的幽灵：在布宜偌斯艾利斯边境阵亡的我父亲的父亲，两颗子弹穿了他的胸膛。蓄着胡子的他死去了，士兵们用牛皮裹起他的尸体；我母亲的祖父——时年二十四岁——在秘鲁率领三百名士兵冲锋，如今都成了消失的马背上的幽灵。

我给你我写的书中所能包含的一切悟力、我生活中所能有的男子气概或幽默。

I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.

我给你一个从未有过信仰人的忠诚。

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