转你的头。看。灯变黄了。这条河与其说加深了，不如说是丰富了。为什么会这样，我永远无法告诉你。还是美国人爱上了失败的一半?读菲茨杰拉德的书时，人们常常这样说。(那个维京便携机，全是水渍和黄色——还记得吗?)或者仅仅是距离赋予了事物价值?——这也许是错误的，但这种观点却丝毫没有被贬低。 Why this is, I'll never be able to tell you. The smoke, those tiny cars, the whole urban millieu-- One can like anything diminishment has sharpened. Our painter friend, Lang, might show the whole thing yellow and not be much off. It's nuance that counts, not color-- As in some late James novel, saved up for the long weekend and vivid with all the Master simply won't tell you. How frail our generation has got, how sallow and pinched with just surviving! We all go off the deep end finally, gold beaten thinly out to yellow. And why this is, I'll never be able to tell you.