这里的瀑布太多了;拥挤的溪流湍急地流向大海，山顶上众多云层的压力使它们以柔和的慢动作从两侧溢出，在我们眼前变成瀑布。因为，如果那些条纹，那些一英里长的、闪闪发光的泪痕，还不是瀑布，那么过不了多久，随着时间的推移，它们可能就会变成瀑布了。但是，如果溪流和云彩不停地移动，移动，山脉看起来就像翻船的船体，粘着黏液，挂着藤壶。想想漫长的回家之旅。我们应该呆在家里，在这里思考吗?我们今天应该在哪里?在这个最奇怪的剧院里看陌生人的戏对吗?当我们的身体还有一丝生机的时候，我们却决心要以相反的方式去看太阳，这是多么幼稚啊?世界上最小的绿色蜂鸟? To stare at some inexplicable old stonework, inexplicable and impenetrable, at any view, instantly seen and always, always delightful? Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too? And have we room for one more folded sunset, still quite warm? But surely it would have been a pity not to have seen the trees along this road, really exaggerated in their beauty, not to have seen them gesturing like noble pantomimists, robed in pink. --Not to have had to stop for gas and heard the sad, two-noted, wooden tune of disparate wooden clogs carelessly clacking over a grease-stained filling-station floor. (In another country the clogs would all be tested. Each pair there would have identical pitch.) --A pity not to have heard the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird who sings above the broken gasoline pump in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque: three towers, five silver crosses. --Yes, a pity not to have pondered, blurr'dly and inconclusively, on what connection can exist for centuries between the crudest wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear and, careful and finicky, the whittled fantasies of wooden cages. --Never to have studied history in the weak calligraphy of songbirds' cages. --And never to have had to listen to rain so much like politicians' speeches: two hours of unrelenting oratory and then a sudden golden silence in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes: "Is it lack of imagination that makes us come to imagined places, not just stay at home? Or could Pascal have been not entirely right about just sitting quietly in one's room? Continent, city, country, society: the choice is never wide and never free. And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home, wherever that may be?"