[1954年2月]你的护士只会说意大利语，但20分钟后，我就能想象到你最后一周的情景，泪水顺着我的脸颊流下....当我和母亲从意大利出发的时候?热那亚湾的整个海岸线都绽开了火红的花朵。疯狂的黄色和蓝色的雪橇像千斤顶锤一样在我们的班轮喷出的泡沫中轰鸣，让人想起了我的福特汽车的碰撞色彩。母亲乘头等舱旅行;她的复兴时期黑金相间的棺材就像拿破仑?在荣军院....当乘客们在地中海上的躺椅上晒日光浴时，我们位于邓巴顿的家族墓地就在零度以下的白山下。墓地?土壤正在变成石头吗?它的许多死亡都发生在隆冬时节。 Dour and dark against the blinding snowdrifts, its black brook and fir trunks were as smooth as masts. A fence of iron spear-hafts black-bordered its mostly Colonial grave-slates. The only ?unhistoric? soul to come here was Father, now buried beneath his recent unweathered pink-veined slice of marble. Even the Latin of his Lowell motto: Occasionem cognosce, seemed too businesslike and pushing here, where the burning cold illuminated the hewn inscriptions of Mother?s relatives: twenty or thirty Winslows and Starks. Frost had given their names a diamond edge.... In the grandiloquent lettering on Mother?s coffin, Lowell had been misspelled LOVEL. The corpse was wrapped like panettone in Italian tinfoil.