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

  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 ofbuenos 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 peru, now ghosts on vanished horses.

  i offer you whatever insight my books may hold,whatever manliness or humour my life.

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

  i offer you that kernel of myself that i have saved somehow -the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

  i offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.

  i offer you explanationsof yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.

  ican give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart;

  i am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

  --

  (我用什么才能留住你？

  我给你贫穷的街道、绝望的日落、破败郊区的月亮。

  我给你一个久久地望着孤月的人的悲哀。
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