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9月份，我将到东部去接你——但是，这封信是要向你声明：我将对你的许诺不再感兴趣，只对自己亲眼所看到的感兴趣。我会一直爱你，但让我感兴趣的只是那些与我志同道合的人，而且像我这样的年龄也不可能作出什么样的改变。无论你是否愿意——或者是想要——就让我看你的表现吧。
爸爸
1938年7月7日于加利福尼亚州卡尔弗城米高梅影片公司
又及：如果你还坚持写日记的话，请不要让你的日记成为枯燥乏味的东西，我用10法郎就能买到的《旅行指南》里就有。我对日期、地名；甚至“新奥尔良大战”之类不感兴趣，除非你对它们有些独特的体会。写作时不要追求措辞巧妙诙谐，除非是自然行文的需要——要实实在在。
再及：请你把这封信再看一遍好吗？这封信我写了两遍。
弗朗西斯·菲茨杰拉德致女儿（3）
Francis Fitzgerald
To
MetroGoldwynMayer Corporation
Culver City； California
July 7；1938
Dearest Scottie，
I don't think I will be writing letters many more years and I wish you would read this letter twice—bitter as it may seem。 You will reject it now； but at a later period some of it may e back to you as truth。 When I'm talking to you； you think of me as an older person； an“authority”； and when I speak of my own youth what I say bees unreal to you—for the young can't believe in the youth of their fathers。 But perhaps this little bit will be understandable if I put it in writing。
When I was your age I lived with a great dream。 The dream grew and I learned how to speak of it and make people listen。 Then the dream divided one day when I decided to marry your mother after all； even though I knew she was spoiled and meant no good to me。 I was sorry immediately I had married her but； being patient in those days； made the best of it and got to love her in another way。 You came along and for a long time we made quite a lot of happiness out of our lives。 But I was a man divided—she wanted me to work too much for her and not enough for my dream。 She realized too late that work was dignity； and the only dignity； and tried to atone for it by working herself； but it was too late and she broke and is broken forever。
It was too late also for me to recoup the damage—I had spent most of my resources； spirit and material； on her； but I struggled on for five years till my health collapsed； and all I cared about was drink and forgetting。
The mistake I made was marrying her。 We belonged to different worlds—she might have been happy with a kind simple man in a southern garden。 She didn't have the strength for the big stage—sometimes she pretended； and pretended beautifully； but she didn't have it。 She was soft when she should have been hard； and hard when she should have been yielding。 She never knew how to use her energy—she's passed that failing on to you。
For a long time I hated her mother for giving her nothing in the line of good habit—nothing but “getting by” and conceit。 I never wanted to see again in this world women who were brought up as idlers。 And one of my chief desires in life was to keep you from being that kind of person； one who brings ruin to themselves and others。 When you began to show disturbing signs at about fourteen； I forted myself with the idea that you were too precocious socially and a strict school would fix things。 But sometimes I think that idlers seem to be a special class for whom nothing can be planned； plead as one will with them—their only contribution to the human family is to warm a seat at the montable。
My reforming days are over； and if you are that way I don't want to change you。 But I don't want to be upset by idlers inside my family or out。 I want my energies and my earnings for people who talk my language。 。 想看书来
弗朗西斯·菲茨杰拉德致女儿（4）
I have begun to fear that you don't。 You don't realize that what I am doing here is the last tired effort of a man who once did something finer and better。 There is not enough energy； or call it money； to carry anyone who is dead weight and I am angry and resentful in my soul when I feel that I am doing this。 People like—and your mother must be carried because their illness makes them useless。 But it is a different story that you have spent two years doing no useful work at all； improving neither your body nor your mind； but only writing reams and reams of dreary letters to dreary people； with no possible object except obtaining invitations which you could not accept。 Those letters go on； even in your sleep； so that I know your whole trip now is one long waiting for the post。 It is like an old gossip who cannot still her tongue。
You have reached the age when one is of interest to an adult only insofar as one seems to have a future。 The mind of a little child is fascinating； for it looks on old things with new eyes—but at about twelve this changes。 The adolescent offers nothing； can do nothing； say nothing that the adult cannot do better。 Living with you in Baltimore（and you have told Harold that I alternated between strictness and neglect； by which I suppose you mean the times I was so inconsiderate as to have T。 B。 o or to retire into myself to write； for I had little social life apart from you） represented a rather too domestic duty forced on me by your mother's illness。 But I endured your Top Hats and Telephones until the day you snubbed me at dancing school； less willingly after that…
To sum up： What you have done to please me or make me proud is practically negligible since the time you made yourself a good diver at camp （and now you are softer than you have ever been）。 In your career as a “wild society girl”； vintage of 1925； I'm not interested。 I don't want any of it— it would bore me； like dining with the Ritz Brothers。 When I do not feel you are“going somewhere”； your pany tends to depress me for the silly waste and triviality involved。 On the other hand； when occasionally I see signs of life and intention in you； there is no pany in the world I prefer。 For there is no doubt that you have something in your belly； some real gusto for life—a real dream of your own—and my idea was to wed it to something solid before it was too late—as it was too late for your mother to learn anything when she got around to it。 Once when you spoke French as a child it was enchanting with your odd bits of knowledge— now your conversation is as monplace as if you'd spent the last two years in the Corn Hollow High School— what you saw in Life and read in Sexy Romances。
I shall e East in September to meet your boat—but this letter is a declaration that I am no longer interested in your promissory notes but only in what I see。 I love you always but I am only interested by people who think and work as I do and it isn't likely that I shall change at my age。 Whether you will—or want to—remains to be seen。
Daddy
P。 S。 If you keep the diary； please don't let it be the dry stuff I could buy in a tenfranc guide book。 I'm not interested in dates and places； even the Battle of New Orleans； unless you have some unusual reaction to them。 Don't try to be witty in the writing； unless it's natural— just true and real。
P。 P。 S。 Will you please read this letter a second time？ I wrote it over twice。
。。
埃米莉·狄金森致威廉·奥斯汀·狄金森
埃米莉·狄金森（1830—1886），美国著名女诗人。生于安贺斯特；曾在安姆斯特学院和芒特霍尔里约克女子神学院学习。从25岁开始弃绝社交，足不出户，在家务劳动之余埋头做诗，故被称做“安姆斯特修女”。埃米莉一生共创作1775首诗，她生前仅发表七首，其余部分都是她死后30年内由其亲人整理、出版的。埃米莉的诗风独特，以文字细腻、观察敏锐、意象突出著称，题材方面多半是自然、死亡和永生。
亲爱的奥斯汀——今天早上我一直在想你离家已有几周——时间过得是如此之慢，一天就如同一年，一周就如同二十年——不再用分钟计算时间以后，我不知道该怎么区分真实的时间与“虚幻”的时间。对于你来说，或许觉得回到波士顿已过了很长时间——我多么希望你能待在这里，永远别再回去啊！这里的每一件事物仍然如往常般静立，乌云密布，寒气袭人。啊，我是如此孤单！你在一个刮风的晚上回到了波士顿，我们千万次地思念你，并且希望你不要着凉。我们身旁的炉火正旺，我忍不住想起，在这里，我们有多少次相聚，有多少次分离，又有多少次我希望你能在漫长的夜晚把门打开，回到家来。家是一个神圣的地方，任何怀疑或疑虑都无法侵入它神圣的领地。当时间的巨轮向前推进，你信任的人也一个个离你而去，我越来越感到家的神圣和温暖，家里看上去确实有点像伊甸园，没有任何罪恶可以彻底破坏它——事实上，家是小了一些，或许也并不美好，但是比起整个世界来，家却更加美丽，更加温馨。
我希望今年你不会在波士顿损害健康，我也希望你将如同以前那样快乐。我不会怀疑你离开上帝的祝福会非常镇定——如果在我力所能及的范围内，我将每天早晨把这里纯净、芳香、清凉的空气转送给你。我多希望你能拥有它啊——早上的徐徐清风把它吹到我的面前，伴随着森林里的树叶和清新的秋果的芬芳。我将非常愿意把自己今天所得的那份空气送给你，并用它取代海上那苦涩的空气……
您亲爱的
埃米莉
1851年秋于安姆斯特
Emily Dickinson
To
Amherst；
Autumn；1851。
Dear Austin； —I've been trying to think this morning how many weeks it was since you went away — I fail in calculations； it seems so long to m