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Behind closed doors, the scenes aren’t pretty.
关起门来，场景并不美好。
Thank goodness for privacy to shield a moralistic world from scenes that need to be forgotten.
感谢隐私可以保护道德世界远离需要被遗忘的场景。
There will be hours of the most unedifying desperation: tears, bitter denunciations of everyone and everything, self-pitying and vengeful rants:
会有几个小时是令人讨厌的绝望: 伤心流泪，对每个人、每件事的痛苦谴责，自怨自艾、报复性的咆哮:
this is too much, I can’t take it any more, this is unfair beyond measure.
这太过分了，我再也受不了了，这太不公平了。
In the night, we smash through the crash barriers of ordinary hope.
在黑夜里，我们冲破平凡希望的壁垒。
We’re going to do away with ourselves.
我们要自取灭亡了。
They’ll regret us, they’ll miss us now.
他们会后悔的，会想念我们的。
But we won’t, of course, do anything silly.
当然，我们不会做任何傻事。
It’s just the mind doing, it’s normal work, adjusting to yet another yawning gap between the way we would want things to be and the horrid way they are.
这只是大脑在做的事，这是正常的思考，在我们希望的事情和可怕的事情之间不断地变化，以适应另一个巨大的差距。
We settle. We are – after all – creatures who know how to die.
我们平静下来了。 毕竟，我们是知道如何死亡的生物。
We think we don’t know how to, but we invariably do, whatever the fierce rage.
我们认为我们不知道如何去做，但我们总是这样做，不管愤怒的程度如何。
We can digest pretty much any verdict.
我们几乎可以接受任何裁决。
We tell ourselves we’d never endure not being able to speak or losing our bowels, but then the doctors tell us what has to be and we put up with a feeding tube and a bag and being able to communicate only through a quivering eyelid.
我们告诉自己，我们永远不会忍受不能说话或肠胃不好，但医生告诉我们该怎么办，我们只好忍受必须做的事情，挂着一根喂食管和一个进食袋，只能通过颤抖的眼睑与人交流。
It’s always better than the alternative.
它总是比另一种选择好。
So of course we deal with the cataclysmic lack of love.
所以我们当然要应对爱情的极度缺乏。
Dawn comes, chilly and severe and yet reassuring in its sober bleakness.
黎明来了，寒冷而严峻，但在它的冷静的凄凉中令人安心。
We make the bed, clear away the despair, and get on.
我们整理好床铺，扫除绝望，然后继续前进。
There are a few consolations.
有一些安慰。
First and foremost, a ravaged incensed defiance, a fuck you to the universe and all those who peddle sentimental nonsense that doesn’t fit our reality.
首先，这些安慰是被蹂躏、被激怒的挑衅，破坏你的世界，那些兜售情感废话的人不能改变我们的现实。
A certain kind of art works too, the sort created by unflinching genius realists who went through as much loneliness as we have,
还有某种艺术作品也是如此，是由那些和我们一样经历过孤独的天才现实主义者创作的，
who understood our sadness ahead of time, grief-stricken masters like Baudelaire and Leopardi, Pessoa and Pascal,
这些艺术家提前了解我们的悲伤，像波德莱尔和利奥帕尔迪，佩索阿和帕斯卡，
who can express our petty domestic sorrow in mighty transcendental terms and induct us to the most dignified kind of regret.
这些艺术家用超凡的语言来表达我们琐碎的家事，并引导我们走向遗憾。
They were there too and, in the most abstract accomplished ways, tell us ‘I know’.
他们也在那里，以最抽象的方式告诉我们“我知道”。
And we have friendship, not the kind that obliterates the loneliness, but that allows us to commune around it.
我们有友谊，不是那种消除孤独感的友谊，而是那种让我们与之交流的友谊。
We can’t help each other directly, we’re more like a group of the dying in a hospice talking circle who won’t be able to eradicate the end but know they are at least not alone with it.
我们不能直接互相帮助，我们更像是临终安养院里的一群垂死的人，他们无法消灭死亡，但知道他们至少不是孤独的。
We get better too at understanding statistics: that this is normal for a benighted group of us. We belong to an important minority party in the parliament of human suffering.
我们也能更好地理解统计数据:对于我们这些蒙昧无知的群体来说，这是正常的。 我们属于人类苦难议会中一个重要的少数派政党。
Lovelessness will have been our major burden, a grief that endured from adolescence to the end, a problem that was meant to go away and never did.
无爱将成为我们的主要负担，一个从青春期一直持续到最后的悲伤，一个本应消失却从未消失的问题。
On our secret gravestone, it should say: Love didn’t work out for them, and how they longed that it might: an epitaph to frighten children and reassure our emotional successors.
在我们秘密的墓碑上，应该写着:他们没能获得爱情，以及他们多么渴望能找到爱情:这个墓志铭是为了吓唬孩子，让我们的情感继承者安心。
What was meant to be a phase turned into the truest thing about us:
原本只是一个阶段的东西，却变成了关于我们的最真实的东西:
that we longed for love – and that it never came, a truth all the more redemptive for being expressed at last with a rare calm unflinching honesty.
我们渴望爱——但它从未到来，这是一个事实，因为爱情最终以罕见的冷静、毫不退缩的诚实表达出来，而变得更加具有救赎性。
