º·¡Çբͧà¢ÒÁÑ¡¨Ðà¡ÕèÂǡѺàÃ×èͧÃÒÇÊÒÁѸÃÃÁ´Ò㹪ÕÇÔµ»ÃШÓÇѹ áÅÐà¢Õ¹´éÇÂÀÒÉÒ¸ÃÃÁ´Òàªè¹¡Ñ¹ áµè¤ÇÒÁ¤Ô´¢Í§à¢Ò·ÓãËéàÃ×èͧ¸ÃÃÁ´ÒàËÅèÒ¹Ñé¹¹èÒʹ㨠ÍÂèÒ§¤Ó·Õè¡ÁÒ¢éÒ§µé¹·Õèà¢Ò¾Ù´¶Ö§àÃ×èͧ¡ÒâҴËÒÂä» à¢ÒºÍ¡ÇèÒãËé´Ù·Õè¹éÓ ¹éÓ¹Ñé¹àÃÕ¹ÃÙé·Õè¨Ð·´á·¹Êèǹ·Õè¢Ò´ËÒÂä»ãËéàµçÁ¢Öé¹ÁÒä´é´éǵÑÇàͧÁÒ¹Ò¹áÅéÇ ËÃ×ͺ· The Revised Versions ·Õèà»ç¹º·¡ÇÕº·áá¢Í§à¢Ò·Õè©Ñ¹ä´éÃÙé¨Ñ¡áÅÐä´é»ÃзѺ㨠à¢ÒºÍ¡¶Ö§º·¨º·ÕèÍÒ¨¨Ðà»ÅÕè¹ä»ã¹·Ò§´Õ¢Öé¹ä´é㹺·»Ãоѹ¸ìµèÒ§æ ¢Í§àª¤Êà»ÕÂÃì ¶éÒà¾Õ§áµèµÑÇÅФèÐÃÙé¨Ñ¡¤Ô´ (àªè¹ãËéÊè§áÎÁàÅç·ä»à¢éÒâçàÃÕ¹ãËÁè ¨Ðä´éÃÙéÇèÒäÁèÁÕã¤Ã·ÓãËé¾è;Íã¨ä´é·Ø¡ÍÂèÒ§ËÃÍ¡ áÅШÐä´éÃÙé¨Ñ¡¶¹ÍÁ¤ÇÒÁÃÑ¡µèÍâÍ¿ÔàÅÕÂãËé´Õ¡ÇèÒ¹Õé) á·¹·Õè¨Ð»ÅèÍÂãËéªÕÇÔµ¼èÒ¹ä»áÅШº´éǤÇÒÁµÒÂÍѹäÃé¤ÇÒÁËÁÒ ÊÔè§àËÅèÒ¹ÕéäÁèãªèÊÔè§ãËÁè áµèà¢ÒÃÙé¨Ñ¡ÇÔ¸ÕàʹͤÇÒÁ¤Ô´ä´é¹èÒʹ㨠¤ÇÒÁä¾àÃÒТͧº·¡ÇÕ¨Ö§ÍÂÙè·Õèà¹×éÍËÒáÅФÇÒÁËÁÒ 㹤ÇÒÁàÃÕº§èÒ¢ͧ¶éͤÇÒÁ àÃÒÍÒ¨¾ºÇèÒµÑÇàͧÍÂÙè㹺·¡Çբͧà¢ÒÍÂèÒ§äÁè·Ñ¹ÃÙéà¹×éÍÃÙéµÑÇ
à¢Òà¡Ô´·ÕèáÁÊÊÒªÙàÊ·ã¹»Õ 1946 ¼Å§Ò¹¡ÇÕ¤×Í Mysteries of the Horizon (1972), The Collector of Cold Weather (1976), Other Children (1987), What We Don't Know About Each Other (1993), Probable World (2000) »Ñ¨¨ØºÑ¹à¢Òà»ç¹ÍÒ¨ÒÃÂìÀÒ¤ÇÔªÒÀÒÉÒÍѧ¡ÄÉ·ÕèáÁÊÊÒªÙàÊ·
VISITING THE ORACLE
It's dark on purpose
so just listen.
Maybe I inhabit a jar, maybe a pot,
maybe nothing. Only this
loose end of a voice
rising to meet you.
It sounds like water.
Don't think about that.
Let your servants climb back down the mountain
by themselves. I'll listen.
I'll tell you everything
I discover, but I can't
say what it means
Someone will always
assure you of the best of fortunes,
but you know better.
And keep this in mind: The answer
reveals itself in time
like the clue that fits
perfectly and explains everything
after the crime has been solved.
Then you will say: I should have known.
It was there all along
and never even concealed,
like the story of the letter
overlooked by the thief because
it had not been hidden.
That's the trick, of course.
You don't need me.
THE REVISED VERSIONS
Even Samuel Johnson found that ending
unbearable, and for over a hundred years
Lear was allowed to live, along with Cordelia,
who marries Edgar, who tried so hard
to do the right thing. It's not easy
being a king, having to worry every day
about the ambitions of your friends.
Who needs a bigger castle?
Let's sleep on it, Macbeth might tell his wife,
wait and see what comes along.
So Antony keeps his temper, takes Cleopatra
aside to say: We need to talk this through.
And Hamlet? Send him back to school to learn
no one ever really pleases his father.
And while he's reading he'll remember
how pretty Ophelia was, how much
she admired his poems.
Why not make what you can of love?
It's what we want for ourselves,
wary of starting a fight, anxious
to avoid another scene, having suffered
though too many funerals and heard
how eloquently the dead are praised
who threw their lives away.
AFTERWARDS
I wasn't thinking of you.
But so much stays the same.
Even a room resists our efforts.
The old things are taken away,
given away, lost. A new chair,
a different picture. Entering,
I expect you to be there.
These are the inescapable
phrases that hope for more:
something about the weather,
and all that can and cannot
be healed, and how, and how long.
Time passes, and it reminds us
of everything we happen to remember.
Then we return to the same
few objects, few events, The house
darkens, and the lights come on.
And even this room
changes to fit your absence,
no matter what we say or how
we choose to think about it.
REVISION
The moment I expected, like the stories
I had read before, always
left the dying a few minutes to say
what was most important, and sometimes
there were six months or a year
in which to arrange the best departure,
invent the necessary
final words, and correct them.
*
I think this must be
what a writer depends on,
the chance to change his mind, time enough
to risk the initial embarrassments
of feeling. And all the clumsy stabs
at wind, trees, clouds, water, however
poorly made are still essential and allow
for the better, more believable
lines that follow.
*
I once confessed to friends in college
how I hoped to discover
I'd been adopted. What did I want?
Another kind of exile,
perhaps, more serious and substantial
than leaving home. We'd been reading
Joyce's Portrait, and we were smart enough
to know that Stephen wasn't Joyce exactly.
Then I believed that writing
was the way to invent everything
that hadn't happened to me, as if
in preparation for a truer life
I would later claim as my own.
*
That sudden heart attack
denied us my mother's final words.
We stood around the bed. We didn't know
if she could hear what we were saying.
Driving to the funeral,
I started to cry because I couldn't
recall clearly enough the last day
we'd spent together. I'd felt
sick, slept all afternoon
in my room, said little.
Like a child I wanted it back again,
just that day, to do it over.
But even as my wife assured me
everything had been all right, I hadn't
acted badly, and I held on
to the wheel of the car, I knew
that nothing I could
make or remake
would leave me what I wanted.
