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Three more months go over. The calendar of my daily conduct and labour that hangs on the outside of my cell-door, with my name and sentence written upon it, tells me that it is Maytime. My friends come to see me again. I enquire, as I always do, after you. I am told that you are in your villa at Naples, and are bringing out a volume of poems. At the close of the interview it is mentioned casually that you are dedicating them to me. The tidings seemed to give me a sort of nausea of life. I said nothing, but silently went back to my cell with contempt and scorn in my heart. How could you dream of dedicating a volume of poems to me without first asking my permission? Dream, do I say? How could you dare to do such a thing? Will you give as your answer that in the days of my greatness and fame I had consented to receive the dedication of your early work? Certainly, I did so; just as I would have accepted the homage of any other young man beginning the difficult and beautiful art of literature. All homage is delightful to an artist, and doubly sweet when youth brings it. Laurel and bay leaf wither when aged hands pluck them. Only youth has a right to crown an artist. That is the real privilege of being young, if youth only knew it. But the days of abasement and infamy are different from those of greatness and of fame. You have yet to learn that Prosperity, Pleasure and Success may be rough of grain and common in fibre[51a], but that Sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought or motion to which Sorrow does not vibrate in terrible if exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces that the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse.[51.1] It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of Love touches it and even then must bleed again, though not for pain[51b].
三个月过去了。挂在牢门外，上面写着我的名字和刑期，用来记录我每天劳动与表现的日历告诉我，是五月了。
朋友们又来看我了。我照样问起了你。人家说你在那不勒斯的别墅里，正在出一本诗集呢。在会面快结束时，还随口说起那些诗是要献给我的。这消息似乎让我觉得一阵恶心。我一句话没说，默默地回到牢房，满心的鄙夷与蔑视。你怎么会做这样的梦，不事先征得我同意，竟要把一本诗集献给我？做梦，我说了是不是？这样的事你怎么也敢做出来？你会不会拿这样的话回答我：在我名扬天下、飞黄腾达的日子里，不是就答应过接受你把自己早期的作品题献给我？没错，我答应过，就像我答应任何一个刚踏上这条既艰难又美好的文学之路的年轻人，接受他们的敬意。对艺术家来说，一切敬意都是令人愉快的，而来自青年的敬意又一倍增其愉快。月桂之花、月桂之叶，一让苍老的手采摘，便枯萎了。只有青年有权为一位艺术家戴上桂冠。那是年轻人真正的特权，但愿他们明白这个道理。但是蒙羞含辱的日子同名扬天下、飞黄腾达的时候是不一样的。你还得弄明白，发财、享乐、出人头地，这些可以是大路货[51a] ,但悲怆却是所创造的一切中最敏感的。在整个的思想和运动的空间内，只要稍有动静，它便会以既精妙又可怕的律动，与之共振。那敲得薄薄的金箔，能用来检测肉眼看不见的力的方向，可再敏感，相比之下也显得粗糙了。悲怆是一道伤口，除了爱的手，别的手一碰就会流血，甚至爱的手碰了，也必定会流血的，虽然不是因为疼[51b]。
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51.2