Why can I hole you with?
我用什么才可以留住你？
I offer you lean streets， desperate sunsets， the moon of the jagged suburbs.
我给你荒落的街道、寂灭的落日和郊野的月亮。我给你长久以来对月自苦的心伤。
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
我给你一个久久地望着孤月的人的悲哀。
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 of Buenos Aires， two bullets through his lungs， bearded and dead， wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother's grandfather -just twenty four- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú， now ghosts on vanished horses.
我给你我故去的先祖，他们的亡魂被生者在大理石的铭文中颂扬；我的祖父，他捐躯于布宜诺斯艾利斯的边境战场，两颗子弹穿过了他的胸膛，他蓄着胡子，尸体被士兵以牛皮裹在一旁；我母亲的祖父，他在二十四岁那年率三百人冲锋在秘鲁战场，最终也成为马背上的亡魂，飘飘荡荡。
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold. whatever manliness or humour my life.
我给你我写的书中所能包含的一切悟力、我生活中所能有的男子气概或幽默。我给你我书笺中的一切洞见，以及我生命中所有的幽默和担当。
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
我给你我浪荡前生未曾有过的忠诚和信仰。
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.
我给你，我拥在自己内心的深藏——此心不狡饰文辞、不亵渎梦想，不被时间、欢愉或逆境染指彷徨。
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset， years before you were born.
我给你未临人世的多年之前，一枝黄玫瑰在日落之时的影像。
I offer you explanations of yourself， theories about yourself， authentic and surprising news of yourself.
我给你关于你生命的注解、关于你自我的论章，关于你真挚而惊艳的畅想。
I can give you my loneliness， my darkness， the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty， with danger， with defeat.
我给你我的寂寞，我的阴郁，我内心的渴望；让我贿赂你，以迷茫、危险和败亡。
（刘心怡译）