我可以看出我这些话似乎只是些空洞的安慰，甚至就在我说这些话的时候，我自己也感觉到这只不过提供了一种相当灰暗的前景。当我后来在把这件事考虑了一遍，我想到老年的最大补偿是精神上的自由。我看这是由于人们在成年时认为是很重要的很多事情现在已不那么在乎了。另外一个补偿就是老年使你从嫉妒、怨恨和恶意中解放出来。我不相信我嫉妒任何人。我与生俱来的那些天赋我都已充分利用，我不嫉妒别人比我更多的天赋。我已经取得很多成功，我不嫉妒别人的成功。我完全愿意把我已经占据了这么久的一隅之地让出来，让另外一个人站进去。我已经不在乎别人对我怎么想。他们可以欢迎我，也可以不理我。要是他们看来还喜欢我，我有一定的高兴；要是我知道他们不喜欢我，我也不以为忤。我早就知道，在我身上有某种东西使得某些人对我敌视。我想这是很自然的，没有人能够什么人都喜欢。某些人的恶意，只会引起我的兴趣，不会搅扰我的安宁。我只想知道是我身上的什么东西引起他们的反感，我也不在乎他们对我作为一个作家有些什么想法。总的说来，我原来打算要做的都已经做了，此外我无所萦怀。我从来不很在乎围绕在一个成功作家身边的名气。这种名气，在我们当中有很多比较天真的人却把它错认为是令名、美名。我常常希望我从前写作时用了笔名就好了，那我就可以在这个世界走过而不会为人所注意。我的第一部小说确实用了笔名，后来只是因为我的出版商警告我说，这本书可能会受到猛烈的攻击，而我又不愿意躲在一个假名字背后，这才用了我自己的真名。我想很少有作家不会私下抱着希望：当他们离开人世时，（他们）不会完全被人忘却。而我自己有时也不禁在私自忖度并以此自娱——在我死后短期内有多大可能还不会被人遗忘。
有时曾经有人问我，是否愿意把我过去的生活重新再过一次。总的说来，我这一生还是挺不错的，也许比多数人更好些，但是要再来过一次，我看那就没有意思了。这就像把你以前读过的一本侦探小说拿来再读一遍那样没有意思。但假设真有再生转世之说（现在人类的四分之三都公开相信此说），一个人能自由选择他是否愿意在世上再投入一次新生的话。我过去有时的确曾经想过，我倒愿意来试一下，也许我会欣赏一些从前由于具体环境以及我的精神上和身体上的特殊之处使我未能享受到的经验，或者学习到从前我没有时间或机会去学习的很多东西。可现在我不愿意这样做了。我已经够了。我不相信永生，也不想要永生。我倒愿意死得快，死得没痛苦。我也高兴得知随着我的最后一息，我的灵魂和它的希望与弱点都化为乌有。我把伊壁鸠鲁写给默纳塞斯的话认真记在心上了，他说：“要习惯于这一信念：死亡对我们算不了什么。因为一切善和恶都存在于感觉，可是死亡使一切感觉都没有了。所以正确理解了死亡对我们算不了什么，就使得生命的灭亡可以是愉快的了。这并不是因为它增加了一段无限的时间，而是因为它消除了对永生的渴求。对于一个真正理解了不活着并没有什么可怕的人来说，生活中也就没有什么可怕的了。”
Listening
In that vanished time in smalltown Jackson， most of the ladies I was familiar with， the mothers of my friends in the neighborhood， were busiest when they were sociable. In the afternoons there was regular visiting up and down the little grid of residential streets. Everybody had calling cards， even certain children； and newborn babies themselves were properly announced by sending out their tiny engraved calling cards attached with a pink or blue bow to those of their parents. Graduation presents to highschool pupils were often “card cases.” On the hall table in every house the first thing you saw was silver tray waiting to receive more calling cards on top of the stack already piled up like jackstraws； they were never thrown away.
My mother let none of this idling， as she saw it， pertain to her， she went her own way with or without her calling cards， and though she was fond of her friends and they were fond of her， she had little time for small talk. At first， I hadn，t known what I，d missed.
When we at length bought our first automobile， one of our neighbors was often invited to go with us on the family Sunday afternoon ride. In Jackson it was counted an affront to the neighbors to start out for anywhere with an empty seat in the car. My mother sat in the back with her friend， and I，m told that as a small child I would ask to sit in the middle， and say as we started off， “Now talk.”
There was dialogue throughout the lady，s accounts to my mother. “I said”...“He said”...“And I，m told she very plainly said”...“It was midnight before they finally heard， and what do you think it was.”
What I loved about her stories was that everything happened in scenes. I might not catch on to what the root of the trouble was in all that happened， but my ear told me it was dramatic. Often she said，“The crisis had come！”
This same lady was one of Mother，s callers on the telephone who always talked a long time. I knew who it was when my mother would only reply， now and then， “Well， I declare，” or “You don，t say so，” or “Surely not.” She，d be standing at the wall telephone， listening against her will， and I，d sit on the stairs close by her. Our telephone had a little bar set into the handle which had to be pressed and held down to keep the connection open， and when her friend had said goodbye， my mother needed me to prize her fingers loose from the little bar； her grip had become paralyzed. “What did she say？” I asked.
“She wasn，t saying a thing in this world，” sighed my mother. “She was just ready to talk， that，s all.”
My mother was right. Years later， beginning with my story “Why I live at the P.O.”， I wrote reasonably often in the form of a monologue that takes possession of the speaker. How much more gets told besides.
This lady told everything in her sweet， marveling voice， and meant every word of it kindly. She enjoyed my company perhaps even more than my mother，s. She invited me to catch her doodlebugs； under the trees in her backyard were dozens of their holes. When you stuck a broom straw down one and called， “Doodlebug， doodlebug， your house is on fire and all your children are burning up，” she believed this is why the doodlebug came running out of the hole. This was why I loved to call up her doodlebugs instead of ours.
My mother could never have told me her stories， and I think I knew why even then： my mother didn，t believe them. But I could listen to this murmuring lady all day. She believed everything she heard， like the doodlebug. And so did I.