我给你贫穷的街道、绝望的日落、破败郊区的月亮。我给你一个久久望着孤月的人的悲哀。我给你我死去的先辈,人们用大理石赞颂他们的幽灵:在布伊诺斯艾利斯边境阵亡的我的父亲的父亲,两颗子弹射穿了他的胸膛,蓄着胡子的他死去了,士兵们用牛皮裹起他的尸体;我母亲的祖父——时年二十四岁——在秘鲁率领三百名士兵冲锋,如今都成了消失在马背上的幽灵。我给你我写的书中所能包含的一切领悟力,我生活中所能有的所有的男子气概或幽默。 I give you poor streets, desperate sunsets, ruining the suburbs of the moon. I give you a long time looking at the sadness of the lonely person. I give you my dead ancestors, people glorifying their spirits with marble: the father of my father who died on the border of Buenos Aires, two bullets that pierced his chest and died with a beard The soldiers wrapped their bodies in cowhide; my mother’s grandfather, who was 24 years old, led 300 warriors in Peru, and now they are all ghosts that disappear on horseback. I give you all the insight I can have in my book, all the masculinity or humor that I have in my life.