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I have now written, and at great length, to you in order that you should realise what you were to me before my imprisonment, during those three years’ fatal friendship: what you have been to me during my imprisonment, already, within two moons of its completion almost: and what I hope to be to myself and to others when my imprisonment is over. I cannot reconstruct my letter, or rewrite it. You must take it as it stands[154a], blotted in many places with tears, in some with the signs of passion or pain[154b], and make it out as best you can, blots, corrections and all. As for the corrections and errata, I have made them in order that my words should be an absolute expression of my thoughts, and err neither through surplusage nor through being inadequate[154c]. Language requires to be tuned, like a violin: and just as too many or too few vibrations in the voice of the singer or the trembling of the string will make the note false, so too much or too little in words will spoil the message. As it stands, at any rate, my letter has its definite meaning behind every phase. There is in it nothing of rhetoric. Wherever there is erasion or substitution, however slight, however elaborate[154d], it is because I am seeking to render my real impression, to find for my mood its exact equivalent. Whatever is first in feeling comes always last in form[154e].
到此我已经给你写了这么多、而且写得很详细，好让你领悟到，在我入狱之前，那要命的三年友谊期间，你怎样待我；在我服刑期间，几乎再不用两次月圆就要刑满了，你怎样待我；以及出狱之后我希望怎样对待自己，对待别人。 这信我无法重新构思，也无法重写。怎样写了你就得怎样看[154a]，许多地方被泪水模糊了，一些地方带着激情或悲情的痕迹[154b]；你得尽量地去理解它，包括涂的、改的，等等等等。至于改正和勘误，我之所以这么做，是要让我的话语绝对地把我的思想表达出来，既不因为言过其意，也不因为言不尽意[154c]而出错。语言要人调理，就像一把小提琴；而且，正像嗓音的颤动或琴弦的振动，太多太少都会让音调失真那样，话语太多或太少，都会使意思走样。无论如何，我的信，就它目前这样，一词一语背后都有确定的意思。其中没有一点巧言虚辞。不管什么地方出现涂或改，不管是多么细枝末节，多么用心良苦[154d]，都是因为我着意要传达出我真切的印象，为我的心境寻找到精确的对等语。最早感觉到的，不管是什么，总是最后在纸上成形[154e]。
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