我能告诉你什么呢？那是一个似乎创造了历史的夏天——他们的个人史——几乎在它开始之前，他们想要站远一点，但仍然没离开它的边界，观察着它，说着“这个夏天这样”，“这个夏天那样”，当它正在静静展开。他们对一座喷泉着迷，比如说，那个他们每天都要经过的那个，它把那么多的水抛向空中的同时又在冲刷自己——在冬天它一直是干枯的，一言不发。我还能告诉你些什么？哦，每件事——就像他们怎样在华灯初上时走回家，掠过他们的所有事物，他们感觉被拥有，完全地被拥有，以一种好的方式，被空气拥有，空气不断地抚摸他们，时而紧，时而轻，只是让他们知道它在那里，他们会觉得这就是“活着”应有的样子，当他们注意到树木是多么地复杂而它们又是多么想被看到和谈论，那朵花此刻是如此红艳甚至红过生命的力量，不管它是什么，如果你可以掀开它的盖子进入它的内部，如果你可以把嘴靠近它并变得像玫瑰一样红艳，它仍然会显得更红，他们不知道如何处置自身所以他们选择什么都不做只是倾听他们头脑中的歌曲，这些歌曲是悲伤的就像几乎所有好歌一样，他们看着这样的感觉滚滚而来，未来是雨是晴，我们不得而知，但它是好的，是最好的，虽然它没有名字。

What can I tell you? It was a summer that seemed to be making history--their personal history--almost before it began, and they stood back slightly, still in it, but observing it, saying “the summer this,” “the summer that,” all the while it was going on. They became obsessed with a fountain, for example, one they walked past each day, how abundantly it would reach upwards and yet be pouring back down itself the whole time--all winter this fountain had been dry, not saying a word. What more can I tell you? Oh, everything--like how they would walk home in the evenings when the light was soft, anything bad sliding off them, and they would feel owned, completely owned, in a good way, by the air, which would touch them constantly, sometimes urgently, sometimes lightly, just to let them know it was there, and they would think maybe this is what being alive is, when they saw how complicated a tree was and how it wanted them looking at it and saying this, how the color of a particular flower at this particular moment was redder even than the life force, whatever that is, if you could open it up and get right down inside it, if you could put your mouth to it and become as red as that rose even, it was still redder than that, and they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves so they wouldn’t do anything except listen to the songs in their heads which were sad ones like nearly all good songs and watch this feeling rolling in, sunshine or rain, we don’t know yet, it’s a good one, it’s the best one, though it has no name.