But the most agonsing song is the song of the coolies who bring the great bales from the junk up the steep steps to the town wall.Up and down they go,endlessly,and endless as their toil rises their rhythmic cry.They are barefoot and naked to the waist.The sweat pours down their faces and their song is a groan of pain.It is a song of despair.It is heart-rending.It is hardly human.It is the cry of souls in infinite distress，only just musical,and that last note is the ultimate sob of humanity.Life is too hard，too cruel，and this is the final despairing protest.That is the song of the river.威廉?薩默塞特?毛姆（1874～1965），是英國現代著名小說家，曾於上世紀20年代末來到中國，寫下一部名為《在中國的屏幕上》的散文集。選自該書的這篇短文，是他沿長江溯流而上的見聞，寫得情景交融，中國讀者讀來倍覺親切感人。
4.The Infinence of Literature Arnold Bennett
I will tell you what literature is!No-I only wish I could.But I can't.No one can.Gleams can be thrown on the secret,inkling given,but no more.I will try to give you an inkling.And,to do so,I will take you back into your history,or forward into it.That evening when you went for a walk with your faithful friend,the friend from whom you hid nothing-or almost nothing……！You were,in truth,somewhat inclined to hide from him the particular matter which monopolized your mind that evening,but somehow you contrived to get on to it,drawn by an overpowering fascination.And as your friend was sympathetic and discreet,and flattered you by a respectful curiosity,you proceeded further and further into the said matter,growing more and more confidential,until at last you cried out,in terrific whisper：“My boy,she is simply miraculous!”At that moment you were in the domain of literature.
Let me explain.Of course,in the ordinary acceptation of the word,she was not miraculous.Your faithful friend had never noticed that she was miracutous,nor had about forty thousand other fairly keen observers.She was just a girl.Troy had not been burnt for her.A girl cannot be called miracle.If a girl is to be called a miracle,then you might call pretty nearly everything a miracle.That is just it：you might.You can.You ought.Amid all the miracles of the universe you had just wakened to one.You were full of your discovery.You were under a divine impulsion to impart that discovery.You had a strong sense of the marvelous beauty of something,and you had to share it.You were in passion about something,and you had to vent yourself on somebody.You were drawn towards the whole of the rest of the human race.Mark the effect of your mood and utterance on your faithful friend.He knew that she was not a miracle.But you,by the force and sincerity of your own vision of her,and by the fervor of your desire to make him participate in your vision,did for a quite long time cause him to feel that he had been blind to the miracle of that girl.
You were producing literature.You were alive.Your eyes were unlidded,your ears were unstopped,to some part of the beauty and the strangeness of the world；and a strong instinct within you forced you to tell someone.It was not enough for you that you saw and heard.Others had to see and hear.Others had to be wakened up.And they were：It is quite possible-I am not quite sure-that your faithful friend the very next day，or the next month，looked at some other girl，and suddenly saw that she，too，was miraculous!The influence of literature！阿諾德?貝內特（1867～1931），係英國小說家、劇作家、批評家和散文家。在本文中，他用深入淺出的語言，闡述了文學的感染力。（以上四篇文章節選於孫致禮先生的《新編英漢翻譯教程》，2003年4月第1版，上海外語教育出版社出版，第153-201頁）