他跪在她的床边，见她烧得呼吸急促，微微呻吟，他用脸贴在她的脸，轻声安慰她，直到她睡着。刹那间，他幻想着自己与她在一起已有漫漫岁月，而现在她正行将死去。他突然清楚地意识到自己不能挺过她死去的这一劫，他得躺在她身边，与她一同赴死，他挨着她的头，把脸埋在枕头里过了许久。

Now he was standing at the window trying to call that moment to account. What could it have been if not love declaring itself to him? But was it love? The feeling of wanting to die beside her was clearly exaggerated; he had seen her only once before in his life. Was it simply the hysteria of a man who aware deep down of his inaptitude for love, felt the self-deluding need to simulate it? His unconscious was so cowardly that the best partner he could choose for his life comedy was this miserable provincial waitress with practically no chance at all to enter his life.

现在他站在窗前，极力回想那一刻的情景。若他清楚感受到的这种感情不是爱，又会是什么呢?但这是爱吗?那种想死在她身边的情感显然有些夸张：在这以前他仅仅见了她一面!那么，明明知道这种爱不甚适当，难道这只是一个歇斯底里的男人感到自欺之需而做出的举动吗?他的无意识是如此懦弱，一个小小的玩笑就使他选择了这样一个可怜的、压根儿不可能进入他生活的乡间女招待，作为他的最佳伴侣!

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