）还是什么其他语言（以前下到过葡萄牙语和意大利语的小说，
zenzen哇卡来哟！——你这又是哪国语言
），反正不是英语，看不懂，只好放弃，就下载了最不想用的pdf格式，因为不晓得pdf要怎么才能转换成word文档，虽然之前有下载过一个专门变换pdf为word的软件,但那是试用版，没用就过期了
，现在又不想重新去找这类软件。还好，在歪酷博客上找到了有关reader使用方法的博客文章，学会了将pdf里的图片复制出来的方法，也就想，也许这个方法可以用来将pdf里的文字也复制出来，也就不用专门去转换格式了。——因为科幻世界译文版那向来有删减原文的作风，所以我想看看英语原文是怎样，也顺便学学英语翻译。从google上也搜到了介绍和评价Tigana的中文文章，从中了解到了Tigana的后两部——又是三部曲，FT
——并通过eMule将这两部的英文版也拖了下来（eMule真是个好东东，共享小说的老外也都是大好人啊
）。好了，就在这里先贴一些Tigana的段落吧。TIGANA
Guy Gavriel Kay
All that you held most dear you will put by
and leave behind you; and this is the arrow the longbow of your exile first lets fly.
You will come to know how bitter as salt and stone
is the bread of others, how hard the way that goes up and down stairs that never are your own.
Dante, The Paradiso
What can a flame remember? If it remembers a little less than is necessary, it goes out; if it remembers a little more than is necessary, it goes out. If only it could teach us, while it burns, to remember correctly.
George Seferis, "Stratis the Sailor Describes a Man"
PROLOGUE
BOTH MOONS WERE HIGH, DIMMING THE LIGHT OF ALL BUT the brightest stars. The campfires burned on either side of the river, stretching away into the night. Quietly flowing, the Deisa caught the moonlight and the orange of the nearer fires and cast them back in wavery, sinuous ripples. And all the lines of light led to his eyes, to where he was sitting on the riverbank, hands about his knees, thinking about dying and the life he'd lived.
There was a glory to the night, Saevar thought, breathing deeply of the mild summer air, smelling water and water flowers and grass, watching the reflection of blue moonlight and silver on the river, hearing the Deisa's murmurous flow and the distant singing from around the fires. There was singing on the other side of the river too, he noted, listening to the enemy soldiers north of them. It was curiously hard to impute any absolute sense of evil to those harmonizing voices, or to hate them quite as blindly as being a soldier seemed to require. He wasn't really a soldier, though, and he had never been good at hating.
He couldn't actually see any figures moving in the grass across the river, but he could see the fires and it wasn't hard to judge how many more of them lay north of the Deisa than there were here behind him, where his people waited for the dawn.
Almost certainly their last. He had no illusions; none of them did. Not since the battle at this same river five days ago. All they had was courage, and a leader whose defiant gallantry was almost matched by the two young sons who were here with him.
They were beautiful boys, both of them. Saevar regretted that he had never had the chance to sculpt either of them. The Prince he had done of course, many times. The Prince called him a friend. It could not be said, Saevar thought, that he had lived a useless or an empty life. He'd had his art, the joy of it and the spur, and had lived to see it praised by the great ones of his province, indeed of the whole peninsula.
And he'd known love, as well. He thought of his wife and then of his own two children. The daughter whose eyes had taught him part of the meaning of life on the day she'd been born fifteen years ago. And his son, too young by a year to have been allowed to come north to war. Saevar remembered the look on the boy's face when they had parted. He supposed that much the same expression had been in his own eyes. He'd embraced both children, and then he'd held his wife for a long time, in silence; all the words had been spoken many times through all the years. Then he'd turned, quickly, so they would not see his tears, and mounted his horse, unwontedly awkward with a sword on his hip, and had ridden away with his Prince to war against those who had come upon them from over the sea.
He heard a light tread, behind him and to his left, from where the campfires were burning and voices were threading in song to the tune a syrenya played. He turned to the sound.
"Be careful," he called softly. "Unless you want to trip over a sculptor."
"Saevar?" an amused voice murmured. A voice he knew well.
"It is, my lord Prince," he replied. "Can you remember a night so beautiful?"
Valentin walked over—there was more than enough light by which to see—and sank neatly down on the grass beside him. "Not readily," he agreed. "Can you see? Vidomni's waxing matches Ilarion's wane.
The two moons together would make one whole."
"A strange whole that would be," Saevar said.
"Tis a strange night."
"Is it? Is the night changed by what we do down here? We mortal men in our folly?"
"The way we see it is," Valentin said softly, his quick mind engaged by the question. "The beauty we find is shaped, at least in part, by what we know the morning will bring."
(注，我隐约记得，情人节的英文就是St. Valentine's Day【圣瓦伦汀节】，呵呵，要是我翻译的话，搞不好我会将Prince Valentin翻译为“情人王子”哟
，呵呵，纯粹不负责任的eg
。）
），从google上确实能搜到《
，是我弄错了。
感激不尽滴... 
