杰克·伦敦(Jack London)
The book slipped from his hands to the ground, and they sat idly and silently, gazing out over the dreamy bay with eyes that dreamed and did not see. Ruth glanced sidewise at his neck. She did not lean toward him. She was drawn by some force outside of herself and stronger than gravitation, strong as destiny. It was only an inch to lean, and it was accomplished without volition on her part. Her shoulder touched his as lightly as a butterfly touches a flower, and just as lightly was the counter-pressure. She felt his shoulder press hers, and a tremor run through him. Then was the time for her to draw back. But she had become an automaton. Her actions had passed beyond the control of her wills — she never thought of control or will in the delicious madness that was upon her. His arm began to steal behind her and around her. She waited its slow progress in a torment of delight. She waited, she knew not for what, panting, with dry, burning lips, a leaping pulse, and a fever of expectancy in all her blood. The girdling arm lifted higher and drew her toward him, drew her slowly and caressingly. She could wait no longer. With a tired sigh, and with an impulsive movement all her own, unpremeditated , spasmodic , she rested her head upon his breast. His head bent over swiftly, and, as his lips approached, hers flew to meet them.
This must be love, she thought, in the one rational moment that was vouchsafed to her. If it was not love, it was too shameful. It could be nothing else than love. She loved the man whose arms were around her and whose lips were pressed to hers. She pressed more tightly to him, with a snuggling movement of her body. And a moment later, tearing herself half out of his embrace, suddenly and exultantly she reached up and placed both hands upon Martin Eden's sunburnt neck. So exquisite was the pang of love and desire fulfilled that she uttered a low moan, relaxed her hands, and lay half-swooning in his arms.
Not a word had been spoken, and not a word was spoken for a long time. Twice he bent and kissed her, and each time her lips met his shyly and her body made its happy, nestling movement. She clung to him, unable to release herself, and he sat, half supporting her in his arms, as he gazed with unseeing eyes at the blur of the great city across the bay. For once there were no visions in his brain. Only colors and lights and glows pulsed there, warm as the day and warm as his love. He bent over her. She was speaking.
- sidewise [ˈsaɪdwaɪz] ad. 斜着地，斜向一边地
- unpremeditated [ˌʌnprɪˈmedɪteɪtɪd] a. 非预谋的
- spasmodic [spæzˈmɒdɪk] a. 痉挛的，一阵阵的
- vouchsafe [ˌvaʊtʃˈseɪf] v. 允诺，屈尊
- exquisite [ˈekskwɪzɪt] a. 精美的，强烈的
- swoon [swuːn] v. 晕厥
书从他手上掉到地上，他们俩一动不动坐着，默不作声，向远处注目眺望那梦幻般的海湾，然而却眼神若梦，视而不见。露丝侧目扫视了一下他的脖子。她没有偎依在他身旁。她为一种说不出的外力所吸引，这种力量强过命运，胜于地心引力。想偎依上去只有一英寸之遥，而她要这么做也无需下什么决心。她用肩膀轻轻碰他，像蝴蝶接触花朵，对方也用同样力度、一般方式作出反应。她觉得他的肩膀紧贴着自己的肩膀，也感受到他浑身上下的轻微颤动。该是她往后退缩的时候了，但是她已经变得像机器人似的。她的意志已经控制不了自己——在甜蜜的疯狂之中，她根本没有想到控制或者是意志。他的胳膊开始偷偷地从她背后伸过来，搂住了她。在愉快的折磨之中她等待着他那慢吞吞的过程。她等待着，她也不清楚为了什么，喘着粗气，嘴唇干而热切，脉搏飞快，浑身的血液在期待中发烧。环抱的手臂举得越来越高，把她拉了过去，慢慢地拉着，爱抚地拉着。她再也不能等待了。她发出一声疲倦的长叹，用完全出于自我冲动的动作，事先想也没有想到，一阵阵震颤着，把自己的头紧靠在他的胸脯。他的头迅速弯垂下来，当他的嘴唇靠近时，她的嘴唇飞快地迎了上去。
这一定是爱情，她想，是爱情赏赐给自己的合情合理的时刻。如果不是爱情，那又过于羞辱人了。不能是别的，只能是爱情。她爱那个搂着她的男人，那个嘴唇紧贴着她的嘴唇的男人。她向他靠得更紧，身体依偎在他怀中。过了一阵之后，她把身子半挣脱了他的拥抱，突然欣喜若狂地把双手上举，搁在马丁·伊顿被晒黑的脖子上。爱的激情是如此强烈，渴求的爱情得到了满足，她发出了轻声的叹息，松开双手，然后似昏迷非昏迷地躺在他的怀中。
没有一句话，很长时间过去了谁也没有说一句话。他弯下腰吻了她两次，每次她的嘴唇羞涩地碰着他的嘴唇，她的身体都做了快乐的依偎上去的动作。她紧抱着他，无法使自己松开，而他坐在那里，用他的双臂半支撑着她，双目凝视海湾对面已一片模糊的大都市，但似见非见。就这么一回，他的脑海一片空白，感觉到灯光和多彩的颜色在那里闪烁，只有温暖与爱的感觉。他俯身看着她。她在讲着什么。
杰克·伦敦(1876—1916)，美国小说家，出身于旧金山穷人家庭，九岁起干杂活，作为游民入过狱，在北极地带淘过金。1900—1902年发表三部短篇小说集。写了很多小说，如《野性的呼唤》(The Call of the Wild ，1903)，《白牙》(The White Fang ，1900)，《海狼》(The Sea-wolf ，1904)，政治幻想小说《铁蹄》(The Iron Heel ，1907)，代表作是自传体小说《马丁·伊登》(Martin Eden ，1909)。他善于通过行动刻画人物性格并揭示作品主题，结构紧凑，文笔精练，有感染力。