“您此行的目的是什么，先生简烤？工作還是休假剂邮？”
“都不是”
“您的意思是？”這位身材梨形乐埠，有著褐色短發(fā)女士抗斤，戴著很大框的眼鏡眼鏡囚企，身穿一襲深藍(lán)色制服丈咐。
“我來取我父親的遺體，”帕特里克含糊地說龙宏。
“抱歉先生棵逊，我沒聽清您講的，”她用官方的口氣中有一絲的惱怒银酗。
“我來取我父親的遺體辆影，”帕特里克極為緩慢地喝叫。
她把護(hù)照還給帕特里克“祝您旅途愉快黍特⊥芗ィ”
從海關(guān)出來后他內(nèi)心的憤怒掩蓋了他通常過海關(guān)的恐懼（如果要求他脫衣服怎么辦？要是手臂上的針眼被發(fā)現(xiàn)了怎么辦灭衷？）次慢。
他再一次來到這里。帕特里克倒在出租車后座翔曲，后座的椅子通常粘滿了黑色膠布迫像，但底下的黃色海綿還是偶爾從縫隙中露出來；這個通過克制的飲食而走向永生的國家瞳遍，正引導(dǎo)帕特里克去往相反的方向闻妓。
出租車在高速路上飛馳，他體會到再次回紐約的厭惡感掠械。有這位很顯然不會說英語的司機(jī)由缆，他憂傷的照片證實(shí)了他本人自殺式的抑郁注祖，而坐在后面看他的后脖頸只能得到少許的跡象。兩旁的車道共同見證城市發(fā)展過剩和凋敗不堪均唉。碩大的舊車和將要散架的引擎氓轰，還有涂著黑色窗戶的豪華轎車，蜂擁向城市浸卦，像蒼蠅看到了它最喜愛的食物署鸡。帕特里克注視著窗外的老舊白色客車的微微凹陷的轂蓋。它經(jīng)歷的太多了限嫌。他轉(zhuǎn)移了視線靴庆，頭腦一片空白什么也想不起來，好像遺忘癥的病狀怒医。自己好似一軸光滑的絲線炉抒，眼前忽閃而過千萬幅畫面，他不停的反抗稚叹，在更暗淡的更寬廣的穹頂下焰薄，旋轉(zhuǎn)的生命消失殆盡。
初次翻譯扒袖，很多地方都翻譯的不對塞茅，請大家指正。
終于體會到翻譯的不易季率，之前在哪里獨(dú)到一種說法野瘦，就是說翻譯的好壞看的是你母語的水平，因?yàn)閷τ谕庹Z是理解飒泻，而對于中文是準(zhǔn)確的表達(dá)鞭光。當(dāng)初讀原文的時候感覺挺流暢的基本上都能看懂，我想是語言的差異吧泞遗，轉(zhuǎn)述成中文的時候就感覺特別別扭惰许，怎么說都不對勁，是的再次道歉我中文/語文不是很好史辙，它一直是我的弱項(xiàng)汹买。
對于那些想看《梅爾羅斯》的朋友，煩請不要指望我了（真的非常好看）髓霞。
附上原文
Edward St. Aubyn? the Patrick Melrose Novels: Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, and Mother's Milk
Bad News? Chapter 2
‘What is the purposeof your visit, sir? Business or pleasure?’
‘Neither.’
‘I’m sorry?’ She was a pear-shaped, slug-coloured, shorthaired woman wearing big glasses and a dark blue uniform.
‘I’m here to collect my father’s corpse,’ mumbled Patrick.
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t catch that,’ she said with official exasperation.
‘I’m here to collect my father’s corpse,’Patrick shouted slowly.
She handed back his passport. ‘Have a nice day.’
The rage that Patrick had felt after passing through passport control eclipsed his usual terror of Customs (What if they stripped him? What if they saw his arms?).
And so here he was again, slumped in the back of a cab, in a seat often repaired with black masking tape, but still opening occasionally onto small craters of yellow foam, back in a nation that was dieting its way to immortality, while he still dieted his way in the opposite direction.
As his taxi bounced and squeaked along the freeway, Patrick started to register reluctantly the sensations of reentry into New York. There was of course a driver who spoke no English, and whose lugubrious photograph confirmed the suicidal gloom which the back of his neck could only hint at. The neighbouring lanes bore witness to the usual combination of excess and decay. Enormous battered cars with sloppy engines, and black-windowed limos, swarmed into the city, like flies on their favourite food. Patrick stared at the dented hubcap of an old white station wagon. It had seen so much, he reflected, and remembered nothing, like a slick amnesiac reeling in thousands of images and rejecting them instantly, spinning out its empty life under a paler wider sky.
