英语翻译如题：【要求】必须是英语原文,原滋原味的,不能是中国人写的,最好是某个比较有名的外国作家写的短篇散文.必须大于1

给你介绍一篇吧!
这篇是诺贝尔文学奖获得者Toni Morrison女士名著the beloved里面的一篇,名字叫做“爱”.
这篇散文文笔很美.并且保证国内没有翻译版.因为这曾经是一项国内翻译比赛的征稿原文.
希望你能满意!有问题问我!
Love
by Toni Morrison
She's dead now, so I can say that she laughed like us, played like us, and her adult life turned out okay – so I heard. But then, when we were all twelve or less, it seemed as though she floated behind a scrim. Markedly pretty, she had eyes full of distance – a smile made more attractive by what it withheld; some knowingness it appeared unwilling to share. In the early forties,"cool" was our word to describe her, although, at the time, I thought she was simply sad. Something treasured had been irretrievably lost, and there was nothing to be done about it. Her attitude reminded me of what I saw in the eyes of scary old people sitting in rocking chairs on the porch or leaning on a fence looking at us as though in a little while we would know the doom and catastrophe they already knew."Uh huh," they murmured when we tripped over the door saddle or ruined our clothes. "Where is your mind?" they asked when we dropped the milk bottle, let the coal fire go out. Seriously asking a serious question, they showed no surprise. They knew we would always fall down, drop things,be ruined, and forget. And that it was possible to lose your mind. She too seemed aware of our haplessness, but she did not wear their frown. A mournful sympathy infected her smile.
The big thing – the most obvious sign of her behind-the-scrim life – was that she didn't like boys. That is, she was indifferent to our giggle and babble about who was "sharp" or"fine" or who "liked" whom. She made no contribution to such talk. Very grown up, I thought, for a twelve-year-old who had no reason to be. When I learned, later, what separated her from us (from the world, perhaps),I became afraid of wakefulness as well as of sleep. Trying to picture the acts foisted upon her by her father was impossible – out of range. Nothing came clearly into view. They were literally unimaginable. What was easily imaginable was the implacable danger brought on by the things those scary old people recognized in us. Ruin, falling, losing, mindlessness were not only in our nature now, they signaled our future. Before we even knew who we were, someone we trusted our lives to could, might, would make use of our littleness, our ignorance, our need, and sully us to the bone, disturbing the balance of our lives as theirs had clearly been disturbed.
When the gossip about her surfaced, the deepest scorn was for the complicit mother who apparently never heard of lye, ground glass, or a baseball bat. The women seethed; the men turned their lips down in raw disgust.
People tell me that I am always writing about love. Always, always love, I nod, yes, but it isn't true – not exactly. In fact, I am always writing about betrayal. Love is the weather . Betrayal is the lightning that cleaves and reveals it.
I liked so much the challenge that writing Jazz gave me: breaking or dismissing conventional rules of composition to replace them with other , stricter rules. In that work, the narrative voice was the book itself, its physical and spatial confinement made irrelevant by its ability to imagine, invent , interpret, err, and change. In Love, the material (forms of love, kinds of betrayal) struck me as longing for a similar freedom – but this time with an embodied, participating voice. The interior narrative of the characters, so full of secrets and partial insights, would be interrupted and observed by an"I" not restricted by chronology or space – or the frontier between life and not-life. Thus the character called"L" is meant to exhibit and represent the imaginative and transformative nature of her name along with its constructive and destructive talents.
The first scene that came clear to me involved a boy new to his neighborhood, eager to belong. Hostage to the needs of his own flesh, he nevertheless disobeys his body's command and keeps faith with his heart. In an environment where immediate and brutal gratification reigns, his want on tenderness for a stranger humiliates him. From that initiation into the mysteries and terror of social arrangements evolved the stories of other characters whose vulnerability is turned into shame, into loneliness – the clear sense of having no one on whom one can safely rely. The most bitter betrayal, of course, does not come from an enemy whose deceit one expects. It comes most chillingly from a friend, a trusted one – or one's own self. While marveling at that bromide, I could hardly avoid the parallels between those specific lives and wider cultural ones. I became interested in the manner in which African Americans handled internecine, intraracial betrayals, and the weapons they chose in order to survive them. The decades-long civil-rights revolt, like other radical changes, required consensus (mutual love) for success . Dissension, healthy or malign, was frequently understood as betrayal, as lethalas apathy. While the move away from or toward social cohesion is by no means unique to any single people, racial politics (like religion) certainly heightens the stress . Beneath (rather, hand-in-hand with) the surface story of the successful revolt against a common enemy in the struggle for integration (in this case,white power) lies another one: the story of disintegration – of a radical change in conventional relationships and class allegiances that signals both liberation and estrangement. Heed and Christine live in the easy weather of precivil rights intimacy until they are explosively interfered with. The fault line between them was drawn by the ability of power to satisfy its whimsand ignore the consequences. The sundering of their natural alliance was met by fear, compliance, resistance, flight, and iron clad distrust. Unmediated and left to its own devices, distrust – personal or political – can have predictable consequences : irrational contempt, violence, self-delusion, exceptionalism, hatred, and the renunciation of a shared language, all of which play out among those of the novel's population who believe they are irrevocably cut off at the root. For among the things Christine, Heed, and Junior have already lost, besides their innocence and their faith, are a father and a mother, or, to be more precise , fathering and mothering. Emotionally unprotected by adults, they give themselves over to the most powerful one they know, the man who looms even larger in their imagination than in their lives.
What could possibly scour away their excuses for maintaining the false face they wore for protection from further abandonment, further betraval? What is the raw material of reconciliation?
It was not just a feisty mother, a supportive father, and insatiable reading habits that kept me later on from giving myself over to a life of girlish submission – some form of smiling or frowning female resignation. It was the comfort of learning from those countering sources that there were weapons – other kinds of baseball bats: defiance, exit, knowledge ; not solitude, but other people; not silence, but speech. An arsenal could begathered against whatever threatened our future well-being. Adroitness, of course, would have to be cultivated to know what and how to defend; what and how to cherish.
She chose humility and bowed to violation. Having lost respect, even the frail status of a child, what else was there to lose? She was properly judged; silently condemned. So what if she had used her tongue and spoken? To whom? Us? Hardly. Back then , in the forties, we believed we were already forsaken, destined to fall down, drop things, forget, and misplace our minds. I suppose we could have loved her. Somehow. I suppose.