除去几座殿堂我无法进去，除去那座祭坛我不能上去而只能从各个角度张望它，地坛的每一棵树下我都去过，差不多它的每一米草地上都有过我的车轮印。无论是什么季节，什么天气，什么时间，我都在这园子里呆过。有时候呆一会儿就回家，有时候就呆到满地上都亮起月光。记不清都是在它的哪些角落里了，我一连几小时专心致志地想关于死的事，也以同样的耐心和方式想过我为什么要出生。这样想了好几年，最后事情终于弄明白了：一个人，出生了，这就不再是一个可以辩论的问题，而只是上帝交给他的一个事实；上帝在交给我们这件事实的时候，已经顺便保证了它的结果，所以死是一件不必急于求成的事，死是一个必然会降临的节日。这样想过之后我安心多了，眼前的一切不再那么可怕。比如你起早熬夜准备考试的时候，忽然想起有一个长长的假期在前面等待你，你会不会觉得轻松一点？并且庆幸并且感激这样的安排？
Aside from some buildings that I had no way to enter, aside from the altar that I had no way to reach but could only gaze at from every possible vantage point, I had been under every tree in the park, and my chair’s wheel-prints were left on almost every meter of grass. I had spent time in this park in all seasons, all kinds of weather, and all times of the day. Sometimes, I stayed only a short time and then went home; sometimes, I stayed until the entire ground was alight with moonbeams. I don’t remember which corners of the park I was in then. For several hours in a row, I was totally absorbed in thinking about death, and just as patiently, I pondered why I had to be born. This kind of thinking went on for quite a few years until I finally understood: a person’s birth isn’t a question for debate, but is the reality handed to him by God. When God hands us this reality, he has already incidentally assured its end, so death is something one needn’t be anxious to bring about; death is a festival that is sure to befall you. After thinking this through, I felt greatly relieved: nothing would ever be so frightening again. Let me put it this way: just think, when you get up early and stay up late preparing for an exam, and suddenly it occurs to you that—just ahead—a long vacation is waiting for you, don’t you feel a little better? And aren’t you happy and grateful for this arrangement?

剩下的就是怎样活的问题了，这却不是在某一个瞬间就能完全想透的、不是一次性能够解决的事，怕是活多久就要想它多久了，就像是伴你终生的魔鬼或恋人。所以，十五年了，我还是总得到那古园里去，去它的老树下或荒草边或颓墙旁，去默坐，去呆想，去推开耳边的嘈杂理一理纷乱的思绪，去窥看自己的心魂。十五年中，这古园的形体被不能理解它的人肆意雕琢，幸好有些东西是任谁也不能改变它的。譬如祭坛石门中的落日，寂静的光辉平铺的一刻，地上的每一个坎坷都被映照得灿烂；譬如在园中最为落寞的时间，一群雨燕便出来高歌，把天地都叫喊得苍凉；譬如冬天雪地上孩子的脚印，总让人猜想他们是谁，曾在哪儿做过些什么、然后又都到哪儿去了；譬如那些苍黑的古柏，你忧郁的时候它们镇静地站在那儿，你欣喜的时候它们依然镇静地站在那儿，它们没日没夜地站在那儿，从你没有出生一直站到这个世界上又没了你的时候；譬如暴雨骤临园中，激起一阵阵灼烈而清纯的草木和泥土的气味，让人想起无数个夏天的事件；譬如秋风忽至，再有一场早霜，落叶或飘摇歌舞或坦然安卧，满园中播散着熨帖而微苦的味道。味道是最说不清楚的，味道不能写只能闻，要你身临其境去闻才能明了。味道甚至是难于记忆的，只有你又闻到它你才能记起它的全部情感和意蕴。所以我常常要到那园子里去。
All that’s left is the question of how to live, but this is not something you can think through in an instant, not something that you can solve once and for all: you have to think about it your whole life, however long that is. It’s a demon or a lover who is your lifelong companion. And so, for fifteen years, I had to go to this old park, go under the old trees or next to the neglected weeds or beside the dilapidated walls, sit in silence or think blankly, break through the feelings of chaotic disarray that were all around me, and peep at my soul. In fifteen years, people who didn’t understand this old park had wantonly altered some of its design and structure. Fortunately, there were some things that no one could change about it—for example, when the setting sun moves to the spot inside the stone arch of the altar, its rays spread across the ground and each rough spot on the ground is resplendent in the sunshine; or at the loneliest time in the park, a flock of swallows comes out and sings, their desolate song filling the space between heaven and earth; or the footprints children make in the snow in the wintertime, always leading people to wonder who they are, what they are doing there, and where they are going; for example, the dark old cypresses: when you’re feeling melancholy, they are standing there sedately, and when you’re feeling happy, they are still standing there sedately—they’ve stood there since before you were born and will go on standing there until you are no longer in this world; or a sudden rainstorm in the park touches off a pure green and muddy earth scent, giving rise to memories of countless summer occurrences; or the autumn wind suddenly arrives, and there is an early frost, and falling leaves or tottering singing and dancing or calm and quiet sleep: the park is pervaded with an atmosphere of tranquility and a little bitterness. Atmosphere is the most difficult thing to explain. My words can’t convey this atmosphere; you have to be there and smell it for yourself. It’s hard to remember, too: only when you smell it again will it bring back all the feelings connected with it. And so I must often go back to this park.