已經一年了，自從去年五月收過你的信後，直到現在已整整有一年了。 我沒有寫信給你，恐怕比這個時間更爲久長，或許也有好幾個年頭了。 不是我把你忘却，實在我沒有這個勇氣把信寄出。
今晚一切的景象對我份外的淒涼。 許多時我都想哭，因此我又想起了你。 我的母親，我從新把所有寫了未寄的信來重讀一次。 你好像出現在我的眼前，我伏在桌上哭起來，你的聲音像在我的耳邊不停地呼喚着。
母親，我本來沒有什麼可說的, 但是這年來的變幻，你一定也想知道。 無論怎樣，這些都是過去的事了, 我希望你明白這一點。
说起来已不只一年的吧。 两三年前我和二弟还过着很刻苦的半工读生活。 你也不会忘记我们每隔两个星期必定写一封信给你的。 从回信上，我看到你在微笑。 我知道你心中的快乐，你虽然觉得我们清贫得可怜，但同时你也以我们的向学精神快慰。 你常常说： “不要过劳。我们在这边无论怎样也尽能过活的。” 其实这些话，你也知道不能骗过我们的。 母亲爱儿女的心，我早就认识，但是到离开了你之后，我才体会到。
但是生命的漂流不是到美国就止了境。 在平静无波的海洋中，船只也可以沉没的。 不久，二弟被征入伍，我不敢告诉你，我恐怕你担心。 我们还是一样地写信给你，而且说的比实在的情形还好。 自从二弟去后，我开始觉得有孤独的感觉。 以前我虽然离开了你，但是我还有着伴侣，而现在我只有的是希望。 希望着有一天我们再能够重叙。 至于何时，我便不敢想像了。
二弟出海后，我用了两天的时间思索，终于决定告诉你关于二弟的一切。 我觉得生命上许多不堪收拾的事情，都是因为当初不敢面对的原故。 信写好了， 地址也写上了，但是当晚我收到了你的来信，我一切的勇气都给你这封信毁灭了。 你告诉我三弟病死的消息，去年九月他病的情形，一切的苦况，一切的困难。 母亲，为什么你早不告诉我呢？ 为什么你以前的信从来不提到这些灰色的恶物呢？ 呀！ 你骗了我。 我又怎能把那久藏的消息抛到你的身上呢？ 这太残酷了。 我怎能让它夺去自己的母亲的生命呢？ 我含泪把那封信收藏起来，希望有一天这封信会自己毁灭。
这一晚我永远也不会忘记的一晚。 天降着很大的雨，当我放学回到住宿的地方，我收到一封电报。 我所知道的是二弟已经在欧战场上战死了。 死了，死了。 怎能令我不相信呢？ 他确实是死了，年纪不过是十九岁。 是谁给他这命运？ 我诅咒战争，我诅咒国家，我诅咒这个人类。 我的一切已去了，我的希望终于灭亡了。 我的脑袋在膨胀，我作失望者的唤呌。 在雷雨下，我露着头在静寂的黑夜中行走。 第二天我病倒在床上。 到我能够跑动的时候，家乡已落在敌人的手上，你已不知去向了。 我能告诉你什么呢？ 时代所给我们的路各不同，而到终还是同一的悲哀，毁灭，死亡。 有人折纸船放在海洋上，希望有一只流到母亲的门前。 但是在我，自己生命的漂流还不够么？ 为何要把别的命运去漂放呢？ 我不忍，我底破碎的心就只让身体来把它埋葬。
母亲，我有时愿意你死去。 这根本不是残忍的话。 我爱你比爱世界上任何一个人都强烈，但是我愿意你死去。 你死去就减少了你个人的痛苦，同时也可以解去我长久的茫茫忧伤。 你是明白我的，站在这边的海洋，我不能伸出助你的手，我的心情你是应该明白的。
人，无论谁都想生，都想享受点快乐幸福的事情。 我设法想把那过去的一切死的忘记，我探望别人的家，探望别人的父母，希望从别人处获点意外的共享。 但是一切都没用，反而使我更为痛苦。 在见到别人幸福的时候，我只有回到黑暗的房间，抱着头痛哭。 母亲，我不再是孩子了，为什么我还有着孩子的心情呢？
在和自己感情的剧烈斗争过程中，我完全失了理智，失了为现代人应有的生活轨道。 我沈沦了。 沈沦到现在这个不可救的地步。 我不怨谁，也不怨自己，因为这些都不是谁的过错，而是人手制出来的制度的错过。 可见最悲惨的是：人们在未得到认识的时候，只是拼命去挣扎，到失败的时候就尽把自己毁灭。 有些人像我一样，有发觉的机会，可是已经太迟了。 因为我一只脚早已踏进了坟墓，而另一只脚却刚踏上了块香蕉皮，祇在一刹那间，生命就会完终了。
大约八个月前，我得一份不正当的财产。 这意外的金钱鼓起我追求快乐的 意念。 我又怎会知道这不曾给我带来半点幸福，反而取去我的生命呢？ 我整日整夜的胡混，书也不读，工也不做，只希望得到别人手上集来的金钱。 几个月后我已失了自己的原形，我简直不知自己是谁的了。
还有一件我不愿意隐瞒的事。 无论我的生活怎样安逸，可是我的心还是一样的空虚。 我想尽了方法来填补这失去的母爱。 我追求异性，希望这爱可以变形，但是我得到更难堪的苦恼。 于是我干了你最放心不下的事情，我去找私娼，好像世上只有这一点，才能解去我心中的苦恼。 但是很快我就得到了难治或不可治的花柳性病。 现在我更加不愿有人知道，我害怕去见医生。 但是病症一天天地加重，直到上个月我躺在这个医院的病床上时，我已经是无药可救的人了。 医生对我很坦白，也很宽量，他给我三个月的生命。 我也欣然接受这个命运，实在我生存的目标现在简直没有。 生命在我不是悲观的，但是我也觉得死去是我最适合的了。
现在我有很清闲的时候来思想。 只恨我不能作梦，睡下来就死般地失去知觉。 我真愿自己能够做梦，那么在幻影中我也可以看到你。 在这时代中，能够作梦的人真是幸福呀。
消息渐渐变好起来，欧洲的战局快结束了。 许多人在欢笑，可是我却在悲哭， 二弟是永远不能再回来的了。 在世上有许多不平等的事，有人欢笑，也有人悲泣。 我知道许多人像我一样有着不会归来的爱人，我听到他们的悲泣声，无论怎样的狂欢大笑，也不能遮盖这些。 但是这幕人生的悲剧，我也不会多看了。
我知道在要死的时候是不害怕死的，这大概也是人类的一点天性吧。 我固然没有半点值得被爱的处所，也再没有爱的对象，除了离开这个只有爱才完成的世界外，还会有别的什么作为呢？我不愿阻碍别人的去路，谁都可以从我的尸上踏过。 奇怪的是，许多次我都想自杀，在海旁踱了不少次，可是到终还是抱着沉重的心回来，虽然不再感到生的可爱，到底也有点害怕死。
呀！母亲，我不曾忘记那幼年相处时代，但那是烟消云散的了，现在放在我眼前的是一副棺木。 但是这记忆是我的，我所能带离世的也只有这一点。 记得托尔斯泰曾说过这几句话： “年青而快乐的日子永远不能再回来了！ 那些可爱的回想，怎能叫我不去珍爱着呢？ 过去的回忆，重又鼓舞着我灵魂。 那也就是我最快乐的源泉。”
母亲，我一再告诉你，我不怨恨谁，也不怨恨自己，因为这些都不是人的过错。 带我走进歧途的人，也是一样有着人性，有着家庭，但是他想生，这是社会指给他生的方法。 他不能为了人道而把自己饿死，自己饿死就是杀死自己，自己是人，那么他就杀了人，杀了人是最不人道的。 固然我知道这些歧途要铲除，但是在铲除之先一定要有安排这许多相依靠它生活的人。 社会既然是这样，他们不应该被诅咒的人。 在这个社会制度下一定有许多人的死亡，他们的牺牲是为了别的人的生存，这制度是不合理的。 我不愿后人会踏上我的路，但是有着这些路的存在，当然也有人被迫着要走的。 我但愿自己是一颗炸弹，就可以把这个社会制度毁灭，可是我的命运却是在三个月后无抵抗地给细小的微菌儿食去。
室外的女看护正在说着母亲节，预备给母亲一些最幸福的享受。 我于是爬起身来写这封永别的信。 写到这里，觉得以上所说的都是忏悔的言语，似乎有点不合。 但是我没有精神再写了，别人给他的母亲是快乐，我只能给你我所有的， 而我所有的是悲哀和痛苦，所以我在死前也要给你以最大的悲痛。 像我说过，许多人的快乐是建筑在别人的悲哀上的，所不幸的，我们正是这些不幸的人。 假如我写些你喜欢的说话，那是骗你，我不愿意做。 目前我觉得生命最重要的是爱和真实。 爱，我是没有的了，这真实我似乎还有点权利。
母亲，我不知道你在何方，说不定你早已去世了，但是我这封信是要寄出的。 母亲是产生我的人，那么这个人类也是我真正的母亲。 那么我就把地址写上吧。
母亲，假如你有机会收到我这封信的时候，千万不要流泪，但是我是无法阻止你的悲哀的。 记得有人写过这句话： “不知是从悲哀里产生了爱，还是由爱带来了悲哀。”
母亲，永别了。 母亲，让我再来说一句欺己欺人的话吧： 我祝你幸福！
写于母亲节前
It has been a year. It has been a full year since I received your letter last May. I am afraid I haven’t written to you for even longer time, perhaps a few years now. It wasn’t that I have forgotten you; in reality I didn’t have the courage to send out the letters. All the situations are especially dreary to me tonight. I often want to cry, and so I think of you again. My mother-- I reread all those letters I wrote but didn’t send out. You seem to have appeared in front of my eyes and I drop to my desk and cry. Your voice seems to continue calling on me by my ears.
Mother, I really don’t have much to say, but you most likely would like to know what has happened and changed in these years. No matter what, all these are things of the past and I hope you would understand.
Come to think of it, it probably has been more than a year. It was two or three years ago that my second brother and I were still working hard while going to school. You surely did not forget that we wrote letters to you every two weeks. From your letter in reply I could see you were smiling. I know you were happy in your heart, although you felt pity for our impoverished living while feeling pleased and comforted by our studious spirit. You often said, “Don’t overwork. No matter what, we would mostly be able to live on over here.” In reality, you know we were not fooled by this kind of talk. I have long known the love of a mother for her children, but only until I left you had I learned its true meaning.
Yet the drifting of life did not cease upon arrival to America, as a ship may sink too in the calm, tides-less ocean. Not long later, my Second Brother was drafted into the army. I was afraid you would worry and I dared not tell you. We continued writing letters to you and speaking of our situation better than it really was. I started having feelings of loneliness after Second Brother had gone. Though in the past I had separated from you , I still had my companion, now all I have left is hope-- hoping someday we will be able to unite again. As to when I dare not imagine.
After Second Brother went to sea, I pondered for two days and finally decided to tell you everything concerning him. I think many irreparable things in life are caused by the fear of facing them in the first place. I wrote the letter and addressed the envelope, but I received your letter in the evening and all my courage was destroyed by this letter of yours. You told me the news of the death of my Third Brother, the situation of his illness last September, and all of his sufferings and difficulties. Mother, why haven’t you told me sooner? Why didn’t you mention at all any of these dark, despicable things in your past letters? Oh, you lied to me. And how can I throw at you now the bad news that I have kept for so long? How can I be so cruel to let it destroy my mother’s life? Holding my tears I kept aside the letter, hoping someday this letter will be self-destroyed.
This was the evening I would never forget. The sky was pouring heavy rain. When I returned to my residence after class, I received a telegram and learned that my Second Brother had died on the battlefield in Europe. He is dead, dead. How can I not believe it? He truly is dead and he is only nineteen years of age. Who is it that gives him such fate? I curse the war. I curse the nation. I curse this mankind. I have lost everything. My hope has finally perished. My brain was blowing up, and I let out a cry of a despaired person. In the thunderstorm I walked bareheaded into the silent, dark night. The following day I was sick in bed. When I could be up and about, my homeland had fallen into the enemy’s hands, and you had gone to an unknown place. What could I tell you? The paths given to us by our times are different, yet in the end we share the same dejecton, destruction, and death. Someone put folded paper boats into the sea and hoped one would flow to his mother’s door steps. But for me, hasn’t my own drifting in life enough, so why would I put another fate into drifting? My heart could not bear such and I can only let my broken heart be buried within my body.
Mother, sometimes I wish you were dead. This truly is not a word of cruelty. I dearly love you more than I love anyone in the world, but I wish you were dead to ease your personal pain and free me from this long and boundless sorrow. You do understand me. I stand on this side of the ocean and I can’t extend a helping hand to you. You must understand my thoughts and feelings.
As human beings, we all want to live and enjoy happy events. I tried to forget all those deaths of the past, so I visited other’s families and parents, hoping beyond expectation to share some of their joys with them. But it was all hopeless and it made me more painful on the contrary. When I saw others being happy, I could only go back to my dark room, hold my head, and cry. Mother, I am no longer a child-- why do I still have the emotion of one?
During the process of severe struggle against my own emotions, I completely lost my rationality and discarded the proper life path of a modern person. I sank into depravation. I depraved to a point beyond incorrigible. I don’t blame anyone, and I also don’t blame myself because none of these are someone’s fault but that of a man-made system. Evidently what is most tragic is this: people prior to obtaining awareness, they could only risk their lives in struggle, and when they failed they would completely destroy themselves. Some people, such as me, have an opportunity to realize, but it is already too late because I have long had one foot trod into the grave and the other foot has just stepped on a banana peel. Merely in a flash, my life will be finished.
About eight months ago, I obtained a sum of illegitimate fortune. This unexpected money boosted my desire to seek happiness. How could I have known that such desire did not bring me any bit of happiness, and instead it would take away my life? Days and nights I was messing up and fooling around, not going to school nor work, solely hoping to obtain other’s accumulated money. In a few months I have already lost my own nature. I virtually no longer know who I am.
There is another matter that I don’t wish to conceal from you. Regardless how comfortable my living was, my heart was nevertheless empty. I thought of every way to fill the loss of my motherly love. I pursued women, hoping that love can be transformed, but what I received was further unbearable distress. Therefore I did the thing that you were most worried about. I went for prostitution, as if this is the only thing in this world that can remove the distress in my heart. But soon after I contracted the incurable venereal disease. Now I certainly don’t want people to know about it. I was afraid to see a doctor, but my illness worsened everyday until last month, when I finally lay in this hospital bed. I am now a man no medicine can be saved. The doctor was frank and generous. He gave me three months to live and I joyfully accepted this fate. In reality there is simply no purpose in my existence now. Life to me is not tragic, but I do feel death is best suited for me.
Now I have much leisure time for thinking. It is a pity that I couldn’t dream. Once I fall asleep, I lose my consciousness as if I have died. I really wish I could dream. Then, in illusion I can still see you. Those who can dream in our times are truly blessed.
The news has gradually become better, and the war situation in Europe is ending soon. Many people are laughing heartily, but I am crying sadly. Second Brother will never be able to come back. There are so many unjust things in this world: some with laughter and some with tears. I know like me many people have their loved ones who would not return. I hear their sorrowful sobbing that no revelry and wild laughter can be covered up. But I wouldn’t be able to see more such scenes of tragedy in life.
I know I am not afraid at the time of dying. Perhaps, this is a bit of human instinct. Without doubt, I have nothing worth being loved and no object of love. Apart from leaving this world that can only be completed with love, what else would there be to do? I don’t wish to be in others’ way, and anybody can trot over my dead body. What is odd is that I have contemplated suicide many times, strolling numerously at the waterfront. Yet, in the end I still carried my heavy heart and returned home. Although I no longer feel the charms of life, ultimately, I am a little afraid of death.
Oh, mother! I haven’t forgotten the time we lived together in my childhood, but those moments like mists and clouds had vanished. In front of my eyes now is a coffin, but this memory is mine -- the only thing that I can take with me leaving this world. I remember Tolstoy had said these few lines: “The days of being young and happy will never return! How can I not treasure those lovely recollections? The memory once again inspires my soul, and it also is the source of my most happiness.”
Mother, I have repeatedly told you that I blame neither others nor myself, because this is not people’s faults. The people who led me astray also have human feelings and families. But they want to live, and this is society’s means of life available to them. They can’t starve themselves to death for the sake of humanity. Starving oneself is killing oneself, and because he himself is a human being, doing so he would kill a human being -- and killing is most inhumane. No doubt I know these straying paths must be eradicated, but before doing so, there must be plans for those many who depend on such paths for a living. Given that the society is this way, they should not be the ones to be condemned. In such a social institution there must be many deaths whose sacrifices are for the existence of others -- this institution is not legitimate. I don’t want people to follow my footsteps, but with the existence of these paths, someone would naturally be forced to take them. How I only wish I was a bomb so I could destroy this social institution, but my fate is such that, after three months, without resistance I would be eaten away by tiny viruses.
Outside the room the nurses are talking about Mother’s Day, planning on giving their mothers the happiest treats. So I crawl out of bed to write you this farewell letter. Writing to this point, I feel what have been said are words of a confession. They seem somewhat inappropriate, but I don’t have the energy to rewrite them. What others give to their mothers is happiness, while I can only give you all that I have, and all that I have are sorrow and pain. As I said before, many people build their happiness on others’ sorrow. Unfortunately, we are these unfortunate people. If I write the kind of sayings that you like, I would be lying to you and I don’t want to do so. Currently, I feel the most important things in life are love and truth. As to love I have no more, but I seem to still have some rights to truth.
Mother, I don’t know where you are. You may have long passed away, but I would want this letter to be sent out. Mother is the one giving birth to me, thus this humanity is also my true mother. I shall then write down this address:
Mother, if and when you have the chance of receiving this letter, I beg you not to cry. Yet I have no way of preventing your sorrow. I remember someone wrote this line, “It is not known whether it is love that brings about sorrow or it is sorrow that brings out love.”
Mother, forever farewell. Mother, allow me to deceive myself and others once more with this saying: I wish you happiness!
Writing prior to Mother’s Day