This was the feeling I took to my diary that night as well: I called it the “swoon.” Why had I swooned? And could it happen so easily—just let him touch me somewhere and I’d totally go limp and will-less? Was this what people meant by butter melting?
And why wouldn’t I show him how like butter I was? Because I was afraid of what might happen then? Or was I afraid he would have laughed at me, told everyone, or ignored the whole thing on the pretext I was too young to know what I was doing? Or was it because if he so much as suspected—and anyone who suspected would of necessity be on the same wavelength—he might be tempted to act on it? Did I want him to act? Or would I prefer a lifetime of longing provided we both kept this little Ping-Pong game going: not knowing, not-not knowing, not-not-not knowing? Just be quiet, say nothing, and if you can’t say “yes,” don’t say “no,” say “later.” Is this why people say “maybe” when they mean “yes,” but hope you’ll think it’s “no” when all they really mean is, Please, just ask me once more, and once more after that?
 
这也是我当晚日记里所描绘的感觉，我称之为“意乱情迷”。我为什么意乱情迷？这种情感来得如此轻易吗？只要他轻轻一碰我，我就双脚发软，神魂颠倒？这是大家所说的“如奶油般融化”吗？
我为什么不愿意让他知道我多容易软化？因为害怕随之而来的后果？怕他笑我？怕他四处宣扬？怕他拿我太年轻、不知道自己在做什么为借口，因而置之不理？或者他有那么点起了疑心，他或许会想要因此采取行动？我希望他行动吗？或者我宁可一辈子渴望，只要双方继续这种你来我往的猜谜游戏：不知道、知道、不知道？保持沉默就好，什么都别说；如果你不答应，也别拒绝，就说“回头再说”吧——大家不都这么做吗？即使同意，也要来句模糊的“或许吧”，表面看来像是拒绝，隐藏的真意却是：拜托，请再问我一次，再多问一次。
 
I look back to that summer and can’t believe that despite every one of my efforts to live with the “fire” and the “swoon,” life still granted wonderful moments. Italy. Summer. The noise of the cicadas in the early afternoon. My room. His room. Our balcony that shut the whole world out. The soft wind trailing exhalations from our garden up the stairs to my bedroom. The summer I learned to love fishing. Because he did. To love jogging. Because he did. To love octopus, Heraclitus, Tristan5. The summer I’d hear a bird sing, smell a plant, or feel the mist rise from under my feet on warm sunny days and, because my senses were always on alert, would automatically find them rushing to him.
 
回顾那年夏天，我不敢相信在我费尽心机思考如何与“火”或“情迷意乱”共存之时，犹能注意到生活中的美好时刻。意大利的夏季。午后一两点钟的嘈杂蝉鸣。我的房间。他的房间。把全世界隔绝在外的阳台。微风追随花园里的水汽，沿楼梯往上吹进我的房间。那年夏天我爱上钓鱼，因为他爱。爱上慢跑，因为他爱。爱上章鱼、赫拉克利特、《特里斯坦》。那年夏天我听鸟欢唱，闻百草香，感觉雾气在阳光灿烂的日子里从脚下升起，而我警醒的感官总是不由自主全涌向他。

《请以你的名字呼唤我》