我不得不说，《飘》绝对是一本好书，每次拿起，都看得我如痴如醉。
太过喜欢，竟想要动手把优美的文字翻译出来，下面译了一段Ashley的信，自我感觉还是不错的，至少不会比市面上的译本逊色太多。

“夏日的夜晚，营地早已归于沉寂，我却常常无法入眠。仰望繁星，我一遍遍地问自己，‘阿什利，你为什么会在这里？到底在为什么战斗？’”“肯定不是为了光荣和名誉。战争是肮脏的，而我厌恶肮脏。我既不是军人，也不企求枪口下的浮名。然而，我却置身于这战场之上——其实造物主只打算让我成为勤勉的乡间绅士。梅勒妮，你知道，胜利不能激发我的豪情，战鼓也不能催动我的步伐。但我清楚地知道，我们被出卖了，被傲慢轻狂的南方人的私心出卖了。我们天真地认为，面对北方佬我们能够以一敌十，棉花大王能够统治世界。同样出卖我们的，还有那些偏见、憎恶和蛊惑的说辞，来自那些身居高位的、曾经让我们尊敬和崇拜的家伙的说辞——‘棉花大王，奴隶制，州权，该死的北方佬’。”“因此，我才会躺在自己的军毯上，仰望星空，反复问自己“到底为什么战斗？”。我想到州权、棉花、黑人，和从小就被教育要憎恨的北方佬，但我明白，它们都不是真正的原因。我又看到了十二橡树，看到了白色柱石之间倾洒的月光，绽放的木兰花散发出神秘的美，还有丛生的玫瑰，即使在最炎热的午间，她们依然能荫蔽整条侧廊。我看到了正在做针线活的妈妈，她的一举一动，仍然是我小时候的样子。我也听到那些声音：经历了一天的劳作，黑人拖着疲惫的身躯，从满是尘土的田地里归来，他们唱着歌，准备晚餐；吊桶放下水井时，绞盘在吱纽作响。顺着道路，可以看出去很远，穿过棉花地，直到河边，每天晨昏，迷雾会在地平线上升起。现在的我，已经对死亡、悲惨和荣耀彻底麻木了，也不憎恨任何人，原因就在这里。或许，这份对家园和土地的感情，就是人们说的“爱国精神”吧。但是，梅勒妮，仅仅这些还不够。上面我提及的不过是些象征，我钟爱的生活的象征，和我愿意献身的那些东西的象征。我只是为了旧日的时光而战斗，我深沉地爱着那样的生活；我担心，不管发生什么变化，那样的生活总归是逝去了，无论战争是输是赢，都永远地逝去了。”“即使能够获胜，能够建立梦想的棉花王国，我们仍然是失败者，因为那时我们已经变了，往昔的祥和也不复存在。来自世界各地的人会堵到家门口，嚷嚷着买进棉花，而我们也可以定出自己的价钱。我担心，那个时候，我们会变得和北方佬一样，忙于挣钱，贪得无厌，唯利是图，这些品性，正是我们今天所鄙视的啊。况且，如果我们失败呢，万一我们输掉了这场战争呢？”

“我并不畏惧危险、被俘、受伤，甚至，如果死神注定要降临，我也不会畏惧。但我真的害怕，害怕战争结束之后，我们永远无法回到过去了，那才是我真正的归属啊。我并不属于这血腥杀戮的疯狂时代，况且，我担心，即使拼尽全力，自己仍然会与未来的世界格格不入。还有你，亲爱的梅勒妮，你也不会适应的，因为我们有着相同的血统。我不清楚未来到底怎么样，但我知道，它肯定不会如过去那般美好而惬意。”

“我静静地躺着，看着身旁熟睡的小伙子们，我在想，那对孪生兄弟，阿历克斯，还有凯德，他们的想法会跟我一样吗？他们是否知道，战争一打响，其实就宣判了我们为之战斗的神圣事业的死刑？这项事业，其实就是我们原来的生活；可是，战火已经把它永远地毁灭了。不，他们不会这样想的，他们都是些幸运的孩子。”

“向你求婚时，我并没有考虑这些。那时我想到的是，我们会继续在十二橡树的生活，未来会像过去一般，平和，舒适而安定。梅勒妮，我同样钟爱宁静的生活。那时候我看到的是，多年的平淡生活就在脚下展开，我们可以去读书，去欣赏音乐，去梦想。而不是现在这样！我从来也没有想到过生活会是这样：降临在我们所有人身上的一切，旧日生活的分崩离析，血腥的杀戮，还有仇恨。梅勒妮，什么也抵不上我们失去的东西——无论是州权，奴隶制，还是棉花。也没有什么，值得让我们承受自己身上正在发生，或者将要发生的一切。如果北方胜利了，我们的未来就会陷入恐惧的深渊。而且，我亲爱的梅勒妮，最终获胜的很可能就是他们。”

“我本不该写下这样的信，也不该有这样的想法。但是，你希望知道的我的真实想法，就是对失败的担忧了。你还记得那次野餐么，就是宣布我们订婚的那次。当时，有位叫巴特勒的先生，听口音大概是查尔斯顿人，他只是评价了几句南方人的无知，就差点挑起一场争端。你记得么，那对孪生兄弟差点要开枪打死他，因为他说南方几乎没有铸造厂和加工厂，也没有纺织厂和货船，更没有兵工厂和机械制造厂。他还说，北方佬的军舰会把我们严密封锁起来，不让棉花运出国境。他说的没错。北方佬拿的都是新式来复枪，而我们还在用独立战争时期的步枪；而且，过不了多久封锁会更加严密，到时候，就连药品也运不进来了。巴特勒先生这样的人虽然言辞刻薄，说的却是实话，我们真应该早些听取他们的看法，而不是听信那些政客——他们只会凭感觉信口雌黄。巴特勒先生说，其实南方能够支持战争的，只有棉花和傲慢，打起仗来我们的棉花分文不值，剩下的就只有傲慢了。但我认为这种傲慢是无匹的勇气，如果…”

“These summer nights I lie awake, long after the camp is sleeping, and I look up at the stars and, over and over, I wonder, ‘Why are you here, Ashley Wilkes? What are you fighting for?’ Not for honor and glory, certainly. War is a dirty busi¬ness and I do not like dirt. I am not a soldier and I have no desire to seek the bubble reputation even in the can¬non’s mouth. Yet, here I am at the wars—whom God never intended to be other than a studious country gentle¬man. For, Melanie, bugles do not stir my blood nor drums entice my feet and I see too clearly that we have been be¬trayed, betrayed by our arrogant Southern selves, believ¬ing that one of us could whip a dozen Yankees, believing that King Cotton could rule the world. Betrayed, too, by words and catch phrases, prejudices and hatreds coming from the mouths of those highly placed, those men whom we respected and revered—‘King Cotton, Slavery, States’ Rights, Damn Yankees.’

And so when I lie on my blanket and look up at the stars and say ‘What are you fighting for?’ think of States’ Rights and cotton and the darkies and the Yankees whom we have been bred to hate, and I know that none of these is the reason why I am fighting. Instead, I see Twelve Oaks and remember how the moonlight slants across the white columns, and the unearthly way the magnolias look, opening under the moon, and how the climbing roses make the side porch shady even at the hottest noon. And I see Mother, sewing there, as she did when I was a little boy. And I hear the darkies coming home across the fields at dusk, tired and singing and ready for supper, and the sound of the windlass as the bucket goes down into the cool well. And there’s the long view down the road to the river, across the cotton fields, and the mist rising from the bottom lands in the twilight. And that is why I’m here who have no love of death or misery or glory and no ha¬tred for anyone. Perhaps that is what is called patriotism, love of home and country. But Melanie, it goes deeper than that. For, Melanie, these things I have named are but the symbols of the thing for which I risk my life, symbols of the kind of life I love. For I am fighting for the old days, the old ways I love so much but which, I fear, are now gone forever, no matter how the die may fall. For, win or lose, we lose just the same.

If we win this war and have the Cotton Kingdom of our dreams, we still have lost, for we will become a differ¬ent people and the old quiet ways will go. The world will be at our doors clamoring for cotton and we can com¬mand our own price. Then, I fear, we will become like the Yankees, at whose money-making activities, acquisi¬tiveness and commercialism we now sneer. And if we lose, Melanie, if we lose!
“I am not afraid of danger or capture or wounds or even death, if death must come, but I do fear that once this war is over, we will never get back to the old times. And I belong in those old times. I do not belong in this mad present of killing and I fear I will not fit into any fu¬ture, try though I may. Nor will you, my dear, for you and I are of the same blood. I do not know what the fu¬ture will bring, but it cannot be as beautiful or as satisfy¬ing as the past.

I lie and look at the boys sleeping near me and I won¬der if the twins or Alex or Cade think these same thoughts. I wonder if they know they are fighting for a Cause that was lost the minute the first shot was fired, for our Cause is really our own way of living and that is gone already. But I do not think they think these things and they are lucky.

I had not thought of this for us when I asked you to marry me. I had thought of life going on at Twelve Oaks as it had always done, peacefully, easily, unchanging. We are alike, Melanie, loving the same quiet things, and I saw before us a long stretch of uneventful years in which to read, hear music and dream. But not this! Never this! That this could happen to us all, this wrecking of old ways, this bloody slaughter and hate! Melanie, nothing is worth it—States’ Rights, nor slaves, nor cotton. Nothing is worth what is happening to us now and what may happen, for if the Yankees whip us the future will be one of in¬credible horror. And, my dear, they may yet whip us.
“I should not write those words. I should not even think them. But you have asked me what was in my heart, and the fear of defeat is there. Do you remember at the bar¬becue, the day our engagement was announced, that a man named Butler, a Charlestonian by his accent, nearly caused a fight by his remarks about the ignorance of Southerners? Do you recall how the twins wanted to shoot him because he said we had few foundries and factories, mills and ships, arsenals and machine shops? Do you recall how he said the Yankee fleet could bottle us up so tightly we could not ship out our cotton? He was right. We are fighting the Yankees’ new rifles with Revolutionary War muskets, and soon the blockade will be too tight for even medical supplies to slip in. We should have paid heed to cynics like Butler who knew, instead of statesmen who felt—and talked. He said, in effect, that the South had nothing with which to wage war but cotton and arrogance. Our cotton is worthless and what he called arrogance is all that is left. But I call that arrogance matchless courage. If—”