“I don’t want to need you cause I can’t have you.” 好多个镜头，泪水都夺眶，止不住地流。这一段美好真挚纯粹的爱情，就不要太过世俗地去衡量评判了，静静感受一下，也当是做了一场梦。
下面是罗伯特的信，英文以及翻译，字字句句都是“我爱你”：
Dear Francesca,
I hope this finds you well. I don’t know when you’ll receive it. Sometime after I’m gone. I’m sixty-five now, and it’s been thirteen years ago today that we met when I came up your lane looking for directions.
I’m gambling that this package won’t upset your life in any way. I just couldn’t bear to think of the cameras sitting in a secondhand case in a camera store or in some stranger’s bands. They’ll be in pretty rough shape by the time you get them.
But, I have no one else to leave them to, and I apologize for putting you at risk by sending them to you.
I was on the road almost constantly from 1965 to 1975. Just to remove some of the temptation to call you or come for you, a temptation I have virtually every waking moment of my life, I took all of the overseas assignments I could find. There have been times, many of them, when I’ve said, “The hell with it. I’m going to Winterset, Iowa, and, whateverthe cost, take Francesca away with me.”
But I remember your words, and I respect your feelings. Maybe you were right; I just don’t know. I do know that driving out of your lane that hot Friday morning was the hardest thing I’ve ever done or will ever do. In fact, I doubt if few men have ever done anything more difficult than that.
I left National Geographic in 1975 and have been devoting the remainder of my shooting years mostly to things of my own choosing, picking up a little work where I can get it, local or regional stuff that keeps me away only a few days at a time. It’s been tough financially, but I get along. I always do.
Much of my work is around Puget Sound. I like it that way. It seems as men get older they turn toward the water.
Oh, yes, I have a dog now, a golden retriever. I call him “Highway” and he travels with me most of the time, head hangingout the window, looking for good shots.
In 1972, I fell down a cliff in Maine, in Acadia National Park, and broke my ankle. The chain and medallion got torn off in the fall. Fortunately they landed close by. I found them again, and a jeweler mended the chain.
I live with dust on my heart. That’s about as well as I can put it. There were women before you, a few, but none after. I made no conscious pledge to celibacy; I’m just not interested.
I once watched a Canada goose whose mate had been shot by hunters. They mate for life, you know. The gander circled the pond for days, and more days after that. When I last saw him, he was swimming alone through the wild rice, still looking. I suppose that analogy is a little too obvious for literary tastes, but it’s pretty much the way I feel.
In my imagination, on foggy mornings or afternoons with the sun bouncing off northwest water, I try to think of where you might be in your life and what you might be doing as I’m thinking of you. Nothing complicated—going out to your garden, sitting on your front porch swing, standing at the sink in your kitchen. Things like that.
I remember everything. How you smelled, how you tasted like the summer. The feel of your skin against mine, and the sound of your whispers as I loved you.
Robert Penn Warren once used the phrase “a world that seems to be God-abandoned.” Not bad, pretty close to how I feel some of the time. But I cannot live that way always. When those feelings become too strong, I load Harry and go down the road with Highway for a few days.
I don’t like feeling sorry for myself. That’s not who I am. And most of the time I don’t feel that way. Instead, I am grateful for having at least found you. We could have flashed by one another like two pieces of cosmic dust.
God or the universe or whatever one chooses to label the great systems of balance and order does not recognize Earth-time.
To the universe, four days is no different than four billion light years. I try to keep that in mind.
But, I am, after all, a man. And all the philosophic rationalizations I can conjure up do not keep me from wanting you, every day, every moment, the merciless wail of time, of time I can never spend with you, deep within my head.
I love you, profoundly and completely. And I always will.
The last cowboy,
Robert
P. S., I put another new engine in Harry last summer, and he’s doing fine.
亲爱的弗朗西丝卡：
希望你一切都好。我不知道你何时能收到此信，总是在我去世以后。我现已六十五岁，我们相逢在十三年前的今日，当我进入你的小巷问路之时。
我把宝押在这个包裹不会扰乱你的生活上，我实在无法忍受让这些相机躺在相机店的二手货橱窗里，或是转入陌生人之手。等它们到你手里时已是相当破旧了，可是我没有别人可以留交，只好寄给你，让你冒风险，很抱歉。
从一九六五年到一九七三年我几乎常年是在大路上。我接受所有我谋求得到的海外派遣，只是为了抵挡给你打电话或来找你的诱惑，而事实上只要我醒着，生活中每时每刻都在这种诱惑。多少次，我对自己说：“去它的吧，我这就去依阿华温特塞特，不惜一切代价要把弗朗西丝卡带走。”
可是我记得你的话，我尊重你的感情。也许你是对的，我不知道。我只知道在那个炎热的星期五从你的小巷开车出来是我一生中做过的最艰难的事以后也决不会再有。事实上我怀疑有多少男人曾做过这样艰难的事。
我于一九七五年离开以后的摄影生涯就致力于拍摄我自己挑选的对象，有机会时就在当地或者本地区找点事做，一次只外出几天经济比较困难，不过还过得去，我总是过得去的。
我的许多作品都是围绕着皮吉特海湾。我喜欢这样。似乎人老了就转向水。
对了，我现在有一条狗，一条金色的猎狗。我叫它“大路”，它大多数时间都伴我旅行，脑袋伸到窗外，寻找捕捉对象。
一九七二年我在缅因州阿卡迪亚国家公园的一座峭壁上摔了下来，跌断了踝骨，项链和圆牌一起给跌断了，幸亏是落在近处，我又找到了，请一位珠宝商修复了项链。
我心已蒙上了灰尘。我想不出来更恰当的说法。在你之前有过几个女人在你之后一个也没有，我并没有要发誓要保持独身，只是不感兴趣。
我有一次观察过一只加拿大鹅，它的伴侣被猎人杀死了。你知道这种鹅的伴侣是从一而终的。那雄鹅成天围着池塘转，日复一日。我最后一次看见它，它还在寻觅。这一比喻太浅露了，不够文学味儿，可这大致就我的感受。
在雾蒙蒙的早晨，或是午后太阳在西北方水面上跳动时，我常试图想象你在哪里，在做什么。没什么复杂的事-不外乎到你的园子里去，坐在前廊的秋千上，站在你厨房洗涤池前之类的事。
我样样都记得：你的气息，你夏天一般的味道，你紧贴我身上的皮肤的手感还有在我爱着你时你说悄悄话的声音。
罗伯特•潘•华伦用过一句话：“一个似乎为上帝所遗弃的世界。”说得好，很接近我有时的感觉。但我不能总是这样生活。当这些感觉太强烈时，我就给哈里装车，与大路共处几天。
我不喜欢自怜自艾。我不是这种人。而且大多数时候我不是这种感觉。相反，我有感激之情，因为我至少找到了你。我们本来也可能像一闪而过的两粒宇宙尘埃一样失之交臂。
上帝，或是宇宙，或是不管叫它什么，总之那平衡与秩序的大系统是不承认地球上的时间的。对宇宙来说，四天与四兆光年没有什么区别。我努力记住这一点。但是我毕竟是一个男人。所有我能记起的一切哲学推理都不能阻止我要你，每天，每时，每刻，在我头脑深处是时间残忍的悲号，那永不能与你相聚的时间。
我爱你，深深地，全身心地爱你，直到永远。
最后的牛仔：罗伯特
又：我去年夏天给哈里装了一个新引擎，它现在挺好。
看完电影之后再看这封信，觉得自己是写这封信的人，同时又觉得这封信是写给自己的……
“This kind of certainty comes but just once in a lifetime. ”这样确切的爱，一生只有一回，希望遇到的时候可以好好去爱。
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