I've been spared a lot, one of the blessed of the earth, at least one of its lucky, that privileged handful of the dramatically prospering, the sort whose secrets are asked, like the hundred-year-old man. There is no secret, of course; most of what happens to us is simple accident. Highish birth and a smooth network of appropriate connection like a tea service written into the will. But surely something in the blood too, locked into good fortune's dominant genes like a blast ripening in a time bomb. Set to go off, my good looks and intelligence, yet exceptional still, take away my mouthful of silver spoon and lapful of luxury. Something my own, not passed on or handed down, something seized, wrested—my good character, hopefully, my taste perhaps. What's mine, what's mine? Say taste—the soul's harmless appetite.
我一直活得无忧无虑，深得上帝垂爱，至少算个幸运儿，少数人才享有的尊荣富贵，我垂手得之。就像百岁人瑞总有人讨教，我的秘诀也总有人探询。当然，秘诀谈不上，人间之事大多纯属偶然。高贵的出身、顺畅的关系网有如凭遗嘱继承的茶具，随我所用。当然，我的幸运也有某种与生俱来的因素，一种血液里固有的强势基因;它像定时炸弹，到时就会爆炸。一旦爆炸，我出类拔萃的相貌和智慧将会使口衔银匙、满堂金玉的身世完全微不足道。我的成功源自我自己特有的东西，不是祖传的福荫，是某种我拼命抓住、努力得到的东西——我良好的性格或品味。那么，究竟什么才是我自己特有的东西?是什么呢?是品味吧一一那种无害的心灵欲求。
