Translate the following two passages into Chinese.Every time I sit down to write, and let my mind go easy, the words, it is so dark, or something to do with darkness. Terror. The terror of this city. Fear of being alone. Only one thing stops me from jumping up and screaming or running to the telephone to ring somebody, it is to deliberately think myself back into that hot light...white light, light, closed eyes, the red light hot on the eyeballs. The rough pulsing heat of a granite boulder. My palm flat on it, moving over the lichens. The grain of the lichens. Tiny, like minute animals" ears, a warm rough silk on my palm, dragging insistently at the pores of my skin. And hot. The smell of the sun on hot rock. Dry and hot, and the silk of dust on my cheek, smelling of sun. The sun. Letters from the agent about the novel. Every time one of them arrives I want to laugh—the laughter of disgust. Bad laughter, the laughter of helplessness, a self-punishment. Unreal letters, when I think of a slope of hot pored granite, my cheeks against hot rock, the red light on my eyelids. Lunch with the agent. Unreal—the novel is more and more a sort of creature with its own life. Frontiers of War now has nothing to do with me, it is a property of other people.
In too much of the earth there is want, discord, danger. New forces and new nations stir and strive across the earth, with power to bring, by their fate, great good or great evil to the free world"s future. From the deserts of North Africa to the islands of the South Pacific, one-third of all mankind has entered upon a historic struggle for a new freedom:freedom from grinding poverty. Across all continents, nearly a billion people seek, sometimes almost in desperation , for the skills and knowledge and assistance by which they may satisfy from their own resources, the material wants common to all mankind. No nation, however old or great, escapes this tempest of change and turmoil.