متن زیر را به فارسی ترجمه کن

N.B.: While Management has always done its best to avoid plot spoilers, it finds
that there may be no way around them in the present chapter. It regrets any
inconvenience and apologizes in advance.
SOMETIMES I WISH I’D been born in the nineteenth century. Sure, there were lots of social strictures one
didn’t dare violate and those high, starched collars, but on the other hand I could have carried one of those
really cool canes with malachite or ivory heads. One could carry one these days, but the look is a trifle
affected, don’t you think? Also on the plus side: being able to appreciate the endings of Victorian novels.
I’m a child of the mid-twentieth century, though, and I find I prefer my endings a little messy. The greatest
novel of my century ends with the word “yes,” but we’re not sure what it’s assenting to. My era is one of
indeterminacy and equivocation, and I like it that way. When Updike has Rabbit Angstrom run at the end of
Rabbit, Run, what is he running toward, or from? When Nabokov has Pnin drive out of town at the end of
his eponymous novel, where’s he going? Faulkner has Quentin Compson cry out in his mind, at the end of
Absalom, Absalom! in response to the question of why he hates the South, “I dont. I dont! I dont hate it! I
dont hate it!” What is resolved by that ending? Nothing. What do we learn? By the escalation of end
punctuation, going from a period to the succession of exclamation points, something is driving Quentin
wild, but we can’t say quite what, nor does the text.
I love it. But then, I have lived through the era of Waiting for Godot and
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, of films by Stanley Kubrick and Robert Altman,
of novel theory by Roland Barthes and Alain Robbe-Grillet. The novels of my
era, The Magus and The Floating Opera and Midnight’s Children and Beloved,
would be incomprehensible to Victorian readers. I live after relativity and
quantum theory, after the Battle of the Somme and Nagasaki and Auschwitz,
after the Long March and the Khmer Rouge. Certainty is a stretch, particularly in
the matter of endings, after all that. Besides, I’d just look silly with a frock coat
and an ivory-headed cane. But my Victorian counterparts? They loved order and
completion. For them, novels needed to be finished. Resolved. Tidy, even.
Try this on for size. You’ve been reading a novel for what seems like months
(may have been months, in fact). You’ve got the fat part in your left hand and a
very few pages in your right. Now here’s what happens. The Hero, who has had
some difficulty, is renewed. He finds his old tormentors from childhood still as
nasty as ever. Two minor characters who have slid into and out of the story for
absolute ages have married, as they should have done four hundred pages earlier
(yes, it’s that long), and one of them has even died. One villain has been caught
and put in prison for life for fraud against the Bank of England (proving, one
guesses, the maxim “Go big or go home”); he says the experience has improved
him immensely and recommends prison for anyone needing to straighten out his
life. But wait, there’s more. Another villain is discovered to be in prison as well,
this one for a more straightforward robbery that failed. Several good persons are
found to be living life as ever, although if they’ve been especially good, they are
rewarded with matrimony. Several characters have died, and although the
circumstances are varied, the Hero learns a valuable life lesson from each. The
wife who made him wretched has died, and from that he learns not to trust love,
or at least the sillier romantic notions of same. One good-hearted soul who was
forever in financial difficulty has, unaccountably, been made a judge. The Hero,
having learned about love the hard way, discovers that a truer love was right in
front of him all the time, back when he was too impetuous and shallow to notice.
The owner of this love, unaccountably, doesn’t hold the Hero’s bad conduct
against him, and they marry quicker than you can say Jack Robinson. Or David
Copperfield.
You think I’m kidding? Okay, again, with names. Dora, the wife with whom
he was so unhappy, dies. In a shipwreck, Steerforth and Ham both die, Ham in a
heroic rescue attempt, Steerforth, presumably of drowning but more probably of
terminal triviality and cruelty (since he led David down that path, he has to die to
show David the error of his ways). Uriah Heep is in prison for life, and really
rather happy about it, considering, and Littimer is there, too. In an almost
Kafkaesque gesture, Mr. Creakle, the horrible schoolmaster of David’s youth,
has found just punishment in being effectively jailed himself, although since he
is the magistrate in charge of the prison, he cannot see the irony. David
overcomes his romantic disillusionment through experiencing real love with
Agnes, whom he marries in a lightning-round courtship. Along the way, he
realizes the goodness of Mr. Peggotty, Ham, Miss Betsy, Dr. Strong and Annie,
and Peggotty herself. He shows us that transformation to the good is not only
possible, it is rewarded, through the fates of Little Em’ly Peggotty, Mrs.
Gummidge, and, most especially, himself. The good people get rewarded, the
bad punished, the righteous uplifted, and in general, justice prevails in the world.