متن زیر را به فارسی تبدیل کن

Consider this passage from To the Lighthouse.
While he walked up the drive and Lily Briscoe said yes and no and
capped his comments (for she was in love with them all, in love with this
world) he weighed Ramsay’s case, commiserated him, envied him, as if
he had seen him divest himself of all those glories of isolation and
austerity which crowned him in youth to cumber himself definitely with
fluttering wings and clucking domesticities. They gave him something—
William Bankes acknowledged that; it would have been pleasant if Cam
had stuck a flower in his coat or clambered over his shoulder, as over
her father’s, to look at a picture of Vesuvius in eruption; but they had
also, his old friends could not but feel, destroyed something. What would
a stranger think now? What did this Lily Briscoe think? Could one help
noticing that habits grew on him? eccentricities, weaknesses perhaps? It
was astonishing that a man of his intellect could stoop so low as he did
—but that was too harsh a phrase—could depend so much as he did
upon people’s praise.
This passage has numerous telling features of the Woolf style: a wide range
of topics that barely hang together, parenthetical insertions, sometimes using
dashes instead of parentheses, question marks in mid-sentence positions, a
sliding narrative center (is a specific thought coming from William Bankes or
Lily Briscoe?), and as a source of that sliding quality an indirect way of
revealing thought. The thought flows from character, but we’re never sure how
directly or what degree of mediation has been practiced in conveying that
thought.
It’s a mystery, always, and a good one. So here’s the Law of Streaming
Narrative: All representations of consciousness are arbitrary and artificial. It’s
impossible to see into another mind, so writers therefore employ devices that
create the illusion of consciousness. It’s the same as any other sort of narration.
Omniscience doesn’t exist among humans, yet we accept the illusion of it in
fiction. The “limited” or “sympathetic” viewpoint is an imaginative construct,
not a journalistic reality. With all these approaches, we suspend what we know,
namely, that they are untrue to our experience of the world, in favor of the
possibility that they will help us arrive at something we desire, whether that is
insight into the human condition or pleasurable reading. We’re neither dupes nor
dopes. Rather, we want something the writer has to offer, and we agree to play
along with her game in order to acquire that something. It’s not about what’s
“easy” or “hard” but about what achieves the mutual ends of both participants in
this transaction. We’re even willing to meet new and challenging demands,
sometimes, if the rewards are great enough. The demands of stream-of￾consciousness fiction were steep, so not all that many readers were willing, at
least initially, to meet the challenge. Time, however, has shown that those writers
were onto something. Responding to the new psychology and the new
philosophy, they created in their turn new fiction that gave insights into the
workings of the mind that no earlier techniques had ever provided. Not a bad
day’s work.
Woolf and Joyce, Faulkner and Dorothy Richardson, Djuna Barnes and
maybe John Dos Passos. There are a few others, but the club that could be
stream-of-consciousness writers was never large. So why all the fuss? Not
because of how many imitators they inspired, but because of how their
techniques influenced other writers. Novelists found new ways of presenting
consciousness because of the daring experiments of a few pioneers. If no one
after them writes stream of consciousness, it’s because everyone after them does.
Writers as various as Lawrence Durrell, Margaret Atwood, Graham Swift,
Anthony Burgess, Henry Green, Edna O’Brien, and John Updike can pick and
choose among the techniques developed by Woolf and Co., employing the
devices within otherwise comparatively stable and even conventional narrative
frameworks. We don’t have to be Einstein, thank heaven, to have access to
relativity; he did the heavy lifting for us.
Oh, right, a quay? Just a dock that knows somebody. Which leads me to…