两个g的加速度

版本一：
陈鼓应 译
故事是这样开始的：皇帝下了一道圣旨给你，你这个卑微的子民，在皇帝的阳光之前，退缩到最远地方的无足重视的阴影。皇帝从他那垂死的床上，下了一道只给你一个人的圣旨。他命令那个使者跪在床边，把圣旨轻轻地说给他听；他说了这么多，于是就叫使者把圣旨复说一遍给他听。然后，他把头点了一下，表示这使者复说的都对了。是的，在聚集前来候他驾崩的观者之前——所有阻碍的墙壁都推倒了，在广大的和高高的阶梯上，一行列地站着一群王子——在所有这些人面前，他下达了他的旨意。使者立即踏上他的途程；他是一个有体力，不疲乏的人。一下用右臂推，一下用左臂推，他从人群中为自己推开一条道路来；假使他遇到了阻碍，他就指着自己的胸前，那儿闪耀着太阳的象征；这路，对于他比对于其他的任何人要容易走。但是人群是如此的拥挤，他们的数目无尽止。要是他能到达空旷之处，那他要飞得多么快呀！而无疑的，你就马上会听到他那受欢迎的拳头敲在你门上的声音。但是他虽然用尽力气，他还是在宫内的人群中夺路出去，他永远不会到达这人群的尾端；就算他能成功地到达，结果也是无所收获的；因为他还得再夺路下那个阶梯；就算他也成功了，还是无所收获的，因为还有宫殿要穿过；而穿过宫殿之后则是第二道的外殿；这之后又是阶梯和宫殿；又再是另外一道的宫殿；这样类推下去，要走好几千年；最后，就算他终于冲到最外层的宫门——但是，永远不会，永远不会发生这事情——帝国的首都要横亘在他的面前，那世界的中心，以它本身的废料来填塞出路。没有人能从这里打得开一条路，若要从死人那里带出信息，那是不可能的。——但是，你坐在你的窗前，当夜晚来临，还梦想着这圣旨。

版本二
温仁百 译
你，孤单单的一个可怜的仆人，渺小的影子在皇帝这轮太阳前被甩出老远。所谓的皇帝病入膏盲，从病榻上特意给你传来一个旨意。他让钦差跪在榻前，对着耳朵悄声传授了圣旨。这是一道对皇帝来说至关重要的圣旨，所以，他让钦差对着他的耳朵复述一遍，然后点点头，示意一字不差。所有挡道的屋墙都已被拆除，在硕大无际的台阶上，帝国的大臣们恭立于周围，当着这些探望圣上龙体者的面，皇帝打发钦差上路。钦差随即出发了。他身体健壮，从不知疲倦，两只胳膊交替着拨开人群，开出一条道路。如遇抵抗，他就亮出胸前的太阳标志，于是便畅通无阻，其势无可比拟。然而人群如海，漫无边际，房屋也一望无边。若是遇到一块空地，他巴不得想飞起来，紧接着你可能就听到他的双拳在猛打你的家门。然事非如此。他虽然不停地左冲右突，却怎么也冲不出内宫房屋的包围。他也决不会冲破它们的包围，即便冲出去，也徒劳无获。他必须冲下台阶，而即使成功，也将一无所获。还得穿越那些庭院，庭院之后又有二道皇宫包围，然后复又台阶、庭院以及皇宫，如此以往，以至千年。纵使冲出最后一道门槛——此乃妄想，永不可及——还有皇城横挡于眼前，它乃世界之中心，沉渣堆积如山。没有谁能够越过这个地方，更不用说一个带着死人旨意的人。 ——然而，你却凝坐窗前，在暮色中梦想着那道圣旨的降临。

版本三
by Ian Johnston
(This translation, which has been prepared by Ian Johnston of Malaspina University-College, Nanaimo, British Columbia, Canada, is in the public domain and may be used by anyone for any purpose, without permission and without charge, provided the source is acknowledged.)
An Imperial Message
The Emperor—so they say—has sent a message, directly from his death bed, to you alone, his pathetic subject, a tiny shadow which has taken refuge at the furthest distance from the imperial sun. He ordered the herald to kneel down beside his bed and whispered the message in his ear. He thought it was so important that he had the herald speak it back to him. He confirmed the accuracy of verbal message by nodding his head. And in front of the entire crowd of those witnessing his death—all the obstructing walls have been broken down, and all the great ones of his empire are standing in a circle on the broad and high soaring flights of stairs—in front of all of them he dispatched his herald. The messenger started off at once, a powerful, tireless man. Sticking one arm out and then another, he makes his way through the crowd. If he runs into resistance, he points to his breast where there is a sign of the sun. So he moves forwards easily, unlike anyone else. But the crowd is so huge; its dwelling places are infinite. If there were an open field, how he would fly along, and soon you would hear the marvellous pounding of his fist on your door. But instead of that, how futile are all his efforts. He is still forcing his way through the private rooms of the innermost palace. Never will he win his way through. And if he did manage that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to fight his way down the steps, and, if he managed to do that, nothing would have been achieved. He would have to stride through the courtyards, and after the courtyards through the second palace encircling the first, and, then again, through stairs and courtyards, and then, once again, a palace, and so on for thousands of years. And if he finally burst through the outermost door—but that can never, never happen—the royal capital city, the centre of the world, is still there in front of him, piled high and full of sediment. No one pushes his way through here, certainly not someone with a message from a dead man. But you sit at your window and dream of that message when evening comes.

版本四
by Donna Freed
A Message from the Emperor
The Emperor, or so they say, has sent you – his single most contemptible subject, the miniscule shadow that has fled the farthest distance from the imperial sun – only to you has the Emperor sent a message from his deathbed. He has had the messenger kneel beside his bed and he has whispered the message to him; so important was this message that he has made him repeat it in his ear. He has confirmed the accuracy of the words with a nod of his head. And then, before all the spectators assembled to witness his death – every wall obstructing the view had been knocked down and on the free-standing, vaulted staircases, all the dignitaries of the empire were gathered in a circle – before them all, he has dispatched the messenger. The messenger sets off at once, a strong and tireless man; sometimes thrusting ahead with one arm, sometimes with the other, he beats a path through the crowds; where he meets resistance, he points to the sign of the sun on his breast, and he forges ahead with an ease that could be matched by no other. But the throng is so thick, there’s no end to their dwellings. If only there were an open field before him, how fast he would fly; soon you would surely hear the glorious rapping of his knock on your door. But instead, how vain his efforts are; he is still only forcing his way through the chambers of the innermost palace; he will never reach the end of them, and even if he did he’d be no closer; he would have to fight his way down the steps, and even if he did he’d be no closer; he would still have to cross the courtyards, and after the courtyards the second, outer palace, and still more stairs and courtyards, and still another palace, and so on for thousands of years, and even if he did finally burst through the outermost gate – but that could never, ever happen – the empire’s capital, the center of the world, flooded with the dregs of humanity, would still lie before him. There is no one who could force his way through here, least of all with a message from a dead man. – But you sit at your window and dream it up as evening falls.
(这个就是我手头的版本，封面很耐看）

老光在《哲学文本》一文中说，你看着信使走得那么辛苦那么滑稽。你不再取笑他，也不再取笑自己——
你坐在你的窗前，
当夜晚来临，
还梦想着这圣旨。
于是，你从一个被抛入这荒诞世界的可怜虫，变成了一位体味诗意的读者。因为你有梦想。