I would not be surprised if every gardener I asked had something definite that they liked or envied. Gardeners always have something they like intensely and in particular; at any moment, they like in particular this, or they like in particular that, nothing in front of them is repulsive and fills them with hatred, or this thing would not be in front of them. They only love, and they only love in the moment; when the moment has passed, they love the memory of the moment, they love the memory of that particular plant or that particular bloom, but the plant or the bloom itself they have moved on from, they have left it behind for something else, something new, especially something from far away, and from so far away, a place where they will never live (the Himalayas, just for example).
Of all the benefits that come from having endured childhood, certainly among them will be the garden and the desire to be involved with gardening. A gardener's grandmother will have grown such, and such a rose, and the smell of that rose at dusk, when the gardener was a child and walking in the grandmother's footsteps as she went about her business in her garden—the memory of that smell of the rose combined with the memory of that smell of the grandmother's skirt will forever inform and influence the life of the gardener, inside or outside the garden itself. And so in a conversation with such a person (a gardener), a sentence, a thought that goes something like this—"You know when I was such and such an age, I went to the market for a reason that is no longer of any particular interest to me, but it was there I saw for the first time something that I have never and can never forget"—floats out into the clear air, and the person from whom these words or this thought emanates is standing in front of you all bare and trembly, full of feeling, full of memory. Memory is a gardener's real palette; memory as it summons up the past, memory as it shapes the present, memory as it dictates the future.
I have never been able to grow Meconopsis benticifolia with success, but the picture of it that I have in my mind, a picture made up of memory (I saw it some time ago), a picture made up of "to come" (the future, which is the opposite of remembering), is so intense that whatever happens between me and this plant will never satisfy the picture I have of it. I first saw it in Wayne Winterrowd's garden, and I shall never see this plant again without thinking of him and saying to myself, it shall never look quite like this (the way I saw it in his garden), for in his garden it was itself and beyond comparison, and I will always want it to look that way, growing comfortably in the mountains of Vermont, so far away from the place to which it is endemic, so far away from the place in which it was natural, unnoticed, and so going about its own peculiar ways of perpetuating itself.
I first came to the garden with practicality in mind, a real beginning that would lead to a real end: where to get this, how to grow that. Where to get this was always nearby, a nursery was never too far away; how to grow that led me to acquire volume upon volume, books all with the same advice, but in the end I came to know how to grow the things I like to grow through looking—at other people's gardens. I imagine they acquired knowledge of such things in much the same way.
But we who covet our neighbor's garden must finally return to our own with all its ups and downs, its disappointments, its rewards.
I shall never have the garden I have in my mind, but that for me is the joy of it; certain things can never be realized and so all the more reason to attempt them. A garden, no matter how good it is, must never completely satisfy. The world as we know it, after all, began in a very good garden, a completely satisfying garden —Paradise—but after a while the owner and the occupants wanted more.
我对园丁这一行很了解，因为我自己就是园丁，但我觉得学习园艺一点儿用处也没有。园丁总希望在自己的花园里种上新品种，或是希望在朋友的花园里看到自己没有却很想拥有的植物，所以，我理解园丁们的浮躁，深知他们的弱点。
如果我问及的每一个园丁都能确切地说出他们的喜好，我是不会吃惊的。园丁们总会对某种东西怀有强烈而特殊的喜好。无论何时，他们或者对这个感兴趣，或者对那个情有独钟，在他们眼里，没有什么东西令他们反感和憎恶。他们胸中的爱，只有一时，当这一时刻过去，他们就会去回忆，回忆那种特殊的植物、特殊的花，而忽视了曾经与自己相伴过的花木。他们把这些寻常的花木抛之脑后，记起的也只是那些新品种，尤其是那些来自远方的、遥不可及且杳无人烟的地方（如喜马拉雅）的花木。
漫长的童年里，所有快乐的日子总是在花园中度过，所有的甜蜜中总掺杂着对参加园艺劳作的渴望。一个园艺工作者的祖母会种上某种玫瑰，种上这种在黄昏中散发着芳香的玫瑰；当祖母在花园中忙碌，儿时的园丁便会沿着祖母的足迹走着——玫瑰花的香味混合着祖母衣裙上的气息，这样的记忆，不论园丁是否徜徉于花园，都将永远存留，并影响他一生。因而，在与这么一个人（园丁）交谈中，一句话，一个想法，就像——“我多大多大时，为了某个我现在不再感兴趣的东西去市集，然而，也就是在那里，我第一次看到了我至今没忘也难以忘却的东西”——能让人深思，而说出这话或发出这种感慨的人，正打着赤膊，颤抖着站在你面前，一副感慨颇多、回忆绵绵的样子。回忆是一个园丁真正的调色板；它唤起了陈年往事，筑就了今天的生活，也描绘出明日的美好。
我种植硬叶绿绒蒿从未成功过，但我脑海中总有一幅硬叶绿绒蒿的画面，一幅由回忆组成的画面（我是在很久之前看到它的），一幅由“将来”（未来，回忆的反义词）组成的画面，这幅画面带给我的震撼太大了，我和它之间发生的任何事情都比不上脑海中的已成印象深刻。我第一次见到它时是在韦恩·温特罗德的花园里，后来，每每回忆起硬叶绿绒蒿时，也都会想到韦恩；忆起它的同时，我也对自己说，它不会是这个样子了（我在韦恩的花园看到的那样）。因为，在韦恩的花园里，它是独一无二、无可比拟的，但我希望它能在佛蒙特州的山地中自由地生长，远离它的产地，远离它那自然生长、被人遗弃的家园，用自己独特的方式繁衍不息。
第一次来到这座花园时，我怀着一种脚踏实地的想法。踏实的开始就会有切实的结果：从哪里才能得到它，要怎么种。想弄到这种植物并不难，附近就有苗圃。但怎么种呢？带着这个问题，我翻了很多书，里边的建议千篇一律。最后，我终于想通了——去别人的花园看看，别人怎么种，我就怎么种。我想，他们也是这样学会的吧。
然而，不论是否学会，不论是失望还是满载而归，觊觎邻居花园的我们还是得回到自己的园中。
我不可能拥有自己想象中的花园，但对我而言，那正是乐趣之所在，有些事情是永远无法实现的，因而我们更加有理由去尝试着实现这些。一座花园，不论有多美，都无法令人完全满意。毕竟，就如我们所知道的那样，世界最初就是一个美丽的花园，一个完美的花园——也就是天堂——不久后，这个花园的拥有者和居住者却想要得到更多。
fickleness ['fiklnis] n. 变化无常；浮躁；薄情；易变；反复无常
I feel incisive and vivid, with fickleness faded.
淋漓尽致间，浮躁的情绪慢慢地退去。
hatred ['heitrid] n. 憎恶；憎恨；怨恨
His words stirred up my hatred.
他的话激起了我的仇恨。
palette ['p鎙it] n. 调色板；颜料
This demo shows you how to call the common dialog control color
palette and select a color.
这个演示程序向你展示了如何调用公共对话框控件的调色板以及选择颜色。
endemic [en'demik] adj. 风土的；地方的