原文： "Of making books there is no end," complained the Preacher; and did not perceive how highly he was praising letters as an occupation. There is no end, indeed, to making books or experiments, or to travel, or to gathering wealth. Problem gives rise to problem. We may study for ever, and we are never as learned as we would. We have never made a statue worthy of our dreams. And when we have discovered a continent, or crossed a chain of mountains, it is only to find another ocean or another plain upon the further side. In the infinite universe there is room for our swiftest diligence and to spare. It is not like the works of Carlyle, which can be read to an end. Even in a corner of it, in a private park, or in the neighbourhood of a single hamlet, the weather and the seasons keep so deftly changing that although we walk there for a lifetime there will be always something new to startle and delight us. 译文： 传道者感叹到:"著书立说没有止境",却没发觉他已高度评价了作家这一职业.的确,写作,旅行,积聚财富都是没有终结的.一个问题引发另外一个问题.我们不断学习,且永远达不到心中所渴望的那般学识渊博.我们永远雕刻不出自己心仪的塑像.当发现[考试[大]一个新大陆,或翻过一座山脉时,我们总会看到远方还有未曾涉足的海洋与陆地.宇宙浩渺,总会有供我们勤奋努力的东西,总会有供我们探索的空间.它不像卡莱尔的著作,可以读完.即使在其一角,在一个私人花园,或一个农庄附近,四季轮回,天气瞬息万变,哪怕在那里生活了一辈子,也总会有让我们惊喜的事情.
