《四季随笔》是吉辛的散文代表作。其中叙述对隐士赖克罗夫特醉心于书籍、自然景色与回忆过去的生活，其实是吉辛通过赖克罗夫特的自述，来抒发自己的感情，剖析自己的内心世界。因而本书是一部最富自传色彩的小品文集。

吉辛自己穷困的一生，他对文学名著的爱好与追求，对于大自然恬静生活的向往，在书中均有充分的反映。本书分为春、夏、秋、冬四个部分，文笔优美，行文流畅，是英国文学中小品文的珍品之一。

以下是由网友分享的《四季随笔》节选 - 春 01的内容，让我们一起来感受吉辛的四季吧!

For more than a week my pen has lain untouched. I have written nothing for seven whole days, not even a letter. Except during one or two bouts of illness, such a thing never happened in my life before. In my life; the life, that is, which had to be supported by anxious toil; the life which was not lived for living's sake, as all life should be, but under the goad of fear. The earning of money should be a means to an end; for more than thirty years—I began to support myself at sixteen—I had to regard it as the end itself.

已经一个多星期没提笔了。整整七天，我什么也没写，连封信都没有写。除了一两次发病时，这样的事从没在我的生活中发生过。我的生活，是怎样的生活啊，靠着焦虑的劳作才得以维持;我的生活不像本来应该的那样—为了生活本身，而总要受着恐惧的驱策。挣钱应该是达到目的的手段，而三十多年来—我十六岁开始自立—我却不得不将挣钱当作终极目标。

I could imagine that my old penholder feels reproachfully towards me. Has it not served me well? Why do I, in my happiness, let it lie there neglected, gathering dust? The same penholder that has lain against my forefinger day after day, for—how many years? Twenty, at least; I remember buying it at a shop in Tottenham Court Road. By the same token I bought that day a paper-weight, which cost me a whole shilling—an extravagance which made me tremble. The penholder shone with its new varnish, now it is plain brown wood from end to end. On my forefinger it has made a callosity.

我可以想象旧笔杆对我心怀怨气。它待我不够好吗?我怎么可以只顾自己享乐，把它冷落在角落里蒙尘。这个曾经日复一日倚在我食指上的笔杆陪伴我多久了?至少二十年了吧。记得我是在托特纳姆法院路上的一家商店买到它的。那天我还买了一个镇纸，花了一个先令，如此的奢侈让我自己都有些发抖。刚买的时候笔杆闪着清漆的亮光，现在它浑身上下只剩下朴素的棕黑木色了。我的食指上还留有它磨起的一层老茧。

Old companion, yet old enemy! How many a time have I taken it up, loathing the necessity, heavy in head and heart, my hand shaking, my eyes sick-dazzled! How I dreaded the white page I had to foul with ink! Above all, on days such as this, when the blue eyes of Spring laughed from between rosy clouds, when the sunlight shimmered upon my table and made me long, long all but to madness, for the scent of the flowering earth, for the green of hillside larches, for the singing of the skylark above the downs. There was a time—it seems further away than childhood—when I took up my pen with eagerness; if my hand trembled it was with hope. But a hope that fooled me, for never a page of my writing deserved to live. I can say that now without bitterness. It was youthful error, and only the force of circumstance prolonged it. The world has done me no injustice; thank Heaven I have grown wise enough not to rail at it for this! And why should any man who writes, even if he writes things immortal, nurse anger at the world's neglect? Who asked him to publish? Who promised him a hearing? Who has broken faith with him? If my shoemaker turns me out an excellent pair of boots, and I, in some mood of cantankerous unreason, throw them back upon his hands, the man has just cause of complaint. But your poem, your novel, who bargained with you for it? If it is honest journeywork, yet lacks purchasers, at most you may call yourself a hapless tradesman. If it comes from on high, with what decency do you fret and fume because it is not paid for in heavy cash? For the work of man's mind there is one test, and one alone, the judgment of generations yet unborn. If you have written a great book, the world to come will know of it. But you don't care for posthumous glory. You want to enjoy fame in a comfortable armchair. Ah, that is quite another thing. Have the courage of your desire. Admit yourself a merchant, and protest to gods and men that the merchandise you offer is of better quality than much which sells for a high price. You may be right, and indeed it is hard upon you that Fashion does not turn to your stall.

老伙计，也是老对头!多少次我拿起它，那种写作的紧迫感令我憎恶，感觉心情沉重，头昏目眩，手不住地颤抖。我多么惧怕那张摆在面前等着我用墨水来玷污的白纸!尤其像今天这样的天气，春天的碧眼在玫瑰色的云朵间笑意盈盈，阳光在我的书桌上闪烁，我渴望大地上鲜花盛开的芬芳，山坡落叶松的翠绿，和高地上空歌唱的云雀，我心旌神荡，几欲癫狂。曾几何时，似乎是比童年更早的时候，我提起笔时，还存着一颗热切的心。如果我的手颤抖，那是因为心中充满了希望。但这希望愚弄了我，因为我写的东西没有一页值得留存世间。我现在这样说，心中毫无愤懑之感。它是年少轻狂的错误，而际遇所迫又让这错误延续下去。世界待我不可谓不厚，感谢老天，我现在已经足够睿智，不会为此问责世界。一个写作的人，即使是不朽作品的著者，又有什么理由因为世界的冷落而恼怒?谁要你出版了?谁向你允诺会有读者?谁又对你食言了?如果鞋匠给我做了一双不错的靴子，而我仅仅因为心情暴躁，无缘无故把靴子扔回他的手上，那他就有正当的理由抱怨。但你的诗，你的小说，谁和你讨价还价说要买下了?如果你的作品果然是认真创作的成果，却没有买家问津，那你顶多算是个不走运的商贩。如果作品来自上天赐予的灵感，你又怎好因为没人出天价购买而恼怒发火呢?要知道，人类的智力成果有且只有一个检验标准，那就是未出生的后来人的评价。如果你确实创作了一部伟大的著作，将来世界会知道它。然而你对身后荣誉根本不感兴趣，你只想坐在舒服的沙发上享受现世名誉加身。哈，这就完全是另外一回事了。鼓起欲望带给你的勇气，承认自己是一名商人，向上帝和人们大声疾呼，你的货物比那些高价商品质量更好。你也许是对的，但如果潮流不照顾你的货摊，那你的日子可不会好过。