At that time, however, I could not appreciate the value of these new pleasures. These pleasures are not given to me by a girl I love who loves her, but by a girl who plays with me who has no impression of the real Hilbert in her mind and lacks another one who can appreciate the value of happiness (only such a heart can appreciate the value). Even when I returned home, I could not taste these pleasures, because every day I had to put off till tomorrow the hope of a serious, quiet and happy stare at Hilbert, and hope that she could finally express her love for me and explain the reason why she had hidden it so far; that's exactly what I had to do. Let me see the past as insignificant, focus only on looking forward, and see her friendly expressions to me not only as general expressions, but as steps, so that I can rise step by step, and finally reach a state of happiness that I haven't met so far.
Sometimes she gave me some friendly gestures, but sometimes she seemed unwilling to meet me, which made me sad, and it often happened on the days when I thought I could best realize my hopes. I was sure that Hillbert was going to the Champs Elysees, and I felt a sense of joy and happiness. When I went into the living room early in the morning to kiss my mother, she was ready for her hair. Her dark buns had been combed, and her white, fat, beautiful hands still had the scent of soap. I saw only her straight on the piano. Standing on a pillar of dust, and listening to the hand-organ playing the song "Return of the Parade" outside the window, I realized that just last night, the cold winter had passed away, and unexpectedly ushered in a brilliant spring. When we had lunch, the lady opposite us opened the window and in a flash let a sunshine pass by my chair, sweeping the whole dining room one step at a time, where she began her lunch break and then came back to rest. At school, when I had a lesson at one o'clock, the sun shone on my desk with its golden light, which made me very anxious, because it seemed to invite me to the festival, and I could not be invited before three o'clock, until then Franois could come to the school gate to pick me up and walk through the golden color together.* Sunshine, the bustling streets of pedestrians, to the Champs-Elysees; the balconies on both sides of the road, like the sun off the wall, rises the heat, like golden clouds floating in front of the house. Alas! But in the Champs Elysees, I didn't see Hilbert. She hasn't come yet. I sat motionless on the lawn nurtured by the invisible sun, which illuminated the grass tips everywhere. The pigeons perched on the lawn were like ancient statues unearthed from the gardener's pickaxe on the Holy land. My eyes were fixed on the horizon, waiting for Hilbert's figure at all times. As her governess appeared behind the statue, the statue held the sunbathed child in her hand forward to receive the sun's blessing. The woman reader of the Tribune was sitting in her armchair, still in her old position. She waved kindly to a gardener and shouted to him, "What a beautiful day!" The woman who rented the chair came up to her and charged for it. She made all kinds of gestures and stuffed the ten-year-old rent voucher into the opening of her glove as if it were a bunch of flowers. In order to show her gratitude to the donator, she wanted to find a place that she liked most. When she found this position, she swung her head around, pulled the cylindrical fur scarf, showed her one end of the Yellow | Color * paper that was exposed to her wrist, and with a woman on her face pointing to her chest, she said to the young man, "Look, this is the rose you gave me!" The kind of smile.
I led Franois to meet Hilbert, and went all the way to the Arc de Triomphe without meeting her. I thought she must not come, so I went back to the lawn. Suddenly, in front of the Trojan Horse, the little girl with a sharp voice came to me and said, "Quick, quick, Hilbert has been here for a quarter of an hour and is about to leave. We're waiting for you to play captive. It turned out that when I was walking along Champs Elysees Street, Hillbert came from Bouassi - when Gra Street came, Miss took advantage of the fine weather to buy something for herself, and Mr. Swan came to see his daughter. So that's why I'm not; I shouldn't have been far away from the lawn; no one knows with certainty which way Hillbert must come, sooner or later, and the waiting makes me feel more excited not only about the whole Champs Elysees Street and the whole afternoon - they're like a long period of time and space, at every point in it. At one moment, the image of Hilbert may appear - and the image of Hilbert itself makes me more excited, because behind the image, I feel that the hidden arrow hit me not at half past two but at four o'clock; she is not wearing a beret when she is exercising today, but she is wearing a beret when she is exercising. It was a visiting hat; in front of the Ambassador's Theatre, not between the two puppet theatres, I could vaguely see what she had done when I couldn't follow Hilbert, and what had made it impossible for her not to go out or not to stay at home, the one I was unfamiliar with at the time. There's a touch of the mystery of living separately. When I started our game of capturing prisoners as soon as I followed the instructions of the sharp-voiced girl, I saw Hilbert so active and reckless in front of us that he bowed respectfully to the lady who read the Tribune (she said to her, "What a nice sun, it's like a fire") with a shy smile. Speaking to her, the restrained air made me see a little girl who was different from Hilbert in her parents'home, beside her parents' friends, out-of-town visitors, part of her life that I was not familiar with, and the mystery of her part of life that I was not familiar with made me feel so excited. Move. But what happened to her part of life? Among them, I was most impressed by Mr. Swan, who came to pick up his daughter in a moment. Hilbert lives in her parents'home. She listens to them in study, games, making friends and so on. So for me, Mr. and Mrs. Swan have an unparalleled and unknown thing and a gloomy charm, which is the same for Hilbert, but they are better than her. What's more, they seem to her to be the Almighty God, the root of her qualities. For me, everything related to them is my constant concern; Mr. Swan was a frequent friend of mine when he was with my parents, but it did not arouse my curiosity. Now, on the day he came to the Champs Elysees to pick up Hillbert, I saw his grey hat and the cloak. When I was wearing my coat, my heart could not help jumping up until I calmed down. His appearance was as touching as a series of works we had just read about him. His most subtle features still moved me as a historical figure who thrilled us. When I heard of his association with the Count of Paris in Gombre, it seemed to me that it had nothing to do with me, but now it was a remarkable thing in my eyes, as if no one else had known the Orleans family except him; now he was in the muddy air of all the people who came and went to the Champs Elysees. In the middle of the stream, observing them did not require them to look at him differently (he was so dressed that no one could remember to look at him differently), but it was those contacts that made him so extraordinary.
His greetings to Hilbert's companions were courteous, even to me, and although he had been at odds with my family, he did not seem to recognize me (which reminds me that he often met me in the countryside; I remember that, but the memory is blurred, for he has never recognized me. Ever since I met Hilbert, Swan has been her father in my mind, not Gombre's Swan anymore; now I have classified his name in a completely different category from the concepts contained in the series it included, and when I have to think about him now, I don't need that series anymore. Because he has become another person; however, I still connect him with the guest of our family through an artificial, secondary, horizontal line; since nothing is of any value except to the extent that my love can benefit from it, when I look back on those years. I was ashamed and sorry that I couldn't write them off; Swan, who is standing in front of me in the Champs Elysees, may not have mentioned my name to him yet. I used to be so ridiculous in his eyes when my mother was with him, as well as my father and grandparents. When I drink coffee on the table in the garden, I often send for my mother to come upstairs to my bedroom and say good night to each other. He told Hilbert that he could let her play a plate, wait for her for 15 minutes, then sit down in an iron chair like everyone else, pay the rent with the hand Philip VII used to hold, and we would play on the lawn and blow the rainbow-colored pigeon into the sky. Their bodies are heart-shaped, lilies in the bird kingdom, and they are allowed to live in safe places. Some fly to big stone bowls, bow their heads, and their mouths are invisible, indicating that they are full of fruits or grains to feed them. Others perch on the forehead of statues as if in some ancient works in order to make them one thousand pieces. The colour of the stone of the law is somewhat changed and the glazed ornaments are added, and when the ornament is worn by a goddess, a specific adjective is added to the image (just like all of us have different names), which makes it a new god.
On such a sunny day, my hopes were not fulfilled, and I no longer had the courage to hide my disappointment from Hilbert. Idiot
"I just had a lot to ask you," I said to her. "I think today's day is very important for our friendship, but you're leaving as soon as you arrive!
Come early tomorrow so that I can talk to you."
Her face was radiant and she jumped up with joy and answered:
"Friend, don't count on it tomorrow. I can't come! There's a tea party in the afternoon; I can't come the day after tomorrow. I'm going to go to a friend's window to see King Diodosie driving there. I'm going to see Michel Strogov the day after tomorrow. In a few days, it's Christmas and the holidays. Maybe the family will take me to the south. That's great! But if I go south, I'll get less than one Christmas tree; I won't be here even if I stay in Paris, anyway, and I'm going to visit my mother. Goodbye, Dad is calling me."
Michel Strogov is a script adapted from Jules Verne's thriller novel of the same name.
I went home with Franois from the sunset street, but on a night when the festivities were over. I can't walk my legs.
"There's nothing strange about that," said Franois. "It's not the right day this year. It's too warm in winter. Alas! God! There are poor people everywhere who suffer from illness, and even the heavens are in disorder."
I choked heavily and pondered in my heart what Hillbert had just said happily that she would not be able to come to the Champs Elysees for some days. But whenever I think of her, I naturally have a charm that fills my heart; and in my relationship with Hilbert, because I have such a pain in my heart, I inevitably occupy a special and unique position (though painful), that position and that charm. The combination of force adds romance to Hilbert's indifference and a smile to my tears - it's supposed to be a timid prototype of a kiss. When the time came for the mailman to deliver the letter, I thought like every night, "I'm going to get a letter from Hilbert. She would tell me that she never stopped loving me. She would explain to me why she had to hide her love for me until now and pretend not to. Happy to see me and explain to me why she only plays the role of an ordinary partner.
Every night I am happy to imagine such a letter. I read it silently in my heart and recite every sentence. Suddenly, I was stunned. I understand that if I had received a letter from Hilbert, it would never have been like this, because I made it up by myself. From then on, I tried not to think about the words I wanted her to write to me, for fear of repeating them all the time. As a result, I just excluded the most precious and desired words from the realm of possible realization. Even by the most impossible coincidence, Hillbert's letter to me was, as I had made it up, my work. What I would get was the impression of receiving something that came out of my hand. It was not real, new, unrelated to my subjective thoughts, and irrelevant to my will. What really comes from love.
Now I'm rereading a page, not from Hillbert, but at least from her. It's the page Beckett wrote about the beauty of the old myth that inspired Racine. It's always on my hands, like the agate ball. I was touched by my friend's search for this book for me; everyone had to find out the reason why his excitement had arisen until he thought that his loved one had the qualities that people loved in literature or conversation, and at the same time, he imitated the qualities of his loved one with this. These qualities are equated to make him a new reason for his love, although they may be contrary to the qualities that Swan demanded when he took the initiative to pursue without reliance on the teachings of others, just like Swan's aesthetic qualities of Audrey's beauty. I fell in love with Hilbert as early as Gombre, because I knew nothing about her life. I hoped that I could get involved in it and abandon my life which I had already felt so insignificant. Now I think that in my own life, which is too familiar and too insignificant, Hill Bette will one day be a humble servant and a good assistant to me. In the evening, he can help me with my work and see if there are any mistakes in my brochure, which should be of great benefit. As for Bergott, a wise and almost saintly elder, I loved Hilbert before he knew her, but now I love Hilbert because of Hilbert. I read his pages about Racine with great pleasure, and I watched with the same pleasure the wrapping paper with a white wax mark and a lilac ribbon when she gave me the book. I kissed agate balls, the best part of my friend's heart, the most faithful part without flirtation, and, despite the mysterious charm of Hilbert's life, stayed in my bedroom and slept with me. But the beauty of this gemstone, and the beauty of Bergott's works, which I am glad to associate with Hilbert's love, seems to me that Hilbert's love for me has almost vanished at this moment, but these two beauties give it cohesion, I found that these two beauties appeared earlier than that love, with this love. There is no similarity between them. Their contents depend on Hilbert's understanding of the genius I had existed before, on the laws of mineralogy. If Hilbert had not loved me, the stone would not have looked like another one, so there would be no letter of happiness between the two. Interest. And my love for Hilbert waited every day for the next day to get Hilbert's confession. Every night I dismantled all the work I had done in the daytime. At the same time, there was an unknown woman in my heart who was unwilling to throw away the thread I had dismantled and had to put it in order, totally unconscious of pleasing me. I don't think about my happiness, and I do something totally different from her. This unknown woman worker was not interested in my love for Hilbert, nor was she the first to affirm that I was loved by her, but brought together the actions that Hilbert had done that I thought could not be explained and the mistakes that I had forgiven her. In this way, both of them have certain significance. Such a new idea seems to indicate that when I see Hilbert not going to the Champs Elysees, but going to a matinee, or buying something with her governess teacher, and going out for the New Year's holiday, I shouldn't say that she is frivolous or honest. If she loved me, she would be neither so frivolous nor so honest, and when she had to listen to others, she should be as disappointed as I was in those days when I could not see her. Such a new idea also shows that since I love Hilbert, I should know what love is; it prompts me to notice that I always want to raise myself in her mind, so I try to persuade my mother to buy a raincoat and a blue-feathered hat for Franois, or stop calling me harm. This new idea also prompted me to notice that the only desire to see Hilbert made me want to know when she would leave Paris months before she left. Where else would I go, thinking that if she were not there, the most fascinating place in the world would only be a place of reclusion, and that if I could see her in the Champs Elysees, I would stay in Paris for the rest of my life; it was clear that my fears and aspirations could not be found in Hilbert's actions. On the contrary, she likes her governess very much and never worries about what I think about it. She felt that it would be natural not to come to the Champs Elysees to accompany the young lady in shopping, but more comfortable not to go out with her mother. Even if she agrees that I should spend my holidays with her at the same place, she must at least respect her parents'opinions and take into account the kind of amusement she has told me, and never choose the place where my family intends to send me. When she told me several times that she preferred another boyfriend, or that she didn't like me as much as she did the day before, that she had lost a game because of my carelessness, I apologized to her and asked her what she should do to regain her old favor and make her like me more than anyone else; I hoped she would tell me She liked me more than anyone else; I begged her to say this as if she could be happy with her or with me, as if she could change her feelings for me just by saying a few words based on whether my actions were good or bad. Didn't I know then that my own feelings for her depended neither on her behavior nor on my will?
The new order established by the unknown woman worker in the dark of my heart also tells us that if we hope that someone who has hurt our hearts so far does not act out of sincerity, they will emit a ray of light that our will cannot extinguish, through which we should pass, not through. Let's see what he will do tomorrow through our own will.
These new words, which I have heard in my love, convince him that tomorrow will not be any different from the days that have passed; Hillbert's feelings for me are too old to change, they can only be indifferent; as for my love for Hillbert, I love only my side. My love answered, "Yes, there's nothing I can do about this friendship. It won't change." So when tomorrow comes (or the latest festival, anniversary, or New Year's Day, which is different from the rest of the world, it will be time to abandon the legacy of the past, refuse to accept the sadness it left behind, and start anew), then I will ask Hilbert to abandon our old friendship. To lay the foundation for our new friendship.
I always have a street map of Paris on hand, because I can see the street where the Swans live, so I think it contains a treasure. It comes from hobbies and chivalrous loyalty. Whatever I talk about, I always name this street, so that my father (unlike my mother and my grandmother, who knew I loved someone) asks me:
Why do you always talk about this street? It's nothing special, just because it's next to the Bronilin Garden, so it's a very pleasant place to live, and the same street can count out more than ten places.
Whatever it is, I always lead my parents to say Swan's surname; of course, I repeat it silently in my heart right away; but I also need to hear its sweet clang, so that I can listen to the music - silent reading alone is not enough. Besides, Swan's surname, although I knew it for a long time, has become a new word for me, just as some people suffering from the disease of language disability feel fresh about the most commonly used words. This word is always in my mind, but my brain is not used to it. I decomposed the word and spelled it letter by letter. Its spelling was an unexpected discovery to me. As it became more and more familiar, I also felt that it became less and less flawless. The pleasure I get when I hear this word, I think it's already so guilty, as if someone else has guessed my mind, so when I try to lead the conversation in this direction, they change the subject. I kept repeating those words, which she couldn't hear far away from her, but were useless words that could only repeat the status quo and not change it - but I felt as if I was tossing and turning things around Hilbert. Maybe we can get something gratifying from it. I repeated the praise of the old lady who read the Tribune (I hinted to my parents that she was an ambassador's wife, even a prince's wife) and continued to say how beautiful, generous and noble the old lady was until one day I spoke her name I heard from Hillbert's mouth- Her name is Mrs. Bradang.
"Ha! Now I understand!" My mother screamed and I felt a fever of shame on my face, "Your grandfather must have told you to be careful and careful. You think she's beautiful! She's really ugly, and she hasn't looked good in her life. She is the widow of a bailiff. You probably don't remember how much effort I took to prevent her from coming to see you for exercise when you were a child. I don't know her, but she's always trying to talk to me, assuming to tell me,'You look just like a little girl. This woman has always been so addicted to making friends; I've always thought that if she really knew Mrs. Swan, she would be mentally ill. Because this woman, though of humble origin, has never done anything to attract criticism. She's just trying to get in touch with people. This man is ugly, extremely vulgar, and provocative."
As for Swan, in order to make myself look like him, I sat down at the table all day, pulling my nose long and rubbing my eyes hard. My father said, "This kid is silly. He's a real pain in the neck." I wish I were bald like Swan. I think he's so remarkable that some of the people I often associate with know him, and it's incredible that they can happen to meet him any day. On one occasion, when my mother was talking about what she had bought in the afternoon as she did at dinner every day, she suddenly said, "By the way, guess who I met in the umbrella Department of the Third District Store?" It's Swan!" What she said was dull to me, but now it brings out a mysterious flower! It was so satisfying and sad to hear how Swan could have shone his magical figure in the crowd this afternoon to buy an umbrella! ______________ Among all the things that were not related to me, this one caused a special shock in my heart, and my love for Hilbert was always stirred. My father said I wasn't interested in anything because I couldn't even listen to people talking about the political impact of King Diodosie II's visit to France as a guest and ally at the moment. But on the contrary, how I wondered if Swan was wearing his cape jacket!
"Did you say hello?" I asked. Crime and Punishment
"Of course," answered her mother, as if she feared that if she admitted that our family was indifferent to Swan, others would try to mediate more than she hoped. She didn't want to know Mrs. Swan anyway. He came up to say hello to me. I didn't see him first."
"So you didn't quarrel?"
"The quarrel? Why bother? She answered sharply, as if I had doubted the myth of her rapprochement with Swan and tried to "pull in".
"He may blame you for not inviting him."
"No one needs to invite everyone. Does he invite me? I don't know his wife."
"But he used to come to Gombre."
"All right! He came to our house when he was in Gombre. He had other things to do in Paris. So did I. But I can assure you that we don't seem to be two quarrellers at all. We stayed in the shop for a while until the clerk packed his purchases. He inquired about you and said you were playing with his daughter. It was a miracle that Swan had me in his heart. How could I not be surprised that he knew all about it. When I shivered in front of him in the Champs Elysees because of emotional excitement, he dared to know what my surname was, who my mother was, and besides knowing that I was his daughter's tourist. Besides the playmates, I also know about my grandparents, their families, where we live, and the characteristics of our family life that I may not even know. But when Swan saw my mother in the umbrella Department of the Three-district store and appeared in front of him as a person who had a common past with him, she didn't find the encounter any special charm when he greeted her.
Neither my mother nor my father seemed to find it particularly interesting to mention Hilbert's grandfather. My imagination, however, draws a family apart from the social circles of Paris and regards it as sacred, as it once took apart a house in the stone city of Paris, carved its doors with patterns and decorated its windows with gorgeous paintings. But only I can see these decorations. My parents thought that Swan's house was the same as the other houses built in the same period in the forest park. They also thought Swan's house was the same as many other stock brokers. They had a good or bad impression of the family, and according to its participation in the common performance of ordinary people, they could not see what was unique about it. Even if they find out what they are good at, they will see the same, even better, advantages elsewhere. So when they found out that Swan's family was in a better position, they said there was another house, but it had nothing to do with Hillbert or belonged to some financiers who had more money than her grandfather's; in case they agreed with me for a moment, it would be a misunderstanding and they would have to correct it immediately. That's because my parents didn't have the complementary, instantaneous feeling that love gave me, so they couldn't find any new qualities around Hilbert --- just like the infrared rays in the color field, it's also a kind of emotion that is invisible to the naked eye.
On the days when Hillbert had told me she would not come to the Champs Elysees, I managed to walk a little closer to where she was. Sometimes I led Franois to the house where Swans lived to make pilgrimages. I asked her to tell me again and again what she had heard about Mrs Swan from the governess. She seems superstitious. She would never travel if she heard an owl screaming, or a clock ticking in the wall, or saw a cat in the middle of the night, or wood creaking. Ah! She's religious!" My love for Hilbert is so deep that when I meet their old chef on the road leading the dog out, I will look at his white beard with affection for the first half of the day. Francois said:
"What's wrong with you?"
Then we went on until the entrance of their carriage, where there was a doorkeeper who was different from any other doorkeeper. The ribbons on his dress were permeated with the melancholy charm I felt in the name of Hilbert. He seemed to know that I was not meant to enter the doorway he was ordered to guard. It was a mysterious life, and the windows on the first floor seemed to be consciously closed, and under the cover of plain cloth, they were less shining than any other window, like Hilbert's eyes. Sometimes, when we go up the road around the city, I stand at the corner of Defoe Street, where it is said that Mr. Swan is often seen going to his dentist's clinic, and my imagination sees Hilbert's father so different from anyone else in the world that his presence in the real world can bring so much magic. Even before I reached Madeleine Church, my heart jumped at the thought that we were not far from the street that might have seen a miracle unexpectedly.
More often, however, when I could not see Hilbert, because I heard that Mrs. Swan was walking along the Sophora Tree Road, along the shore of Lake Bloni and on Queen Margaret's Trail almost every day, I asked Franois to take me to Bronilin Park. In my mind, this forest park seems to be one such Zoo after another, with all kinds of grass and trees, various sceneries and sceneries emerging in endlessly. When you cross the hills, you can see caves, grasslands, silk rocks, rivers, ravines, hills, swamps. However, tourists also know that they are all places for hippos, zebras, crocodiles, Russian rabbits, bears and herons to play in, providing the right environment or picturesque backgrounds; as for the Bronilin Garden, it is also very complex, with many self-contained small worlds - followed by beautiful plants like Virginia. A red tree farm like Oak Island is a pine forest on the lakeside, or a tall tree. Suddenly, a woman in a hurry, dressed in soft fur clothes and with shining eyes, is a woman's garden; and the Sophora Tree Road is like the Aishen Wood Road in the Aeneas. Similarly, for their sake, only one kind of tree was planted on both sides. It was a famous beauty's walking path. The children were delighted when they saw the top of the rock. They knew that the sea lion was going to jump into the water. Similarly, long before they reached the road of locust tree, the fragrant locust blossoms made me feel close to the unparalleled strong and weak plant entity. Later, as I got closer, I saw the light top of the tree. The delicate and tender leaves, elegant and somewhat frivolous, charming lines, thin and fine materials, hanging thousands of white flowers in the leaves, like thousands of swarms of winged bees, and the name of the flower-Yin-soft, leisurely and pleasant, all make my heart pound, but there are mundane factors in it, just like that. Like some Waltz dances, what we remember is not the dance itself, but the name of the beautiful lady who was shouted out by the receptionist when we entered the ballroom. I heard that I would see some beautiful women dressed up in fashion on the path, some of whom were not married yet, but they were always mentioned with Mrs. Swan without any mention, and often used their aliases; if they changed any new names, they seemed to be used to hide their real lives. The pseudonym of points is not used at all when people talk about them, so as to avoid misunderstanding. I think that beauty is governed by some mysterious laws on the beauty of women. They have already understood it and have some ways to embody it. So I regard their dress and the appearance of horses and carriages as a kind of inspiration. Besides, there are thousands of details, which I trust fully, as if to give these turns. The fleeting and uncertain things infuse a soul, so that they achieve a complete consistency of a masterpiece of art. But what I want to see is Mrs. Swan. I'm waiting for her to come, as if she were Hillbert. Hilbert's parents, like everything around her, were imbued with her charm. They stirred up an emotion in my heart just like her, even a little painful uneasiness (because their contact with her was an intrinsic part of her life and I had no chance to intervene), and the reader did not. It will take me a long time to see that I soon realized that they did not like me playing with her, which added to our awe of those who could hurt us without limit.
Sometimes I saw Mrs. Swan wearing a Polish dress of plain cloth, a cap with pheasant feathers on her head and a bunch of violets on her chest, hurrying across the locust tree road as if to take a short cut home earlier, and recognizing her from a long distance in the carriage. Say hello and think that no one is as handsome as her gentlemen squeeze their eyes. At this time, I put simplicity first in aesthetic standards and social conditions. Sometimes, however, what I put in the first place was not simplicity, but parade. For example, when Francois was too tired to walk, she whispered that she could not walk any more. I forced her to drag her feet and accompany me for another hour, and finally I saw it on the path leading to the Princess's Gate, which in my opinion represented the Royal family. Honour is the arrival of a king, and I was not so strongly impressed by any real queen since then (because I have a clear concept of their power and a practical understanding of it) - by two strong and strong horses, like Gunsdan Guy's, riding on the throne in a cossack. The tall coachman in a leather suit like a soldier, next to a young waiter like the late Bodenore, I can only see that, to be more correct, I feel that its outline bears a clear and annoying mark on my mind - an incomparable Victorian four-wheeled convertible with a more ordinary body. Slightly taller, with elegant lines coming out of the latest luxury, Mrs. Swan was sitting in the car, her hair was still golden, only grey, and she wore a narrow ribbon, often violet, with a long veil hanging from it, a light purple umbrella on her hand, and a mouth hanging. With an ambiguous smile, I can only see the kindness of the queen, but also more see the flirtatious woman's flirtation, which she gives to the people who greet her lightly and gracefully. This smile means to some people, "I remember it very well. It's wonderful!" For others, it's like, "Don't I want to? We're both out of luck!" For others, "Okay, I'll follow this line a little longer and come out in a minute." Even when she is out of date with a stranger, she has a lazy smile on her lips, as if she is waiting for a friend or remembering a friend. The smile is amazing: "How beautiful she is!" Only for some people, her smile is sour, reluctant, cowering and cold. That means, "Okay, you bad bag, I know your tongue is more poisonous than a venomous snake, and your stinky mouth just can't shut up!" But do you think I care?" Gokland walked by with a group of friends who listened to his talk and waved to the people sitting in the carriage in that position on the stage. But I was thinking of Mrs. Swan. I pretended not to see her, because I knew that when I got to the pigeon farm, she would ask the driver to pull the car out of the line and stop to walk down the path. In the days when I felt the courage to beat her, I dragged Franois in that direction. Sure enough, after a while, Mrs. Swan came to us on the pedestrian path. Her long purple skirt was dragging behind her. The dress was not worn by other women but only by the queen. Sometimes she looked down at the handle of her umbrella and did not care about the passers-by. It seemed that her only major event and purpose was to get out and move. She didn't want everyone to look at her. All her heads turned to her. Sometimes when she turned to call her rabbit dog, she looked around inadvertently.
(1) Gonsdan Guy (1805-1892), a French painter, wrote many works about his military career, including Knight.
(2) Bodenore is a character in Balzac's The Secret of Mrs. Gardinian.
(3) Gokland (1841-1909) is a famous French actor. He is famous for playing Sihano in Rostan's Sihano de Bergerac, a servant in Figaro Moriere's plays.
Even those who did not know her noticed that she was somewhat different, somewhat excessive, or perhaps telepathic, as if Rabema was a celebrity when she was at her best and applauded in the most ignorant audience. They wondered, "Who is she?" Sometimes I would ask pedestrians and try to remember her clothes so that I could ask a well-informed friend the truth. Some of the walkers stopped and said:
"Do you know who she is? It's Mrs Swan! Can't you remember? Audrey de Cressie?"
"Audrey de Cressie? I was just whispering, those sentimental eyes... She's not that young now! I remember sleeping with McMahon on the day he resigned. MacMahon (1808 - 1898) was the second president of the Third Republic of France. He was originally a monarch. In January 1879, when both houses of Congress were controlled by Republicans, McMahon was forced to resign on January 30.
"I advise you not to mention it to her again. She is now Mrs Swan, and her husband is a friend of the Prince of Wales and a member of the Jockey Club. Besides, she's beautiful."
"Yes, but you'd better know her then. She was beautiful then! She lives in a strange little house full of Chinese trinkets. I remember hearing the screams of newspaper boys in the street all the time, and then she urged me to get up."
Nor did I listen to the past, except that she was surrounded by whispers about her famous voice. My heart was beating impatiently and I thought it would be a little longer for all these people (unfortunately, none of them had a black-and-white banker whom I thought would look down on me) to see this young man whom they had never paid attention to pay tribute to this beautiful, dissolute and graceful woman - to tell the truth. Yes, I don't know her, but I think I'm qualified to do so because my parents know her husband and I'm her daughter's partner. Now I'm next to Mrs Swan. I take off my hat, stretch my arms and bow for a long time. She can't help smiling. Some people also laughed. As for her, she has never seen me play with Hillbert, nor know who my name is. In her mind, like the guard of the forest garden, the boatman and the duck in the lake, I am a small part of her walking in the forest garden *. Although I have seen her, I do not know her name, so I have no personality like the running dragon set. *. Sometimes I didn't see her on the Sophora Tree Road, but I met her on Queen Margaret's Road, where women wished to be alone or appeared to want to be alone. She always stayed alone for a short time, and a friend came to meet her. He often wore a gray top hat, but I didn't. Knowing him, he chatted with her for a long time, and their two carriages were slowly following behind them.
The complexity of Browne's woods * made it a product of human hands, a zoo or a mythical garden: that complexity, as I realized that year when I went through the woods to Trianon, it was an early November morning, in Paris, when I was stuck indoors and hurried away. The autumn in the middle is near you and you can't look at it, which inevitably arouses your attachment to the fallen leaves, or even a kind of fanaticism, which makes it difficult for you to fall asleep. In my closed bedroom, I've been wanting to see it for a month, and the fallen leaves often appear between my mind and the object of my mind, circling in front of me like yellow | Color * spots that sometimes jump in front of us when we look at an object. That morning, my ears didn't hear the rain as they did a few days ago. When I saw the sunny day smiling at me from the corner of the closed curtain as the secret of happiness leaked from my closed mouth, I felt that I could appreciate the Yellow leaves, the extraordinary beauty in the brilliant sunshine when I was a child. Hearing the wind whistling in the fireplace, I could force myself to go to the beach to see the trees, but now I can no longer stop looking at them. I went out of my house and across the Bronilin Garden to Trianon. This is the time and season when the forest garden presents its richest and richest appearance, not only because it is the time when it is most severely divided, but also because it is divided in another way. Even in the open space where one can see a vast space, facing the distant leaves that still retain summer days, or the dark, bare trees, one can see two rows of orange-red chestnut trees, as if this was the only part painted by the painter on a painting that had just begun to brush. The rest has not been colored yet; the two rows of trees stretch the path between them into the sunny spot for the occasional stroll of the people who will be added later.
It was in 1913, eighteen years since I met Hilbert here (1895).
Far away, there was a place where all the trees were covered with green leaves. There was only one small tree, sturdy and sturdy. Although the top branch was sturdy and unyielding, it waved its ugly red hair in the wind. There is still a place where the leaves begin to wake up in May. There is a white fungus leaf that is absolutely divine. It smiles like a red Hawthorn blooming in winter. It spreads and blooms in the early morning. The Bronilin Garden looks like a nursery or a park for some botanical reason or for some festival. Between the same trees that have not been uprooted, two or three precious species have just been planted. The branches and leaves are grotesque, as if to keep some space around them to dredge the air. Leave more light. In this way, it is the season in which the Bronilin Garden exhibits a variety of characteristics, making up a complex of the most diverse parts. This is also a moment like this. Where trees still retain their leaves, when the morning sun is almost horizontally shining, the trees seem to have changed their texture again. In a few hours, when dusk comes, the sun shines like a lamp throwing a man-made warm reflection from afar to the bushes, which makes the leaves on the top of the trees shine again. The tree itself is like a candlestick with its burning crest, which can't be ignited. The trees seem to have changed their texture again. In some places, the sun is as thick as a layer of bricks, like Persian yellow tiles decorated with blue * patterns, daubed on chestnut leaves in the air; in some places, the leaves stretch out their curled golden * fingers to the sky, but the sun is inserted between them and the sky, separating them. In the middle of a tree tangled with wild grapevines, the sunlight grafted and opened a large bunch of safflower, too dazzling to distinguish too clearly, mostly a variety of carnation. Every part of the forest garden is green, thick and monotonous in summer, and now it has its own characteristics. From some more open places, you can see almost all the roads leading to all parts, or every dense leaf cluster, like a square red flag of the former royal family, marks the road to all parts. It seemed to me that on a colour map I could see Amnonville, Gatron Grassland, Madrid, the racetrack and the shore of Lake Broni. From time to time, there are some useless buildings, some fake caves, some mills built on soft grass and green platforms, and so on. It can be felt that the forest garden is not only a forest garden, it also has to adapt to some uses that have nothing to do with the growth of trees; the excitement in my heart is not only caused by watching autumn, but also by other meanings. The source of this joy is that our hearts, though feeling it, do not know why it is, and do not understand that it can not be produced by anything outside us! In this way, I gazed at the trees with an unsatisfactory warmth that moved past them and unconsciously ran towards the beautiful walking women who sheltered them for hours every day. I walked to the Sophora Tree Road. I went through some tall trees, and the morning sunshine regionalized them, pruned their branches, and combined various trunks to form bouquets one after another. The sun cleverly pulls the two trees together. With its powerful shears of light and shadow, it cuts off half of the trunk and branches of each tree. Then it weaves the remaining two halves together or forms a shadowy pillar, with sunshine on both sides or a ghostlike light. It looks awkward. Shadows surrounded the shaky outline. When a sunshine paints the tallest branches golden, they are like a shimmering layer of moisture, piercing the entire tree forest into the wet, emerald green atmosphere and standing in the air. Trees continue to live on their vitality, even when they are bare without a leaf, which still shines more brilliantly - either on the green velvet sheath wrapped around their trunks, or on the top of poplars, round as Michelangelo's Genesis. The sun and the moon are among the White Velvet balls of mistletoe. However, since these trees have lived with that woman through grafting for many years, they remind me of the Greek mythological mountain fairy, the beautiful social woman with vigorous action and rosy complexion, who covered her with their branches as she passed by. It reminded me of the happy years when I was young and believed in them, when I eagerly came to the place where the beautiful masterpiece of this woman was unknowingly presented among the leaves of her conspirator. However, the firs and locust trees in Bloominglin (which disturb me more than the chestnuts and lilacs I'm going to see in Trianon) do not attach to the beauty I yearn for, nor to the memories of a certain historical period, nor to certain works of art, nor to the golden yellow | colored * piled up in the doorway _________. Above the Temple of Love of Leaves. I went to the lake until I reached the pigeon farm. At that time, I thought it was reflected in the height of a Victorian convertible, in the leanness of those horses that were so light as a wasp, and whose eyes were as bloodshot as Diomedes'fierce human-fed horses. Now, I just want to see again what I once loved. The idea of passing things is as strong as the one that drove me to these same roads many years ago. I really want to see Mrs. Swan's big coachman once again, under the surveillance of his palm-sized, childish followers like St. George's, and try my best to control those steely wings that are flying with them. Fine horse. Alas! Now only the driver with a moustache drives the car. Standing beside him is the attendant who is as tall as the iron tower. I really want to see if the female hat is as attractive as the one I remember being as low as a wreath. Now women wear hats that are so big that they are decorated with fruit and flowers and all kinds of birds. Mrs. Swan was no longer wearing what looked like a queen's robe. Instead, she was wearing tight Greek Saxon-style clothes with the wrinkles of the Greek Tanagra figurines, sometimes in the style of the ruling cabinet, with flowers on a shallow base like wallpaper. The gentlemen who might have had the privilege of walking with Mrs Swan on Queen Margaret's Trail could no longer be seen wearing gray top hats or other hats. They are bareheaded now. I can hardly believe that all the new things in this scene are able to stand on their feet, that they are a unified whole, or even that they all have life; they pass in fragments in front of my eyes, by pure chance and without truth, and that none of them has my eyes like those of the past. Explore any beauty of composition. Women are ordinary. It's incredible for me to say what their manners are. I don't think their clothes are amazing. When one of our beliefs disappears, one thing still exists and becomes stronger and stronger to hide our lost ability to give reality to new things * this thing is an idolatrous attachment to old things, as if the sense of magic does not exist in our bodies but in those old things. It seems that our suspicion today has its accidental reason, that all the gods are dead. The Old Man and the Sea
(1) Mistletoe is an evergreen shrub, and its stems and leaves are traditional Chinese medicine.
I thought to myself: That's terrible! How can people feel that these cars are as elegant as the carriages they used to be? Maybe I'm too old to see women wrapped in clothes that are not sewn with clothes. The people who had gathered under the elegant red leaves had disappeared, and vulgarity and stupidity had replaced the delicate beauty of their shelter. What was the significance of coming down under these trees? It's terrible! Today, there is no more grace to speak of, I have to think of those women who met in those years to chat to comfort myself. Now these people are looking at the monsters with a bird cage or an orchard on their hats. How do they realize how charming Mrs. Swan is when she wears an ordinary light purple cap with pleats or just sticks a small cap of butterflies upright? On a winter morning, I met Mrs. Swan walking on foot, wearing an otter coat, a common beret and only two quail hairs. However, with the little bunch of violets on her chest, I could imagine that her home was warm as spring --- the flowers were so bright and green, and in this gray * sky, cold. Among the cold wind and bare trees, it has such magic that it only takes the season and the weather as a background, but actually lives in the human environment. Living in this woman's surroundings has the same magic as watching snowflakes fall through closed windows in flowerpots and flower beds beside the fire in her living room, in front of the silk sofa: How can I make those people understand my feelings at that time? Besides, it's not enough for me to restore clothes to the way they used to be. Each part of a memory is intertwined, and our memory keeps the balance of these parts in a whole. We are not allowed to have a slight buckle or abandon, so I really want to spend the day in which one of these women's homes, a cup of tea in front of them, painted dark * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *. The wall suite (like the one Mrs Swan lived in the year after the first part of the story) was lit with orange fire, and the stove was red with chrysanthemum roses and white lights in the twilight of November, when I could not get what I wanted. Those fun moments are similar - that's what we'll see later. But now, although such moments will not bring me any results, I still feel that they are full of charm. I really want to get back to this moment, just like in my memory. Alas! Now there are only rooms of Louis XVI style, with white walls decorated with blue * embroidery glaze on all sides. Besides, people are coming back to Paris very late now. If I write to Mrs. Swan and ask her to help me to make up for something that I feel belongs to a distant age and that belongs to an age that I can't trace back to (that wish itself can't be obtained, as the pleasure I pursued in vain) she will reply from the country villa. She won't be back until February, when the chrysanthemum has already withered. In addition, I wish I were still the women of that year, the women whose clothes interested me, because in the years I still believed in, my imagination had given them individuality and made a legend for each of them. Alas! In the Sophora Tree Road, also known as the Love Wood Road in the Age of Aeneas, I saw a few of them, old and just the terrible shadows of their charm, wandering in Virgil's bushes, desperately wondering what they were searching for. They all left early, and I was still inquiring about the empty path. The sun is hidden. Nature began to dominate the forest garden again, and the idea that it was a women's paradise had long since vanished; the man-made mill was full of gray sky; the wind had ruffled the lake and rippled it up like a real lake; the big bird flew quickly over the forest garden as if it were flying over a real lake. The trees, shrieking and perched on the top of the tall oak trees, were like the crowns of Druids in Gaul, and with the authority of the priests of Dodonne in ancient Greece, they seemed to announce that the forests that had been used for other purposes were deserted and uninhabited, which helped me understand how to find them in reality. How contradictory is it to find a picture in memory, the charm of the latter comes from memory, from feelings that are not passed through the senses. The reality that I knew then no longer exists today. As long as Mrs. Swan does not come at the same time and completely keep her original appearance, the whole Avenue will be another one. The places we used to know are now in such a small space world. We only mark them out for convenience. They are only a small slice of the adjacent impressions of our lives; the memory of an image is only a moment of regret; and houses, roads, streets, alas! They are as perishable as years!
Hemingway: 1. Life always lets us all bruise, but in the future, those injured places will become our strongest place. 2. It took us two years to learn to speak, but sixty years to learn to shut up. 3. Being superior to others is not noble. The real nobility should be superior to the past self. 4. Now is not the time to think about what you lack, but what you can do with what you have. Einstein: 5. Don't try to be a success, try to be a valuable person. 6. Don't complain about life, it only shows your incompetence. The strong never complain about life. 7. Human differences arise from spare time. Amateur time can make or destroy a person. Mark Twain: 8. Wrinkled areas only indicate that smiles have been there. 9. The violet leaves its fragrance on its ankle. That's forgiveness. 10. Whenever you find yourself on the side of most people, you should stop and reflect. 11. Don't give up your fantasy. When the fantasy is gone, you can still exist, but you still die. Thoreau: 12. Time decides who you will meet in your life, your heart decides who you want to appear in your life, and your behavior decides who will stay in the end. 13. From now on, don't live the life you should live. Go to the life you think about. 14. The more things a man can put aside, the richer he will be. Shakespeare: 15. No matter how long the night is, the day will come. 16. On the clock of time, there are only two words "now". 17. Appropriate grief can express deep feelings, but excessive grief can prove the lack of wisdom. 18. Listen more, speak less, accept everyone's blame, but keep your final verdict. Wilde: 19. When you have youth, feel it. Don't waste your golden age, don't listen to boring things, don't try to retain hopeless failures, don't dedicate your life to ignorance, mediocrity and vulgarity. 20. Living the life you want is not selfish. It's about asking others to live according to their own wishes. 21. Life is not complicated. It's about ourselves. Russell: 22. You can enjoy wasting time, not wasting time. 23. The secret of happiness is to broaden your range of interests and be as friendly as possible to the people and things you are interested in. 24. If you get angry when you hear an opinion that is contrary to yours, it shows that you have subconsciously felt that your opinion is not fully justified. If someone insists that two plus two equals five, you will feel pity rather than anger. Dickens: 25. Never break four things in your life: trust, relationship, promise and heart. Because when they break, they don't make any noise, but they are very painful. 26. If you want to do something, you must do it thoroughly. Bacon: 27. Reading is not for eloquence and refutation, nor for credulity and blind obedience, but for thinking and balance. 28. Life is like a road. The nearest shortcut is usually the worst. 29. No matter how angry you are, don't do anything irreparable. Hugo: 30. People are not born to drag chains, but to spread wings. 31. Being uncovered is a failure, but being uncovered by oneself is a victory. 32. When others let go, he still insists; when others step back, he still rushes forward; every time he falls, he stands up immediately - such a person must not fail. Roman Roland: 33. There is only one kind of heroism in the world, that is, to love life after knowing the truth of life. 34. Most people die at the age of twenty or thirty, because after that age, they are only their own shadow. The rest of their lives are spent imitating themselves, day after day, more mechanically, more posefully repeating what they did, thought, loved and hated in their lifetime. 35. A person's character determines his circumstances. If you like to keep your character, then you have no right to refuse your chance. Camus: 36. Every great action and thought has a small beginning. 37. The true generosity to the future is to give everything to the present. Maupassant: 38. Life can't be as good as you think, but it can't be as bad as you think. 39. People's fragility and strength are beyond their imagination. Sometimes, you may be so fragile that you will burst into tears in one sentence. Sometimes, you will find yourself biting your teeth and walking a long way. 40. I don't know how many successful people in the world are obscure because they let go of their precious time. Rousseau: 41. When a man concentrates on doing good things, he will succeed in the end. 42. Keep in mind that the reason why a person goes astray is not because of his ignorance, but because he thinks he knows. 43. The most meaningful person in life is not the one who lives the longest, but the one who feels the most about life. Voltaire: 44. Beauty on the outside can only please people's eyes, while beauty on the inside can infect people's souls. 45. It's not the distant mountains that make people tired, but a grain of sand in their shoes. Balzac: 46. Unfortunately, it is the step of genius; the baptism of believers; the priceless treasure of the able; the bottomless abyss of the weak. 47. Does your happiness in life really lie in pretending you have no identity, spending money you can't afford, wasting your precious school time, and seeing the society? Dumas: 48. If you want something, you have to let it go free. If it comes back to you, it belongs to you. If it doesn't come back, you never have it. 49. When you desperately want to accomplish something, you are no longer someone else's opponent, or more precisely, no one else will. Your opponent, Whoever makes this decision, will immediately feel that he has added infinite strength, and his vision will be broadened. Nietzsche: 50. A person who knows why he lives can endure any kind of life. 51. If there are miracles in the world, it's just another name for hard work. 52. Don't forget that the higher we fly, the smaller our image will be in the eyes of those who can't fly. Schopenhauer: 53. No one lives in the past, no one lives in the future, and now is the only form that life really possesses. 54. What people can really understand and appreciate in the end is only something that is essentially the same as himself. 55. We often don't think about what we have, but we never forget what we can't get. Goethe: 56. Whoever plays his life will accomplish nothing; whoever can't dominate himself will always be a slave. 57. Those who have not cried long nights are not enough to talk about life. 58. If you can't do it today, you won't do it tomorrow. One day can not be wasted. We must make up our minds to seize the possible things and hold them tightly. If we have the determination, we will not let them run away, and we must carry them out. Kant: 59. Freedom is not about doing what you want. Freedom is about teaching you to do what you don't want to do. 60. To be angry is to punish oneself with the mistakes of others. 61. What a person says must be true, but it is not necessary for him to say everything he knows. Hesse: 62. Some people think that persistence will make us stronger, but sometimes let go. 63. No book in the world can bring you good luck, but they can make you quietly become yourself. 64. When a person is no longer self-centered, youth ends; when a person lives for others, he begins to mature. Marx: 65. It is better to arm oneself with knowledge than to decorate oneself with gorgeous clothes. 66. One should be lively and disciplined, naive but not naive, brave but not rash, stubborn and principled, enthusiastic but not impulsive, optimistic but not blind. 67. Life is like an ocean. Only a strong-willed person can reach the other shore. Haruki Murakami: 68. Don't be too obsessed with the present or worry about the future. When you have experienced something, the scenery is different from before. 69. Violation of the principles set by oneself, even if only once, will violate more principles in the future. 70. If you fall into the darkness, all you can do is wait until your eyes get used to the darkness. Hayao Miyazaki: 71. No matter how hard the road ahead is, as long as the direction is right and no matter how rough it is, it is closer to happiness than standing in the same place. 72. Life will be better if it is bad enough, because it can't be worse. After hard work, I learned a lot of things, insisted on it, and came. Tolstoy: 73. When nobody says "no" to you, you're not very old. 74. Know everything and forgive everything. 75. People often regard satisfaction of desire as happiness. 76. There are three characteristics of a wise man: one is to persuade others to do things by themselves; the other is never to do things contrary to nature; the third is to tolerate the weaknesses of the people around him: Gorky: 77. Those who aspire to the summit will never stop climbing because of their nostalgia for the exotic flowers and plants on the hillside. 78. In life, all the good things we encounter in our lives are calculated in seconds. 79. Be strong in hard days and cautious in happy days. Turgenev: 80. Tomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow, people are comforting themselves in this way, but they do not know that tomorrow is enough to send them to the grave. 81. It's someone else's business to decide how much you are worth. It's important to do yourself well. You are no darker than a star, no lower than a tree. 82. Happiness has neither tomorrow nor yesterday. It does not miss the past nor look forward to the future. It has only the present. Ostrovsky 83. Life is the most precious thing for human beings. Life is only once for human beings. A man's life should be spent like this: when he looks back on the past, he will not regret for doing nothing and idling away his time, nor will he feel guilty for being mean and vulgar. 84. Man should dominate habits, but never habits. Lenin: 85. Wasting other people's time is tantamount to making money and killing people. Wasting one's own time is tantamount to chronic suicide. 86. Say less beautiful words and do more ordinary things in everyday life... Plato: 87. The most regrettable thing in life is to give up what you shouldn't give up easily and persist in what you shouldn't. No matter when you start, it's important not to stop after you start. No matter when you end, it's important that you don't regret it. Socrates: 89. The most precious thing in the world is not "not get" and "lost", but the happiness we can grasp now. 90. When you are angry, close your mouth so as not to increase your anger. 91. When many people are wandering along a road, they have to make way for those who value their time to catch up with them. Aristotle: 92. What we do repeatedly every day makes us. Then you will find that excellence is not an act, but a habit. Mo Yan: 93. The world is like a book, one page is turned over. People should look ahead and turn over the old accounts less. 94. Don't assume that people in the world care about you. Do you think everyone is staring at you? In fact, everyone has their own worries, nobody cares about you. Freud: 95. Mentally healthy people always work hard and love their lover. As long as they can do these two things, there will be no difficulty in other things. 96. There is no joke. All jokes have serious elements. Tagore: 97. Only through hell-like grinding can we practice the power of creating heaven; only through bloody fingers can we pop out the silence of the world. 98. When you cry for missing the sun, you will miss the stars again. Lu Xun: 99. What I mean by survival is not living hard, food and clothing, luxury, development or indulgence. 100. Time is 24 hours a day, but one day brings wisdom and strength to diligent people, leaving only regret to lazy people. A man who loves money has a good way to get it.