How easy it is for our minds to rush headlong into a rush, surrounded by a new thing, just like a group of ants carrying a straw enthusiastically for a while, and then throwing it there ... If this spot is a trace left by a nail, it must not be for hanging an oil painting, but for hanging a small portrait-a portrait of a lady with white powder on her curly hair and pink face and lips like red stones and bamboo flowers. Of course it's a fake. The previous tenants of this house would only choose that kind of painting-the old house needs an old portrait to match it. They are such people-interesting people. I often think of them in some strange places, because no one will see them again and know what happened to them later. According to him, the family moved out of the house because they wanted to change a set of other styles of furniture. He just said that according to his idea, when art should contain ideas, the two of us broke up immediately. This situation is like taking a train. On the train, we saw an old lady preparing to pour tea and a young man playing tennis with a racket in a suburban villa on the roadside. When the train passed by, we broke up with the old lady and the young man and left them behind.
However, I still can't figure out what that spot is; Then I thought, this doesn't look like a nail mark. Too big and too round. I could have stood up, but even if I stood up and looked at it, nine times out of ten I couldn't tell what it was; Because once something happens, no one can know how it happened. Alas! God, how mysterious life is; How inaccurate this idea is! How ignorant human beings are! In order to prove how uncontrollable we are about our personal belongings-how accidental human life is compared with our civilization-I only need to list a few things we have lost in life. Let's start with three light blue cans with binding tools in them. These are always the most mysterious things lost-which cat will bite them and which mouse will chew them? Counting down, there are several birdcages, iron skirt hoops, steel skates, coal barrels from Queen Anne's time, billiard tables and clavichords-all lost, and some jewels are also lost. There are also ivory gems and emeralds, all of which are thrown beside the roots of radish. How much effort they have made to save money! At the moment, I am surrounded by heavy furniture, and I am still wearing some clothes. It was a miracle. If you compare anything with life, you can only compare it to a person who was shot out of the subway at a speed of 50 miles per hour. When he came out of the underpass, there was not even a hairpin in his hair. Shot naked at God's feet! Hanging upside down on the grassland full of daffodils is like bundles of brown paper bags being thrown into the delivery pipe of the post office! Hair flying like a jockey's tail. By the way, these comparisons can express the fast pace of life and endless consumption and repair; Everything is so accidental, so accidental.
What about the afterlife? The thick green stems bend slowly, the cup-shaped flowers fall over, and its purple-red light covers people. Why on earth should people be reincarnated here instead of there, unable to move, speak or concentrate, groping under the grass and between the toes of giants? As for what is a tree, what is a man and a woman, or whether there is such a thing, people will not be clear in another 50 years. There will be nothing else, only a space full of light and darkness, separated by thick stems, and maybe some rose-shaped patches with unclear colors-light pink or blue-higher. As time goes on, it will become more and more clear, more and more-I don't know what's going on. ...
But the spot on the wall is not a small hole. It is probably caused by a dark round object, such as a rose petal left over in summer, because I am not a vigilant housekeeper-just look at the dust on the fireplace. It is said that this kind of dust buried Troy for three layers, and only some pieces of canned food were not destroyed, which can be completely believed.
The branches outside the window are tapping gently on the glass ... I hope I can think quietly, stably and calmly. No one will bother me. I don't need to get up from my chair at all. I can easily think of that thing from this thing without feeling hostile or hindered. I hope to get deeper and deeper, leaving behind the hard individual facts on the surface and the surface. Let me hold myself steady and catch the first fleeting thought ... Shakespeare ... yes, whether it's him or others. The man sat firmly in an armchair and stared at the fire. In this way, a thought poured down from a high heaven and entered his mind. He put his hand on his forehead, so people stood outside the open door and looked in-let's assume this scene happened on a summer night-but how boring all this historical fiction is! I'm not interested at all. I hope to meet a pleasant idea, and at the same time this idea can indirectly add some luster to me. This idea is the most pleasant. Even those who truly believe that they don't like being praised as humble and gloomy by others often have this idea in their minds. They don't flatter themselves directly, which is the beauty. These ideas are as follows:
"So I went into the house. They are talking about botany. I said I once saw a flower in the dust on the foundation of an old house in Kingsway. I said that most of the flower seeds were planted during the reign of Charles I. What flowers did people grow when Charles I was in power? " I asked-(but I can't remember the answer) maybe it's a tall flower with purple spikes. So here's what I think. At the same time, I have been dressing up my image in my mind, admiring my image affectionately, secretly, not openly. Because, if I really do this openly, I will be caught by myself immediately, and I will immediately reach for a book to cover myself up. Strange to say, people always instinctively protect their image, so as not to look ridiculous because of idolatry or other ways, or to become too unlike the prototype to be believed. However, this fact may not be so strange? This question is extremely important. Suppose the mirror is broken, the image disappears, the romantic image and the dense green forest around it no longer exist, leaving only the shell of the person seen by others-how boring, shallow, naked and protruding the world will become! You can't live in this world. When we are sitting opposite the bus and subway, we are looking in the mirror; This explains why our eyes are so dim. Future novelists will be more and more aware of the importance of these ideas, because this is not just an idea, but an infinite number of ideas; They explore the depths, chase the phantom, and more and more exclude the description of reality from the story, thinking that this kind of knowledge is innate. The Greeks think so, and maybe Shakespeare thinks so, too-but this generalization is worthless. Just listen to the tone of the word summary. It reminds people of editorials and cabinet ministers-a set of things that people thought were orthodox, standard and true when they were young, and everyone must follow them, or they will risk eighteen levels of hell. To sum up, I don't know how to remind people of Sunday, Sunday afternoon walk and Sunday lunch in London, and I don't know how to remind people of the way of speaking, dressing and habits of people who have passed away-for example, the habit of sitting together in a room until an hour, although no one likes to do so. Everything has certain rules. In that particular era, the rule of tablecloth was that it must be made of carpets printed with yellow squares, just like the carpets laid in the palace corridors in the photos. A tablecloth with another pattern is not a real tablecloth. When we find these real things, Sunday lunch, Sunday walk, manor house, tablecloth and so on, it is so magical and wonderful. Not all of them are true, they do have some illusory flavor, and the punishment for those who don't believe in them is just an illegal sense of freedom! I want to know what has replaced them now, and what has replaced those real and standard things? It may be a man, if you are a woman; Men's views dominate our lives, which sets the standard and Whitaker (note: ① [Whitaker (1820- 1895)], a British publisher, founded Bookseller magazine, and 1868 began to compile Whitaker Yearbook. ) pecking order table; According to my guess, after World War II, it has taken on a phantom flavor for many men and women. We hope that it will be ridiculed like a phantom, mahogany cabinets, Landsell prints, God, the devil and hell, and sent to the garbage bin, leaving all of us with an intoxicating sense of illegal freedom-if freedom really exists. ...
In a certain light, the spots on the wall seem to protrude from the wall. It's not completely round. I'm not sure, but it seems to cast a faint shadow, which makes me feel that if I touch it along the wall with my fingers, at some point I will touch a small undulating tomb, a smooth tomb, just like those on the southern hills and grasslands. It is said that they are either graves or campsites. Of the two, I'd rather they were graves. Like most English people, I prefer sadness. I think it's natural to think of bones buried under the grass at the end of a walk ... there must be a book about it. Some antique collector must have unearthed these bones and given them a name ... I wonder what kind of person an antique collector will be? Most of them must be retired colonels, leading a group of elderly workers to climb to the top here, checking the soil and stones, and communicating with nearby priests. The priest opened the letter at breakfast and thought he was quite important. In order to compare different arrows, it is necessary to make many country trips to the state capital. For priests and their wives, this kind of trip is a pleasant duty. They try to make cherry sauce or tidy up their study. They have every reason to hope that major problems about concentration camps or graves will not be solved for a long time. The colonel himself is very happy and philosophical about whether he can collect evidence on two aspects of this problem. In fact, he ended up leaning towards the camp. Because of opposition, he wrote an article to be read at the quarterly meeting of the local club. Just then, he fell ill with a stroke. His last sober thought was not about his wife and children, but about the camp and arrows, which have been collected in the showcase of the local museum, as well as the foot of a female murderer in China, a nail in the Elizabethan era, a large number of homemade pipes in Tudor dynasty, and so on.
No, no, nothing. Nothing. If I stand up now and find that the spot on the wall is really-what can we say? The head of a huge old nail has been hammered into the wall for 200 years. Until now, thanks to the patient wiping of several generations of maids, the top of nails has been exposed to paint. I saw modern life for the first time in a room with white walls and a blazing fire. What can I get from this? Knowledge? Or is it a subject that needs further consideration? I can think about whether I sit still or stand. What is knowledge? Our scholars are only descendants of witches and hermits who crouch in caves and forests to cook herbs, ask voles or record the language of stars. Otherwise, what else can they be? Our superstitions gradually disappear, and we respect beautiful and healthy ideas more and more, so we don't respect them so much … Yes, people can imagine a very lovely world. The world is peaceful and vast, with bright red and blue flowers in the wilderness. In this world, there are no professors, no experts, and no stewards with police faces. Here, people can paddle the world with their own thoughts, gently skim the stems of lotus flowers, hover over the bird's nest filled with white seabirds' eggs ... rooted in the center of the world, and look up through the gray sea water and the flashes and reflections in the water. How quiet it is here-without Whitaker's yearbook-
I must jump up and see for myself what the spot on the wall is-is it a nail? A rose petal? Or a crack in the block?
Nature is playing her old trick of saving herself again. She thinks that this idea is nothing more than a waste of energy and may conflict with reality, because who can criticize Whitaker's pecking order table? The Archbishop of Canterbury is followed by the Chancellor, and the Archbishop of York is followed by the Chancellor. There must be someone behind everyone. This is Whitaker's philosophy. The most important thing is to know who should be behind whom Whitaker knows this. Nature advises you not to be angry about it, but to get comfort from it; If you can't get comfort, if you must destroy the peace of this hour, think about the spots on the wall.
I know what nature's game is-she secretly encourages us to take action to end those exciting or painful thoughts. I think that's why we always have a little contempt for doers-we don't think such people like thinking. However, we might as well look at the spots on the wall to interrupt those unpleasant thoughts.
Really, the closer I look at it now, the more I feel as if I have caught a board in the sea. I experienced a satisfying sense of reality, and I turned two archbishops and justices into an unreal world one by one. Here, it is a concrete thing, a real thing. It is common for us to wake up from a nightmare in the middle of the night. We turn on the light in a hurry, lie quietly for a while, appreciate the wardrobe, appreciate the real thing, appreciate the reality, appreciate the outside world, and prove that there are other things besides ourselves. That's what we want to know. Wood is a pleasant thing. It comes from a tree, and trees will grow. We don't know how they grow. They grow on the grass, in the forest and by the river-all the things we like to think about-they grow and grow for many years, and they don't notice us at all. On a hot afternoon, the cow wagged its tail under the tree; Trees have dyed the river green, which makes you think that a female Korean grouse plunged into the water should surface with green feathers. I like to imagine those fish that go upstream, like flags blown by the wind; I also like to imagine those water beetles building domes on the riverbed bit by bit. I like to imagine the scene of the tree itself: first, the delicate and dry feeling of its own wood, and then imagine it feeling the devastation of thunderstorm; Next, I felt the sap flow out slowly and comfortably. I also like to think about how this tree stands alone in the open field in winter night, with closed leaves and no weakness exposed to the iron bullets from the moon, like an empty mast standing on the ground and rolling all night. Birds singing in June must sound deafening and unaccustomed; Small insects struggle to climb over the wrinkles on the bark, or bask in the thin green canopy made of leaves. Their ruby eyes stared straight ahead. At this time, how cold their feet will feel ... the cold of the earth is pressing, and the fibers of the trees are broken one by one. The last storm hit, the tree fell, and the branches at the top of the tree fell deep into the soil. Even at this time, life is not over. This tree still has a million firm and sober lives scattered all over the world. Some are in the bedroom, some are on the boat, some are on the sidewalk, some are the dado of the room, and men and women sit drinking tea and smoking. This tree evokes many associations of peace and happiness. I want to think about them one by one-but I'm blocked ... where do I want to go? How did you get here? A tree? A river? Hilly grassland? Whitaker yearbook? Are daffodils blooming in vilen? I don't remember anything. Everything is turning, sinking, slipping away, disappearing ... things are in great chaos. Someone leaned over and said to me:
"I'm going out to buy a newspaper."
"Really?"
"But there is no point in buying newspapers ... there is no news. Damn war, let this war go to hell! ..... but in any case, I don't think we should let a snail lie on the wall. "
Oh, the spots on the wall! That's a snail.
English: The first time I looked up and saw the sign on the wall was in the middle of January. In order to set a date, it is necessary to remember what a person saw. So now I think of fire; The stable yellow film on my page; Three chrysanthemums in a round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Yes, it must be winter. We just finished drinking tea, because I remember when I looked up and saw the sign on the wall for the first time, I was smoking. I looked up through the cigarette smoke, and my eyes stayed on the burning coal for a while. The ancient fantasy of the crimson flag flying on the castle tower came into my mind, and I thought of the red knights riding on the edge of the black rock. To my relief, seeing this sign interrupted my fantasy, because it is an ancient fantasy, an unconscious fantasy, perhaps produced when I was a child. The mark is a small round mark, black on the white wall, about six or seven inches above the mantelpiece.
How easy it is for our thoughts to flock to a new object and lift it up a little, just like ants carrying a piece of straw enthusiastically and then leaving it. . . If that mark is left by a nail, it can't be a painting. It must be a miniature painting-a miniature painting of a woman with white curly hair, powdered cheeks and red carnations on her lips. Of course, this is a scam, because people who owned this house before us will choose photos in this way-an old photo with an old room. We are such people-very interesting people. I often think of them in this strange place, because people will never see them again and never know what will happen next. He said that they want to leave the house because they want to change their furniture style. He was about to say that in his view, when we are torn, there should be ideas behind art, just like a person being torn by a train from an old woman who is about to pour tea and a young man who is about to play tennis in the back garden of a suburban villa.