· After Mr. Nobwa left, his father scanned the newspaper. I think of Rabema again. Since I feel much less pleasure in the theatre than I had originally estimated, this pleasure needs to be supplemented and absorb all the nourishment unconditionally. For example, Mr. de Nobwa praised the virtues of Rabema, which I drank as if the dry grassland immediately absorbed the water people sprinkled on it. Then my father handed me the newspaper and pointed to the above paragraph: "Huai Dela's performance was unprecedented, and celebrities from the art and criticism circles came to watch it." Mrs. Rabema, Huaila's actor and renowned lady, has achieved unprecedented success in her glorious career. This performance deserves to be a sensation in theatre circles. Our newspaper will give a detailed report. It is only necessary to point out that authoritative critics agree that this performance has refreshed Huai Dela, one of the most beautiful and profound characters in Racine's works, and has become the purest and most outstanding one that contemporaries have the privilege to see. Art performance." Once the new concept of "the purest and most outstanding art performance" came into my mind, it drew closer to the incomplete pleasure I felt in the theatre and filled its gaps slightly. This convergence formed something so exciting that I exclaimed, "What a great artist she is!" ” People may think that my sentence is not entirely from the heart. Consider the situation of many writers: they are not satisfied with the work they have just finished, but if they talk about an article praising the genius of Chateau Brion, or about a great artist who they have cited as a model (for example, they hum Beethoven's music and make it melancholy with the melancholy in their prose). For comparison), then, the concept of genius fills their minds, so when they review their works, they add the concept of genius to them, so that they feel that they are no longer the original appearance, or even convinced of their value, and will say to themselves: "After all, it's not bad!" They did not realize, however, that among all the factors that ultimately satisfied them, there was also their memory of Chateaubriand's wonderful chapters, which they compared with their own works, the former not from their hands. Let's think about those who believe in their loyalty despite being cheated by their mistresses over and over again. Others sometimes look forward to an incomprehensible survival, such as a hateful husband thinking of a lost, still loving wife, or an artist thinking of the honor he may enjoy in the future, and sometimes to a comforting nihility, because they recall their mistakes, if not nihility, after they die. There must be atonement. Let's think about the tourists who are bored with their daily schedule, but are excited about the overall beauty of the trip. Let's ask, since concepts live in our minds together, which of the concepts that make us happy is not the first to ask for the power we lack from different neighbouring concepts like parasites?
My father stopped talking about my "diplomacy career" and my mother did not seem very satisfied. I think she regrets not that I gave up diplomacy, but that I chose literature, because what she cares most about is that a rule of life is used to restrain my moody mood. "Stop talking," my father shouted. "You have to be interested in what you do first. Besides, he is no longer a child. Of course, he knows what he likes. I'm afraid it's hard to change. He knows what happiness is in his life." Happiness or unhappiness in the future, let alone that night, I was troubled by my father's words that made me the master. My father's sudden kindness often makes me want to rush over and kiss his rosy cheeks above his beard. I don't do it just for fear of upsetting him. I'm like an author who feels that his reverie seems to be of little value since it's in his own hands, but he's horrified that publishers should choose the best paper for them and possibly print it in the best font. So do I. I asked myself if my desire to write really matters. Is it worth my father wasting so much goodwill on it? He said that my interests would not change and my life would be happy. These words aroused two very painful conjectures in me. The first point is that my life has already begun (and I think I'm standing on the threshold of life every day, life is still complete, starting in the morning the next day). Besides, what happens in the future will not be much different from what happened in the past. The second guess (actually just another form of the first one) is that I am not out of time, but subject to the laws of time like the characters in the novel, and that's why I feel so sad when I sit in the willow shed of Gombre and read their lives. In theory, we know that the earth is turning, but in fact we are not aware that the ground under our feet does not seem to move when we walk, and we live in peace and contentment. The same is true of time in life. In order to make the reader feel the passage of time, the novelist has to speed up the clock madly, so that the reader can pass ten, twenty and thirty years in two minutes. At the beginning of a page, we see a hopeful lover. At the end of the same page, he is an 80-year-old man, staggering for a routine walk in the courtyard of a nursing home, and ignoring others because of the loss of memory. My father just said, "He is no longer a child, his interests will not change" and so on. These words made me suddenly see me in time, and made me feel the same sadness. Although I am not an old man with mental decline in the nursing home, I seem to be a character in the novel. At the end of the book, the author said in an extremely cruel and indifferent tone, "He left the countryside less and less, and finally settled in the countryside forever." Wait.
At this time, the father, fearing that we might criticize the guests, said to his mother first:
"I admit that old man Nobua, in your words, is a bit pedantic. He said just now that it would be improper to ask the Count of Paris. I'm afraid you'll laugh."
"Where did you say it?" Mother answered, "I like him very much. He is so senior and so old that he can keep his childishness. This shows that he is upright and well-educated.
"Good. However, this does not affect his alertness and intelligence, which I know best. He judged two people on the committee. "My father raised his voice, he was glad that Mr. De Nobwa was appreciated by his mother, and wanted to prove that he was better than she had imagined (because good feelings tend to elevate the other side, and teasing tends to belittle the other side)," he said. What do you say? 'It's hard to say what the princes are doing... '?
"Yes, that's right. I also noticed that he was very keen and obviously had a lot of experience in life.
"It's strange that he went to Mrs Swan's house for dinner and met decent people and public servants there. Where did Mrs Swan get these people?
"Didn't you notice his witty remark? 'It seems that men are the main ones going there. ''
So they both tried to recall the tone of De Nobwa's voice, as if they were recalling the tone of Bressan or Dillon's performance in "The Adventurer Woman" or "Mr. Puvalier's Son-in-law". Nevertheless, the highest praise for Mr. Nobwa's words came from Francois. Years later, when people mentioned that the ambassador called her "the first-class chef", she was "unable to help laughing". When the mother went to the kitchen to convey this title to her, it was as if the Minister of Defense had conveyed the congratulations of the visiting monarch after his inspection. I went to the kitchen earlier than my mother because I had asked Franois, a peace-loving but hard-hearted man, not to make it too painful when slaughtering rabbits. I went to the kitchen to see how things were going. Franois told me that everything was going smoothly and neatly: "I've never met an animal like this before. He died without saying a word, as if he were mute. I know little about animal language and say that rabbits call less than chickens. Seeing how ignorant I was, Franois said angrily, "Don't come to a conclusion. You have to see if a rabbit's cry is really smaller than a chicken's. I think it's much bigger than a chicken." When Franois received Mr. de Nobwa's praise, she looked proud and calm, with bright and intelligent eyes, albeit temporarily, as if an artist was listening to someone talk about her art. Mother had sent her to several big restaurants to practice cooking skills. That night, she called the most famous restaurant a snack bar. I was as happy to hear that as I was when I found that the quality and reputation of theatrical artists were not the same. The mother said to her, "The ambassador said you can't eat the cold beef and custard you made anywhere." Franois agreed with a modest and well-deserved look, but she was not flattered by the title of ambassador. When she mentioned Mr. de Nobwa, she said in a kind tone, "This is a good old man, just like me." Because he used to call her "head". When he came, she wanted to peek, but she knew that her mother hated peeping behind the door or under the window, and that Franois had peeped from other servants or porters (Franois saw jealousy and gossip everywhere), which acted on her imagination, just as Jesuit or gossip did. The Jewish conspiracy works on some people's imagination: it's a perennial and ominous function) so she just glances through the kitchen window to "avoid explaining to her wife", and when she sees Mr. De Nobwa's general appearance and "dexterous" posture, she "really thinks it's Legron." Mr. Dan, "In fact, they have nothing in common. "Nobody can make such delicious frozen juice as you do (when you do). What's the reason for that?" Mother asked her. "I don't know where it came from." Franois said (she was not sure what the difference between the verb "come" - at least some of its usage - and the verb "change"). Part of what she said was true because she was not good at --- or unwilling to --- revealing the secret of her success in frozen juice or butter, just as a graceful lady with her own costume, or a famous singer with her own voice. Their explanations often leave us out of touch. Our cooks do the same for cooking. When talking about the big restaurant, she said, "They are in a hurry and they cook the dishes separately. Beef must be as rotten as a sponge to absorb all the soup. However, there used to be a coffee shop where the dishes were well cooked. I don't mean that they make the same frozen juice as I do, but they burn it gently, and there's butter in the crispy. "Henry's Restaurant?" My father, who had come to us, asked that he appreciated this restaurant in Cailong Square and often went to dinner there with his colleagues. "Ah, no!" Franois said that there was deep contempt in the soft voice. "I'm talking about small restaurants. Henry's is certainly a fancy restaurant, but it's not a restaurant, it's... Soup shop!" "So it's Weber's Restaurant?" "Ah, no, I mean good restaurants. Weber's restaurant is on Wangjia Street. It's not a restaurant. It's a hotel. I don't know if they serve the guests. I don't think they even have tablecloths. Put everything on the table carelessly." "The Silo Restaurant?" Franois smiled.'Ah, there, in terms of flavor, I think it's mainly the ladies of the upper class.'For Franois, the upper class is the social flower. Of course, young people need it." We found that Franois, despite her simple look, was a fearsome "fellow" to a famous chef, and she was no inferior to the most jealous and pretentious actress. But we felt she had the right attitude towards her craft. She respected tradition because she said, "No, the restaurant I was talking about used to make several popular delicacies. Now the facade is not small. In the past, business was good and a lot of Sue was made (Franois, a thrifty man, calculated his money by Sue, unlike Louis, a loser). My wife knows this restaurant, on the road, with her right hand and a little back..." The restaurant that she talked about in such a fair tone, mixed with pride and innocence, was ____________. English Cafe.
New Year's Day is here. My mother and I went to visit relatives. Afraid of being tired of me, she divided the families she was going to according to her father's road map into groups by region, not by kinship. We went to visit a distant cousin (she lived not far from us, so as a starting point), but as soon as we stepped into the living room, my mother was panicked because a friend of a suspicious uncle was eating chilled chestnuts or nuts sandwich chestnuts there. He would surely tell his uncle that he was not the first one we visited, but his uncle. Uncle's self-esteem will be hurt because of him
As if the Minister of Defense had conveyed the congratulations of the visiting monarch after his review. I went to the kitchen earlier than my mother because I had asked Franois, a peace-loving but hard-hearted man, not to make it too painful when slaughtering rabbits. I went to the kitchen to see how things were going. Franois told me that everything was going smoothly and neatly: "I've never met an animal like this before. He died without saying a word, as if he were mute. I know little about animal language and say that rabbits call less than chickens. Seeing how ignorant I was, Franois said angrily, "Don't come to a conclusion. You have to see if a rabbit's cry is really smaller than a chicken's. I think it's much bigger than a chicken." When Franois received Mr. de Nobwa's praise, she looked proud and calm, with bright and intelligent eyes, albeit temporarily, as if an artist was listening to someone talk about her art. Mother had sent her to several big restaurants to practice cooking skills. That night, she called the most famous restaurant a snack bar. I was as happy to hear that as I was when I found that the quality and reputation of theatrical artists were not the same. The mother said to her, "The ambassador said you can't eat the cold beef and custard you made anywhere." Franois agreed with a modest and well-deserved look, but she was not flattered by the title of ambassador. When she mentioned Mr. de Nobwa, she said in a kind tone, "This is a good old man, just like me." Because he used to call her "head". When he came, she wanted to peek, but she knew that her mother hated peeping behind the door or under the window, and that Franois had peeped from other servants or porters (Franois saw jealousy and gossip everywhere), which acted on her imagination, just as Jesuit or gossip did. The Jewish conspiracy works on some people's imagination: it's a perennial and ominous function) so she just glances through the kitchen window to "avoid explaining to her wife", and when she sees Mr. De Nobwa's general appearance and "dexterous" posture, she "really thinks it's Legron." Mr. Dan, "In fact, they have nothing in common. "Nobody can make such delicious frozen juice as you do (when you do). What's the reason for that?" Mother asked her. "I don't know where it came from." Franois said (she was not sure what the difference between the verb "come" - at least some of its usage - and the verb "change"). Part of what she said was true because she was not good at --- or unwilling to --- revealing the secret of her success in frozen juice or butter, just as a graceful lady with her own costume, or a famous singer with her own voice. Their explanations often leave us out of touch. Our cooks do the same for cooking. When talking about the big restaurant, she said, "They are in a hurry and they cook the dishes separately. Beef must be as rotten as a sponge to absorb all the soup. However, there used to be a coffee shop where the dishes were well cooked. I don't mean that they make the same frozen juice as I do, but they burn it gently, and there's butter in the crispy. "Henry's Restaurant?" My father, who had come to us, asked that he appreciated this restaurant in Cailong Square and often went to dinner there with his colleagues. "Ah, no!" Franois said that there was deep contempt in the soft voice. "I'm talking about small restaurants. Henry's is certainly a fancy restaurant, but it's not a restaurant, it's... Soup shop!" "So it's Weber's Restaurant?" "Ah, no, I mean good restaurants. Weber's restaurant is on Wangjia Street. It's not a restaurant. It's a hotel. I don't know if they serve the guests. I don't think they even have tablecloths. Put everything on the table carelessly." "The Silo Restaurant?" Franois smiled.'Ah, there, in terms of flavor, I think it's mainly the ladies of the upper class.'For Franois, the upper class is the social flower. Of course, young people need it." We found that Franois, despite her simple look, was a fearsome "fellow" to a famous chef, and she was no inferior to the most jealous and pretentious actress. But we felt she had the right attitude towards her craft. She respected tradition because she said, "No, the restaurant I was talking about used to make several popular delicacies. Now the facade is not small. In the past, business was good and a lot of Sue was made (Franois, a thrifty man, calculated his money by Sue, unlike Louis, a loser). My wife knows this restaurant, on the road, with her right hand and a little back..." The restaurant that she talked about in such a fair tone, mixed with pride and innocence, was ____________. English Cafe.
New Year's Day is here. My mother and I went to visit relatives. Afraid of being tired of me, she divided the families she was going to according to her father's road map into groups by region, not by kinship. We went to visit a distant cousin (she lived not far from us, so as a starting point), but as soon as we stepped into the living room, my mother was panicked because a friend of a suspicious uncle was eating chilled chestnuts or nuts sandwich chestnuts there. He would surely tell his uncle that he was not the first one we visited, but his uncle. Uncle's self-esteem will be hurt because he thinks we should naturally go from Madeleine Church to his botanical garden, then Augustine Street, and finally to Medical College Street.
After the visit (Grandma excused us because we were going to have dinner with her that day), I went to the shop on Champs Elysees Street and asked the female owner to forward a letter to Swan's servants who came to buy spices, honey and bread several times a week. Since the day when Hillbert saddened me, I decided to write to her on New Year's Day, telling her that our old friendship had ended with the past year, and that my complaints and disappointments were over. From January 1st, we will build a new friendship. It will be very strong and nothing can be destroyed. It will be very beautiful. I hope Hillbert will take good care of it and keep it beautiful forever. And in case of any danger threatening it, she must tell me in time, as I promised to tell her. Same. On the way home, Franois asked me to stop at the corner of Wangjia Street, where there was an open-air stall. She chose several pictures of Pius IX and Las Baye as New Year's gifts, and I bought a picture of Rabema. The only face of the actress seems to be poor in comparison with all the praises she has evoked. It is as unchangeable and unsustainable as the clothes of the people who have not changed their clothes. The small wrinkles, raised eyebrows, and other physiological features above the upper lip are invariable and are at risk of being burned and hit at any time. This face alone does not make me feel beautiful, but I have the idea and desire to kiss it, because it must have received countless kisses, and because it seems to be calling me on the "photo card" with a soft flirtatious eye and a naive smile. Rabema must have all the desires she confessed to many young people under the cover of Huaidara, and everything, including adding beauty to her and keeping her high reputation of youth forever, could easily satisfy her desires. At dusk, I stopped in front of the poster column of the theatre to watch the poster about Rabema's performance on January 1. It's slightly rheumatic and soft. I'm familiar with this kind of weather. I feel and anticipate that New Year's Day is no different from any other day. It is not the first day of the new world. In that new world, I will have the opportunity to re-recognize Hilbert as if nothing had happened in the past, as if she had sometimes disappointed me and foreshadowed the future. None of them exists. In that new world, everything in the old world disappeared without trace... Except for one thing: I want Hilbert's love. I understand that since my heart wants to rebuild the unfulfilled world around it, it means that my heart has not changed, because I think Hilbert's heart can't change either. I feel that there is no difference between new friendship and old friendship, just as there is no gap between new year and old year. Our wishes can neither control nor change the years, so we have to change the name of the years without knowing anything about them. I would like to dedicate the new year to Hilbert and engrave my special thoughts on New Year's Day, which is like overlapping religion with blind laws of nature, but it is in vain and in vain. I don't feel that it knows what people call New Year's Day. It ends at dusk as I used to. The breeze blew through the advertising column, and I recognized that I felt the same eternal substance of the past, its familiar moisture and its ignorant fluidity.
When I returned home, I had just passed the New Year's Day for the elderly; the difference between the elderly and the young was not only that they could not get New Year's gifts, but that they no longer believed in New Year's Day. I received some New Year's gifts, but there was no letter from Hilbert, the only one that made me happy. But after all, I was still very young. I wrote her a letter telling her about my passionate dream of loneliness, hoping to arouse her sympathy. The sad thing about the aging people is that they would never write such a letter because they already knew it was useless.
I lay down, and the noise of the festival that lasted until late at night kept me awake. I think of all the people who are going to spend the night in joy, of Rabema's lover or of that group of dissolutes, who must go to Rabema after the performance (that is, the performance I saw on the poster that night). This thought made me even more agitated on sleepless nights. In order to regain her composure, I wanted to say to myself that Rabema might not have thought of love, but I could not say it out, because the carefully deliberated poems she recited clearly reminded her how wonderful love was, and she also had deep feelings, so she performed well-known. —— But with its new power and unexpected tenderness, panic, the audience is amazed. In fact, every audience has a personal experience of it. I lit the extinguished candle to see her face again. Now it's probably being caressed by men, who give her extraordinary and vague pleasure from her (and I can't stop it), and this assumption gives me a more cruel excitement than pornography, a yearning, which is even more apparent in the trumpets (like those often heard on Carnival nivals and other festive nights). Deep; the trumpet came from a small hotel, without any poetry, so it was better than "In the evening, deep in the woods..." More melancholy. At this moment, Hillbert's letter may not be what I need. People's desires interfere with each other in a disordered life, so happiness seldom falls on the desires that are precisely desirable for it.
I still go to Champs Elysees when it's sunny. The delicate pink houses along the street were displayed under the changeable and light sky, because the Watercolor Exhibition was very popular at that time. It would be a lie if I said that I thought Gabriel's architecture was more beautiful than the buildings around it and belonged to different times. I thought that industrial buildings, at least the Trocadero Palace, were more distinctive and perhaps more ancient. As a teenager, I was immersed in a turbulent sleep, so the whole block I saw in my sleep seemed like a dream. I never thought there was an eighteenth century building in Wangjia Street. I would be surprised to learn that St. Martin's Gate and St. Denim's Gate, the masterpieces of the Louis XIV era, are different times from the latest buildings in these dirty neighborhoods. Gabriel's architecture only once made me gaze for a long time, when night had fallen, and the column lost its material outline in the moonlight, as if it were cardboard. It reminded me of the setting in the light opera "Orpus in Hell", which made me feel beautiful for the first time.
Hilbert never returned to Champs Elysees, and I needed to see her, because I couldn't even remember her face. We look at our loved ones in an exploratory, anxious, demanding manner. We wait for the words that make us hopeful or hopeless about the next day's appointment. Before this sentence comes, we imagine joy and disappointment, either at the same time or in turn, because of this, when we face the loved ones. At times, our attention was trembling and we couldn't get a clear image of her or him. This is a kind of activity that is carried out simultaneously by various senses, but only by trying to recognize things beyond vision. It may be too tolerant to the thousands of forms, tastes and movements of a living person. Indeed, when we don't love someone, we tend to keep her (him) still. Our precious models are active as children. We always have bad pictures in our memory. I did forget Hilbert's face, except that she stretched out to me.
It is a kind of yearning, which is more deep in the trumpets (like those often heard on Carnival nights and other festival nights); the trumpets come from a small hotel, without any poetry, so they are better than "in the evening, deep in the woods..." More melancholy. At this moment, Hillbert's letter may not be what I need. People's desires interfere with each other in a disordered life, so happiness seldom falls on the desires that are precisely desirable for it.
I still go to Champs Elysees when it's sunny. The delicate pink houses along the street were displayed under the changeable and light sky, because the Watercolor Exhibition was very popular at that time. It would be a lie if I said that I thought Gabriel's architecture was more beautiful than the buildings around it and belonged to different times. I thought that industrial buildings, at least the Trocadero Palace, were more distinctive and perhaps more ancient. As a teenager, I was immersed in a turbulent sleep, so the whole block I saw in my sleep seemed like a dream. I never thought there was an eighteenth century building in Wangjia Street. I would be surprised to learn that St. Martin's Gate and St. Denim's Gate, the masterpieces of the Louis XIV era, are different times from the latest buildings in these dirty neighborhoods. Gabriel's architecture only once made me gaze for a long time, when night had fallen, and the column lost its material outline in the moonlight, as if it were cardboard. It reminded me of the setting in the light opera "Orpus in Hell", which made me feel beautiful for the first time.
Hilbert never returned to Champs Elysees, and I needed to see her, because I couldn't even remember her face. We look at our loved ones in an exploratory, anxious, demanding manner. We wait for the words that make us hopeful or hopeless about the next day's appointment. Before this sentence comes, we imagine joy and disappointment, either at the same time or in turn, because of this, when we face the loved ones. At times, our attention was trembling and we couldn't get a clear image of her or him. This is a kind of activity that is carried out simultaneously by various senses, but only by trying to recognize things beyond vision. It may be too tolerant to the thousands of forms, tastes and movements of a living person. Indeed, when we don't love someone, we tend to keep her (him) still. Our precious models are active as children. We always have bad pictures in our memory. I did forget Hilbert's face, except for the magical moment when she extended her smile to me - because I only remember her smile. Since I couldn't see the dear face, I tried to recall it, but in vain, I found two useless and amazing faces that were precisely engraved in my memory: the man who ran the Trojan Horse and the woman who sold maltose. When a person loses a loved one, he will never see her (him) in his dream, but he constantly dreams of so many disgusting people, even more annoyed, because when he wakes up, he can hardly bear to see them. Since there is no ability to describe the object of painful thoughts, people condemn themselves for not feeling painful. So do I. Since I can't remember Hilbert's face, I almost believe that I forgot to have her. I don't love her anymore.
She finally came back and played with me almost every day. Every day I hope to get something new from her tomorrow. In this sense, my love is renewing day by day. But suddenly another thing changed the way I love at two o'clock every afternoon. Did Mr. Swan find my letter to his daughter, or did Hillbert tell me what was already there in order to make me more wary? On one occasion, I told her that I admired her parents very much. She showed a vague, reserved, secret air, which she often had when talking about what she should do, what she should buy and who she visited. Suddenly, she said, "You know, they don't look up to you!" Then she laughed like a slippery water spirit (which is her habit). Her laughter tends to be very incongruous with the words and, like music, delineates another invisible surface on another plane. Mr. and Mrs. Swan did not ask Hilbert to stop playing with me, but they hoped, in her opinion, that it had never happened. They don't like her dealing with me. They think I'm not a noble person and can only have a bad influence on their daughter. Swan thinks I belong to that kind of brazen youth. In his conception, this kind of person hates the parents of the girl he loves, laughs at them with her behind his face, encourages her to turn a deaf ear to their words, and even refuses to meet his parents when the girl arrives. In sharp contrast to this image, which the most despicable person would never see himself like this, is the feeling in my heart. I have a strong feeling for Swan, and I believe that if he is a little aware of it, he will regret his misjudgment of me, as if it were a wrong case! I had the courage to write a long letter about my feelings for him and ask Hilbert to pass it on to him. She agreed. But, alas! To my surprise, he thought I was a bigger hypocrite. His suspicion of the feelings I so truthfully portrayed in the sixteen-page letter. My warm and sincere letter was as ineffective as my warm and sincere words to Mr. de Nobwa. The next day, Hillbert led me behind a large clump of laurel trees on the path. It was very quiet. Each of us took a chair and sat down. She told me that her father shrugged when he read the letter and said, "It's meaningless, but it proves that I can see it right." I am more annoyed because I am confident that my motivation is pure and my heart is kind. What I said did not touch a hair of Swan's absurd mistake! Of course, he is wrong, I believe it. Since I have so accurately described some of the undoubted characteristics of my generosity, Swan still cannot immediately identify my feelings and ask me to forgive his mistakes on the basis of these characteristics, it must be because he has never experienced such lofty feelings himself, and therefore cannot understand that others will have such feelings. Feelings.
Maybe it's just because Swan knows that generosity is just the internal form of our selfish feelings that we used to take before they were classified and named. Maybe he thinks that my affection for him is just the simple effect (and warm affirmation) of my love for Hilbert, and that all my future actions will inevitably depend on that love. It doesn't depend on my worship of him. I couldn't agree with his prediction, because I couldn't separate my love from my self, and I couldn't estimate the consequences from an experimental point of view. I was disappointed. I had to leave Hillbert for a moment because Francois was calling me. I had to accompany her to the little pavilion with a green metal screen, much like the old Paris taxation sentry, which was abandoned. Not long ago, a bathroom was built in its interior, which was called by the British, while the French were half-conscious in their pursuit of British fashion, calling it "Vatail Crosser". I waited for Franois in the porch, and the cool musty smell of the damp and old walls made me immediately forget the worries of Swan's words conveyed by Hillbert and fill me with joy. It was not the pleasure that made us more unstable and difficult to be retained and controlled by us. It was a phase. On the contrary, I can rely on a solid pleasure, which is wonderful, quiet, rich and lasting truth. It has not been explained, but it is absolutely certain. I wish I could go for a walk in Gelmont, and try to find the charm of this strong feeling, and stay there motionless to inquire about this ancient breath. It invites me to go deep into the truth it has not revealed, instead of enjoying the pleasure it attaches to me. But at this moment, the landlady of the pavilion, an old woman with a pink face and a red-brown wig, spoke to me. Franois said she had a "good family" because her daughter married what Franois called a "wealthy kid" who was as different from the workers as St. Simon thought the Duke was as different from the "lower class" people. Of course, the landlady probably had a bad fate before she did this job, but Franois must have said she was a marquis and belonged to the San Ferreo family. The Marquis told me not to stay in the cold, even opened a door for me and said, "You don't want to go in? This room is very clean. No money." Maybe she did the same thing as the lady at Guashi's candy store. Every time we ordered something, they always took a piece of sugar from under the glass cover on the counter and handed it to me. Unfortunately, my mother forbade me to accept it. She may also be like the old woman who sells flowers with ulterior motives. When her mother chooses flowers for the flower bed, the woman gives me autumn waves and a rose. In short, if "Marquise" likes boys and opens the door to the stone tomb room where men crouch like a Sphinx, then what she seeks in such generosity is not an attempt to corrode, but the pleasure of giving to her loved ones without any intention of returning them. Therefore, I have never been there for her. I've seen other customers, only an old park keeper.
A moment later, Franois and I said goodbye to the Marquise, and then I left Franois to find Hilbert. I found her sitting in the chair behind the laurel bushes. This is to avoid being seen by her companions, who are playing hide-and-seek. I went and sat next to her. She pulled her bonnet very low, almost covering her eyes, as if she were "peeping". The first time I saw her in Gombre, she was such a dreamy, cunning look. I asked her if she could get me to talk to her father face to face. She said she had mentioned it to her father, but he thought it was unnecessary. "Hold it," she continued, "take your letter. I have to go find my companions, since they can't find me."
If, at this moment, Swan had suddenly arrived before I could get a letter (so sincere that he could not persuade Swan, it was incredible), I might have seen his words unfortunately come to light. Hilbert leaned back in his chair and asked me to answer the letter without handing it to me. So I approached her. I felt the strong attraction of her body. I said:
"Come on, don't let me grab it. See who's good."
She hid the letter behind her, and my hand lifted her hair braids hanging over her shoulders and reached behind her neck. She wore shoulder-length braids, perhaps because it suited her age, or because her mother wanted to extend her daughter's childhood to make herself look younger. We fought and bowed. I'm going to pull her over. She's resisting. Her hot cheeks were as red and round as cherries, and she laughed as if I were tickling her. I held her tightly between my legs as if trying to climb a small tree. In this struggle, my asthma mainly comes from the passion of muscle movement and games. Like sweat beads from physical exhaustion, I spilled my joy and even had no time to rest for a moment to taste its taste. I snatched the letter at once. So Hillbert said to me kindly:
"You know, if you like, we can fight a little longer."
Perhaps she vaguely felt that I had another unspecified purpose in playing the game, but she did not see that my goal had been achieved. I was afraid that she would notice (a moment later, she made an offensive, restrained and restrained movement of shame, and my fear was justified), so I promised to continue fighting, lest she think I had no other purpose, and believed that since I had won, I just wanted to be quiet.
On the way home, I suddenly noticed and remembered that the cool, smoky smell of the little pavilion with metal mesh made me approach a previously hidden image without making me see it or recognize it. This is the image of Uncle Adolf's little room in Gombre, which also emits the same moisture. However, I don't understand, and I don't want to understand, for the time being, why the memory of such an insignificant image makes me so happy. At this time, I feel that Mr. De Nobwa's contempt for me is indeed justified. First, I think that the best writer is only a "piper" to him. Second, the real passion I feel is not from some important idea, but from a kind of mildew.
For some time, in some families, when guests mentioned the name of Champs Elysees Street, mothers looked disapproving, as if they were standing in front of a famous doctor who had seen him misdiagnosed many times and could no longer trust him. It is said that Champs Elysees Park is bad for children, No.
A sore throat, measles and many children have a fever. Several of my mother's girlfriends were puzzled when they saw her continuing to let me go to the Champs Elysees. Although they did not openly doubt her maternal love, they at least regretted her indiscretion.
Nervous people may be very few people who "listen" to their hearts, although this is contrary to the general view. They heard a lot of things on themselves, and later found that they shouldn't make a fuss, so they never heard them. Their nervous system often shouts "Help!" As if life was at stake, it was simply because it was snowing or they were moving. Over time, they were accustomed to ignoring warnings, just as a dying soldier, driven by the warmth of battle, ignored warnings and continued to live like a healthy man for a few days. One day, with the usual discomfort (I never paid attention to their constant internal circulation as well as the blood circulation), I ran into the dining room briskly. My parents were sitting at the table, so I sat down too. As usual, I said to myself, chilling may not mean heating, but Because I was scolded; not feeling hungry meant that it was going to rain, not that I didn't need to eat - but when I swallowed my first delicious steak, a burst of nausea and dizziness stopped me, an anxious answer to the initial pain. I used cold indifference to cover up and delay the symptoms, but the disease stubbornly refused food, so that I could not swallow. At that moment, in the same instant, I thought that I would not be allowed to go out if someone found me sick. The idea (like the instinct of the wounded) gave me courage. I hobbled back to my bedroom, measured my fever at 40 degrees, and then dressed up and went to Champs Elysees. Although my physical surface is weak and weak, my mind is laughing and urging me to pursue and pursue the sweet pleasure of playing the game of catching people with Hillbert. An hour later, my body couldn't support me, but I still felt happy around her and still had the strength to enjoy it.
As soon as she got home, Franois told the crowd that I was "not feeling well", and that I must have been suffering from "cold and fever". And immediately a doctor was called in. Doctors claim that the "extreme" and "viral" fever, which tends to be caused by pulmonary congestion, is merely a "straw fire" and will be transformed into a more "sinister" and "potentially" form. For a long time I felt suffocated and my grandmother thought I was alcoholic, but despite her objection, the doctor advised me to drink beer, champagne or brandy properly when I was on the verge of illness, in addition to taking breathless caffeine. He said alcohol-induced "comfort" prevents asthma attacks. Therefore, in order to ask for wine from my grandmother, I could not hide it, but had to show that I had difficulty breathing. Whenever I feel that I am about to fall ill and cannot anticipate the illness, I am worried that my body, perhaps too weak to bear the secret of the illness alone, or because I am afraid that others will not know that I am about to fall ill and ask to do something beyond or dangerous, makes me feel that I must feel uncomfortable. Tell grandmothers exactly, and that precision eventually becomes a physiological need. Whenever I find an unrecognized symptom in myself, I have to tell my grandmother, or my body will panic. If she pretends not to pay attention, then my body will keep me going. Sometimes I go too far, so there is pity and painful contracture in the face that is no longer as restrained as it used to be. Seeing her so painful, I was so miserable that I threw myself into her arms as if my kiss could erase her pain and my love could make her happy as my happiness. Now that she knows how uncomfortable I am, I feel relieved and my body no longer opposes me to comfort her. I repeat that this discomfort is not painful. She does not need to pity me at all. I assure her that I am happy. My body just wants to get the pity it deserves. As long as others know the pain on its right side, it is enough. It does not object to my saying that the pain is not a cause but an obstacle to my happiness. It is not. Philosophy flaunts itself, and philosophy has no affinity with it. Almost every day before I recovered, my asphyxia broke out several times. One night, when my grandmother left me, I was still safe, but she came to see me late at night and saw me breathing fast. She cried out in horror, "Ah! My God, how much you suffer!" She went out at once, and the door rang. Soon she came in with the brandy she had just bought, because there was no wine at home. Soon I felt relaxed. Grandmother's face was reddish, her face was not very comfortable, and her eyes showed fatigue and discouragement.
"I'll just walk away and relax you." She said, and suddenly left me, but I still kissed her and felt a little wet on her fresh cheeks. Was it the moisture left by the dark night air she had just crossed? I don't know. The next day, she didn't come to my bedroom until dark. It was said that she had to go out during the day. I thought she was showing me indifference, but I restrained myself from blaming her.
The congestion has been cured, but I continue to feel suffocated. What is the reason? So the parents invited Professor Godard. It is not enough for a doctor invited in this case to have knowledge alone. The symptoms he faces may be three or four different diseases, and ultimately it is his sense of smell and vision that determine which one is, although the symptoms are almost identical. This mysterious gift does not imply superior intelligence in other ways. A person who likes the worst paintings, the worst music, the least spiritual pursuit and the most vulgar can have this talent. In my case, the specific symptoms he observed may have multiple causes: neurospasm, newly-onset tuberculosis, asthma, enterotoxigenic dyspnea with renal insufficiency, chronic bronchitis, or syndromes consisting of several of these factors. The way to deal with neurospasm is different. Take it seriously, and deal with tuberculosis must be carefully engaged in excessive diet therapy, and excessive diet is very harmful to arthritic diseases such as asthma, enterotoxin dyspnea is extremely dangerous, and enterotoxin dyspnea required diet for tuberculosis patients is fatal. However, Godard hesitated for only a moment to announce the prescription in an irrefutable tone: "Diarrhea and strong diarrhea. You can only drink milk in a few days. No meat. No alcohol." Mother murmured that I needed nourishment urgently. I was already quite nervous. This laxation and diet would break me down. Godard's eyes were anxious, as if he was afraid of missing the train. I could see that he was asking himself if the words had come from his gentle nature. He was trying to recall whether he had forgotten to wear the cold mask (as if people were looking for a mirror to see if they had forgotten to wear a tie). He was doubtful and wanted to make up for it, so he said in a gruff voice, "I never repeat the prescription. Give me a pen. Only milk. When we have solved the problem of breathing difficulties and insomnia, you can drink soup. I don't object to eating mashed potatoes, but we always have to drink milk and milk. This will make you happy, since Spain is the most fashionable now, Ah Lai! Ah Lai! His students are familiar with the word game, because every time he tells a heart or liver patient to eat milk as the staple food in the hospital, he always says so. Then you can gradually return to normal life. However, as long as cough and asphyxia recur, you can do it again: laxatives, intestinal lavage, bed rest, milk." He listened coldly to his mother's last objection, ignored it, disdained to explain why he had taken the treatment and left. My parents thought that this kind of therapy not only could not cure my illness, but also uselessly hurt my vitality, so they refused to let me try it. Of course, they try not to let the professor know that they did not do what he said, and in order to be safe, they would not go to any social place where they might meet the professor. Later, as my condition grew worse and worse, they decided to follow Godard's prescription to the letter. Three days later, I stopped breathing, coughing and breathing. So we knew that Godard saw that my main cause was poisoning (although he later said that he thought I had asthma, especially a bit of "madness"). He flushed my liver and kidneys to make my bronchus unobstructed, thus restoring my breathing, sleep and energy. So we understand that this fool is a great doctor. I finally got up. But they no longer let me play in Champs Elysees, where the air is said to be bad. I think it's just an excuse not to let me see Miss Swan, so I forced myself to remember Hilbert's name all the time, just like the captives trying to keep their mother tongue, so as not to forget the motherland they will never see again. Mother sometimes touched my forehead with her hand and said:
"Why, the little boy no longer tells his mother about his troubles?"
Franois approached me every day and said, "Look at Mr. Franois's face! You don't look in the mirror, like a dead man!" If I had only caught a cold, Franois would have the same sad face. This sadness is more due to her "rank" than to my illness. At that time, I couldn't tell whether Franois's pessimism was painful or satisfying. For the time being, I thought it was social and professional.
One day, after the postman came, my mother put a letter on my bed. I opened the letter carelessly, because it could not contain the only signature that would make me happy - Hillbert's signature, and I had nothing to do with her except to meet on Champs Elysees Street. At the bottom of the letter there is a silver seal, which contains a knight in a helmet and the motto Pre viam rectam, which is arranged in a circle below. The letter was bold, and every sentence seemed to be reinforced, because the crossing on the letter "t" was not marked in the middle, but on the top, which was equal to a line under the corresponding words on the previous line. At the bottom of the letter I saw Hilbert's signature. However, since I don't think it is possible for me to have her signature in the letter I received, I don't believe my eyes and I'm not happy. Suddenly, this signature made everything around me lose its authenticity. This incredible signature is playing a corner game with my bed, fireplace and wall at a dizzying speed. Everything in front of me shook as if I had fallen off the horse's back. I was thinking about the existence of another life. It was quite different from or even contrary to the life we knew, but it was real. When it suddenly appeared to me, I hesitated, as if it were the stations in the sculptor's Doomsday Judgment. The same is true of those who die and come back to life at the gate of heaven. The letter said, "Dear Friend: I heard that you were seriously ill and no longer came to the Champs Elysees. I don't go there either, because there are many patients there. My girlfriends come to my house for tea every Monday and Friday. Mother let me tell you that you are welcome to come back when you are well. We can continue our interesting conversation on Champs Elysees Street at home. Goodbye, dear friend, I hope your parents will allow you to come to my house for tea often. Greetings. Hilbert."
While reading this letter, my nervous system received the message with amazing agility, that is, I met a happy event. However, my mind, that is, I myself, the principal client, did not know. Happiness, through Hillbert to obtain happiness, this is what I have always yearned for, purely ideological things, as Leonardo said painting is Cosa mentale. A letter full of words cannot be absorbed by thought immediately. However, when I finished reading the letter, I thought of it, and it became the object of my reverie, Cosa metale. I couldn't help but read it again every five minutes and kiss it again. So, I know my happiness.
Life is full of miracles that lovers can always count on. This miracle may have been artificially created by my mother. Seeing that my life has been dull lately, she asked Hilbert to write to me. I remember my first baths in the sea. At that time, I hated sea water because I could not breathe. In order to arouse my interest in diving, my mother quietly asked my swimming teacher to put beautiful shells and coral branches under the water, so that I thought I had found them. What's more, in life, in all kinds of different life situations, it's better not to try to understand anything about love, because they are sometimes harsh and ruthless, sometimes unexpected, as if they follow magical rules rather than rational ones. A billionaire, rich but lovely, was abandoned by a poor, unattractive woman who lived with him. In despair, he exerted all the power of money and all the influence of the world in order to get her back, but in vain. In this case, we had better not use logic to explain his feelings. Why is a woman stubborn, but should think that he is destined to be hit by this, destined to die of heart disease. Lovers often have to struggle with obstacles, and their painful and exciting imagination guesses where the obstacles are, and sometimes the obstacles are just women who can't turn them around.