A friend claims witnessing the fall of the first snowflakes.
photos from last winter, I call them, out stealing horses.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Friday, October 24, 2008
Amazon comment on book quoted in last entry
It's a bit old.
But still very interesting.
Oh how I love to read between the lines....
15 of 31 people found the following review helpful:
The Truth Hurts, September 8, 2005
By M. Maguire (Madrid, Spain) - See all my reviews
I recently lost my old battered paperback copy of Weininger's "Sex and Character", and to say I was upset is an understatement. So I was delighted to be able to purchase this new version from Amazon, which in hardback form should last a lot longer than my old one. Which is good because this work of philosophy is simply the most important and enlightening material I have ever read and I want it to go with me to my grave. However I do wish that when modern publishers reprint this book that they would refrain from adding their worthless and prejudiced "tuppence worth" in the form of introductions, book-sleeve descriptions etc. They should simply publish Weininger's famous work in its original form without adding anything to it, as they are not qualified to judge the great Man. As Otto clearly mentions in his treatise, instead of rebutting his logical assertions as to the nature of womankind with equally logically derived and intelligent debate, women and the defenders of women (feminine males) simply slander him with the label Misogynist and Anti-semite (even though He was of Jewish origin himself and was therefore better placed than most to understand the mind of the Jew) etc etc, which has the desired effect of immediately stifling any intelligent analysis of his work. It seems people never change. 100 years after his death and what he predicted has come true. Western Society has sunk ever deeper and deeper into a feminine age. Western Society IS feminine: Absolutely material, devoid of a Soul, of any morality or ethics or religiousness. This is NOT because women have become stronger. As Otto clearly shows they are incapable of ever becoming anything other than they are by nature. It is that men have become weaker, less conscious, ie more feminine. Men have descended, thus giving the appearance that women have ascended. Thankyou so much Otto for your invaluable insights that have helped me to understand the nature of Man and especially woman. I suspect that when you wrote your work 100 years ago you knew it could only ever be understood and appreciated by the few rare Men of the World, of which you were one, and you wrote it for them. I owe you a debt of gratitude.
Men (you know who you are), I suggest you get a copy of Otto's timeless work now, before it disappears forever. I am still amazed that it is even available in this backward age of ours.
___________________________________________
6 of 12 people found the following review helpful:
Letting go of Otto, July 21, 2006
By M. Maguire (Madrid, Spain) - See all my reviews
I read Otto's Sex and Character years ago and for a long long time agreed with its conclusions about the nature of women wholeheartedly. However I would now like to say that my whole previous belief system that I held for many years about the nature of women, a belief that was confirmed and reinforced by Otto's work, is something that I now have serious doubts about. I now believe I was in a state of delusion all those years, and that all those thoughts, attitudes and assumptions that I held about the nature of women were completely false. Reading this book was not a search for knowledge, but a search for confirmation of my pre-existing misconceptions, from a male mind that could have been even more deluded about the nature of women than my own. Far from enlightening me it only sank me deeper into delusion. I can no longer trust a word or a single conclusion in this book. Actually I'm glad, as my whole attitude toward Women has now done an about turn and is a lot more healthy. I no longer believe Women are "soul-less" as Otto claims, but are spiritually equal to men in every way. Sorry sisters, for my previous delusional and harmful ideas about you. I recently threw this book away, it offers nothing positive, healthy or constructive for the mind.
But still very interesting.
Oh how I love to read between the lines....
15 of 31 people found the following review helpful:
The Truth Hurts, September 8, 2005
By M. Maguire (Madrid, Spain) - See all my reviews
I recently lost my old battered paperback copy of Weininger's "Sex and Character", and to say I was upset is an understatement. So I was delighted to be able to purchase this new version from Amazon, which in hardback form should last a lot longer than my old one. Which is good because this work of philosophy is simply the most important and enlightening material I have ever read and I want it to go with me to my grave. However I do wish that when modern publishers reprint this book that they would refrain from adding their worthless and prejudiced "tuppence worth" in the form of introductions, book-sleeve descriptions etc. They should simply publish Weininger's famous work in its original form without adding anything to it, as they are not qualified to judge the great Man. As Otto clearly mentions in his treatise, instead of rebutting his logical assertions as to the nature of womankind with equally logically derived and intelligent debate, women and the defenders of women (feminine males) simply slander him with the label Misogynist and Anti-semite (even though He was of Jewish origin himself and was therefore better placed than most to understand the mind of the Jew) etc etc, which has the desired effect of immediately stifling any intelligent analysis of his work. It seems people never change. 100 years after his death and what he predicted has come true. Western Society has sunk ever deeper and deeper into a feminine age. Western Society IS feminine: Absolutely material, devoid of a Soul, of any morality or ethics or religiousness. This is NOT because women have become stronger. As Otto clearly shows they are incapable of ever becoming anything other than they are by nature. It is that men have become weaker, less conscious, ie more feminine. Men have descended, thus giving the appearance that women have ascended. Thankyou so much Otto for your invaluable insights that have helped me to understand the nature of Man and especially woman. I suspect that when you wrote your work 100 years ago you knew it could only ever be understood and appreciated by the few rare Men of the World, of which you were one, and you wrote it for them. I owe you a debt of gratitude.
Men (you know who you are), I suggest you get a copy of Otto's timeless work now, before it disappears forever. I am still amazed that it is even available in this backward age of ours.
___________________________________________
6 of 12 people found the following review helpful:
Letting go of Otto, July 21, 2006
By M. Maguire (Madrid, Spain) - See all my reviews
I read Otto's Sex and Character years ago and for a long long time agreed with its conclusions about the nature of women wholeheartedly. However I would now like to say that my whole previous belief system that I held for many years about the nature of women, a belief that was confirmed and reinforced by Otto's work, is something that I now have serious doubts about. I now believe I was in a state of delusion all those years, and that all those thoughts, attitudes and assumptions that I held about the nature of women were completely false. Reading this book was not a search for knowledge, but a search for confirmation of my pre-existing misconceptions, from a male mind that could have been even more deluded about the nature of women than my own. Far from enlightening me it only sank me deeper into delusion. I can no longer trust a word or a single conclusion in this book. Actually I'm glad, as my whole attitude toward Women has now done an about turn and is a lot more healthy. I no longer believe Women are "soul-less" as Otto claims, but are spiritually equal to men in every way. Sorry sisters, for my previous delusional and harmful ideas about you. I recently threw this book away, it offers nothing positive, healthy or constructive for the mind.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Random book sampling, take 3!!!!
Just as time is extended into infinity because all temporal existence is finite and human beings strive to escape finiteness, the other mode of sensory experience, space, is thought to be infinite for the same reason. But liberation from time does not consist in an extension of linear time, however great, or indeed infinite, this extension may be, but in the negation of linear time. Eternity is not the longest time, but rather the shortest: it is a total abolition of time. In human beings the discontent with any specific period of time, with temporality, corresponds to a discontent with any specific space. The desire for eternity in the first instance is answered in the second by the desire for our true home, which we know is not located anywhere, at any concrete point, in the universe, but which we nevertheless continue to seek there, even though we can never find it: this is the origin of the infinity of space, since there is no boundary at which to rest and stop. It is only for this reason that we never stay at any one place but constantly embark on pilgrimages to new territories, just as we overcome every single period of time through our will to live. However, here also our striving is in vain. Space widens into infinity and yet remains space, and all our travels only take us from one restricted place to another.
Human bondage consists in being determined by space no less than by time; both are nothing but the will to escape from functionality, the will to freedom. But no matter how heroic a life of freedom is, even when it takes the form of a striving to overcome space, it must still have a tragic ending if it manifests itself in externals, such as the desire to travel- this love is also as unhappy as it is heroic.
*************
Whenever a man loves, he only loves himself. Not his subjectivity, not what he actually represents as a being tainted with every weakness and baseness, every gracelessness and pettiness, but what he wants to be completely and what he ought to be completely, his most personal and profound intelligible nature, free from any scrap of necessity and from any residue of his earthly nature. In his pursuits in time and space this being is subject to the impurities and limitations of the world of the senses, and he does not exist as a pure, radiant archetype.
However deep he may delve into himself, he will find himself turbid and stained, and what he seeks will present itself to him nowhere in white, immaculate purity. And yet there is nothing that he needs more urgently, nothing that he longs for more fervently, than being himself and only himself. But as he does not see the one thing he strives for, his goal, shining brightly and standing immovably firm in the depth of his own nature, he must make it easier to emulate by imagining it outside of himself. He projects his ideal of an absolutely valuable being, which he is unable to isolate within himself, on another human being, and that alone is meant by saying that he loves that human being. Only an individual who has done wrong and who feels that wrong is capable of this act: that is why a child cannot love. Love represents the highest, never attained, goal of all longing, as if it actually existed somewhere in the world of experience rather than merely in the world of ideas, and , by localizing this goal in a fellow=human, it reveals that in the lover himself the ideal is far from being fulfilled. That is the only reason why love is accompanied by a new awakening of the striving for purification, of the desire to reach a goal which is of the highest spiritual nature and which therefore tolerates no physical pollution through any approach to the loved one in space. That is also why love is the highest and strongest expression of the will to value, and that is why it reveals, more than anything in the world, the true nature of human beings, who are caught between mind and body, between sensuality and morality, and who have a part in both the god and the animal. A human being is himself, entirely and in every way, only when he loves. This explains why many people do not begin to believe in their own self and in that of others until they love.
So love, like hate is a result of a projection and not, like friendship, of an equation. The prerequisite of friendship is the equal value of both individuals, while love always posits inequality, unequal value. To love is to pile on one individual everything that we would like to be but never can be completely, and to make that individual a carrier of all values. The symbol of this supreme perfection is beauty. The common streetwalker never seems beautiful, because right from the outset it is impossible to project any value on her.
The next paragraph is ...icky..
"In general, woman's relationship with anything ethical is on of indifference. She is amoral, and therefore she can provide a foundation for the act of transferring value. Since she neither does good nor commits any sins, nothing in her or about her resists such a collocation of the ideal in her person. The beauty of woman is nothing but a morality that has become visible, but the morality itself is that of man, which he has transposed in its highest degree and perfection to woman."
All individual and temporally limited attempts at incarnation of beauty are illusory by their very nature, because they only simulate the perfection that is supposed to have been reached. That is why every individual beauty is transient, and any love for woman must endure being refuted by the old woman. The idea of beauty is the idea of nature, which is everlasting, even though every individual beauty and every natural phenomenon perishes. To see perfection itself in what is limited and concrete can only be an illusion, and to see it in the loved woman can only be an error. It is the most heroic attempt at asserting values where there are none.
Just as hate projects our own bad qualities on our fellow-humans in order to make that combination appear as a more effective deterrent, and just as the devil was invented only in order to portray all our evil urges outside us and to lend us the pride and strength of the fighter, the only purpose of love is to assist us in our fight for the good, which we are not yet strong enough to grasp as an idea within us.
.......
An individual I pity receives something from me, and in the act of pitying him I give him part of my imagined or real wealth; my help is thus only a visible embodiment of what was already implied in my compassion. If I love an individual, it is I who want something, or at least I do not want him to disturb my love through any ugly gestures or base characteristics. Through love I want to find myself, instead of continuing to seek and to strive. From the hand of a fellow-human I want to receive nothing less, and nothing other, than myself.
Compassion is modest because, by making others appear as my inferiors, it humiliates them. Love is modest because, by loving, I place myself below others. Love makes the individual most forgetful of his pride, and that is the weakness of which it is ashamed. Therefore compassion is related to love, which is why only those who know compassion know love. And yet the two exclude each other: we cannot love those we pity, and we cannot pity those we love. In compassion I myself am the fixed pole, in love it is the other: the directions, or algebraic signs, of the two affects are diametrically opposed. In compassion I am the giver, in love I am the beggar. Love is the most modest of all requests, because it begs for the most, the highest. That is why it turns so promptly into the most brusque, most vindictive pride if a careless or insensitive response of the loved one makes it conscious of what it really begged for.
The guilt a human being incurs through love is the wish to free himself from the sense of guilt which I described earlier as the prerequisite and precondition of any love. Instead of accepting all the wrong he has done and atoning for it through the rest of his life, he uses love as an attempt to escape from his own guilt, to forget it, and to be happy. Instead of actively realizing the idea of perfection, love tries to show the idea s if it had already been realized. By the most subtle ruse, it pretends that the miracle has happened in the other person, but the fact remains that the lover hopes to achieve his own liberation from evil without a struggle. Love itself is only a desire for redemption, and any desire for redemption is immoral. Love vaults over time and ignores causality; it tries to achieve purity suddenly and immediately, without any contribution of its own. That is why, being a miracle from outside instead of within, it is in itself impossible and can never fulfill its purpose, least of all in the case of those individuals who alone would have an immeasurably great capacity for it.
**************
The real psychology of the loved woman is always ignored in the process: as soon as a man loves a woman he ceases to see through her. Loving a woman is not entering into a relationship of understanding, which is the only moral relationship between human beings. One cannot love a human being whom one completely recognizes, because in that case one would be bound to see all the imperfections attached to him as a human being, whereas love always aims at perfection. Therefore love for a woman is possible only if this love, instead of taking any notice of her real qualities and considering her own wishes and interests insofar as they run counter to the localization of any higher values in her person, exercises no restraint in substituting a completely different reality for the psychic reality of the loved one. A man's attempt to find himself in a woman, rather than simply seeing Woman in a woman , necessarily presupposes a neglect of her empirical person. Such an attempt is extremely cruel to the woman; and this is the root of the selfishness of all love as well as the selfishness of jealousy, which regards Woman as a completely dependent possession and does not consider her inner life at all.
**************
Love alone engenders beauty. Do women have any relationship with beauty? It is not a mere figure of speech if one often hears women say "O, why should a man be beautiful?" It is no mere flattery, calculated to catch a man by his vanity, if a woman asks him what colours in a dress become her most: she cannot choose them by herself so that they will have an aesthetic effect. Even in her attire a woman will at best achieve an arrangement that reveals tastes, but no sense of beauty, without the help of a man. If Woman as such had any intrinsic beauty, or if she carried at least an original standard of beauty deep inside her, she would not constantly want to be assured by a man that she is beautiful.
Women, then, do not think Man really beautiful, and the more they bandy the word about, the more they give away how far they are from having any relationship with idea of beauty. The most accurate measure of the modesty of an individual is how often he uses the word " beautiful," which is a declaration of love to nature. If women longed for beauty they would utter its name less often. But they have no desire for beauty and they can have none, because they are only affected in that way by the socially accepted external appearance of things. Beauty is not what pleases. Although that definition is constantly being put forward, it is utterly wrong, and it runs directly counter to the meaning of the word itself. What pleases is pretty; beauty is what the individual loves. In order to regard something as beautiful, one needs, as one does for the objectivity of love, an individuality and not only individuation. Mere prettiness is social currency. Beauty is something that one loves, prettiness is something that people fall in love with. Love is always reaching out beyond itself, it is transcendent, because it stems from the inadequacy of the subject chained to subjectivity. Woman is at most in love, Man loves. The claim made by lamenting women that Woman is more capable of true love. Being in love resembles not the image of a parabola, as love does, but that of a closed circle, particularly in the case of Woman.
When a man has an individual effect on a woman it is not due to his beauty. Beauty, even if it manifests itself in a man, is appreciated only by a man. Woman ultimately regards anything that diverts Man from sexuality and procreation, his books and his politics, his science and his art, as her enemy. Only the sexual aspect of Man, not the asexual or transsexual, has any real effect on Woman, and she demands not beauty but absolute sexual desire from him. It is never the Apollonian element in Man that makes an impression on her, nor the Dionysian, but always, and to the greatest extent, the element of the faun in him; never the man, but always "le male"; it is above all his sexuality in the narrowest sense.
************************
Well I have typed enough if you want to read on go get the book. Or "retrieve your information from the web".
http://books.google.ca/books?id=iTOzhZ5MElYC
Human bondage consists in being determined by space no less than by time; both are nothing but the will to escape from functionality, the will to freedom. But no matter how heroic a life of freedom is, even when it takes the form of a striving to overcome space, it must still have a tragic ending if it manifests itself in externals, such as the desire to travel- this love is also as unhappy as it is heroic.
*************
Whenever a man loves, he only loves himself. Not his subjectivity, not what he actually represents as a being tainted with every weakness and baseness, every gracelessness and pettiness, but what he wants to be completely and what he ought to be completely, his most personal and profound intelligible nature, free from any scrap of necessity and from any residue of his earthly nature. In his pursuits in time and space this being is subject to the impurities and limitations of the world of the senses, and he does not exist as a pure, radiant archetype.
However deep he may delve into himself, he will find himself turbid and stained, and what he seeks will present itself to him nowhere in white, immaculate purity. And yet there is nothing that he needs more urgently, nothing that he longs for more fervently, than being himself and only himself. But as he does not see the one thing he strives for, his goal, shining brightly and standing immovably firm in the depth of his own nature, he must make it easier to emulate by imagining it outside of himself. He projects his ideal of an absolutely valuable being, which he is unable to isolate within himself, on another human being, and that alone is meant by saying that he loves that human being. Only an individual who has done wrong and who feels that wrong is capable of this act: that is why a child cannot love. Love represents the highest, never attained, goal of all longing, as if it actually existed somewhere in the world of experience rather than merely in the world of ideas, and , by localizing this goal in a fellow=human, it reveals that in the lover himself the ideal is far from being fulfilled. That is the only reason why love is accompanied by a new awakening of the striving for purification, of the desire to reach a goal which is of the highest spiritual nature and which therefore tolerates no physical pollution through any approach to the loved one in space. That is also why love is the highest and strongest expression of the will to value, and that is why it reveals, more than anything in the world, the true nature of human beings, who are caught between mind and body, between sensuality and morality, and who have a part in both the god and the animal. A human being is himself, entirely and in every way, only when he loves. This explains why many people do not begin to believe in their own self and in that of others until they love.
So love, like hate is a result of a projection and not, like friendship, of an equation. The prerequisite of friendship is the equal value of both individuals, while love always posits inequality, unequal value. To love is to pile on one individual everything that we would like to be but never can be completely, and to make that individual a carrier of all values. The symbol of this supreme perfection is beauty. The common streetwalker never seems beautiful, because right from the outset it is impossible to project any value on her.
The next paragraph is ...icky..
"In general, woman's relationship with anything ethical is on of indifference. She is amoral, and therefore she can provide a foundation for the act of transferring value. Since she neither does good nor commits any sins, nothing in her or about her resists such a collocation of the ideal in her person. The beauty of woman is nothing but a morality that has become visible, but the morality itself is that of man, which he has transposed in its highest degree and perfection to woman."
All individual and temporally limited attempts at incarnation of beauty are illusory by their very nature, because they only simulate the perfection that is supposed to have been reached. That is why every individual beauty is transient, and any love for woman must endure being refuted by the old woman. The idea of beauty is the idea of nature, which is everlasting, even though every individual beauty and every natural phenomenon perishes. To see perfection itself in what is limited and concrete can only be an illusion, and to see it in the loved woman can only be an error. It is the most heroic attempt at asserting values where there are none.
Just as hate projects our own bad qualities on our fellow-humans in order to make that combination appear as a more effective deterrent, and just as the devil was invented only in order to portray all our evil urges outside us and to lend us the pride and strength of the fighter, the only purpose of love is to assist us in our fight for the good, which we are not yet strong enough to grasp as an idea within us.
.......
An individual I pity receives something from me, and in the act of pitying him I give him part of my imagined or real wealth; my help is thus only a visible embodiment of what was already implied in my compassion. If I love an individual, it is I who want something, or at least I do not want him to disturb my love through any ugly gestures or base characteristics. Through love I want to find myself, instead of continuing to seek and to strive. From the hand of a fellow-human I want to receive nothing less, and nothing other, than myself.
Compassion is modest because, by making others appear as my inferiors, it humiliates them. Love is modest because, by loving, I place myself below others. Love makes the individual most forgetful of his pride, and that is the weakness of which it is ashamed. Therefore compassion is related to love, which is why only those who know compassion know love. And yet the two exclude each other: we cannot love those we pity, and we cannot pity those we love. In compassion I myself am the fixed pole, in love it is the other: the directions, or algebraic signs, of the two affects are diametrically opposed. In compassion I am the giver, in love I am the beggar. Love is the most modest of all requests, because it begs for the most, the highest. That is why it turns so promptly into the most brusque, most vindictive pride if a careless or insensitive response of the loved one makes it conscious of what it really begged for.
The guilt a human being incurs through love is the wish to free himself from the sense of guilt which I described earlier as the prerequisite and precondition of any love. Instead of accepting all the wrong he has done and atoning for it through the rest of his life, he uses love as an attempt to escape from his own guilt, to forget it, and to be happy. Instead of actively realizing the idea of perfection, love tries to show the idea s if it had already been realized. By the most subtle ruse, it pretends that the miracle has happened in the other person, but the fact remains that the lover hopes to achieve his own liberation from evil without a struggle. Love itself is only a desire for redemption, and any desire for redemption is immoral. Love vaults over time and ignores causality; it tries to achieve purity suddenly and immediately, without any contribution of its own. That is why, being a miracle from outside instead of within, it is in itself impossible and can never fulfill its purpose, least of all in the case of those individuals who alone would have an immeasurably great capacity for it.
**************
The real psychology of the loved woman is always ignored in the process: as soon as a man loves a woman he ceases to see through her. Loving a woman is not entering into a relationship of understanding, which is the only moral relationship between human beings. One cannot love a human being whom one completely recognizes, because in that case one would be bound to see all the imperfections attached to him as a human being, whereas love always aims at perfection. Therefore love for a woman is possible only if this love, instead of taking any notice of her real qualities and considering her own wishes and interests insofar as they run counter to the localization of any higher values in her person, exercises no restraint in substituting a completely different reality for the psychic reality of the loved one. A man's attempt to find himself in a woman, rather than simply seeing Woman in a woman , necessarily presupposes a neglect of her empirical person. Such an attempt is extremely cruel to the woman; and this is the root of the selfishness of all love as well as the selfishness of jealousy, which regards Woman as a completely dependent possession and does not consider her inner life at all.
**************
Love alone engenders beauty. Do women have any relationship with beauty? It is not a mere figure of speech if one often hears women say "O, why should a man be beautiful?" It is no mere flattery, calculated to catch a man by his vanity, if a woman asks him what colours in a dress become her most: she cannot choose them by herself so that they will have an aesthetic effect. Even in her attire a woman will at best achieve an arrangement that reveals tastes, but no sense of beauty, without the help of a man. If Woman as such had any intrinsic beauty, or if she carried at least an original standard of beauty deep inside her, she would not constantly want to be assured by a man that she is beautiful.
Women, then, do not think Man really beautiful, and the more they bandy the word about, the more they give away how far they are from having any relationship with idea of beauty. The most accurate measure of the modesty of an individual is how often he uses the word " beautiful," which is a declaration of love to nature. If women longed for beauty they would utter its name less often. But they have no desire for beauty and they can have none, because they are only affected in that way by the socially accepted external appearance of things. Beauty is not what pleases. Although that definition is constantly being put forward, it is utterly wrong, and it runs directly counter to the meaning of the word itself. What pleases is pretty; beauty is what the individual loves. In order to regard something as beautiful, one needs, as one does for the objectivity of love, an individuality and not only individuation. Mere prettiness is social currency. Beauty is something that one loves, prettiness is something that people fall in love with. Love is always reaching out beyond itself, it is transcendent, because it stems from the inadequacy of the subject chained to subjectivity. Woman is at most in love, Man loves. The claim made by lamenting women that Woman is more capable of true love. Being in love resembles not the image of a parabola, as love does, but that of a closed circle, particularly in the case of Woman.
When a man has an individual effect on a woman it is not due to his beauty. Beauty, even if it manifests itself in a man, is appreciated only by a man. Woman ultimately regards anything that diverts Man from sexuality and procreation, his books and his politics, his science and his art, as her enemy. Only the sexual aspect of Man, not the asexual or transsexual, has any real effect on Woman, and she demands not beauty but absolute sexual desire from him. It is never the Apollonian element in Man that makes an impression on her, nor the Dionysian, but always, and to the greatest extent, the element of the faun in him; never the man, but always "le male"; it is above all his sexuality in the narrowest sense.
************************
Well I have typed enough if you want to read on go get the book. Or "retrieve your information from the web".
http://books.google.ca/books?id=iTOzhZ5MElYC
Friday, March 09, 2007
肩头靠定律
比较好奇一颗人头的重量到底是多少。
因为像我这样含蓄的人，表达思慕之意最直白的办法，也不过是在和那个家伙并肩抵膝而坐时，借熟睡之幌子把我这颗头搭上亲耐同座的肩膀上。说起来轻巧，这其实是一个漫长的过程。整个过程力求自然，要趁每次车辆颠簸时适当地调整脖子和脑袋的夹角；从头稍稍倾斜到能搭上隔壁的肩膀，每次需时10分钟到半小时不等，这还是没算上可耐的芳邻突然转身，或者车子180度大转弯，把我的努力完全报废等等突发事件。
多年来，有这么一个细节一直困扰着我：人在清醒的时候和睡迷糊了的时候，脑袋施加的力度其实是不一样的。我就曾因为不敢过于放肆，让可怜的头空悬在一边过：看上去像是靠上去了，实际上是我脖子独自在那里硬撑着，一天下来和落枕了差不多。这样看来，我的伪装终有一天会因为实际施压和外表展现的熟睡程度互相矛盾而被揭穿的（如果可耐的小*同志到现在还没反应过来的话）。不过我也没什么好想的了，这辈子，同车共渡的机会也就这一次，命中定数，改不得了。
那个，我只是想提醒周围的同志们，假如有人枕着你的肩，越是感觉轻飘，那人对你越有感觉阿。至于觉得肩膀上压了块大石头的同志们，别想歪，那人是真的睡死了。
因为像我这样含蓄的人，表达思慕之意最直白的办法，也不过是在和那个家伙并肩抵膝而坐时，借熟睡之幌子把我这颗头搭上亲耐同座的肩膀上。说起来轻巧，这其实是一个漫长的过程。整个过程力求自然，要趁每次车辆颠簸时适当地调整脖子和脑袋的夹角；从头稍稍倾斜到能搭上隔壁的肩膀，每次需时10分钟到半小时不等，这还是没算上可耐的芳邻突然转身，或者车子180度大转弯，把我的努力完全报废等等突发事件。
多年来，有这么一个细节一直困扰着我：人在清醒的时候和睡迷糊了的时候，脑袋施加的力度其实是不一样的。我就曾因为不敢过于放肆，让可怜的头空悬在一边过：看上去像是靠上去了，实际上是我脖子独自在那里硬撑着，一天下来和落枕了差不多。这样看来，我的伪装终有一天会因为实际施压和外表展现的熟睡程度互相矛盾而被揭穿的（如果可耐的小*同志到现在还没反应过来的话）。不过我也没什么好想的了，这辈子，同车共渡的机会也就这一次，命中定数，改不得了。
那个，我只是想提醒周围的同志们，假如有人枕着你的肩，越是感觉轻飘，那人对你越有感觉阿。至于觉得肩膀上压了块大石头的同志们，别想歪，那人是真的睡死了。
Friday, May 19, 2006
诺回来呢啊
回来啦,blogger有变样，歪瑞故德。
Random Quote:
In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it.
--- David Foster Wallace
Random Quote:
In dark times, the definition of good art would seem to be art that locates and applies CPR to those elements of what's human and magical that still live and glow despite the times' darkness. Really good fiction could have as dark a worldview as it wished, but it'd find a way both to depict this world and to illuminate the possibilities for being alive and human in it.
--- David Foster Wallace
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
上山，下山，爱（i've no idea what it is)
刘晓声从来都是个内敛的孩子。内敛在此处并不代表早熟，只是一种很讨人喜欢的腼腆。所有到他们家来做客的大人都会笑着夸他几句，然后他的小脸就像含羞草一样收紧，硬邦邦的表情偏生让人想去扭一下。在和平村那种地方，会害羞的孩子可算是稀罕物了，乡亲们得闲时都爱拿他寻开心。有那么一天，嘴快的大姑娘小媳妇自家门口晒洗衣物时愣是脆生生地抛出一句：你们瞧刘老四家的男娃儿咯像是他姐的二妹子哟。她们说这话时，姐弟俩放学后刚走到村头，刘晓声讪讪地扯着他姐晓乐的袖角，低着头走过晒谷场，往东角那三间瓦房走去。还有更调皮点的小孩，像是余虎，率领了一干顽童，一路跟着他们拖长了调子念：刘~二~姐~~，回~家~呐~~。姐姐晓乐先是风风火火地疾走在前面，忍至无可忍回过头来喝道：你们有完没完，一边玩去，余虎你妈今天可在家呢！跟风者始作鸟兽散去。刘晓声对他姐姐的崇拜就是从这一刻开始的。
* * *
一间没有窗户的砖房，墙上糊满了人民日报，几张临时征集来的桌椅很不协调地同处一室。中间那张桌子后面坐了个中年男人，油腻的头发梳向一边，露出亮光光的大脑门。他手里拿了只笔，耳朵后面还别了一只笔，不时从裤包里掏出一张皱巴巴的手绢抹抹眼睛。他先喝了一口茶，又喝一口，终于开始问道：
姓名？
刘晓声。
年龄？
十四。
居住地
。。。鲁南乡和平村
这村子现在没了吧，那可是重灾区，阿？
。。。
喂，这跟你说话呢！？
我要找我姐。
你姐的事我们等会儿再说，现在要登记的是你。
我要找我姐。
挺倔的嘛，你先拿着这些，到二号帐篷去领口粮，然后上三点那班车去新划分的定居点，不要乱跑啊，脱离了制度我们就顾不了你了。
不行，我姐我还没找到，我不走。
小兄弟，听我劝一句，要服从安排，一切从长计议嘛。下一位？
这一年黄河又决堤了。
从救灾紧急办公处头重脚轻地晃悠出来，一屁股坐在人流中，刘晓声陷入沉思。旁人看起来也许更像在赌气。周围是一脸防备的行人，他隐隐约约感到一丝刺激隐伏在前方盲目的命运后。一个刚刚长起来的少年，面对那么充分的自由，像是一个巨大的蛋糕，茫然失措，不知从何处下口。他只有认准了一个点，第一刀起处。。。
一个快三十的精壮汉子一手一捆行李，微微躬着腰眯着眼逆着阳光走来。
晓声吗？
大牛哥？！你见到我姐了吗？
看到过，那是大前天的事了。我说啊，你吃过了吗？
我要找我姐。
她和你李哥他们去省城了。
这可当真？！
我为啥要耍你，她亲口说的：父母亲没了，她寻不到你，觉得在家乡没过头，还不如去大地方碰碰运气。
我要去找她！
你姐都十八了，你才屁大，嘴上还没长毛，不如先跟我走着看吧。
去省城得坐火车吗？
到乡政府门口坐中巴就行，唉，你别跑啊，晓声，你身上有钱吗？
到~了~再~说~~~~~~~~~
刘晓声脱了后帮的军绿布鞋帕嗒帕嗒敲打着压实了的土路，绝尘而去。
* * *
刘晓乐进城来快两个星期了。她既没有暂住证之类，从政策上证明她存在的物件，也没有认识的人，实际证明她存在的证据。和她一同离乡的李寿在头天晚上就想钻她被窝里，这叫她怎么能继续和他们呆下去？她站在雪白的路灯下审视自己的影子，就连它也是轻飘飘的，没有一点份量，好像下一阵风就会把她整个人从这个城市刮走。现实中的S城远没有她想象中的气派光鲜。雨天泥水四处漫延，晴天风沙迷人眼。发黑，方方正正的单元居民楼，灰头土脑的主要建筑，时常失踪的阴井盖，动物内脏和腐烂的菜叶堆积的市场，人行道上三两步一遇的地摊，骑着女式车过市的猥琐男人，保留着起床时的发型穿着睡裤出来倒夜壶的女人。可是这样杂乱无章的地方，好歹比和平村乱得高了一个档次。我要留到最后。每天早上天不亮，她就离开暂居的地下旅店，去门口有很多花花绿绿招贴广告的介绍所寻找机会。
这个机会是这样说的：
* * *
一间没有窗户的砖房，墙上糊满了人民日报，几张临时征集来的桌椅很不协调地同处一室。中间那张桌子后面坐了个中年男人，油腻的头发梳向一边，露出亮光光的大脑门。他手里拿了只笔，耳朵后面还别了一只笔，不时从裤包里掏出一张皱巴巴的手绢抹抹眼睛。他先喝了一口茶，又喝一口，终于开始问道：
姓名？
刘晓声。
年龄？
十四。
居住地
。。。鲁南乡和平村
这村子现在没了吧，那可是重灾区，阿？
。。。
喂，这跟你说话呢！？
我要找我姐。
你姐的事我们等会儿再说，现在要登记的是你。
我要找我姐。
挺倔的嘛，你先拿着这些，到二号帐篷去领口粮，然后上三点那班车去新划分的定居点，不要乱跑啊，脱离了制度我们就顾不了你了。
不行，我姐我还没找到，我不走。
小兄弟，听我劝一句，要服从安排，一切从长计议嘛。下一位？
这一年黄河又决堤了。
从救灾紧急办公处头重脚轻地晃悠出来，一屁股坐在人流中，刘晓声陷入沉思。旁人看起来也许更像在赌气。周围是一脸防备的行人，他隐隐约约感到一丝刺激隐伏在前方盲目的命运后。一个刚刚长起来的少年，面对那么充分的自由，像是一个巨大的蛋糕，茫然失措，不知从何处下口。他只有认准了一个点，第一刀起处。。。
一个快三十的精壮汉子一手一捆行李，微微躬着腰眯着眼逆着阳光走来。
晓声吗？
大牛哥？！你见到我姐了吗？
看到过，那是大前天的事了。我说啊，你吃过了吗？
我要找我姐。
她和你李哥他们去省城了。
这可当真？！
我为啥要耍你，她亲口说的：父母亲没了，她寻不到你，觉得在家乡没过头，还不如去大地方碰碰运气。
我要去找她！
你姐都十八了，你才屁大，嘴上还没长毛，不如先跟我走着看吧。
去省城得坐火车吗？
到乡政府门口坐中巴就行，唉，你别跑啊，晓声，你身上有钱吗？
到~了~再~说~~~~~~~~~
刘晓声脱了后帮的军绿布鞋帕嗒帕嗒敲打着压实了的土路，绝尘而去。
* * *
刘晓乐进城来快两个星期了。她既没有暂住证之类，从政策上证明她存在的物件，也没有认识的人，实际证明她存在的证据。和她一同离乡的李寿在头天晚上就想钻她被窝里，这叫她怎么能继续和他们呆下去？她站在雪白的路灯下审视自己的影子，就连它也是轻飘飘的，没有一点份量，好像下一阵风就会把她整个人从这个城市刮走。现实中的S城远没有她想象中的气派光鲜。雨天泥水四处漫延，晴天风沙迷人眼。发黑，方方正正的单元居民楼，灰头土脑的主要建筑，时常失踪的阴井盖，动物内脏和腐烂的菜叶堆积的市场，人行道上三两步一遇的地摊，骑着女式车过市的猥琐男人，保留着起床时的发型穿着睡裤出来倒夜壶的女人。可是这样杂乱无章的地方，好歹比和平村乱得高了一个档次。我要留到最后。每天早上天不亮，她就离开暂居的地下旅店，去门口有很多花花绿绿招贴广告的介绍所寻找机会。
这个机会是这样说的：
Saturday, May 21, 2005
前往——刑事案件多发地
by:正襟危坐瞌睡
1
天空瞑蓝 蓄满雨水
值班上帝张开十指
等雷一声喊
要将路人追的仓惶
而我向西
离城市
越来越远
2
来到桥下
民警温馨提示：此地刑事案件多发
回去吧
一阵心惊
内心排演起葬礼
脚步却被劫持
兀自向西
3
路向两个方向延伸
选一个吧
左或者右
没有
后退的选项
4
向右走
看到那么无辜的自己
搏击苍穹
左右击弦
跨不出
命定的疆域
5
此一时
你叠茶
我堆烟
你面向大海
我怀抱麦香
我们站在地球的正反面
被一条优美的弧线牵引
6
伞撑开
雨没有下
我躺在潮湿的麦田
四肢张开
像一侏盛开的愿望
7
愿望的另一个角色缺席
将她的名字写在这里
和我的一起
然后傻傻的笑
是不是
这也算一辈子？
8
跳出麦田
低头看到裤脚被露水的祝福打湿
而鞋子上挂满了草籽
一粒粒
都是未被拆封的锦囊
向回走吧
握紧方向
为即将眼见的奇迹
1
天空瞑蓝 蓄满雨水
值班上帝张开十指
等雷一声喊
要将路人追的仓惶
而我向西
离城市
越来越远
2
来到桥下
民警温馨提示：此地刑事案件多发
回去吧
一阵心惊
内心排演起葬礼
脚步却被劫持
兀自向西
3
路向两个方向延伸
选一个吧
左或者右
没有
后退的选项
4
向右走
看到那么无辜的自己
搏击苍穹
左右击弦
跨不出
命定的疆域
5
此一时
你叠茶
我堆烟
你面向大海
我怀抱麦香
我们站在地球的正反面
被一条优美的弧线牵引
6
伞撑开
雨没有下
我躺在潮湿的麦田
四肢张开
像一侏盛开的愿望
7
愿望的另一个角色缺席
将她的名字写在这里
和我的一起
然后傻傻的笑
是不是
这也算一辈子？
8
跳出麦田
低头看到裤脚被露水的祝福打湿
而鞋子上挂满了草籽
一粒粒
都是未被拆封的锦囊
向回走吧
握紧方向
为即将眼见的奇迹
假如。。。
乖，别乱蹬被子了，姐姐给你讲个故事。
从前有一只青蛙，它被丢到沸腾的开水锅里，扑腾一下，像孙悟空在筋斗云上打了个滚，便跳了出来。
那个想烫青蛙吃的坏人，第一次不得逞，又想了别的主意。这一次他把小青蛙丢到温水里泡着，然后把锅端上炉子煮，温度一点点地攀爬。青蛙被蒸酥了骨头。。。讨厌，小孩子不要随便打断大人说话，谁说青蛙没骨头了，只是很软，你没感觉到。。。你还想不想听的？！。。。这就对了，然后呢，青蛙就再也动不了了，想蹦出来已经太晚了。接下来？没有后来了，对，就这样完了。好，你就好好想一想吧？
什么，衣柜里有怪物？开着灯你怎么会睡得着？门我给你留个缝总可以了吧，我就在隔壁的房间里，真的有老狼你可以来找姐姐喔。这就对了，盖严实点。。呵呵
小鬼，你有没有刷牙？刷了？那么刚才你吃什么了？和你说了多少次晚上不要吃糖，快去漱口，不然长蛀牙的时候别来跟我哭哇，不管你了！
啊？。。。当然喽，姐姐也是很喜欢你的。。。
晚安，mua.
从前有一只青蛙，它被丢到沸腾的开水锅里，扑腾一下，像孙悟空在筋斗云上打了个滚，便跳了出来。
那个想烫青蛙吃的坏人，第一次不得逞，又想了别的主意。这一次他把小青蛙丢到温水里泡着，然后把锅端上炉子煮，温度一点点地攀爬。青蛙被蒸酥了骨头。。。讨厌，小孩子不要随便打断大人说话，谁说青蛙没骨头了，只是很软，你没感觉到。。。你还想不想听的？！。。。这就对了，然后呢，青蛙就再也动不了了，想蹦出来已经太晚了。接下来？没有后来了，对，就这样完了。好，你就好好想一想吧？
什么，衣柜里有怪物？开着灯你怎么会睡得着？门我给你留个缝总可以了吧，我就在隔壁的房间里，真的有老狼你可以来找姐姐喔。这就对了，盖严实点。。呵呵
小鬼，你有没有刷牙？刷了？那么刚才你吃什么了？和你说了多少次晚上不要吃糖，快去漱口，不然长蛀牙的时候别来跟我哭哇，不管你了！
啊？。。。当然喽，姐姐也是很喜欢你的。。。
晚安，mua.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
5-17，夜
图书馆里的桌子椅子都重新摆放了，书架上挂满了各色各式的海滩毛巾，炫眼的很，遮阳伞三三两两地支在角落里，还有很多丝的，绸子，缎子的围巾，裙子，穗子很长，在没有风的室内也可以飘。最显目的是好多好多的绢花：小盘子大的向日葵，透粉的香水百合，火色的菊花，还有一株白玫瑰。地板上，天花板上，墙壁上，无处不在的气球，大的小的长的细的，每走一步都会踩到一个。我站在那么多兴高采烈的人中间，有些手足无措，不知道该干些什么，是帮忙装饰还是加入对话，于是从左走到右，又从前走到后。这会不会是个错误的决定，留下来，在这个学校都几乎空了的时候，可是这一天的party的主角是个轮椅上的女孩子，我有一年没有见过她了，自从那次事故之后。我想告诉女孩我能理解，我会尝试理解，可是原本我们说过的话从不超过十句，这样子突兀的表达，是不是太唐突了？女孩子进门的时候所有人都有些吃惊，这些健康的人们还是不习惯见到一个被病魔糟蹋了许久的身体的。她虚肿惨白的脸吃力地挤出一个微笑，怯生生地挥了挥手，大家好。从各自的诧异中回转过神来，在场的人有些犹豫地纷纷加入合唱，一首为了这个场合特地挑选的歌，生活多美好，能够再次同你说话，再次对你微笑，同你分享我的年华和记忆，美好，生活多美好。女孩子用劲地用右手拍着腿，她的左半边身子还是处于半瘫痪状态。今天晚上我就和她说了几句话，你还记得我吗，以前午饭时，我们是在同一张桌子。她想了半天也没能想起来。我感觉很尴尬。这种尴尬一直持续到她离开。
我们以为我们能理解，其实不能。健全完满的人见不得别人的阴影，我们不够坚强。
扶桑扶桑，生日花
我们以为我们能理解，其实不能。健全完满的人见不得别人的阴影，我们不够坚强。
扶桑扶桑，生日花
清蒸桂花魚
材料
桂花魚 - 1條
薑絲 - 5克
蔥絲 - 5克
調味料 - 醃魚用：鹽1小匙；蒸魚用：油2大匙、生抽1大匙、老抽1大匙、糖1小匙
烹調
將桂花魚去鱗、去內臟、洗淨，用鹽醃10分鐘。之後，抹去鹽
鋪少量薑絲於碟上，放上魚，再在其上鋪其餘薑絲。
中火，隔水蒸魚10分鍾。
同時，大火，燒熱油、生抽、老抽、糖。
將魚起鑊，倒去汁液，洒上蔥絲，淋上剛準備好的調味料，即成。
好像挺简单的，我去厨房面对命运了- -
桂花魚 - 1條
薑絲 - 5克
蔥絲 - 5克
調味料 - 醃魚用：鹽1小匙；蒸魚用：油2大匙、生抽1大匙、老抽1大匙、糖1小匙
烹調
將桂花魚去鱗、去內臟、洗淨，用鹽醃10分鐘。之後，抹去鹽
鋪少量薑絲於碟上，放上魚，再在其上鋪其餘薑絲。
中火，隔水蒸魚10分鍾。
同時，大火，燒熱油、生抽、老抽、糖。
將魚起鑊，倒去汁液，洒上蔥絲，淋上剛準備好的調味料，即成。
好像挺简单的，我去厨房面对命运了- -
Monday, May 16, 2005
Sunday, May 15, 2005
陌生女人的来信
by:茨威格
你，从来也没有认识过我的你啊！
[]
现在我在这个世界上只有你，只有你一个人，而你对我一无所知，你正在寻欢作乐，什么也不知道，或者正在跟人家嬉笑调情。我只有你，你从来也没有认识过我，而我却始终爱着你。
[]
我当时无意识地感觉到了后来每个人在你身上都得到的那种印象：你过着一种双重生活，既有对外界开放的光亮的一面，另外还有十分阴暗的一面，这一面只有你一个人知道——这种最深藏的两面性是你一生的秘密，我这个十三岁的姑娘，第一眼就感觉到了你身上的这种两重性，当时象着了魔似的被你吸引住了。
[]
你现在明白了吧，亲爱的，你当时对我这个孩子该是一个多么不可思议的奇迹，一个多么诱人的谜啊！还要我对你说吗，从这天起，在我们这所房子里，在我整个可怜的儿童世界里，除了你再也没有什么别的东西使我感到兴趣；我本着一个十三岁的女孩的全部傻劲儿，全部追根究底的执拗劲头，只对你的生活、只对你的存在感兴趣！
[]
我还是个孩子，不知道这种好奇心就已经是爱情了。可是我还清楚记得，亲爱的，我整个地爱上你，永远迷上你的那一天，那个时刻。
[]
从我接触到你那充满柔情蜜意的眼光之时起，我就完全属于你了。我不久之后就知道，这种眼光在你身上并不是有意识地表示多情和爱慕，而是你对女人怀有的柔情使你一看见她们，你的眼光便不知不觉地变得温柔起来。可是我这个十三岁的孩子对此一无所知：我的心里象着了火似的。我以为你的柔情蜜意只针对我，是给我一个人的。就在这一瞬间，我这个还没有成年的姑娘一下子就成长为一个女人，而这个女人从此永远属于你了。
[]
从这一秒钟起，我就爱上了你。我知道，女人们经常向你这个娇纵惯了的人说这句话。可是请相信我，没有一个女人象我这样死心塌地地、这样舍身忘己地爱过你，我对你从不变心，过去是这样，一直是这样，因为在世界上没有什么东西可以比得上一个孩子暗中怀有的不为人所觉察的爱情，因为这种爱情不抱希望，低声下气，曲意逢迎，委身屈从，热情奔放，这和一个成年妇女的那种欲火炽烈、不知不觉中贪求无厌的爱情完全不同。只有孤独的孩子才能把全部热情集聚起来，其他的人在社交活动中早已滥用了自己的感情，和人亲切交往中早已把感情消磨殆尽，他们经常听人谈论爱情，在小说里常常读到爱情，他们知道，爱情乃是人们共同的命运。
他们玩弄爱情，就象摆弄一个玩具，他们夸耀自己恋爱的经历，就象男孩抽了第一支香烟而洋洋得意。可我身边没有别人，我没法向别人诉说我的心事，没有人指点我、提醒我，我毫无阅历，毫无思想准备：我一头栽进
我的命运，就象跌进一个深渊。我心里只有一个人，那就是你，我睡梦中也只看见你，我把你视为知音.我把原来分散零乱的全部感情，把我整个紧缩起来而又一再急切向外迸涌的心灵都奉献给你。我该怎么对你说才好呢？任何比喻都嫌不足，你是我的一切，是我整个的生命。世上万物因为和你有关才存在，我生活中的一切只有和你连在一起才有意义。
[]
我的心始终为你而紧张，为你而颤动；可是你对此毫无感觉，就象你口袋里装了怀表，你对它绷紧的发条没有感觉一样。这根发条在暗中为你耐心地数着你的钟点，计算着你的时间，以它听不见的心跳陪着你东奔西走，而你在它那滴答不停的几百万秒当中，只有一次向它匆匆瞥了一眼。
[]
可是干吗说这些事呢，干吗要把一个孤独的孩子的这种疯狂的、自己折磨自己的、如此悲惨、如此绝望的狂热之情告诉一个对此毫无所感，一无所知的人呢？
[]
与之相比，友谊对我又算得了什么，我的存在又算得了什么？我就是这样爱你的，如今一切都已消逝，一切都已过去，我可把这话告诉你了。我相信只要你叫我，我就是已经躺在尸床上，也会突然涌来一股力量，使我站起身来，跟着你走。
[]
我只相信你，我只爱你，只愿在你身上还继续活下去……唉，一年就只活那么一天，只是默默地，完全是不声不响地活那么一天，就象我从前活在你的身边一样……我求你，照我说的去做，亲爱的……这是我对你的第一个请求，也是最后一个请求……我感谢你……我爱你，我爱你……永别了……
[]
他悚然一惊：仿佛觉得有一扇看不见的门突然被打开了，阴冷的穿堂风从另外一个世界吹进了他寂静的房间。他感觉到死亡，感觉到不朽的爱情：百感千愁一时涌上他的心头，他隐约想起了那个看不见的女人，她飘浮不定，然而热烈奔放，犹如远方传来的一阵乐声。
你，从来也没有认识过我的你啊！
[]
现在我在这个世界上只有你，只有你一个人，而你对我一无所知，你正在寻欢作乐，什么也不知道，或者正在跟人家嬉笑调情。我只有你，你从来也没有认识过我，而我却始终爱着你。
[]
我当时无意识地感觉到了后来每个人在你身上都得到的那种印象：你过着一种双重生活，既有对外界开放的光亮的一面，另外还有十分阴暗的一面，这一面只有你一个人知道——这种最深藏的两面性是你一生的秘密，我这个十三岁的姑娘，第一眼就感觉到了你身上的这种两重性，当时象着了魔似的被你吸引住了。
[]
你现在明白了吧，亲爱的，你当时对我这个孩子该是一个多么不可思议的奇迹，一个多么诱人的谜啊！还要我对你说吗，从这天起，在我们这所房子里，在我整个可怜的儿童世界里，除了你再也没有什么别的东西使我感到兴趣；我本着一个十三岁的女孩的全部傻劲儿，全部追根究底的执拗劲头，只对你的生活、只对你的存在感兴趣！
[]
我还是个孩子，不知道这种好奇心就已经是爱情了。可是我还清楚记得，亲爱的，我整个地爱上你，永远迷上你的那一天，那个时刻。
[]
从我接触到你那充满柔情蜜意的眼光之时起，我就完全属于你了。我不久之后就知道，这种眼光在你身上并不是有意识地表示多情和爱慕，而是你对女人怀有的柔情使你一看见她们，你的眼光便不知不觉地变得温柔起来。可是我这个十三岁的孩子对此一无所知：我的心里象着了火似的。我以为你的柔情蜜意只针对我，是给我一个人的。就在这一瞬间，我这个还没有成年的姑娘一下子就成长为一个女人，而这个女人从此永远属于你了。
[]
从这一秒钟起，我就爱上了你。我知道，女人们经常向你这个娇纵惯了的人说这句话。可是请相信我，没有一个女人象我这样死心塌地地、这样舍身忘己地爱过你，我对你从不变心，过去是这样，一直是这样，因为在世界上没有什么东西可以比得上一个孩子暗中怀有的不为人所觉察的爱情，因为这种爱情不抱希望，低声下气，曲意逢迎，委身屈从，热情奔放，这和一个成年妇女的那种欲火炽烈、不知不觉中贪求无厌的爱情完全不同。只有孤独的孩子才能把全部热情集聚起来，其他的人在社交活动中早已滥用了自己的感情，和人亲切交往中早已把感情消磨殆尽，他们经常听人谈论爱情，在小说里常常读到爱情，他们知道，爱情乃是人们共同的命运。
他们玩弄爱情，就象摆弄一个玩具，他们夸耀自己恋爱的经历，就象男孩抽了第一支香烟而洋洋得意。可我身边没有别人，我没法向别人诉说我的心事，没有人指点我、提醒我，我毫无阅历，毫无思想准备：我一头栽进
我的命运，就象跌进一个深渊。我心里只有一个人，那就是你，我睡梦中也只看见你，我把你视为知音.我把原来分散零乱的全部感情，把我整个紧缩起来而又一再急切向外迸涌的心灵都奉献给你。我该怎么对你说才好呢？任何比喻都嫌不足，你是我的一切，是我整个的生命。世上万物因为和你有关才存在，我生活中的一切只有和你连在一起才有意义。
[]
我的心始终为你而紧张，为你而颤动；可是你对此毫无感觉，就象你口袋里装了怀表，你对它绷紧的发条没有感觉一样。这根发条在暗中为你耐心地数着你的钟点，计算着你的时间，以它听不见的心跳陪着你东奔西走，而你在它那滴答不停的几百万秒当中，只有一次向它匆匆瞥了一眼。
[]
可是干吗说这些事呢，干吗要把一个孤独的孩子的这种疯狂的、自己折磨自己的、如此悲惨、如此绝望的狂热之情告诉一个对此毫无所感，一无所知的人呢？
[]
与之相比，友谊对我又算得了什么，我的存在又算得了什么？我就是这样爱你的，如今一切都已消逝，一切都已过去，我可把这话告诉你了。我相信只要你叫我，我就是已经躺在尸床上，也会突然涌来一股力量，使我站起身来，跟着你走。
[]
我只相信你，我只爱你，只愿在你身上还继续活下去……唉，一年就只活那么一天，只是默默地，完全是不声不响地活那么一天，就象我从前活在你的身边一样……我求你，照我说的去做，亲爱的……这是我对你的第一个请求，也是最后一个请求……我感谢你……我爱你，我爱你……永别了……
[]
他悚然一惊：仿佛觉得有一扇看不见的门突然被打开了，阴冷的穿堂风从另外一个世界吹进了他寂静的房间。他感觉到死亡，感觉到不朽的爱情：百感千愁一时涌上他的心头，他隐约想起了那个看不见的女人，她飘浮不定，然而热烈奔放，犹如远方传来的一阵乐声。
Crise d'affection
突然，突然孤独来袭。
像秋天晚上忽然从北极那边跑过来的冷空气，一下子把夏天残余的热量给赶跑了。
感觉很委屈，很委屈，我什么都没有做，可是为什么它偏偏来找我。
像被一只手压在游泳池水面下，所有意识随着嘴边咕嘟冒出的气泡挥发了。
我只知道一件事，我很孤独，快，任何地方，任何人，和我说说话。
就在此时，我才发现最悲哀的事情，没有任何人，没有任何地方，我什么都没有。
心底低低的呐喊，渐渐弱了下去，像是个被扼杀的生命，来不及面世，来不及长大。
每一次危机都使得我与热热闹闹的烟花世界，离得更远一些，推我入黑暗里。
除了难过，很难过，我可以告诉你什么呢?
你是不是也会像我一样难过呢？
怀着这颗慢慢变冷的心，打个哆嗦,该干什么干什么。
像秋天晚上忽然从北极那边跑过来的冷空气，一下子把夏天残余的热量给赶跑了。
感觉很委屈，很委屈，我什么都没有做，可是为什么它偏偏来找我。
像被一只手压在游泳池水面下，所有意识随着嘴边咕嘟冒出的气泡挥发了。
我只知道一件事，我很孤独，快，任何地方，任何人，和我说说话。
就在此时，我才发现最悲哀的事情，没有任何人，没有任何地方，我什么都没有。
心底低低的呐喊，渐渐弱了下去，像是个被扼杀的生命，来不及面世，来不及长大。
每一次危机都使得我与热热闹闹的烟花世界，离得更远一些，推我入黑暗里。
除了难过，很难过，我可以告诉你什么呢?
你是不是也会像我一样难过呢？
怀着这颗慢慢变冷的心，打个哆嗦,该干什么干什么。
满周祭
很多事情，如果不是一个人的话，我是不会去做的。
可是如果我不做，就没有人做了，就那么简单。置之于死地而后生。
于是，在哗啦啦的水声中，学习生活，练习节制，从洗碗洗衣起，自给自足，就算面对大海的房子俺住不起~，可是春暖花开还是要得。
喜欢上一种感觉，也许和一个人有关，因此爱屋及乌地喜欢上一切有关的事物，唉，我是多么不情愿承认，我也会和她们一样，这本是我从小就刻意避免的事，千千万万的女子，一样满足于俗气的幸福。
为搬家收拾东西，看到荣的信，和八年前我上课时递给她的字条，和我们永不相忘的承诺。好像是一个盒子里可以就装下的回忆，却都从我心里的一个洞漏掉了。也许人生就是这样，我们只能记得周遭的一小部分人，那些在我身旁走过的人，只要一踏出某个界限以外，再无交集，这不是绝情或冷漠，这只是事实，事实便是遗忘，我们不停地遗忘。以往过去，从前，曾经重要，切切相关的事。虽然我们发过誓，在皮肤上纹下他们的名字，可是在半睡半醒的梦里时分，有小鬼拿着扫帚和刷子到我们心里来过了，擦洗打扫，不留痕迹。
为这个我又难过了一整天，如果哪天你真的忘记我了，我该怎么办？
呵哇~流着口水梦想小户人家的琐碎快乐：
不过就是，
第一碗白鲞红炖天堂肉
第二碗油煎鱼儿扑鼻香
第三碗香蕈蘑菇炖豆腐
第四碗白菜香乾炒千张
第五碗酱烧胡桃浓又浓
第六碗酱油花椒醉花生
白饭一碗酒一杯
桌上筷子有一双
可是如果我不做，就没有人做了，就那么简单。置之于死地而后生。
于是，在哗啦啦的水声中，学习生活，练习节制，从洗碗洗衣起，自给自足，就算面对大海的房子俺住不起~，可是春暖花开还是要得。
喜欢上一种感觉，也许和一个人有关，因此爱屋及乌地喜欢上一切有关的事物，唉，我是多么不情愿承认，我也会和她们一样，这本是我从小就刻意避免的事，千千万万的女子，一样满足于俗气的幸福。
为搬家收拾东西，看到荣的信，和八年前我上课时递给她的字条，和我们永不相忘的承诺。好像是一个盒子里可以就装下的回忆，却都从我心里的一个洞漏掉了。也许人生就是这样，我们只能记得周遭的一小部分人，那些在我身旁走过的人，只要一踏出某个界限以外，再无交集，这不是绝情或冷漠，这只是事实，事实便是遗忘，我们不停地遗忘。以往过去，从前，曾经重要，切切相关的事。虽然我们发过誓，在皮肤上纹下他们的名字，可是在半睡半醒的梦里时分，有小鬼拿着扫帚和刷子到我们心里来过了，擦洗打扫，不留痕迹。
为这个我又难过了一整天，如果哪天你真的忘记我了，我该怎么办？
呵哇~流着口水梦想小户人家的琐碎快乐：
不过就是，
第一碗白鲞红炖天堂肉
第二碗油煎鱼儿扑鼻香
第三碗香蕈蘑菇炖豆腐
第四碗白菜香乾炒千张
第五碗酱烧胡桃浓又浓
第六碗酱油花椒醉花生
白饭一碗酒一杯
桌上筷子有一双
Friday, May 13, 2005
无题
by: 不知名人士
我突然有點懂了一直以來你的埋怨。
我愛的是我愛你的方式，而不是你；我愛的是我上街，用我自己的品味，挑選一件衣服，然後要你穿上，還要你歡喜接受；我愛的是你變成我覺得好的樣子，用我喜歡的方式思考，用我可以接受的方式說話。
原來我愛的是我自己，而不是你。
愛情是一面自戀的鏡子，我攬鏡自照，容不得一絲一毫不符合我的想像。
所以我說了一句話，你的回答不如我的預期，錯；我給了你一個禮物，你開心的程度不如我的預期，錯；我撥了一通電話給你，你沒有馬上接，你答話的速度太慢，錯，大錯特錯；我要你跟我跳舞，在我指定的音樂裡頭，依照我愛的節奏和速度。
於是我從來愛的都是自己，而不曾是你。
通常你是不快樂的，因為你希望被愛的方式跟我愛你的方式不一定相同；當你並不想要的愛落在你的身上，越來越多，當你被要求必須以相同的方式回報於我的愛的時候，那是雙重的負擔；你同時是匱乏的與滿溢的，你匱乏於真正的愛情，你滿溢於虛假的愛情。
然而我不一定可以察覺你的不快樂，我往往只是覺得你錯誤連連，覺得你重蹈覆轍，不知道是因為愚蠢，還是蓄意讓我生氣，為什麼每個答案都是錯的，我只是覺得你對這個愛情不夠用心，連這樣小的錯誤都不願意費心修正。
我開始認為你必然不甚愛我，你沒有把我的話放在心上，分明聰明絕頂卻學習速度奇慢，終於確定你投注於愛情的氣力遠小於我的，我因此覺得委屈，把我們的，尤其是我的不幸福，通通怪罪於你。
虛假的愛情需要兩個虛假的人來撐場面，有時候是我們兩個人在共演這場虛假的戲，兩個人都不自覺，一個不自覺虐人，一個不自覺被虐，直到臨界點到來：我再也不能忍受你老是踩錯舞步，你再也不能忍受必須在我滿是地雷的場域裡來回踱步而後渾身是傷。
我盡了全力愛你，竟也讓你筋疲力盡，為什麼，我當然是愛你的，倘若不愛你，又何必在乎與你有關的一切。
是什麼地方出了差錯呢，我必然是用我所知道最好的愛的方式對待你，我希望被這麼愛著，所以我這麼愛你，這是我想得到的愛，我夢寐以求的，我必然是給你我所認為最好的；所以我要你吃這個，我要你穿這個，我要你聽這場音樂會，我要你看這本書，我不要你去參加那個研討會，我不要你去上那個課，我希望你用這個牌子的香水，我希望你信仰這個宗教……
我要，我不要，我希望，我不希望，都是『我』，沒有『你』，我忘了問你，你要什麼，不要什麼，你希望如何，不希望如何，我忘了問你，你希望我怎麼愛你，我該怎麼做，可以讓你感覺到我是愛你的，對你來說，被一個人所愛是什麼感覺，你所想像的愛情，你所寄望的幸福美滿，你所憧憬的親密關係，我忘了問你，你要什麼，我究竟可以給你什麼，是會讓你感覺美好的？
最哀傷的莫過於被愛所傷，被我們鍾愛的人的愛所傷，被我們迫切渴望的愛所傷，我們一心一意希望被這個人的愛所擁抱，卻在近距離在毫無防備的狀態下被我們以為是同一陣線的盟友所傷。
最哀傷的莫過於我愛的是我自己，卻堅稱我愛的是你，然後你背著一個很大的十字架在街上行走，眾人皆以為你被幸福的氛圍籠罩，皆投以豔羨的眼光，只有你心裡知道那樣可怕的寂寞與孤獨，連我都責怪你，責怪你為什麼我已經給了你這樣無窮無盡的愛了，你還常偷偷地擦拭眼角的淚？
我突然有點懂了一直以來你的埋怨。
我愛的是我愛你的方式，而不是你；我愛的是我上街，用我自己的品味，挑選一件衣服，然後要你穿上，還要你歡喜接受；我愛的是你變成我覺得好的樣子，用我喜歡的方式思考，用我可以接受的方式說話。
原來我愛的是我自己，而不是你。
愛情是一面自戀的鏡子，我攬鏡自照，容不得一絲一毫不符合我的想像。
所以我說了一句話，你的回答不如我的預期，錯；我給了你一個禮物，你開心的程度不如我的預期，錯；我撥了一通電話給你，你沒有馬上接，你答話的速度太慢，錯，大錯特錯；我要你跟我跳舞，在我指定的音樂裡頭，依照我愛的節奏和速度。
於是我從來愛的都是自己，而不曾是你。
通常你是不快樂的，因為你希望被愛的方式跟我愛你的方式不一定相同；當你並不想要的愛落在你的身上，越來越多，當你被要求必須以相同的方式回報於我的愛的時候，那是雙重的負擔；你同時是匱乏的與滿溢的，你匱乏於真正的愛情，你滿溢於虛假的愛情。
然而我不一定可以察覺你的不快樂，我往往只是覺得你錯誤連連，覺得你重蹈覆轍，不知道是因為愚蠢，還是蓄意讓我生氣，為什麼每個答案都是錯的，我只是覺得你對這個愛情不夠用心，連這樣小的錯誤都不願意費心修正。
我開始認為你必然不甚愛我，你沒有把我的話放在心上，分明聰明絕頂卻學習速度奇慢，終於確定你投注於愛情的氣力遠小於我的，我因此覺得委屈，把我們的，尤其是我的不幸福，通通怪罪於你。
虛假的愛情需要兩個虛假的人來撐場面，有時候是我們兩個人在共演這場虛假的戲，兩個人都不自覺，一個不自覺虐人，一個不自覺被虐，直到臨界點到來：我再也不能忍受你老是踩錯舞步，你再也不能忍受必須在我滿是地雷的場域裡來回踱步而後渾身是傷。
我盡了全力愛你，竟也讓你筋疲力盡，為什麼，我當然是愛你的，倘若不愛你，又何必在乎與你有關的一切。
是什麼地方出了差錯呢，我必然是用我所知道最好的愛的方式對待你，我希望被這麼愛著，所以我這麼愛你，這是我想得到的愛，我夢寐以求的，我必然是給你我所認為最好的；所以我要你吃這個，我要你穿這個，我要你聽這場音樂會，我要你看這本書，我不要你去參加那個研討會，我不要你去上那個課，我希望你用這個牌子的香水，我希望你信仰這個宗教……
我要，我不要，我希望，我不希望，都是『我』，沒有『你』，我忘了問你，你要什麼，不要什麼，你希望如何，不希望如何，我忘了問你，你希望我怎麼愛你，我該怎麼做，可以讓你感覺到我是愛你的，對你來說，被一個人所愛是什麼感覺，你所想像的愛情，你所寄望的幸福美滿，你所憧憬的親密關係，我忘了問你，你要什麼，我究竟可以給你什麼，是會讓你感覺美好的？
最哀傷的莫過於被愛所傷，被我們鍾愛的人的愛所傷，被我們迫切渴望的愛所傷，我們一心一意希望被這個人的愛所擁抱，卻在近距離在毫無防備的狀態下被我們以為是同一陣線的盟友所傷。
最哀傷的莫過於我愛的是我自己，卻堅稱我愛的是你，然後你背著一個很大的十字架在街上行走，眾人皆以為你被幸福的氛圍籠罩，皆投以豔羨的眼光，只有你心裡知道那樣可怕的寂寞與孤獨，連我都責怪你，責怪你為什麼我已經給了你這樣無窮無盡的愛了，你還常偷偷地擦拭眼角的淚？
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Annabel Lee
by: Edgar Allan Poe
很久以前背过，这属于那种要张口念的诗
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
很久以前背过，这属于那种要张口念的诗
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
口水帐之二
昨天第二天，早上很平静地醒来，心也不跳，气也不喘，前几个星期闹得我现在一过六点睡不沉了，如果晚上不早点睡，黑眼圈就要成permanent了。嘿~嘿`~成国宝之后，指不定可以去各国动物园做友善大使。今天也是一样的，只好起床，洗漱了之后就没事干，叼着我的萝卜东转转西悠悠，最后决定继续给M写信,脑袋不太好使，不敢看两遍，赶忙封了，放学后送去。在我爸醒转过来之前出了门，蹑手蹑脚，小心轻放，此面向上，储藏于干燥通风处。。。。跑题拉- - 五月是个不用眼睛就能感觉到的好时候。鸟语花香都混在当面而来的这一阵风里，差点就想脱了鞋去践踏邻居的草坪，嗯^~^
学校里还是老样子，有人欠揍有人装傻，有人不合群有人如鱼得水。昨天我练琴时间加起来无论如何也超过三小时了，就连中午都赔了进去。上数学课的时候心只有一半在，虽然三角函数我还是蛮喜欢的，可是马上要面对的考级还是占了我绝大部分的内存。说来奇怪，自小以来所有我想干好的事，没有一个不往反方向发展的，前年，去年，哪一次不是危里危险的？Duh,突然想起周六还要去新学校注册加考试，这就代表周末没休息了。。。。三点半我进了juge的琴房，手心汗湿，老毛病了，具体情况说不清楚，反正我估计会出错的地方过了，而熟练的段子却让我被扣了分。到底怎么样，下星期才会见分晓。不管怎样，pierre-laporte，再见了阿。。。
昨天做饭，brocoli(urgh....),大~米~饭~，煎鸡蛋，剩下的就靠我妈留下的存货，冰箱里空的地方都塞满了，光锅就有两口，今天就不用做了，以后就这样，一天管两天的。回到家习惯性地又啃起萝卜。。。- -
最后要说的是，昨天去游泳，碰到Gabrielle,吓了一大跳，原来她家住得挺近的。还出了件大大丢脸的事！！！俺仰泳的时候手臂落下时打到旁边一道的人，他虽然没有表示什么。。。可是。。。la HONTE。。。我脸皮挺薄的（看不出来吧~-O-)，过了不久就灰溜溜地潜水直到岸边，收拾去了。回来的路上经过了montreal最有名的bagel店，要了半打raisin&cinnamon滴，在parc街上还看到许多超级讲究精细的epicerie,有几家只卖casher产品，那是十点左右吧，快关门了，顾客都是穿这黑大衣戴着黑色高帽子留着山羊胡子+耳朵旁卷发的犹太家庭妇男们，真该带着相机~！！！天黑了看哪里都好看哇~
今天我想在太阳下山前上山看一看。
对了哦，重新下了仙剑，带着善心人士丢给我的修改器，我要再次上路了，大理我来了~！
善心人士不要再- -+了，长皱纹的呢。^o^
学校里还是老样子，有人欠揍有人装傻，有人不合群有人如鱼得水。昨天我练琴时间加起来无论如何也超过三小时了，就连中午都赔了进去。上数学课的时候心只有一半在，虽然三角函数我还是蛮喜欢的，可是马上要面对的考级还是占了我绝大部分的内存。说来奇怪，自小以来所有我想干好的事，没有一个不往反方向发展的，前年，去年，哪一次不是危里危险的？Duh,突然想起周六还要去新学校注册加考试，这就代表周末没休息了。。。。三点半我进了juge的琴房，手心汗湿，老毛病了，具体情况说不清楚，反正我估计会出错的地方过了，而熟练的段子却让我被扣了分。到底怎么样，下星期才会见分晓。不管怎样，pierre-laporte，再见了阿。。。
昨天做饭，brocoli(urgh....),大~米~饭~，煎鸡蛋，剩下的就靠我妈留下的存货，冰箱里空的地方都塞满了，光锅就有两口，今天就不用做了，以后就这样，一天管两天的。回到家习惯性地又啃起萝卜。。。- -
最后要说的是，昨天去游泳，碰到Gabrielle,吓了一大跳，原来她家住得挺近的。还出了件大大丢脸的事！！！俺仰泳的时候手臂落下时打到旁边一道的人，他虽然没有表示什么。。。可是。。。la HONTE。。。我脸皮挺薄的（看不出来吧~-O-)，过了不久就灰溜溜地潜水直到岸边，收拾去了。回来的路上经过了montreal最有名的bagel店，要了半打raisin&cinnamon滴，在parc街上还看到许多超级讲究精细的epicerie,有几家只卖casher产品，那是十点左右吧，快关门了，顾客都是穿这黑大衣戴着黑色高帽子留着山羊胡子+耳朵旁卷发的犹太家庭妇男们，真该带着相机~！！！天黑了看哪里都好看哇~
今天我想在太阳下山前上山看一看。
对了哦，重新下了仙剑，带着善心人士丢给我的修改器，我要再次上路了，大理我来了~！
善心人士不要再- -+了，长皱纹的呢。^o^
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