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"Only your hands can crush me"

Calvino is a cruel writer

He said casually in "Invisible Cities" The words that come out can easily cut your nerves, leaving you eager to express your true feelings to others every unfeeling evening or night.

He said: Once the image in memory is fixed by words, it will be erased in reality. Just like Marco Polo was reluctant to tell others about his Venice, I tried to avoid telling anyone the whole story about her for fear of losing her all at once. Or, as I told other stories, I was already losing her little by little.

Write these words down, water will always extinguish the words written by fire.

Admit it readily, my friend.

In fact, you are as good at disguising as I am, and at maintaining another appearance in front of the crowd.

All my arrogance comes from my inferiority complex, all my heroic spirit comes from my inner weakness, and all my plausibility comes from my heart full of doubts. I pretended to be ruthless, but actually I hated my own deep affection. I thought the meaning of life was to wander around and live in exile, but in fact it was just a cover-up that I hadn’t found a place I wanted to stop yet.

I thought there would eventually be a love that could make me stop. But what is that kind of love? I met you. In our youngest years, love meant chewing each other's body and soul like crazy, taking out each other's ribs to make wine for you. It just magnified the ecstasy and sorrow in my life again, making me mistakenly believe that all the people walking in the world are giants with sorrow.

On the brightest morning, I came along the river for you, but you were so sad.

On the warmest night, I went south again for you, but your twilight was dim.

In the bustling business alleys, strange cities and docks at dusk and sunset, I really saw your appearance. You became everyone who passed me by. of strangers. The whole world revolves around strange and wonderful threads, weaving strangers one after another into countless prosperous patterns.

My eyes, those eyes that were once soaked in the night, as deep as inkstone but useless, just want to look at you. Keep watching and squander all the bright days. At many moments after we were separated, I wanted to recite your name silently. There are ten million names that even you don’t know. You are my Vishnu or Brahma. Just reciting silently, not saying a word in reality, mistakenly thinking that I can pour out all the undercurrents of my life between your lips and teeth.

But in Hebrew, silence and destruction share the same root.

This is an extremely ridiculous era. We look forward to beautiful words such as love, loyalty, humility, tolerance, and sacrifice, but this is an era where any word is being destroyed by public opinion. It's like Joyce calmly let Bloom take on the role of Odysseus and his lascivious wife became Penelope. We all have the desire to doodle, changing the solemn portraits in textbooks into images full of black humor.

It is difficult to suppress a kind of malice, especially in this era where freedom is the slogan. Use a joking tone to mock everything that is heavy, and then walk away. You expect love, but you are used to scorning or laughing at love that seems unworthy and stupid, thereby indirectly telling everyone: I am not invested in any kind of love or anything, but I am safe.

People are sometimes very strange. Even if they are accustomed to temperament, when faced with some extreme situation, they will rush to stand in an absolutely rational perspective and pretend not to be emotional in order to remain undefeated.

If you say so, I hope that I will be a defeated general throughout my life.

If my life were written into a book, I would like the book to be called "I, Don Quixote".

Yes, Don Quixote, the most typical idealist and the most failed hero.

If life is a similar motorcycle ride, hormones should be used as fuel at the beginning. After puberty, the hormones are used up, and idealism, heroism, and conceited illusions can be added to the fuel tank. In the end, you can even set yourself on fire to squeeze out the oil.

The dilution of a spirit, an ideal, and an obsession always requires infinite time and language to process. The slightly pedantic old man who was skillfully sketched by Cervantes has already become more flesh and blood in the hearts of modern people than the real knight. This is a very perfunctory era, and comics will be more deeply rooted in people's hearts than long poems.

The image of Don Quixote fighting a windmill with his spear has been teased and ridiculed by countless people, which is better than ten thousand knights kneeling in the rose bushes and offering the monster's head to the lady on the balcony. story. Cervantes' lengthy joke makes chivalry and idealism a heart-wrenching daydream. Don Quixote turned around from the page, and with a serious expression on his face stated the spirit he upheld - a kind of joke that would be regarded as gentle by later generations.

When Alexandre Dumas was 8 years old, he dared to carry a musket and fight with God everywhere. However, in "The Three Musketeers", when describing d'Artagnan entering Paris, he still had to lightly use his sword to fight horses and waves. Thos' cloak, Aramis' handkerchief joke. Similarly, knight-errants two thousand years ago used their weapons to conquer forbidden countries and wield swords. In today's popular novels, gentlemen who compete with flower-picking thieves for territory and undress beautiful women to heal their injuries are also known as knight-errants.

Pursue love and honor like Don Quixote. This is how a term is diluted by time and becomes a joke that no one believes.

Almost many writers have ridiculed the rigidity, fantasy, and clichés brought about by idealism, but they are by no means mocking idealism itself. The popular novels that Flaubert despised, the chivalric novels that Cervantes flirted with, Jane Austen's jab at the etiquette among squires, the jokes Rabelais made his giants make, Turgenev's love of wandering knowledge The dark analogy of the molecule-----everything that people hate is sexual: hypocrisy, rigidity, redundancy, sluggishness, and rhetoric.

Since idealism is applicable in any era, and of course it is also applicable in this era when everything is being ridiculed, deconstructed, and sinking, we actually need these moral and spiritual supports very much. What prompts us to oppose these spirits may simply be their own idealism. In our hearts, we have all weighed that the price of being a tragic hero is too high, but who is willing to always be a stable mediocre person?

After all, in an age when everyone hates hypocrisy, talking seriously about humility, honor, sacrifice, heroism, mercy, honesty or justice can make you appear either naive or hypocritical. In this era of proliferation of languages ??and liars and demagogues everywhere, no matter what you say, people will confidently say: Don't try to influence me with your thoughts. But in the end, everyone lives alone in the rules of the game set by others. .

Just like Wan Qing's song "One Hundred Thousand Hippies", the brutal struggle between a young man's ideals and reality is elegantly described, like an ukiyo-e with strong contrast. "There is no way forward, and there is no way back", but he "hates disputes and is not good at speaking." This is almost a prophecy for all depressed young people today: they have graduated from a second-rate university and are unwilling to go abroad. Faced with the impact of the consumer tide and hungry parents, they can only choose to live in the society. Even if you don’t have the courage to go on an expedition like the old man described by Cervantes, you can go out with one person and one horse.

In the version translated by Yang Jiang, the ending of Don Quixote is very rushed and the meaning is not complete.

I seem to have read another epilogue somewhere, to the effect that Don Quixote experienced many failures and pains, and on his way back home, his mind suddenly sobered up, leaving behind tears of regret.

At this time, Sancho went crazy. He missed the romantic and rich world where Don Quixote lived.

The mediocrity and indifference of the real world was unbearable. Life should not be as plain and quiet as the book said. He hoped that his master would get better. On another midsummer morning, the wild flowers were in full bloom and they were on the road again.

At least get some more wine, because life is just nothing.

I read Ma Liang's "Confession" a few days ago, and I really like that title---dedicated to the idealists who have the courage to face disillusionment, to all the fattened poultry whose talents are not appreciated, to To those hearts that once dreamed of flying thousands of miles, to the dreams that are drifting away, to the love that reunites after separation.

Opening the book, a passage in the preface is as follows:

My body has lived in the snow every winter in my life, the sea, and this world. All wandering lovers.

The accompanying picture is a sketch by Ma Liang - the ferocious tsunami comes looking down, and a pair of lovers stand in front of the tsunami, holding hands and calmly. Breathtakingly beautiful.

I can’t say it, because it writes about love and draws about love, so I was startled. But on top of this inevitable tone of disillusionment, the pictures, text, and even the smell of books make all the sadness pervade. So, can you tell me, is love first, or loneliness first? Is fantasy first, or is it disillusionment before that?

However, no matter how exquisite the text, no matter how beautiful the pictures, no matter how high-quality the copperplate paper is, it is expressed with these keywords: love, loneliness, childhood, dreams, confession, disillusionment . For some people, they are unwilling to take the time to consider or face such words at all. They think these are words that have no effect at all, and it is best to focus on their own lives.

For some people, they must spend their whole lives facing and resisting the invasion of these words, in the long and slow night when the candles are burned out, in the unreal territory where they can’t find support. Here, with love and the process of chasing ideals.

Or maybe, everyone has such a "Confession", but some people are not sensitive enough to express it. Sensitivity is actually a very cruel nature. Only today can I understand that the quatrain Su Dongpo once wrote: "I hope my children will be foolish and reckless" is actually a great compassion for children.

Sensitivity is not only beneficial to the creator, but it is also torture. Probably the only thing left is a heavy rain in the heart for no reason. In the end, even the mark will be difficult to remove. Therefore, when God gives a person the attribute of sensitivity, he also gives him the mission of pursuing and fighting loneliness.

My destiny may be to do everything possible to resist the destined feeling of emptiness.

It sounds ridiculous, but fighting against loneliness is always a beautiful, noble, wonderful and respectable thing. This kind of struggle always seems to be a hopeless farce like Quixote.

Even if you know that your struggle may never succeed, your life does not become mediocre and stupid because of it. I prefer to look at these seemingly illusory words. Maybe in fact, they are really better than some insignificant realistic inspirational sermons.

There are always young people who are willing to die for their ideals, so die, young people, the destruction of pride, we will eventually meet in a place without darkness.

I believe God will be kind to those brave and passionate people.

I still remember telling you the story of Adele Hugo.

She is the youngest daughter of Victor Hugo, but she does not get the care she deserves. She resents her sister Leo for taking away the love of her parents. She lives under her father's halo, or shadow. She is sensitive and insecure. She longs for someone to truly love her and treat her as the only one. When she was at her most innocent and romantic age, she met a handsome colonel and was pursued, seduced and even lost her virginity by him. She told herself that she loved him. And she will marry him no matter what, even across the ocean. Stubbornly already sick. crazy. She was willing to sacrifice her reputation and pretended to be pregnant to prevent his marriage. Her mother died in another place, but she continued to follow him to Africa regardless.

The sad thing is that he always avoids her like abandoning her old shoes, and even hates her.

Finally one day, when he appeared in front of her, she did not recognize him at all and walked away indifferently. The long-term displacement and mental stress completely broke her down. She returned to her father and spent the rest of her life in an asylum. At Hugo's funeral, the whole country mourned; but the daughter of a literary giant died quietly, and no one knew about it.

She is Adele Hugo who was tortured by love. She has the mark of that era - nobility and persistence. She will not do anything against her own personality. Her personality is that she always The nobility of defense. However, that almost morbid relationship completely burned me.

Trying to soothe your uneasiness with elusive love only makes you more uneasy.

Some people’s lives are destined to interpret legends and footnote tragedies. Their love always has a desire to plunge into darkness and destruction. And this ultimate darkness and destruction has absolute beauty and absolute power. Just like the ending of "Mississippi Mermaid", the protagonist says over and over again: "Love is sad, love is hurt, love is unhappy."

I have been there in all the nights when you fell asleep, in every dream of your childhood.

At that time, you did not let the scattered pain form your bones. At that time, you were not held by your ankles and put into the dark river of Styx to scrub your body. At that time, you did not feel despair. I won't lose sleep over long nights because of questions like: "Why can't I be born rich? Why can't I be more talented and powerful? Why can't you love me?"

There are always people who will never look back with sadness. Throwing myself into the endless darkness, I will never see their smiles again. Only the moon, carrying the secrets of thousands of years, still turns cruelly and brightly, and sheds the eternal moonlight, which is heartbreaking and intoxicating. I love this cold, deep moon. It is the body of the gods. It knows everyone’s wishes and unspeakable black secrets.

May you be happy and never have to lament to the moonlight again.

May you be bright and never have to repent to the moonlight again.

We have never loved anyone. We just love our own idea of ??who is lovable, we love our own idea, we love ourselves. Even so, we performed our lives alone with this belief, and everything was as silent as a mystery. Many things in life will be shattered, but this does not prevent us from believing and living in beautiful illusions and enjoying the happiness magnified by illusions.

That’s why I love Fernando Pessoa’s metaphor.

The roses in the garden of Atoni, those roses that come and go.

On that day they were born, and on that day they died.

To them light is immortal, because they are born after the sun rises and disappear before Apollo leaves.

Let us turn our lives into one day, like them.

The moments we have lived or loved have been filled with darkness.

Living in the world, everyone wants to be strong and use the most intense words and actions to tell others: I am the strongest and I am invincible.

But I can't deny: only the people or things I love deeply can defeat me.

Sometimes life is like a mental and physical battle, and no one can escape unscathed. The difference is whether the dead part is more or less. The difference is whether the surviving part is you or no longer you.

Camus beguiled me: To understand a city, the most convenient way is to ask how people there work, how they love each other, and how they die. But in this country, it seems that "how to love each other" is no longer so important. Falling in love is no longer such a high priority in such an era where life requires effort. It is difficult for this remote and profound land to explain how it gave birth to such absurdity.

People are always like this. Suddenly they want to write something down, but most of them have no idea. Maybe it’s to commemorate the night when I first met you, and also to commemorate all those who passed by me. However, it can only be said that I am willing. Only your hands in this world can crush me.

Have you ever waited for your lover under the cold moonlight in the early morning of winter? Waiting for a whistle to scream and approach from the depths of the morning mist. A huge locomotive spewing thick smoke will roar and stumble out of the mist like a dying dragon. It will linger on and exhale its last breath before dying in front of you. .

And you, like a knight who won without a fight, rescued your lover from the dragon's belly.

Have you ever really made the final struggle for your ideals? Some people say that the experience of us young people is too mediocre. We have no anti-war marches, no baby boom, no Summer of Love, no LSD and the Beat Generation, no Allen Ginsberg and Kerouac. But we have a crazier history, a more miserable present, and a more indescribable future. It’s just that the space for it to be written and sung has been so limited.

Life itself is very realistic. Every time you get closer to perfection, you have to pay an extra price. Behind the seemingly ideal life is often the passing of the least ideal time, but some people will be polished off in such a process. Because of this, the remaining romantic spirit and idealism in life are particularly valuable.

Please try to preserve the courage that is willing to go through fire and water, just like protecting the candle in the wind and not letting it go out. Please continue to use those ancient methods to love someone without any hope, even if what greets you is destined destruction and death. You can't spend a youthful hour mourning your youth, and an old age spent fearing old age. In my best moments, I have to use all my strength and all my emotions. Do something, love someone.