A novel about basketball. The protagonist comes from the countryside and mountains and learned Tai Chi from an old guy. After entering college, I fell in love with basketball and chose to play point

A novel about basketball. The protagonist comes from the countryside and mountains and learned Tai Chi from an old guy. After entering college, I fell in love with basketball and chose to play point guard.

Look at the truth* person-site-site-exposed, B, B, !, W-山ψpoint, 3, .7. C ` 5` point-匸--〇, ㎡, "Finally A Vine Leaf"

In a neighborhood west of Washington Square, the streets seemed to have gone crazy and divided into many small alleys called "alleys." These "alleys" form many strange angles and curves. A street itself often crosses once or twice. Once, an artist discovered that this street had its value. It would be interesting if a businessman went to collect payment for paint, paper and canvas, and when he was twisting and turning in this street, he suddenly encountered himself who had not received a penny and came back empty-handed. That would be interesting!

As a result, art people soon came to this quaint Greenwich Village. They wandered around, looking for north-facing windows, 18th-century pediments, Dutch attics, and low rents. Then, they bought some pewter cups and one or two baking pans from Sixth Avenue to form an "art area".

Suey and Joanne set up their studio on the top floor of a squat, three-story brick house. "Jones" is Joanna's nickname. One is from Maine; the other is from California. They met while having dinner at Delmonigo's Restaurant on Eighth Avenue. After talking with each other, they found that they had very similar tastes in art, food, and clothing, so they jointly rented the studio.

That was in May. In November, a callous, invisible visitor, whom the doctors called "Pneumonia," lurked around the Arts District, touching here and there with his cold fingers. On the east side of the square, this bad guy walked around brazenly. Every time he got into trouble, there were always dozens of victims. However, in this intricate, narrow and moss-covered "alley", his pace slowed down.

"Mr. Pneumonia" is not what you call an old gentleman who helps the weak and needy. A weak woman who had been blown away by California's west wind would certainly not be able to withstand the common sense of that old guy with red fists and panting. But he struck Johnsy; she lay motionless on the painted iron bed, looking out the little Dutch window at the wall of the brick house opposite.

One morning, the busy doctor raised his fluffy gray eyebrows and called Sue up the aisle.

"In my opinion, there is only 10% chance of her illness." He said, shaking off the mercury in the thermometer. "The only hope is whether she wants to live. People don't want to live and would rather take care of the business of the funeral home. This mental state makes medicine useless. Your young lady is full of thinking that she will not get better. Is she worried? ?”

“She—she hopes to paint the Bay of Naples one day,” Sue said.

"Painting? - Stop talking nonsense! Is there anything worth thinking about twice in her mind - for example, a man?"

"A man?" Su Ai said like a small mouthful He snorted like a piano and said, "Are men worth it? Don't say it, no, doctor; there is no such thing."

"Then it must be related to physical weakness." The doctor said, " I will try to treat her with all the methods that science can achieve, but every time my patient starts to count the number of carriages that will take him to his funeral, I have to subtract one percent from the healing power of medicine. Fifty. If you can get her interested in winter coat sleeve styles, I can guarantee that her chances of recovery will increase from one in ten to one in five."

After the doctor left, Sue went to the studio and cried, wiping a Japanese paper napkin into a mess. Then she picked up her drawing board, played ragtime tunes, and strutted into Johnsy's room.

Johnson was lying on the bed, facing the window, and there was no movement at all. Su Ai thought she fell asleep and quickly stopped whistling.

She set up her drawing board and began to draw a pen-and-ink illustration of a short story for the magazine. Young painters had to pave the way to art with illustrations in magazine novels, which were created by young writers to pave the way to literature.

Suai was drawing a pair of beautiful breeches and a single eyeglass for the protagonist in the novel, an Idaho herdsman to wear at the horse show, when she suddenly heard a faint voice repeating Several times. She quickly walked to the bed.

Johnson's eyes widened. She looked out the window and counted—counting down.

"Twelve," she said, and after a while, she said "eleven"; then "ten", "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven" that were almost connected together. ".

Su Ai looked out the window with concern. What is there to count? All he saw outside was an empty, gloomy yard and the wall of a brick house twenty feet away. A very old ivy, its tangled roots have withered, clinging to half the wall. The cold autumn wind blew almost all the leaves off the vines, leaving only a few almost bare vine branches clinging to the loose and incomplete brick wall.

"What's going on, dear?" Su Ai asked.

"Six," said Johnsy, her voice low as a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It makes me dizzy to count. It's easier now." Yes. There are only five pieces left. "

"Five pieces, dear?"

"Yiye, Chang. The leaves on the ivy. I have to go when the last one falls. Didn't the doctor tell you that three days ago?"

"Oh, I never heard that. Ridiculous words." Su Ai said in a nonchalant manner, "What do the old vine leaves have to do with your illness? Come on, you naughty girl. I forgot, the doctor told you this morning that your chances of a quick recovery were - let me see what he said - he said your chances were ten to one, yo, that's almost as good as ours in New York! It's like riding a streetcar or walking through a construction site of a new house. There are very few accidents. Now let Su Ai continue to draw pictures so that she can sell them to the editor and buy some for her sick child. some red wine, and some pork chops to satisfy her cravings."

"You don't have to buy any more wine," said Joanne, still staring out the window. "No, another slice fell. I don't want any soup. There are only four left. I hope to see the last vine leaves fall before dark."

"Johnson, dear," Su Ai bent over and said to her, "Can you promise me not to open your eyes or look out the window until I finish the drawing? I have to hand in those drawings tomorrow. I need light, otherwise I would have pulled down the curtains." ”

“Can’t you go to another room to paint?” Johnston asked coldly.

"I want to stay here, with you." Su Ai said, "And I don't like you always staring at those inexplicable vine leaves."

"You just Tell me when you're done." Joanne closed her eyes and said, her face pale, lying quietly like a fallen statue, "because I want to see the last vine leaf fall. I can't wait any longer. . I am getting impatient. I want to get rid of everything, floating down like a pitiful and tired vine leaf."

"Try to sleep for a while. Said, "I'm going to ask Bellman to come up and be the model for the reclusive old miner for me. I can't go for a minute. Don't move until I come back."

Old Bell Mann is a painter who lives on the ground floor downstairs. He was in his sixties, and had a beard like the one on Michelangelo's Moses that curled down from his satyr-like head down his imp-like body. Behrman was a frustrated man in the art world. He has been playing with the paintbrush for forty years, but he is still far away from the goddess of art, and he has not even touched the edge of her robe. He always said that he wanted to paint a masterpiece, but he never did it. Apart from the occasional daubing of some commercial or advertising paintings, I haven’t painted anything in several years. He earned a few pennies by modeling for young artists in the "art district" who couldn't afford professional models, always drinking too much gin and chattering about his future masterpieces. In addition, he is still an irritable little old man who extremely despises the warmth of others, but thinks that he is a guard dog protecting the two young artists upstairs.

Suai found the drunken Behrman in the dimly lit small room downstairs.

There is a blank canvas stretched on an easel in the corner, where it has been waiting for the completion of a masterpiece for twenty-five years. She told him what Johnsy was thinking, and how much she feared that Johnsy, who was as weak as a withered leaf, would lose hold of her feeble connection with the world and die.

Old Behrman's bloodshot eyes always shed tears in the wind. He disagreed with this idiotic idea and roared sarcastically for a while.

"What are you talking about!" he shouted, "Is there such a fool in the world who wants to die because the hateful vine leaves fell? I have never heard of such a strange thing in my entire life. No, I have no intention of being your boring hermit model. How could you let such foolish thoughts enter her head? Poor little Miss Johnston."

"She's sick. Very strong, very weak," Sue said. "The high fever makes her suspicious and her head is full of strange thoughts. Okay, Mr. Bellman, since you are not willing to be a model for me, I won't force you. I recognize you, the wretched old bastard."

"You're so effeminate!" Bellman shouted, "I'm going with you. After talking for a long time, I am willing to help you. God! Someone as good as Miss Johnston should not be sick in this place. One day, I will paint a masterpiece, and then we can all leave here. Oh my God! Yes."

When they went upstairs, Johnson was already asleep. Sue drew the curtains to the window sill and gestured for Behrman to go into another room. There they glanced worriedly at the ivy outside the window. Then they looked at each other in silence for a while. The cold rain mixed with snowflakes kept falling. Bearman, wearing an old blue shirt, sat on a cast iron pot with a turned-over rock, pretending to be a reclusive miner.

The next morning, when Sue woke up from an hour's sleep, she saw Jonesy staring at the closed green curtains with her eyes open.

"Pull the curtains up, I want to see." She ordered in a weak voice.

Su Ai followed the instructions sleepily.

However, behold, after a long night of wind and rain, there is still an ivy leaf stuck to the wall. It is the last piece of the vine. The color near the petiole is still dark green, but the jagged edge has been dyed with withered yellow. It hangs proudly on a vine branch about twenty feet above the ground.

"That's the last leaf," said Johnsy. "I thought it was going to fall last night. I heard the wind blowing. It's going to fall off today, and I'm going to die too. "

"Oh, oh!" Su Ai put her sleepy face to the pillow and said, "If you don't think about yourself, what should I do? ”

But Johnsy didn’t answer. A mind that is prepared to embark on the mysterious and distant road of death is the loneliest and saddest thing in the world. As her ties to the world and to friendships fell away piece by piece, the fantasy seemed to have a stronger hold on her.

The day finally passed. At dusk, they saw the lone vine leaf on the wall still clinging to its stem. The howling north wind came with the night, and the raindrops kept hitting the windows and pouring down from the low Dutch-style eaves.

When the sky was just getting bright, the cruel Johnsy ordered the curtains to be drawn up again.

The ivy leaf is still on the wall.

Johnson lay looking at it for a long time. Then she called to Sue, who was stirring chicken soup for Johnston on the coal stove.

"I am such a bad girl, Sue," said Johnsy. "Something in the world kept that last leaf from falling, revealing how evil I had been. Not wanting to live is a bad thing. Sin. Now please bring me some soup, and some milk mixed with wine, and - wait a minute; give me a small mirror first, and use a pillow to prop me up, I want to sit up and watch you cook."

An hour later, she said:

"Suay, I hope to go to the Bay of Naples to sketch one day."

In the afternoon, the doctor came and he left At this time, Su Ai made an excuse and ran to the aisle.

"The good hope is 50%." The doctor grabbed Su Ai's thin, trembling hand and said, "As long as you take good care of her, you will win. Now I have to go downstairs to see another patient . His surname is Bellman - as far as I know, he is also an artist.

He was old and frail, and his illness came on violently. There is no hope for him, but we still have to take him to the hospital today to make him feel better. "

That afternoon, Sue ran to the bedside, where Johnsy was leaning there, contentedly knitting a useless dark blue towel. Sue hugged her with the pillow. < /p>

"I have something to tell you, little one. "Bellman died in the hospital," she said. He contracted pneumonia and was ill for only two days. The porter had found him in his downstairs room the morning before, in a terrible fit. His shoes and clothes were soaked and cold. They couldn't imagine where he had gone on that windy and rainy night. Later, they found a lantern that was still burning, a handful that looked like it had been moved from its original place, a few scattered paintbrushes, a palette with green and yellow paint mixed on it, and finally - look Look out the window, dear, look at the last leaf on the wall. Aren't you wondering why it doesn't float in the wind? Ah, dear, that's Behrman's masterpiece—painted on the wall that night when the last leaf fell. "(Full text ends)

Appreciation of "The Last Vine Leaf":

Winter will definitely come, and all the leaves on the trees will surely fall - the vine leaves are no exception. Don't I think that the trees cannot compete with the sky, they are incompetent and helpless, because this just reflects the wisdom of the trees. There is really no need for them to cling to the last leaf and struggle hard for the germination of next spring. This consumes the last bit of strength.

Because the falling of leaves does not mean the death of life or the complete destruction of hope; on the contrary, it is a kind of wise waiting and the rebirth of hope. When it dropped its last leaf, new hope was quietly conceived and sprouted at the petiole where the leaf fell. Then it waited quietly and quietly at this time, just like a sleeping volcano. , once spring arrives, it bursts out with unstoppable momentum.

And if all the leaves do not fall in winter, there will be fewer new buds in the second year. At least we will lose the opportunity to appreciate a tree blooming like new buds and flowers.

Therefore, the way to keep your last vine leaf is to let the autumn leaves drift away in the wind, and keep the place where the leaves fell. Full leaf buds, because inside the leaf buds is a new vine leaf, a new spring.

It is the same for us today. What we need to learn is not how to prevent ourselves from falling, but how to prevent ourselves from falling. Learn how to stand up after falling, how to learn lessons and gain strength from falling, and make the place where you fell become the starting point for standing up again and moving forward. In this way, the more you fall, the more strength you will absorb. Like a stream flowing eastward, it becomes wider and wider, and finally becomes the sea. The stupid method of holding on to the last vine leaf of the previous autumn and letting ourselves use up nutrients in the winter will only lead to greater failure. It is already the third year of junior high school. For some students, the ideal of high school has become the last vine leaf in the wind. In this regard, my point of view is to follow nature, let the fallen leaves fall, wait for spring, find a new way, and sprout new ones.

Let the fallen leaves of winter go with the wind! But you must not forget to grow new buds when spring comes next year! Like a dream and a song!

The following is an appreciation of O. Henry's novels:

O. Henry's novels are easy to understand. No matter what happens or where it happens, No matter who the protagonist is, his stories are about the human condition of the world, and tend to have a strong American flavor. Generally speaking, the desires and motivations that drive people to act are quite complex, but the thoughts of O. Henry's characters are relatively simple. It is relatively simple to say, and the motivation is relatively simple. The center of the conflict seems to be the poor and the rich. This is probably because the United States is a civilian society and there is no aristocratic class that is naturally superior to others. Since everyone is equal before money, the rich and the poor are equal. On the other hand, this was the "Gilded Age" after the American Civil War, when money worship was prevalent, fraud and deception were rampant, and corruption was rampant. It seemed that success was achieved only by making money. , without asking whether the source of the money is innocent and legal, no wonder the degree of possession of money has become the center of attention. Mark Twain, a contemporary of O. Henry, said it well: "Poverty is always the problem anywhere in the world. Inconvenient. But only in America is poverty a stigma.

"All the living beings in O. Henry's works live in such a world dominated by money. Their motivations, emotions, and joys are mostly related to the possession of money. Therefore, the world and human relations depicted by O. Henry, whether good or bad, are all related to the possession of money." Evil has a certain American simplicity.

The dilemmas and unexpected endings often produce ridiculous humorous effects. In O. Henry's novels, humor is present throughout. It is specifically for the sake of humor. The gangster who kidnapped the child was so tortured by the urchin that he would rather pay to escort the child home. The humorist was made to create humor day after day, and finally turned into a physically and mentally exhausted vampire. It was in the back room of the funeral home that he was able to bid farewell to the stupidity of the world and regain the consciousness of a normal person. O. Henry obviously regarded himself as a humorist. He wrote in "Confessions of a Humorist": "My jokes. His nature is kind and cordial, and he will never be sarcastic or make others angry. "This sentence also applies to O. Henry himself. He is sarcastic, but not sarcastic. His sarcasm and humor are usually well-intentioned, and sometimes shockingly reveal the true meaning of life, such as "The Top of Life" and Like "The Pendulum", they reflect O. Henry's ability to see life through. O. Henry's language itself is also full of exaggeration and humor, and humor can downplay the tragic effect of things, making it more acceptable to the public.