Chapter 2 1888

... I really don't know where it comes from—(it's in the press law, especially in the first letter of Dubuis et Cortonay). Nowhere have I seen such bitter and vicious sarcasm.The audience watching this performance was surrounded by laughter, and they quickly rose to sublime status in the dialogue-then, this unexpected scene suddenly chilled all the audience. In Anatole France's "Book of Friends," there are some anecdotes that are so amusing to read aloud. Byron's disappointed me, but in "Leila" I found the Byron I imagined.The first chapter is enough to seduce the feelings.The charm and danger of these books is that the reader goes too far into the roles of the characters and takes on their passions.

what!Beautiful imagery in Breezer's poem: The strings of Almeric's harp were broken, and the poet drew back his own heartstrings; the harp is now made of such strings. what!How many dreams, this is the most wonderful.A heart that doesn't know anything about life, can't wait, wants to jump, wants to invest, how much impulsion, how much passion, and how strong desire it can have. What an ideal longing, an uneasy throbbing, how violently the heart trembles, jumping wildly inside, as if it wants to escape from the body; it longs for a God, looks everywhere, thinks that it has been touched, but it is annoyed to look at it at night Whether the sky is open or not, only the image of God in His inspired works is found.Young and fiery senses do not content the mind with spiritual union, they want to touch, they want to embrace the God they seek, and if they feel God flees them, they think themselves cheated.

Oh God!Why are we made of dirt?Poor flesh, can't you believe what you can't touch, and love what you can't see?Sometimes you pray and feel that God is with you, why look back—the hallucination ceases, and the prayer dies on your lips; and you go to bed sad, thinking that the God you cannot see is but a kind of illusory. Mary, who gave you Touch the madness of the Lord. As soon as you've collected yourself, you call "Lord" to him, and crawl at his knees, to kiss his feet; yet he shuns your nearness, and says to you, "Touch me not,"—and your heart Uneasy.

Well!These Greeks, it's wonderful to read, but I read it with a background-reading Sophocles through German philologists.Read Plato in a monk's cell, read Euripides with the accompaniment of Chopin's music, read Theocritus by a stream, and read Sappho among the rocks of a cliff. O darkness, my light!Ajax, who was blind, said loudly; I closed the book after reading this: This is a large folio, full of notes, and it seems extremely academic. It was getting dark, I put my hands in my long hair, turned off the light, put on a fur hat, and wrapped up my coat—now I opened the window, picked up a big pipe with a long, weird shape, and struck a match without lighting it deliberately Smoke, to further stimulate desire, to enjoy this wonderful moment beforehand—and now I curl up in my armchair, looking at these little gold stars, while the beautiful blue smoke comes out of my pipe—that is what I smoke for, because Tobacco itself does not bring me pleasure, I just want to watch you, wisps of beautiful green smoke.The green smoke is lingering, slowly rising, soaring up until it disappears into the night.

At this time, Wagner's chords came one after another, as if falling from the sky, hazy and mysterious, rippling my fantasy and swaying my thoughts.My dreams show me the island of Salamina, and the joy of the Greeks; the sun seems to be beaming with laughter, and they are all drunk, singing the hymn of Apollo. Behold, behold, here is the Greek youth and the divine dance.Their handsome bodies were anointed and gleamed in the sun, and their cheeks were red with joy—oh!The gorgeous art of Greece!How beautiful you are in the sun, all your youth: their eyes are full of pride, their shoulders show strength.Behold, how gracefully they gather and whirl about the altar of Bacchus.what!The gorgeous art of Greece!You know beauty.Io, Io, Ode to Apollo, sing, Sophocles, sing, this day reveals to you your genius.

But when the music stopped, so did my fantasy.The blue smoke keeps rising, and the Venus keeps twinkling.We live in a time of foolishness, which clothes the Greeks with coarse garments; we no longer understand beauty--comfort kills beauty--everything goes with beauty--writing takes the place of passion.Oh, God!How mediocre this era is, it only talks about materialism and does not understand art at all.At least those Greeks still... A full pipe, however, has its charms. Poor La Rochefoucauld—you must be very unfortunate.What a wry smile should be upon your face at the most faithful deeds of your most faithful friend.Perhaps the most unbearable pain is the inability to believe in the good.

Lacossard's quip expresses very forcefully the abhorrence of that which is both loathsome and obsessive: I drank my drink in disgust. If you want to understand La Rochefoucauld, you have to read for a long time; these maxims must also be thought about for a long time.Once you look into his mind, you can see self-love in all his actions.In my opinion, we can only seek respect from those we respect. In the end, I think that people can't do well on their own, and I'm afraid that all decent things they do are secretly inspired by God. It seemed to me that the sorrows which he necessarily produced must be beneficial and lead to life like the sorrows of the Gospel.It leads to the total abandonment of self-will, and it is completely surrendered to the hands of God.Is this desirable?

I want to act, and I like simplicity and nature; on the contrary, it is really strange to mobilize such passion and thought in order to cause an apparently simple action. How is it that our greatest and noblest acts, at least those of this stance, cannot be entirely freed from all vulgar motives, from consideration of what others think of us, or from the pleasure of posing in front of others.The vanity of the vain. It is a sad thing to think about the great man who is only a head taller than us, but his feet are always in the mud. How can we explain that there are so many beautiful things on earth when people are so bad?

It is a reflection of God. As Samson sold his power to Delilah. But all this is pure absurdity, I'm exhausted in my absurd dreams. "You surrounded me with a wall and didn't let me go out." You come out of the sludge. Turner is indeed excellent in his "English Literature"; his sentiments could not be analyzed better.It's a pity that readers can feel that he never lets go and enjoys it with forgetfulness.He seemed to be enjoying himself while watching his pulse and counting the beating times. One cannot rely too much on what the Goncourt brothers called "rare modifiers" to achieve the desired effect.

Similarly, we must give up depicting all non-emotional things, and let the words express what the painter lets the colors express-even if it is expressed, what effect will it have?A Gautierian description not motivated by any emotion is more boring and annoying than anything else.I would rather write "Interlude" than carve "Enamel and Carved Jade".The scenery should only be described when it is a kind of "mentality" as Amiel said, and the scenery described in this way is closely related to us. The words of Horace should be thought of and applied to style: Like a river full of mud and sand, it is expected to catch things.

Wouldn't it be more dexterous not to over-expose and overuse modifiers, but to reduce the descriptive part to a minimum, so that a few words can arouse the same emotion? What a wonderful thing it is to be good at speaking stupid things with wisdom. It's not stupid to hear this sentence on the street: "Even if it's good, it's still right to be wrong." During the conversation, Albert referred to the Goncourt brothers as the wandering Jews of the social news. I will seek the melancholy of the ancients, not Niobe, nor the madness of Ajax, but in the illusory love of Narcissus, a phantom of his love, a phantom that escapes his thirst His lips, images shattered by the outstretched arms of desire, if you want to look for it, look at his posture like a flower in the water, look at his absent-minded gaze, look at his hair that hangs like weeping willow branches and leaves on his forehead . oh!This prelude (I mean the third) by Chopin is more than pain, it is a weeping lament, this sad, unbearable sorrow, which breaks the heart forever; there is not a cry, only A frightening, long tone with only choking in the middle, and even softer sounds, like the rise and fall of the throat when crying for a long time and suffering helplessly, or like the bulging of waves rushing to the beach... At the same time, the low voice murmured Complaints, sounding stagnant and obscure, extremely abnormal, lowered by a half tone, like falling into a spiral of bottomless pain. It is despair that tears cannot dilute that leads to suicide. I was ashamed to meet Louie last night.He had the courage to write and I didn't.What am I missing? However, how many things are rolling in my heart, but I want to condense them on paper. I'm afraid!I am afraid that once the subtle and elusive thoughts take shape, they will lose all life and acquire a dead rigidity, like a butterfly with its wings nailed to a board, and a butterfly is only beautiful when it flies. Coward!If you really have an idea, if you really have a feeling, then you "should" express it! Who still writes now!Isn't it time to go out? Believe in your strength; let the wind go. I am also a poet! You must place your ideals in a lofty place, and keep your eyes fixed on it when you travel. writing!What a joy!Just crazy!Think, fantasize, and sing about your fantasies and thoughts. Be kind to others and push the wheel of progress, not like a phantom that leaves no trace behind. With a superhuman cry, express the pain, fear and longing of a whole generation; dedicate yourself to this beautiful task——dedicate your talents, feelings, beliefs, and even life, even if you are like a swan, you will die after singing. To die - to borrow Leopardi's weeping and raged tones, in Ramnai's fiery language - after weeping for the doubts and miseries of our time, let the extinguished spark of faith be rekindled in the heart - for Weeping in disgust, disappointment, or branding hatred and disappointment, is like using a red-hot iron. Poetry?In prose?Why bother!May God give me the right tone!If the lines came out of my mouth in abundance, I would sing with joy, but I have no intention of seeking lines for lines. Gautier and Banville are disgusting—if they have nothing to say, shut up. Poetry is a sacred thing, and they destroy it like a plaything! Rich fantasies reside in my bosom. Chenier O my heart, the sea and the sky shall be moved by love. How sweet, how sweet, the night,--the stars twinkle, how soft--my heart melts. How warm the air is, brushing my forehead like a woman's hand.The whispering of the leaves, and how sad it is, I burst into tears when I listened to it. The scent of the orange tree falling, so refreshing—and caressing the water so lovingly,—the night breeze, like a held breath, with fines of basswood pollen—a pleasant limpness, a mass of Show me love. Like a rocket in the night sky—the aria of the nightingale. -- at an acacia bathing in the pool -- the melodious nightingale singing -- while looking at a star. To that star, the nightingale—dying for love; the star twinkles,—I see it as a mockery. Like pearls of a fountain,--the loud notes are falling,--the song intoxicates me,--more and more intoxicated. The beautiful song changes to heart-breaking,--a pour-out--how dreary it is at night, makes me sad. Sweet-singing nightingale, dying for love,--but always shining, the smile of the star. Drunk with fragrance, love, and pain,—the nightingale weeps with a sound unspeakable. In the calm pool, - it saw the shadow of the star; - for it, for it, the star - fell from heaven to the pool. Now, the stars are shining with love; maddened songs, joyfully rushing up to the sky;--the birds are flying, and will descend to the pool to meet the stars. As soon as the bird landed, the star fled; deep, deep, the star sank into the water;—so the nightingale sped down,—but the star sank ever on. The nightingale touches the water,—beats the water with restless wings;—the star flies back into the sky,—again shines its smile. Now the singing is silent. ——The night wind became softer, ——come to kiss Nightingale's body. The nightingale spreads her wings—floats on the water,—among the pollen of the basswood. Above it, - the orange tree more drunken, - swaying its fragrance - The lingering scent of the night's incense--pour love on my heart,--my tears fall, scorching hot... ... However, it is no longer the warm evening breeze. It is your hand that caresses me now! Song Snow, from the black sky, fell all night. Throughout the night, heavy snow masses covered the ground. Heavy snow fell like an avalanche from the black sky. When the sun woke up, he saw that the earth was white. A piece of white is a quilt, spreading to cover the earth, The quilt is spread out like a burial sheet covering the earth. The earth said to the sun: "The sky spreads above me A mortuary, the mortuary covers the whole nature. The living creatures were all dead and covered with a white quilt. " The sun answered the earth: "This is the bride's veil, Thy funeral bill; Frost your wedding jewels, Your wedding veil and jewels: Snow and frost. " As the sun said, he hugged the earth and gave him a loving kiss, The earth blushed, and the frost on the trees was like diamonds, In sparkling love kisses, red appears. It's nothing more than a dream, but how warm this dream is. The passing time stopped for a while, and it seemed that this good night would not pass.I lay beside her, and the light boat carrying us swayed slightly.Soft and desolate light poured down from the splendid starry sky.All things are bathed in the solitary light of the moon, which we can't see; the undulating sea is silvery white, and when the waves rise, they tease the opalescent pearl.There is also a shadowy beach, which emits a charming whisper, and from the blue hills falls a nameless fragrance, rich and refreshing, like the smell of offering fireworks.There are also supernatural peaks, and cloud-shrouded azure glaciers. The boundless sea also sets off the infinity of the sky.We hugged each other and stood motionless, ecstasy, eyes rapt on the waves, not speaking a word, yet our two hearts melted into one prayer, - a prayer on our quivering lips cease. At this time, a song sounded, and the song flew into the sky. It sounded like an indescribable sadness, fearful and full of passion. It interpreted our gratitude song, which is exactly what people who are extremely excited cannot express in words Highest wedding prayers. ……what!Happiness may be here, but this is nothing more than a dream. Star, little star, can you see me when I look at you, You hide in the deep blue sky, do you see the people looking at you on the earth, Is your quivering light a smile for me, A sneering smile to my earthly inhabitant. I'm afraid it's still sad, you shine so softly, And I looked at you, and I couldn't help but burst into tears. Little stars, hidden in the deep blue sky, You are so sad, are you looking at me? You are like a tormented soul, seeking your way in the dark... But after looking at you for a long time, I am attracted by the deep sky. Little star!How I long to throw myself at you desperately; Leaving this dull and monotonous land, Everyone here feels strange to me, I want to flap my wings desperately and rush to the deep sky. Soaring, soaring, in a passionate kiss, You leave my life by your side. "Frenzy", "sinister", "shocking", these are all good modifiers, which fit the melody. "Ideal" begins like this: Thrilled by danger, the bold hunter, Saw chamois in pursuit at the top of the rock, His heart was beating wildly, and he rushed up suddenly, Eyes fixed on the fleeing figure, The target boarded the glacier and kept evading. ... I set it too high to reach, The mind is exhausted and exhausted. ... Beloved shapes always evade— -It's just a ray of moonlight fleeing well!I wander alone in the fog late at night. Tourist places near Paris, where Gide used to go for picnics. PL's cherished figure is always on the run. You need to know who I love: it's hard to tell you well!I don't even know who i dare to love she came to meet me in dreamland the woman i love so much run away at night It turned out that I was afraid of the day. Under the leaves I run alone hear her laughing beside me This figure is always like a shock avoid my kiss In the dark night I wake up I want to hold her tightly in my arms I don't see her in my arms Happiness is also invisible. Tears of despair Warmth is hard to find and tortured Suddenly feel her hand caressing Caress me gently. Say, "Oh! If I had a pair of dove's wings, I would fly away, and find a place to rest; here, I would run far away. I would go to the desert to live." eager get away from this sad city villains run rampant here The country my heart longs for don't know what pain is I can keep love in my heart Bring peace to a wounded heart. I hope nature will bloom In spring, flowers bloom forever May the friendship last forever I hope that the hearts are connected and not fortified I still yearn for the purity of the night Feel God in the whole sky. run away with you darling we love each other forever one day to leave this world lying on the ground full of flowers We bid farewell to the departing soul "You won't lose your love" You can get it back. disappointing form They always run away when they see me. It should be a fiery oriental poem, using words like this - "How many nights have I been in bed, seeking what my heart loves. I have sought and found none." Then, it gradually sublimated until it reached mysticism, got rid of the fetters of the flesh, and then spoke again: "I sought God; "At night I stretch out my arms tirelessly "My soul refuses any comfort "I thought of God and groaned "I meditate and my mind is discouraged." what!My cries, if they could burst from my breast, would have pierced the sky, and brought tears to my eyes—yet I keep them in the deepest part of my heart, afraid of their meanness. To see that I am not alone so bad; how bitter is this disillusionment!Sometimes I think I'm the worst.But the absurdity of thought leaves action far behind, and what a deep quagmire hides where people think that only flowers can be seen, I can't help looking at it with horror.The idea of ​​moral depravity is dizzying. So I thought, I am the salt of the earth.How bitter is the taste of salt, and how low is the man who seeks to purify others. The speed of degeneration is quite fast, and people can't stop even if they want to. This situation is especially frightening: I get used to my own evilness and feel less and less afraid of it. oh!When will I be able to rest! I read this letter from Julie to St. Prell instructively: it reassured me—and I wondered whether it was possible ... to win this result at such a price, and if it would not be better.I look at evil from both ends, trying to figure out which end is lighter. I read these words in Meyer's writings: "Whether in combat or in weakness, I do not despair at all, for I am utterly terrified of evil; and certainly will not remain in it." The Goncourt brothers said that in literature, one can only write well if one has seen or experienced something personally. ——I would also like to say that only by seeing or encountering can one understand thoroughly, but how many things can also be seen or encountered in the imaginary space. No, you don't know me, you don't know me; nobody knows me!I offer only a part of me to everyone, so I am not the same as anyone.I am already a complex and thus an actor. God knows, if I don't know other people, I never get proud; it's only after seeing them that I feel above them, or rather below them--because, I don't think I'm yet. to medium.They are either children or animals.Sometimes I feel an abyss between them and me, and I am delighted to hear them call me a brute. They live that way as if life is weird. You don't feel like we're made for each other, but sometimes you feel like we're stronger than everyone else.The world is always worldly.Earthly misfortunes should not be accepted.Never give in, never do anything for the earthly world, it won't appreciate you.You only accept misfortune from God. Between my ideal and my habitat lies a whole life. Well!You recognize only two judges: God and yourself, I mean your conscience. What I don't understand is that people (and when I say "people" I mean "common people") see philosophy as a lesson to be passed, which is the life of one's intelligence. But people, this is rarely the case. To understand great geniuses is to love them. I was mad, almost mad, I created visions for myself, and then I was terrified, like Don Quixote who thought windmills were dragons.Never be afraid, just believe. Did Musset know exactly what I was going to read when he said, "The infinity is tormenting me"? Leave me alone; you don't know how painful it is for a heart not to find its way. I read too much; it's all fermenting. My thoughts, like these plants in the cellar, grow too fast, their stems and leaves grow out of proportion, but they are pale and weak. I fully believe that I will let those who do not violate the necessary rhyme make poetry. The firefly is exactly what Pascal described as man, a crawling frail creature with a bright star on his brow. Sentimentality can be a disease; these decadent literary artists are neurotics and hysterics. The joy of learning is the greatest and most intoxicating joy I have ever experienced. our poor ecstasy Always looking for each other in the dark. Lust is honey on the lips, but it turns into bitter juice when it enters the inside; science, it is bitter at first, but then becomes sweet again! A dream lasts but cannot be caught. Alone, in the dark night Our souls are finding their way. Now that I have calmed down again, I want to measure the road I have traveled. It has been so long that it frightens me. Originally, as I said, I still wanted to pay attention to rhetoric, but my thoughts at the time were sincere. In Pascal's words, "kill this me", but now, this "I" I respect, admire, and vigorously develop.This is because my goals have also changed drastically; ambition has been mixed in.I considered that in order to express myself, I must know myself, so I searched for myself. I found myself very pale and indistinct, trying to accentuate the outlines of my personality. I read Sully-Prudhomme; I admired him and disappointed myself. I am disappointed because I see in his poems all my thoughts, but in a form I can never achieve; so why bother? When the mind is perseveringly engaged in the most wearisome work, the mind remains excited so long that it gathers all its impulses into one impulse, and is able to soar into the air. Opening the window at night, looking at the starry sky, putting eyes and soul into the deep blue sky, the senses gradually become weak in the warm air, and the provocative rhythm of poetry sounds in the ear, like an annoying swarm of bees buzzing—— -Well!Such a joy to sing!Poetry, now I call for it, and wait for it all day long; however, the more idle my thoughts become, the more sluggish I become, and I become irritable when I am stimulated by the giggling laughter, I can no longer feel the caress of whispering whispers, and I can no longer hear my heart Weeping. It must be written, must be written, even if it is not well written.However, the less I write, the less I dare to write, but I know how to write. I'm going to write a novel in the Turgenev style, in imitation of The Leper: "Surrounded by a dark crowd of witnesses"--written vaguely, but without bombast, in prose rather than verse ,—too restrained in poetic form. Love things, all things Which one do you love together? I thought again of the sudden astonishment in his eyes when he saw me blatantly express my passion.Immediately there arose the thought: "He's going to put on a pose for me again"—a pose that, so many times, provoked reproach, and each time I just relaxed completely and showed too much of myself—yes, the thought immediately Let my passion freeze on my lips (which is hearty indeed)--I smile a little, and I really want to cry out in my heart. Let the passion of youth burst forth, and let it unite with all that it considers beautiful and good.Aesthetic taste has long been restricted, and nothing expands the state of mind so much as passion. Can language fully express it?what!How subtle and delicate these ideas are, they are almost like feelings and emotions; their charm lies in the wonderful combination of body and spirit, and I want to express both in one word at the same time.what!This disturbing longing after a strange dream which, how to say it, once depicted, has to be clothed with the cloak of reality. I don't know if it's a good thing to start writing too soon.I am worried that the products that are too young are often like fruits that grow too fast. Although the appearance is bright, the taste is not good.It's better to accumulate feelings and passions, and "be able" to tell better later. Mirger's "Scene" is full of unrestrained youth, but it is lost in monotony, and the style is also very harsh and completely flashy. It's sad to see growing age tearing us apart through the little things.I thought the best of times were over; it was too sweet, and I expected a reward that couldn't last, and the future terrified me. On the subject of the reincarnation of the soul, perhaps a wonderful work can be written, explaining through reincarnation all the longings of the soul and the tendency of selective affinity. I only see two paths: either quietism, or the belief in perfection.In doubt, you "should" go the second way. friends.Friend; my heart needs to release its overflowing friendship. Absolute and final progress, I think, is impossible.People always fall back to where they started.All a man can do is to "learn his lesson and die."As for the people of a country, I think they follow an almost invariable upward path until they perish and are replaced by the people of another country. The Latins, too, had their revival, their grandeur, then disillusioned, longing to herald the best times of decline—our voices are louder, that's all, and we too will die like them.One generation destroys the monuments built by the previous generation: Only science can progress, because science is absolute.Our philosophy is too subjective; the eighteenth century opposed the beliefs of the seventeenth century, and now we are against their beliefs--in a hundred years, people will pick up those beliefs again--in this case, why bother Woolen cloth. I like Michelet's because I go into his thoughts, and those thoughts are produced every day.He doesn't touch any real issues, any annoying issues.He was too busy to easily let fantasies and insecurities stir doubts in his mind. His heart was as pure as a child's, as honest as a virgin's.It is good to observe such a mind, it strengthens and calms.However, I found no food for my soul in his. I should write less imaginative stuff and make more personal notes, critiques and critiques, etc. It makes more sense to me to look at the material later to see how these ideas came about, what readings and events caused them. I read too much.These readings neutralize each other and weaken the whole. If I still talk about what other people have talked about very well, if I follow them step by step, and I can’t surpass them by one step, then I would rather keep silent and just read their works.However, if I can go one step further than them, then that's going to go...but, anyway, I have to break through in order to remain whole. If I have always been good at avoiding and not expressing, then it is difficult to say whether I am in the current situation. What I have seen, the years take away much and send little. My howling must be desperate, and God will surely hear it. "I will free you from all stains on you." (Ezekiel 36:29) I had no hope of saving myself, nor any other means than doing good.Besides, it's a very pleasant thing: I don't think I've ever been so near to happiness when I've helped a soul.First, Waller, to whom I read my Bible, a task that, despite the lightness and simplicity of it, seemed overwhelming and even a little frightening to me; secondly, to Sunday School, but only a few times, Or the last conversation I had with Georges on the Boulevard in Cuwerville. Pride creeps in everywhere and everywhere; always trying to express itself.I rarely feel lonely yet, but I need to.When can I live for myself, for God, and for this dark mass of witnesses: I'm sure they're watching us too. My God, shall I be the raw salt of the earth, and shall it be possible to fall below me. oh!If salt loses its taste... Strange contradiction: gold and jade are outside, but rot is inside.Sometimes when I see some people's friendship, I feel overwhelmed, thinking that they must not see anything to maintain this kind of friendship, and when I hear some things they say to me, I really want to be overwhelmed. they shouted: "Don't come near, for all you see are the white stones of a rotting tomb." I know full well they hear us. That's what scares me. "When I acquainted wisdom with my heart and observed what was happening on earth—(for the eyes of man cannot appreciate sleep, day or night) I saw all the works of God, and saw what happened under the sun that man cannot see It is futile for man to search hard, and nothing can be found, even a wise man, if he wants to know, it is impossible to find." Ecclesiastes. I was so excited to read "Dominique", it was like reading my own future. oh!The wings of the poor soul are always hitting the iron bars of the cage, exhausted and bruised. If you knew the pain of a mind that does not know its own way. well!Let me die; I may find peace when I die. Madeleine should also be made to read the preface to Cromwell, and Lucrece Borgia. This poem is wonderful: Like the song of the wind hovering low among the reeds. However, a complete poem must be written. If they knew their own happiness. How blind man is!All day long they lamented that the poor soul was imprisoned by the body and prevented from going where lust called it. At night, when their bodies go to sleep, they abandon the little souls they hid, and the souls fly swiftly to the things they love, and now nothing can stop them.However, they found it very strange that the mind could act alone, and even shouted "impossible", calling it "dream". They wake up in the morning and say, "Ha! I had a dream, and it would be nice if it could come true." Then they think sadly: The happiness they see in the dimness, they will never achieve.Then they discussed what kind of velvet could tie the poor soul, and whether it would be better to tear the thread and kill the body, so as not to drag "this nasty happiness" so often. However, these people who have lost their minds, their fear also kills their souls!Therefore, they have to maintain the status quo, have happiness every night, and cry because they cannot grasp happiness during the day. Every night my soul flies swiftly to you, to you whom it loves.My soul, like a bird, landed on your lips, and your lips trembled a little, and there was a smile.My soul, full of desire, calls out to your soul.Like two flames united as one, our two souls united as one, soaring far and wide. To such a degree that one gets so drunk, one feels that the world is turned upside down, and in the gentle and silent moonlight, one sees the sleeping woods fleeing away into the distance! We hugged and fled to a clearer sky, to a warmer wind that our souls hope to caress. In the pine forests where the wind sings, in the dew-shining forest paths under the wet tall trees, in the wheat fields stretching as far as the eye can see, and rolling like waves as we pass, in the wetness where the lazy fawn comes to the stream to drink On the slope of the pasture, we passed together, immersed in the warmth of the night, how beautiful it must be. 这便是金色海滩和棕榈树沐浴的大海；更加明亮的月将它银色的头纱铺展在沉睡的田野上，而波涛回荡时，则呈现乳白石的蓝色闪光；牧人的一缕细细的炊烟，在透明的空气里袅袅升天，宛如一种祈祷。 在由同一欲念结合的寂静和夜色中，我们的灵魂轻盈而快速地飞走逃逸。 死亡来临，也拆不开我们的灵魂；我们的灵魂还要在坟墓的那一边再相聚，还要结合在一起；在这尘世上，世人能在我们之间设置障碍；我们的肉体可能被隔开，但是隔不开我们的灵魂。恋爱的灵魂是什么障碍也挡不住的，爱情战胜了所有事物。爱比死强大。 保尔·布尔热研究福楼拜的文章及其序言，为我展现一个乱人心性而又令人神往的思想世界。 我必须重新审视可能塑造我的性格的这些书，必须确定我本人。毫无疑问，研读这些书，是受了影响的。 必须界定我的个性，按照我所希望的那样，今后能走向由心愿择定的一种理想，不能任由这种个性在环境的支配下形成。 必须把握住，个性形成符合自己的心愿。 因此，我们要选择影响，让一切对我都有教益。 我读了德文的一篇安徒生童话： ，读时流了泪。这种语言像音乐一般美妙，像哀叹一般轻柔，对我来说还很神秘，打动我并留下快意。一生只因为实际痛苦才流过泪的人，哪里知道最大的一种快乐： 能够痛快地品味流泪的滋味，却又毫无痛苦悲酸之感。 就这句话所表达的相近的意思为题，不是可以写一篇美妙的散文诗吗： “他舒展白色大翅膀，要飞越童年所珍视的所有地方，还摘了一把鲜花，带到天上仁慈的上帝那里，让这些鲜花在天上开放，比在人间还要鲜艳。于是，他们飞越了这孩子在这国度玩过的所有地方。” 看来人死了。灵魂还舍不得离开所珍爱的地方——哪怕是受过罪的地方。 这本书印出来的影像挥之不去。 oh!果真成为事实该有多好！ 我看到了令我目眩的书名。 遗著——Z·B·杜里翁——梦幻——无韵诗——前面要有个序言，我解释一下这个笔记——然后…… 应当写出来。 书名我还是取《梦之花》。 感到自己习惯于罪孽，甚至不再容心灵自己的过错哭泣，从而心灵这样干涸了，还有什么比这更可悲的呢？ 毫无节制地渴求一种陌生的欢乐，心灵起初未能与之搏斗，结果自身的全部青春活力和高尚的痛悔都被摧毁了，代之以无以名状的麻木不仁，无以名状的消沉怠惰，而这种消沉怠惰使心灵越来越软弱，抵制不了诱惑，越来越远离重振精神的痛悔了…… well!哪怕在自己意志的废墟上，还能发现一点点活力，心灵也会以极大的热情，投入所有这些卑劣的享乐中，它既憎恨，又受这种享乐的奴役，只能事后暗自垂泪。 眼泪！oh!只要一滴眼泪！能洗掉多少污点。这正是洗礼圣化的净水。 其实不然，一点反抗也没有了，逐步放任从恶，一种卑怯的心许；主啊！扶起我来吧，我知道我在心灵里，看到了类似首肯的一种丑恶的笑。 “救救我们吧，主啊，我们要死啦！” 舒曼的《狂想曲》，给我留下深刻的印象，久久不能忘怀。这是幸福的死亡之歌，似乎还沉浸在回忆的喜悦中，但是望见未来又开始热泪盈眶了。 犹如眺望日落那样——眼中还久久保留那照亮黑暗的灿烂幻觉——无可比拟，淋漓尽致地向我表明幸福时无可挽回的流逝。这不正是维克托·雨果的《阿拉伯女主人的送别词》所表达的思想。 没有一个人认识我。