Chapter 7 1893

… endow me with pathetic joy, all the bitterness of sin every time. ...and my greatest joy is still loneliness and sorrow. I lived to be twenty-three, a virgin and immoral, completely insane, looking for a bit of flesh to put my lips on. Naked in the moonlight, Qinghui flows without end. In the evening we both leaned over the window and watched the sea finally take on a softer, more purple hue.Twilight gradually expanded. ... My heart is more and more adoring, but also more and more silent. ... my saddest thought. I love life, and I love sleep more, not from emptiness, but from dreams.

Spain bullfighting. To kill a man because he is angry is all right; but to provoke him to be angry in order to kill him is absolutely a crime. A man kills a bull that goes mad and can kill a man.It is man who puts it in that state.All it wants is to graze on pastures. She dreaded carnal pleasures, as if the thing were too strong and might kill her. I can tell you with certainty that that kind of panic is like dying. They are burning with lust, impatient to wait, and they will vent their troubles wherever they look. Fully aware of its own power, and fully use it. Stop reading ascetic books.Seek your passion elsewhere; appreciate this difficult joy of life's balance and fullness.May everything pour the whole of life into joy.It is an obligation to be a happy person.

We will no longer ask God to lift us up to happiness.certainly!We know that we are born weak. (That sentence has so much meaning. Let's not deny anything anymore. Go on.) Now I come to pray (it is still a prayer, you must know): O God, let this too narrow morality burst, ah!Let me live fully; give me strength to do so, O!Fearless and never seeing that I was going to crime. Now I must make as much effort to conform to myself as I did to restrain myself. This morality of self-denial, which at first became almost my natural morality, is now particularly difficult for me to accept another kind of morality.I must try my best to have fun.It is very difficult for me to enjoy myself.

"He often sees his virgin body, how smooth and suitable for making love; so he longs to be touched by a woman before the luster of this body fades completely. He longs to be younger and more beautiful. Between individuals, love shall have the splendor of their flesh. ("The Attempt of Love") They sat on the grass, and waited for the night, doing nothing; and when the more pleasant hour finally came, they walked on. . . . . . stemless flowers bloom, and corollas float on the water like islands. A morality of convenience? ... Well, of course not!The morality which had guided me, supported me, and then corrupted me was not at all a morality of convenience.But I know perfectly well that I will taste these things that I once thought were too beautiful to restrain myself, not as a sin, stealthily, without the bitterness of regret beforehand, no, but not at all. Don't feel guilty, just go after it with joy.

Finally out of the dream world and living an intense and fulfilling life. what!How well I breathe the cold night air!what!Window lattice!The moonlight flows in through the mist, faintly like spring water - as if you can drink it.what!Window lattice!How many times have I stuck to your glass, freezing my forehead; How many times have I jumped off the hot bed, ran to the balcony, and looked at the boundless and quiet sky, the fire of desire in my heart gradually dissipated. Old passions, you mortally wear down my body.Yet worshiping God without distractions wears out the soul. In Delacroix's (published in the "Weekly") I finally found all that I was looking for two years ago in his correspondence.Those formal letters disappointed me at the time.

In , I rediscovered Delacroix in sepia sketches—his work prompted me to revisit my diary. A notebook should be prepared for a more serious study of the history of painting at the Louvre.To appreciate, one should not be lazy.I want to study Chardin as an annotator, not as a critic; not to analyze style, but to appreciate and admire; and then find out why.In the presence of a great man, it always pays to adopt an attitude of concentration and devotion. Woke up at five this morning and went to work as usual.However, it is not suitable to write in the morning, but to study Chinese and foreign languages.

It's really nice to feel strong and healthy.I'm waiting. Ypres, a place name in Normandy, fifteen kilometers from Couverville. In the whiter shadows, in the whiter night, these white flowers in the dark meadows.The sand path was equally shiny, flanked by lilacs.We walked along the sand path, went deep into a large forest, and then saw a pool of still water, which was intoxicating.We continued to walk, and at this time, the bright moon appeared from among the branches, it was our favorite moon swimming in the clouds.We have sunk into dreams, so we go back to sleep. None of the things we worry about will be lost.The cause of our uneasiness is within us, not outside us.Our mind is made so that anything can shake it, and it is only in solitude that it finds some peace.However, God disturbed it again.

What I love in a work of art is its tranquility; and neither desire for tranquility nor love of disturbance can equal us. I spent my entire youth trying to prove to others that I might have had those passions if I hadn't killed them all by trying to prove them. There is no need to write a diary every day or every year; what matters is that in which period of life, the diary is written densely and meticulously.I stopped writing for a long time, and there is a reason: my emotions have become too complicated, and it takes too long to write, so it is necessary to simplify, but the simplification will inevitably lose some frankness; this is already literary processing, What came out was very different from the diary.

My affections are open like a religion; it is impossible to express what I want to say better, though it may seem inconceivable to me afterwards.It's a pantheistic tendency; don't know if I'll end up there.I would rather see it as a transitional state. I was so used to living with Laurent's that I could not help feeling a little apprehensive that I was becoming more and more inseparable from them.This is my ideal family, imagining what a joy it would be to live with them. After Pierre was gone, Paul and I, we became melancholy again, but perhaps the most beautiful evening we spent together, a warm joy, so rich in content, should not be so easily forgotten.The two of us took a walk on the cliff on a moonlit night; one night, we couldn't stand the attraction of the bright night, and even went through the woods to explore more mysteries.

As we passed the cemetery, Paul was afraid of death; I ignored it, and regrettably cured my phobia.We had a chance to talk heart to heart and talk about our relationship.It's the kind of thing that's so hard to talk about, so delicate, that unless you're a fool, or someone as confident as we are, we don't worry about each other's smiles—we're both romantic, shameless, dreamy like René, I, like him, look forward, longing for storms to appear on the oceans in which we live.Paul was worried about the future, and we were both very serious, and at the same time missed the beautiful shadows that the moonlight cast on the heather.

One evening, in the twilight, like the sailors on my trip, we went along the cliffs, jumped over the rocks, dodged the rising tide, and at last came to the point where we could only see the sky and sea, and we both related our sorrows. I should have recounted the nights we spent after fencing lessons: our readings, our conversations, our walks around the garden, watching the setting moon through the fence.We exert a salutary influence on one another, and warn each other of the dangers of melancholy and loneliness.Oh, the sadness is so deeply rooted in the three of us, and the subject always goes back and forth. ... This year, I'm going to try my best to live a life of fun and indulgence, the right life I've decided to live. The greatest pleasure of my senses is quenched thirst. My lifelong question (it's a morbid obsession): Am I cute? After three months of drought, it's finally raining.I went back inside and watched the rain fall like a theater.I no longer like to describe what I see: to describe is to spoil the view.I prefer to simply watch, and I am sure that nothing will be forgotten, and that any image will resurface when needed.I would also like to appreciate more fully, in a short period of time, acquaintance with various ways of life, and in each way, I can see again the sorrow of regretting another way of life.I know that before long I will be thrown into the serious task of working every hour of the day.But now, no matter how strong the desire to work, I restrain myself, and just read all day long, go for walks, and find pleasure;At night, I sleep almost outdoors: the windows are wide open, and the moonlight streams in, waking me up but not annoying me.It was so hot that you could sleep naked under the moonlight.Waking up in the morning to a consistent splendor and blue sky above the tree branches.I go for sorbet every day, like everyone else gets to school on time.When I go to eat sorbet, I often have to walk a long way, first walking very thirsty, and then experiencing a burning pain sensation, patiently studying my thirst. However, I know that this arrangement is not good, and writers should resist material desires; but now, I am happy to take the opposite view and create pain for myself in case I can no longer satisfy in the future.Again, another life!Other lives; all that we can experience in various lives, savoring and speaking of all the strong feelings. After a short stay in Rouen, Gide went to La Roque to spend the summer, intending to finish writing "The Attempt of Love". In the future I will also recall, as I did last year, reading Tacitus while walking, along a pine-lined boulevard with depth (the thirteenth volume of this excellent volume, which tells of Nero's gradual loss of mildness and natural fear).The surrounding natural scenery is very dim and desolate. My emotional upbringing was poor; a Stendhal-style upbringing was extremely inappropriate and dangerous.It is one thing that I have lost the habit of having lofty thoughts.I don't want to spend energy in life.This should not continue: every aspect of life must be determined, and the will, like a muscle, must always be under tension. However, I don't regret changing the way this year; however, no matter how you change, you have to return to yourself in the end.No, I have no regrets, knowing that there is a benefit to be gained from anything, as long as it is in the mind. . It looks like I'm giving up on this book, which is unquestionably too difficult and daunting to write.But after the book is finished, it is still very interesting. Fiction Formentin. I have a rusty key, which I found on the front step, hidden by grass growing in a crevice.I tried every lock with this key, and after struggling for a quarter of an hour, I managed to break the big screw that held one lock... This is the letter to de Regnier. We'll laugh even harder, it's Noisy games under the trees. After laughing during the day, when I am alone again at night, there is no—no sadness at all. It doesn't matter, I'm happy anyway.I am very happy.That's enough... I might have been in the dark too. Honfleur, on the street Sometimes I feel that other people live around me just to enhance my own sense of life in me. For Paul Laurent. What is the use of having a feeling if no one else is aware of it?Otherwise it is selfish. Great works are silent. Wait until the work itself is silent before writing. "Significant ... always comes back to that word when speaking of him," Fromandin wrote of Reisdal.And my favorite Delacroix said: "There is a solemnity in his works that does not exist in human beings." Before leaving, I went over all my diaries again with an indescribable disgust.I see nothing but pride in it; and the sentiment of pride, down to the way it is expressed, always has a certain pretentious tone, and seeks either profundity or wit.My metaphysical conceit is ridiculous: endless analysis of my thoughts, no action, and always talking about morality, which is the most tiresome thing, and once you get out of it, it feels flat and almost incomprehensible up.Some of these states, indeed, were frank, and I could never recover afterwards.For me it was a done thing, a dead letter, a perpetually chilled excitement. Out of rebellious psychology, I hope that I will never pay attention to myself any more; when I want to do something, I will never look forward and backward, and first figure out whether I am doing right or not; Oops!I'm not going after weird and complicated things anymore; complicated things I don't even understand anymore; I'm going to be normal and strong just to stop thinking about it. These sections of the diary, longing to be brilliantly written, lose all their frankness, have no meaning anymore, and have no literary value, no matter how brilliantly written.In a word, these pages anticipate a glory, a fame which will give them meaning in the future.This is very despicable.There are only a few, devout and pure, that I like; in my former self, I especially liked the hours of prayer. I nearly tore it all up, at least a lot of pages. Like these marvelous seaweeds, they are eclipsed as soon as they are taken out of the water... What makes us laugh is the atrophy of something that might be full.What excites us is the feeling of fullness.Everything has potential in itself. In the Louvre Museum... in each painting to find a little life left after the brush has left.And that day, what moved my heart was neither Rembrandt nor Da Vinci, but Titian: "Man Wearing Gloves" - I couldn't help crying when I looked at this painting.It seems that it must be the strong life embodied in the works that makes a thing valuable.Moreover, this life is also the life of the artist, or of the subject being represented. I also saw this sentence I wrote in "Travel to Wuyou Country": "They demanded that fiction be a substitute for great deeds which they did not perform at all, that they demanded that fiction satisfy, as far as possible, this vague longing: a heroism which they never lived, but only imagined." A novel is a mirror of travel. I like this statement better than I think Stendhal's generalization of Saint-Real. If you have the purpose of making a fortune, you just give people what they expect from you, which is shrewd; otherwise, I think it is a bit weak, like all things that are at your fingertips. There should be no personal sorrows, but making other people's sorrows your own...for change.  … Notice that it is easy: just cry out that you are sad, and there just isn't much to say about it that day. We have not seen such crystal clear brilliance. Li Xue At first I liked my duty of knowing things only slightly better than the desire to know all.Now I think that I suffer solitude greatly, even if it is proudly solitary, without even realizing it. How tiring it must be to intentionally fail to keep up with your own series of behaviors! When "André Walter" is reprinted, perhaps this epitaph should be added: "Believe it, it is not necessary for everyone to fight the same struggle to conquer self and enjoy life." (Imitation of Jesus Christ, Volume I, XXV, Chapter 4.) This re-reading of Ibsen's "Ghosts" was very impressive; I read it in the presence of my mother and Aunt Henry.However, one should not overestimate the sensational effect.Things get excited by pushing, not bumping.We must always consider the inertia of the soul and the body.Hit, often shatter, and things come to an abrupt end.People must be emotional. In this "Attempt to Love", I intend to point out the influence of the book on the author himself, and this influence plays a role in the writing process.Because books make us go out of ourselves, change us, and change the pace of our lives; just as we saw in the physics class, the water tank filled with liquid rotates in the air, and once it receives an impulsive force from the opposite direction, the liquid will spill out .Our actions also have their backs on us. "Our actions act upon us as we act upon our actions." George Eliot said. Therefore, I am sad because I am tormented by a dream of unfulfilled joy.I narrate the dream, and I take this pleasure out of the dream, and keep it for myself; I am happier, and my dream loses its charm. For any action of a thing, this kind of thing will produce a reaction to the agent.What I'm pointing to is a reciprocity; again this is not a relation to something else, but to itself.The actor is the self; the thing that produces the reaction is an imaginary theme.Therefore, what I propose here is a method that acts indirectly on itself.In short, it is a story. Luc and Raschel, too, are willing to realize their desires; however, when I describe my desires, I realize them in an ideal way, and they dream of this garden where they only see the fence, and want to actually get into it. Didn't feel happy at all.I rather hope that in a work of art, what people see at the level of the characters is exactly such a transplanted theme.Nothing expresses the subject better, nothing more firmly establishes the relations of proportion in the whole work.This is the case with certain frames of Memling and Quentin Messis, where a darkened convex mirror reflects the room of the painted scene.The same is true (but with a slight difference) of Velazquez's painting "The Girls".Finally, in literature, the acting scenes in "Hamlet" are also in other plays.In "William Meister", those puppet scenes, or the ball scene in the old castle.In The Fall of the House of Usher, what was read for Roderick, etc.None of these examples are absolutely accurate.And in my "Notes", in my "Narcissus" and "Attempts of Love", I can better express what I want to express, and it is much more accurate than the method of badges, which is also That is to embed the second into the first, "a picture in a picture". The reaction of the theme to itself has always made me eager to try.This is a typical psychoanalytic novel.A furious man tells a story, and that is the title of a book.It is not enough for a man to tell a story, he must be an exasperated man, and there must always be a relationship between the man's anger and the story he tells. I would rather not be happy in this world, because I think some people may feel uncomfortable seeing me happy.However, I changed my mind and thought again, my sad appearance may also cause others to be sad.As a result, for a while, I really didn't know what to do, and saw that all my actions seemed to have side effects, with endless consequences for which I felt responsible. Not pride, in other words, at least not just pride stopping me, forcing me to resist joy so persistently, but an inescapable, instinctive, perhaps the deepest emotion in my heart, a kind of loyalty to M, especially faithful to my own emotions.I am afraid that what I have sketched out in this way will not be my true image.Not being consistent with myself, I can't bear it when I think about it; likewise, having to tell a lie, no matter what I do, even to her alone.With this attitude, I don't want to discount a little bit, and what I call resistance may just be a kind of continuous avoidance, so I wrote later: "I have wanted to be close to a woman, in order to know all that I can do with her, and thus be sure that my will will not be led or deceived by my body if I will not, and that I will not It is completely free to do so if you wish, and it is commendable." All my efforts this year have been devoted to the daunting task of finally getting rid of everything that a transmitted religion has placed around me that is useless, too narrow, too confining to my nature, without any disdain for my Everything else that can be educational, will-strengthening. Perhaps I should translate Dante, not Petrarch. It is characteristic of a Christian's mind to imagine an inner struggle; after a while it is not clear why... In short, whatever is defeated is always a part of the self; it is useless consumption.My whole adolescence was spent experiencing conflict between two parts of myself that perhaps would have liked to get along.I imagined a struggle out of a belligerent mentality, and thus divided my nature. Goethe.Now think about it, can you get happiness if you eliminate your scruples?cannot.The removal of scruples is not enough to make a man happy; something further must be done.But scruples are enough to hinder our happiness; scruples are the spiritual fears that preoccupied people prepare for us.This is an incomprehensible harmony; I thought I could separate and go alone, but soon contradicted myself.A soloist must play with the band (to be studied).A worried mind, a timid mind, is always suppressing itself, and is as afraid of joy as it is of a bright light. "The work of man himself, in general, is continually to put into action his intellectual possibilities." ethics. unique; first stage. I delete this low-level stage, which is purely ordinary, and people are nothing more than a whole (manufacturing group). Therefore: To be unique is to give up something.Individuality establishes itself within its own limitations. But there is also a higher state above, and Goethe reached that height and became a god on Mount Olympus.He understands that being unique is limiting, and being individual, he is only someone.Like Pan, he enjoyed pleasure everywhere, and thus eliminated all limitations from himself, and became a high-level ordinary person. There is a danger in rushing into this high level of ordinary life.If you can't absorb it all, you will sink into it as a whole.Thought must be larger than the world and contain it, or it will sadly disappear into it, no longer unique. Therefore, there are two states: first, the state of struggle; the world is temptation, and one should not give in to material desires.Then there is the advanced state: Proserpina did not reach it, she always remembered eating pomegranate seeds; Goethe quickly entered this state, he no longer refused anything, and was able to write.I felt that I was divine enough to go down to meet the daughter of man. The thunderstorm last night was so violent that I couldn't sleep, so I had to get up.It was not yet five o'clock in the morning; it was very dark outside and the rain was pouring heavily.I lived in a room on the upper floor of the tower, with eight windows, each of which was shaken by the gale.After a while, I'm going to watch the sea.To be honest, this kind of night is very scary, and there is no sense of security at all. It is conceivable that the wind will be even stronger, which will damage the doors and windows, and will quickly lift the roof; therefore, the family has no lights and stays in the open air The four walls were shaking, and the house was about to collapse.I especially think of how my father tried his best to hold the door of the house when the tragedy began, so as not to let the strong wind break in... Now I would consider the days of anxiety, of apprehension, of restrained desires, as clouded, with little sunshine, when the past is more active in the present; to blame. Christianity mainly plays a consoling role, and its beauty is mainly manifested in this respect.Not an interpretation of things; this is better: interpretations only touch the mind, only make them understand. However, this religion only comforts and does not work to eliminate suffering.It is understandable that some people just want to be happy.It is more difficult for those who desire to remove the source of all distress: the strong mind is exhausted.Goethe simply ignores pain, bypasses misfortune for happiness.At first he was blamed for thinking it was too easy, when in fact it is easy only for hard hearts (which have no happiness of their own).Goethe did not have such a heart, what he did was not out of coldness.The vision of his own happiness, which he considers to promote the happiness of others, counts more than the bitter struggles which he wages over their unhappiness. Mozart's happiness can make people feel that it is a kind of continuous happiness; Schumann's happiness is fanatical, but it makes people feel that it comes between two bursts of crying.Mozart's joy is composed of serenity, and his phrases are like a peaceful thought; the simplicity of his music is utterly pure, a crystalline thing in which passions of all kinds are expressed, but which seem to have been sublimation. "Its abstinence is like the excitement of an angel." (Jubert) One has to think of Mozart to understand this. Happy thoughts should be my constant focus. When talking about the past, one should be able to say, "At that age, our hearts were set on love." Last year I wrote in Munich (a loose leaf I found): "There are not so many important things. A man needs only a little to make his own happiness; while leaving the rest, there is a great deal of pride Senses. Other things! As soon as I have had a taste of their vanity, I shall retreat to my studies. Not long, but first I shall taste their bitterness, lest some desire should disturb my quiet time later. day." It has been more than a year since I wrote these words, and the closer I have come to these despised things, the more beautiful and alluring I have come to find them.I was bewitched by them, and it was because of them that I rashly traveled. Christianity, first of all, comforts people; but some people are born happy and do not need comfort.Therefore, since Christianity has no influence on such people, they must first be made unhappy. So I no longer call my desire a temptation, I no longer resist it, but follow it; and pride does not seem to me so desirable; Form, I only see as restraint and limitation, this view may be wrong.The state of selflessness seems to me to be a kind of high wisdom; I seem to be able to derive greater benefits for myself from it.I am fully aware that this is still a kind of selfishness, but it is more original, more interesting, and can satisfy more power in me.I stand by the saying: Meet some strength; that was my moral at the time.But I don't want this morality anymore; I want to live more effectively.Wonderful!Desire!You will please my soul!During that time, every smile made me happy; I also smiled often, and I was no longer so stern.I abhor sorrow and oppose my sympathy.What else are you talking about?What I have laboriously begun, a charm or habit will carry me on without restraint.The life of asceticism has become a habit, and it is really hard at the beginning to be happy, and it is not easy to squeeze a smile; but how short is the duration of this strenuous stage!In doing so, am I not following a law of perfect nature?I quickly realized this: Maybe I can only live happily if I let my life go; I said: Maybe, because I'm not quite sure yet.However, I showed a little naivety, and I made a fuss at first; didn't I have this desire long ago, and simply let life go?I'm like a sailor who casts his oars and lets the water drift; in short, take it easy to look over the shore;My will, which had always been taut, was now slackening and idle; at first I felt a certain discomfort;It was a complete rest after a long fever; my former restlessness became incomprehensible.I am amazed that nature is so beautiful, and I call everything: nature. ...