Chapter 7 chapter Five

Chapter 5 Near Kalman Section 16 Elizondo To be honest, I have always been inexplicably disapproving of my title as a novelist.why?Haven't thought about it yet.I'm just following the trend, since everyone is so interested in calling themselves a novelist, I don't make any excuses.Recalling the past, when I received all kinds of benefits, I occasionally felt like laughing.The world is too interesting: it makes not only deceitful novels, but deceitful novelists.If I think about it too much, I probably won't immediately forget my name when I encounter well-intentioned and malicious flattery.

Once I casually said to a reporter: I found out that I actually don't have any talent as a novelist.Unexpectedly, someone said coldly: Do you mean to say that other novelists are more idiots? ...and left me speechless.But afterwards, several times I remembered myself saying this.Especially as soon as I opened those classics, I couldn't help but think of them and ponder for a while. I didn't figure this out until the year before last.In that autumn, I dragged a small suitcase with wheels in one hand and a thin copy of "Kalman" in the other, and traveled all over the places Merimee touched.In legendary Andalusia, in Ronda and Gibraltar, I have been fascinated by great novels.This is the novel, I am constantly feeling.Later, taking the opportunity of compiling a collection of novels, I expressed this idea:

...Only when they are assembled, people have time to recall and get in touch with their early works.I can't help but feel surprised and ashamed of the thinness of myself and the so-called novels I wrote; I also feel surprised and lamented that I have tolerated and fulfilled such an era of my own. Now I have almost given up on the novel as a form.I feel more and more lack of interest and lack of creativity in the creation of the story.I prefer the pursuit of ideas and their unadorned expression; the removal of detours and fabrications, of discoveries and realizations, essays and scholarship—all written directly into freewheeling prose.

This is not to belittle the art of fiction.Perhaps it is because of me that I know how to respect novels.In fact, if I write, maybe I can write better in today's state of mind? ——No, it will take a lot of energy, to adapt to other languages ​​and re-examine your ability.I have already said: I have no talent for the novel whose narrative principle is the story. Although the end of the century was dilapidated, I still had a good time.When I went to San Sebastian, where France and Spain meet, my ears were full of Basque topics. In the field of vision are the forests and mountains of this ancient nation.I suddenly remembered: Kallman's lover, the nation of infatuated robbers, isn't it the Basques!It was because of Kalman's broken Basque language, because Kalman pretended to be his Basque countryman-that he was drunk and confused and staggered.Because of that Basque heart disease, he fell step by step until he finally fell into the dark and sweet abyss.

I am too familiar with this disease, it makes people think of a Kazakh in the city so easily.In Merimee's writing, what can a young man who is wrongly a soldier do to a beauty?At his wit's end, he confided voluntarily: "...I am from Elizondo," Elizondo, and I looked towards the south.In that direction, the famous Pyrenees Mountains have gradually risen lushly, from the San Sebastian area where I stand, only a few steps away from it. Yes, this place is a point where the story begins, and it is also the entrance to Spain from France.After dragging the small suitcase into the small hotel, I was able to look at it and imagine it carefully.

This is really a country of beautiful men! …Walking in the city center of San Sebastian and the surrounding towns, I saw every man I met and exchanged even a word or two, and I felt this feeling in my heart. Standing here facing south—the signal from the Mediterranean is coming. It is not the air, not the smell, but the blood and air of the people that announce the approach and intervention of Arabia.The streets are full of young men, grown men, old men, fat men, emaciated men, poor men, gentlemen—everyone is charming.Hell, the least attractive one is the girl!I must say that I was unprepared to enter such a place, as if the beauty brought about a rare tension.In China, where dwarves are infested, I have never felt the pressure so close.

Go back to the small hotel, open the shutters, and there is a cafe under the window.College students gathered here for the weekend, and there was a lot of shouting and noise.I admire them by the window.The rambunctious boys made people feel more at ease, their student habits and campus atmosphere dispersed in the air, which somewhat balanced the compelling masculinity. I guess, whether French or Spanish, probably people have a similar opinion with me: some North African blood makes people proud, and black hair is superior to yellow hair.Then came a difficult problem: the more you live in a country of beautiful men, the more difficult it is to determine the standard of female beauty.No wonder Merimee chose the gypsy as the heroine at first glance: otherwise, he would be entangled in a difficult problem.Even the dark-haired European girls, even though they are obviously healthier, more elegant, and slender than the Anglo-Saxons;

I opened the "Kalman" brought from Beijing.Planned to start here before heading out and re-read it on my way through Andalusia. The male protagonist Don Jose said when entrusting the relics of his mother: "...or hand it over, or hand it over to an old woman, I will tell you the address later-you just say I am dead, Don't talk about how you died." He added, "If you go to Pamplona, ​​you can see a lot of things that interest you...it's a beautiful city." This is the second translation of Fu Lei's name I quoted.Bomberuna is a city in that part of the Basque land that includes Elizondo, where the lonely mother of José the Bandit misses her son.Later, I regretted many times that I didn't take that bend at that time-it deviated from the main road to France just like the time of Merimee.

In the modern Don Jose, there are also people who take risks.The famous ETA, like the Irish Republican Army, is here to make people turn pale.I always want to know more about Basques. Obviously, behind the handsome man's face, there are serious topics hidden.In order to get close to people, we even stop people on the road to find fault, and try to talk to them. Once, get the chance to discuss the origin of the Basque language with someone.Sitting by the blue sea, the Basque scenery in the twilight is quiet.My point of view is nothing more than hoping that the incomprehensible Basque language can be traced back to which Turkic or Mongolian language. I heard that there is such a saying in the academic circles-but a bunch of words are right, and none of them are right.

"But I saw the sign in the city center, erdia. If -ia is a geographical suffix, isn't this word too similar to the Turkic 'central' ordo?" Not going to hold on at all.There is no topic without erdia, I just want to take a peek at Basque's heart.Are there bleeding scars in their hearts? The linguist is a Basque girl, but she completely dismisses the possibility of Turkic origin.I remembered "Kalman" and brought up this topic.But the Spaniards don't seem to have much interest in Merimee (this is also a very impressive experience).It was only when he asked about Don José's hometown, Eli Zhongdu, that he found the right topic.

"Elizondo? So beautiful," she said, shaking her head and taking a breath. It seems that the scenery in front of me cannot be compared with that of Elizondo.It is not only a beautiful scenery, but also exudes a strong fragrance.And Elizondo is not in my plan, I can't go everywhere.How beautiful is it?I thought dissatisfied.In China we are used to barren land. Elizondo was there, gazing out at the dark brown mountains that separated France, and I tried to judge the Andalusian bandit's background. It must be beautiful, I thought.And it doesn't have to be understood to be seen like Xihaigu. With lush forests, it must be beautiful and pleasing to the eye.Not only the scenery, I judge that the Basques there must be more typical.It seemed that I had guessed Merimee's train of thought all of a sudden, he might have pondered for a long time.He needs a handsome man with the same background as Kallman's spirit, in order to match the beautiful gypsy girl who will appear on the stage with a suitable companion. ——How can we achieve a "matching feeling" that is not just reading, but a visual and picture-like "matching feeling"? I get it: knowledgeable he chose the Basques.During my time in the Basque Country, and when I heard about it afterwards, I often admired the insight behind this choice.It's just that the conditions at the time did not allow me to wander too much; not only Elizondo, but even Bomberuna, I don't intend to detour to visit. For Andalusia calls from afar in the south. The story of the novel, after all, happened in that legendary land. Chapter 5 Near Kalman Section 17 Green Forest Andalusia is like Xinjiang. It needs people who like it. Although the depth is not harsh, you must draw a map of it in your heart. This picture should include language and orientation, past and sentiment.You must know that its Arabic name is Al-Andalus, the beach at its southern end, the famous word Gibraltar, and Gibraltar are derived from the Arabic Jabal al-Tarig, which is Mount Tuolig - because of the people who climbed its cliffs. Tuolige got his name.You should also have heard about several of its ancient civilizations: Cordoba in the early days and Granada in the late days. How much do you know that tourists from all over the world go to Paris and Rome, while the Romans in Paris go to Andalusia.If you don’t believe me, you can take a quiz: no European knows the Great Mosque in Cordoba, and the Al Hamra Palace in Granada. You should learn to close your eyes, you can see its barren scenery, and feel the hot wind blowing on your cheeks.Also have to love the green olive groves - it's so lovely; without it, Andalusia would be a desert.Its undulating infinite mountains and plains, sparse and mysterious green, reconcile the sun-cracked brown plateau.It is the farmer's crop and the largest oil field.So far on the western table, olive oil is still the king of condiments.It should be known that the plateau is on the verge of the Mediterranean Sea, but the climate is extremely hot.Throughout the southern land of Andalusia, mountains and ravines criss-cross. Especially knowing that this land is very close to Arabia.So, I guess it can be traced back to the ancient times when civilization began—since then, smugglers have been rushing through the passages to resell popular goods in and out of the straits; trail-cutting robbers have disappeared in the mountains, making the mysterious Ronda famous since ancient times. Standing in Ronda, or at the port of Algeciras next to Gibraltar, I always think of "The Smuggler and His Mistress of Ronda". It was a copper engraving by Gödolet included in the pages of the novel, which happened to be an illustration for "Kalmen".When I joined the team in Inner Mongolia, my classmate Cai had a set of 50 copies of "Translation" magazine at home, and he took it to the grassland.So it is dilapidated, incomplete, and finally lost; with its own disappearance, it enriches and accompanies our young age of living by water and grass. Thinking about it now, it is accompanied by our ignorant youthful imagination.Many years later, I once bragged with my friends about the "Kalman" and the "Ronda's Smuggler and His Mistress" that I had read that year.Unexpectedly, that friend found "Translation", copied the copper engraving, and gave it to me.She seemed to be sending back a—my lost youthful fantasy. So the memory came back to me.From then on, my interest was all attached to that poisonous painting. The antiquity and charm of the painting made me forget about the novel for a while.Is that Fu Lei's translation?A few sentences that are particularly strong in my memory are different from the humanistic version of Fu Yi in my hand.For example, "Gibraltar is the hotbed of villains all over the world, and you can hear ten different languages ​​every ten steps you walk"; for example, Don Jose said: "I killed your lover so hard that my hand hurts." The Basque boy from the north spent his whole life in this fierce land. First in Seville; he was hit on the forehead by a bright red carnation flower, so he threw away the military uniform issued by the emperor, followed his fateful enemy on Snake Street and Lamp Street, step by step. road.I couldn't find Snake Street, although the old city is full of narrow, winding alleys.The Seville tobacco factory, which should be located on the banks of the Guadalquivir River, with four or five hundred female workers, is also unacceptable; a church was replaced as a scene when the opera was made into a more popular movie.By the way, I have always felt that the opera cannot be compared with the novel, and I don't like the translation of Carmen either. It's just that the street of lights where they spent the night of ecstasy cannot disappear. The ghostly Karman once danced wildly in a small stone house.It was also a copper engraving by G• Dolet--a beautiful gypsy girl danced drunkenly on a rough wooden table in a tavern with swaying figures.In my opinion, it is second only to the Morocco Tower and the symbol of Seville.Happily, as if God was smiling, the small hotel I lived in happened to be next to a small square a few steps away. Its Spanish name seems to have a word for "luz", lamp or light. Then there are places like Ronda, Cordoba, etc.Of course, if we talk about these famous historical cities in detail, each of them has its own allusions, but Merimee avoided the most pungent atmosphere of the above-mentioned cities, such as the eye-catching atmosphere of Moorish civilization.Of course I couldn't just throw them away and just be fascinated by a novel - so when I was in Seville or Córdoba, my thoughts often left Calmen.And when I came back from my archaeological visits and thought about this novel that had the greatest influence on me, they all turned into lost alleys, dark parts of the city, Basques and gypsies. green forest. I flipped through the novel and followed into the depths of Andalusia. To get to Gibraltar City Street, you need to pass through the British border.I could only relish the feeling of Don Jose killing the red-uniformed officer from this side of the hill.Just below the rocky mountain still occupied by the British, Kalman blatantly used hue as bait.She didn't pay attention to what would happen if the classical version of terrorists were genuinely moved. The shape of Gibraltar is exactly the same as Van Loon's sketch.As a result of reading a book on Van Loon's geography, I have imprinted in my mind a stone cliff that is more realistic than a photo.I have to admire the old man, he swipe a few strokes, what he draws is the essence.Hey, here it is, I thought to myself.The whistling wind blowing from the Mediterranean Sea is hitting his cheek at this moment.The danger and strangeness of this landform coincides with its significance.I am ruminating on the feeling in my heart, how strange it is: when you are determined to walk across the narrow single-plank bridge, your road will be greatly broadened.How else would you be here gazing at Gibraltar. Gibraltar is like a whale with its head raised, like a giant warship, with its huge straight beak majesticly inserted on the sea, forming a group with the deep blue strait.This is the Strait of Gibraltar that separates the inside from the outside, Europe from the East, the center of abundance from the four poles of poverty. I imagined the Arab warrior Tuolige back then, and imagined that he climbed the cliff with a scimitar in his teeth.The scene somehow came to life.But Kallman and her people, their path across this chasm is unclear. The present-day port of Gibraltar is Algeciras.Most of the people who got off the ferry were Moroccans.Occasionally, one or two Japanese students travel alone with a thick brochure.The weather is clear and you can see the other side of the strait.I heard them murmur in Japanese; Ah, Africa.I guess the hearts of Europeans will be different, they will probably sigh; ah, the East. There is order and tranquility in the strait.There are no longer unrestrained gypsy girls, no orange sellers with hidden daggers, no strangers who walk ten steps to meet ten different races. From this port you can go to Tarifa, which is also a peninsula named by the Arabs.Historically, it was the first place for Muslims to enter and leave Spain in eight hundred years (next to Gibraltar); in microscopic terms, it is the turning point of the story of "Kalmen": One day, Don • Jose It was said that one of the thugs in the prison in Tarifa, the husband of Kalman, had returned from prison. The plot behind is exciting.Holding the map of Andalusia in my hand, I verified the locations of Andalusia one by one with my feet, and I gradually became familiar with the land on which the novel rests.As I read it now, whether I follow the bridge over the cliffs of Ronda, or follow the bright sea of ​​Malaga, the routes of the bandits' activities are vividly drawn before my eyes. In general, they try to stay as close to Gibraltar's north shore as possible.But put one foot on the mountain carefully.They spied on the city, and sometimes they succeeded with a lightning strike; they were always careful, and jumped back into the mountains with one step. There are their lairs everywhere in the deep mountains of Ronda; road robbery and murder, internal strife and strife, brass guns and knives, black and dirty small inns, hard bread and spring water, such as gushing blood, will not weaken Horses - all unfold in the belly of this mountain.The well-known opening of the first chapter of the novel also allows the interesting archaeologist to meet Don Jose in such a mountain scenery. Although the mountains are home, there are prey in the city.They took advantage of the oldest cities, their complex populations and substratum.Race, gang, and organization are all mastered by them.There is no language they do not understand, but no one understands theirs.Every skinny poor old woman may be their eyeliner, and every small shop deep in the alley may be their stronghold.In the ancient city, the old city is like a precious antique, the alleys are like lively blood vessels, and the unfathomable cobweb paths and complex spaces make all the robbers and thieves happy.Undoubtedly, this is not the case for our city that is stripped down and rebuilt in the name of "dangerous reform", with commercial buildings and 100-meter-wide roads. The story unfolds vividly in the mountains and in the city, and the future of the protagonist and the writer's design gradually become clear.Don José finally catches up with Calman, but loses her love. Chapter 5 Near Kalman Section 18 Cordoba I especially love the bridge in Córdoba, and the Guadalquivir River it crosses.It may be due to a pursuit of illusion. I like the feeling of leaning on the bridge railing and the era of Cordoba a thousand years ago. The foundation of the bridge is a fusiform stone seat, squatting one by one in the shallow water, as if waiting for the sudden flood that will come one day when they part.This kind of stone base reminds me of the Luoyang Bridge in Quanzhou. It seems that the ancient bridges at that time followed a random curved design.The deck of the bridge is made of undulating and twisting stone slabs. The bridge body is very long and looks low when viewed from the outside.The stone is the same as the stone in the Great Temple of Cordoba. It is yellow in color and fine in texture. Watermarks appear on the edges and corners soaked in water for a long time, and the lines are blurred. This is the Guadalquivir River.I think that even as far back as Kalman's time, thieves and women leaning on the bridge would think: Oh, this is the famous Guadalquivir River.The name of the river is Arabic "big mountain stream". The Moors are gone, but the culture stays.Just like the Great Mosque was changed into a cathedral, but the name is still called LaMezquita (Mosque).The water flow was much smaller than expected. The clear and black river at the turn of autumn and winter, rushing and splashing across the river beach, flowed past a large black wooden waterwheel. On the stone bridge, noisy cars roared and released exhaust gas one after another, as if insisting on driving away the ancient charm here.Is it true that the municipal authorities are bent on destroying the ancient bridge?They seem to have deliberately designed the route to allow the bus to pass over this stone bridge dating back to ancient Roman times. With the reverie of the professional archaeologists above, I looked at the river as much as possible.Everything has happened here, and everything has turned into tragedy.Who would have imagined that there used to be dense libraries and bathrooms, and the biggest fashion in the market was collecting books?Who would have imagined that the most brilliant crystallization in Muslim history - Medina Alzahara (City of Flowers) would be burned down by Muslims in the end? ...Naturally, I don't have the same eyesight as Merimee.The archaeologist in the novel leans against the stone bridge railing that I leaned against when I dodged the car, looking at the group of bathing girls in the Guadalquivir River.And Kalman came ashore wearing a big shawl and walked slowly towards him.Nowadays, even in the hot summer evening, even if it is still in the twilight, the custom of women and children in half the city who hear the bell and go into the water for bathing girls can no longer be asked for. Córdoba - This ancient city is often set up as the stage for tragedy.This is where Merimee's first-person narrative hero, the dashing and humane archaeologist is stolen by a gypsy girl, and where Don José is hanged by a ruthless law.This is where the vain and unlucky matador was humiliated by being picked up by the bull's horns, and this is where the proud, self-willed and dazzling Kalman's last date is also here. They mounted their horses silently and walked out of the old city of Cordoba. Counting from the first time I held a big sheepskin robe and roasted cow dung over the fire, until now, I have the same feeling every time I read that section.That story was so heart-wrenching that to this day, I can't tell who was at fault.The desperate Basque robber yelled and begged, but the gypsy beauty yelled loudly: "No! No! No!" So, "on the second cut, she fell without a sound." Don José dug a grave with the knife, buried her body, and galloped back to Cordoba, where The first police station I arrived at turned myself in. I loathe literary generalizations these days.They always say that Kalman is a typical model in the corridor of literary history, and she criticized the pale upper class with her death.I think it's best for everyone to keep their mouths shut because it's just a miserable story.It is a tragic story of resistance that has been created by long-term discrimination and has become involuntary.What a free spirit, that is born wild.That's how it is at the bottom, rough, real, brutal.I doubt that Merrime wrote a real thing; he was very learned and traveled so much. Fortunately, the novel did not tie her death with the olive trees and the Guadalquivir River.These two are especially cherished on the outskirts of Córdoba.The dark place from Cordoba, where Kalman was killed, seemed far away from the great river I loved.As she had expressed her wish, she was laid to rest in a grove, not under an olive tree in a sandy field. Chapter 5 Nearby Kalman Section 19 Romaniology At the beginning of the novel, there is a large section of pedantic language about Mengda, the ancient battlefield.Coincidentally, a Japanese magazine published a series of "Andalusian Territory" a few years ago. I bound them into a volume and took them to Andalusia as guide materials.That's why I knew that the textual research that I said casually was not necessary for the beginning of the story and the appearance of the narrator.It turns out that Merimee used a corner of the novel to express his academic opinions quite seriously (although in a relaxed tone)-his research on Mengda's position.According to the introduction of this Japanese scholar, what Merimi put forward was not only the opinion of a family, but he was probably the earliest correct interpreter of ancient mengda diwang. This signal drew my attention to the end of the novel. At the end (or after the end of the novel), he abruptly, perhaps at the expense of harmony, fills in a large section of "Romaniology".Romani is what is commonly known as a gypsy. This literary word was put forward by Merimee himself half-mockingly. Of course, it goes without saying that in Beijing today, even in Europe at that time, it would probably be difficult to find a scholar who can judge these linguistic materials.Or is Merimee just talking to some linguists?The phenomenon that writers are dissatisfied with low-quality scholars is always present from time to time in the history of literature—the superb examples of the ancient battlefield of Menda and the Basque nation made me realize intuitively: for this ending, Merimee is doing it on purpose , he is serious and confident. For some reason, Fu Yi deleted the linguistic examples in this paragraph.Similar roughness is also revealed when dealing with, for example, Arabic words (such as translating Abdul • Rahman as Abra • El • Ramang).This is not so much a mistake as a sign—our intellectuals' lack of sensitivity to specific sources and lack of vigilance of their own vision. It is not good to ask for full blame.It's just that the deletion of Merimee's Romani knowledge makes readers incomplete.And this abrupt ending is interesting: in his time, it was far from fashionable to pretend to be modernism. He disregarded such a beautiful beginning and ending, and pasted a dry piece of textual research at the end of the novel. Why? ? Perhaps meaning exists only for those who have experience.Some people, when people regard their insight as a marginal knowledge, they will not argue that no, that is important-really avant-garde knowledge, it is difficult to communicate with the inexperienced.Unless the era has staged a horrific live drama, people will only feel the mistakes they have ignored in the past after they have paid painfully.Only then can the prophecies of the wise men of yesteryear be revived. Are gypsies like this?Is Merimee such a wise man?I have no idea. "You are my Rommy, I am your Rommy." Kalman danced and sang wildly. They don't seem to like the name Gypsy, they call themselves "Roma".The Roma and Romy sung by Kalman, which Merimee has commented on, are all variations of this Roma.I know this is a complex term, and it probably won't be synonymous with the city in Italy.There are also titles such as Xitana, Xitano, etc. For us who have only received poor education, it turns out that these vocabulary are too powerless. Near Paris, my friend took me to a quiet park cemetery.There is the tomb of an unknown man, with a few lines of poetry carved into the black smooth stone.The friend said; Judging from the poem, this is a gypsy man.But he has no name, no nationality, no age.The tomb is full of flowers, which is more eye-catching than any other tomb.Friends guessed he was the leader of an invisible society. The gorgeous flowers piled up like hillocks seem to mark a degree.The deeds in life and the regrets in death, and the degree of remembrance.So many people respect him! ... I thought in amazement. Now that people are familiar with the Holocaust, holocaust has become a common vocabulary.But here I heard that the Nazis also massacred the Gypsies in Europe, the Romani.Since entering Europe, they have been segregated, discriminated against, deported, sold as slaves and killed without law.They were the first to be pushed into the gas chambers, but their voices were not heard in the courtroom at Nuremberg. They still live an indeterminate life, self-organized internally, clinging to ancient traditions.Fortune-telling, singing, and chasing tourists with a bunch of pine branches. In Albayzin, near the World Heritage site of cave dwellings (mostly gypsies, and the cave dwellings have been in continuous use since the 13th century), I rest on stone steps under the shade of trees.From here, you can overlook the Al Hamra Palace across the canyon.An old woman—a fat old woman who appeared to the sound of the castanets, climbed the steps and came up from below.She sandwiched two pieces of sandalwood boards between her fingers, and the wonderful crisp rhythm came out of her hands, flowing and splashing, forming a long string of beautiful sounds.The tune was played beautifully, but she sighed. "Why don't you buy me one," she murmured to herself as she sat down on the stone steps with difficulty. Did you experience hardship and resistance when you were young?Is there such a cruel youth like Kalman who would rather die than surrender?My eyes didn't move, but I thought quietly in my heart. She glanced at me.No need to guess, she took me for a Japanese who climbed up to Albacien in a luxury coach and spent 4,000 pesetas to see a so-called flamenco show. Is Merimee suggesting something, or is it just an academic fetish? After a lot of effort, I decided to leave a little memo and enjoy the beauty of the novel itself first.Whatever the writer's hidden intentions, there is no doubt that his novels are immortal.I think the culture he described is also immortal.All of these - stories, characters, and culture constitute a sense of beauty, which is unimaginable and unattainable by others, and its charm is immeasurable. The "foreign race" he painted was so dazzling that I, who was a foreign race when sheepskin was used as milk, was firmly grasped at once.Far above Aitmatov, he influenced my literary taste and writing style, and also influenced me to start similar observations. So I don’t think it’s necessary to hold on to the novelist’s airs and search for something to say, pouring out a few more baskets for a society plagued by printing garbage.I can—for example, write a review of "Kalman".As for Romani, I'll keep an eye out for them in the future.My intuition tells me that since he writes like this, he must have his reasons—the novel actually gives people a reliable after-reading impression, which amazes me as a novelist. The unfortunate beauties of the Basque, the savage beauties of the Romani, are still alive.It might just be us who are dead: modern people who don't read Kalman.Don Jose may not know where to put his gun these days, Calman may resent performing fake dances to tourists, they'll be as bewildered as we are, but neither will fall for the system . Just as both men and women are dead but neither admit defeat, beauty will not admit defeat.Absolutely beautiful temperament, as long as there is a breath left, it will live, and it will be entangled with this unjust world from generation to generation. you're my roma, i'm your roma Kalman still dances to an oddly charming beat.She ignores others, she doesn't ask about circumstances.She danced on a rough wooden round table obsessively and intently. Her singing voice was like a distant call, and the repeated lines were repeated again and again, as if she was speaking an ancient prophecy.