Chapter 28 god doesn't answer the phone

one There's nothing left to write about; really.After dinner, drinking coffee, smoking a pipe, and clearing the desk, I suddenly felt that those books, paintings, pens, and paper in the small study room were not mine anymore.I am not in this little study.I'm still on that Japanese cargo ship: the waves are strong, the wind is strong, the sea is either black or golden; some people are singing on the deck, some are crying in the bilge, singing all the way to Taiwan, crying all the way to Taiwan.I am not in this little study.I was still waiting for someone on the chaotic grass behind the Chenggong Hall in that university in Tainan: the evening wind in late autumn could not move the quiet old trees, and the chill of the stone steps penetrated through the jeans into the very romantic internal organs; in the ghost shadow, The flutter of a firefly can take the stress out of tomorrow's Shakespeare midterm exam.I am not in this little study.I drank afternoon tea on the balcony coffee seat of a big hotel in Saigon during the Vietnam War: the war outside the city could not destroy the French colonial atmosphere in the city, and Sagan’s smile was caught in the wet armpits in the afternoon temperature of thirty-five degrees, looking forward to tonight of ecstasy.The ceiling fan in the hall turns very slowly, and three or five American soldiers drink beer with several Vietnamese women in their arms: this is a piece of "The Killing Fields" without dignity: it is not a transaction between two cultures.I am not in this little study.I lined up to buy stamps at the counter window of the General Post Office in downtown Singapore: in front was Gandhi in a shirt, behind was Churchill in shorts and a vest, and behind was Yu Dafu who no longer wrote poetry.The lobby of the General Post Office is bustling with people, and several pregnant English women are standing at the service desk with their big bellies sticking stamps: the tropical colonies are good for British men; England is too cold: it's hot here.This is the only gain of colonial policy.I am not in this little study.On the platform of the London Underground, I waited longingly for the blinding headlights of a car in the black hole: then into the afternoon sun; then through the shadows of trees around the bronze statue;I am not in this little study.

two I don't know what to write, and I don't know how to write it.I won't lie, Wilde said it quite eloquently: "My taste is the simplest," he said, "and I am satisfied that everything ends in perfection." The truth is that it is impossible to end up in perfection. "It's amazing to be alive!" What else could you want?Call God and tell him how come I haven't heard from him for so long?God doesn't listen to the phone!Even if he listens, he will say: "You dialed the wrong number!" and hang up the phone.The young pianist Ivo Pogorelich went from Belgrade to the Moscow Conservatory to study at the age of ten.When he was sixteen, a friend took him to the home of a Soviet scientist; after he played a piece of music for everyone, the scientist's wife suddenly said to him: "You didn't make good use of your genius." He was I just feel very angry, and think this lady is very reckless.He later found out that she was the famous piano teacher Aliza Kerzeradze.Since then, this woman twice his age has carefully guided his practice, guided his endless talents, and turned his talents into skills with the strictest requirements.Three years later, he proposed to her; she left the scientist and took her thirteen-year-old daughter to marry him.Since then, he has become more and more accomplished and famous, but his contemporaries have criticized him; his parents in Belgrade have not spoken or communicated with him for several years.They cannot forgive him.The price of taste and success is "expensive", like love.

three My little study is not mine anymore.Playing the piano requires skill and emotion; writing requires skill and emotion.The wind and waves that floated to Taiwan gave me feelings, but not skills; the cold air on the stone steps, and the fireflies in the shadows of ghosts gave me feelings, but not skills; Yang, Tree Shadow, and Long Night also gave me feelings, but did not teach me skills. There is nothing left to write about.Do not lie to you.I can't call God.He can't help me with this, just like Irish female novelist Edna O'Brien can't help Marlon Brando: Marlon Brando invited Edna to dinner, the restaurant is very grand, the atmosphere is very romantic, they talked very speculatively, but Ed Na always tactfully stated that she could not go with him to other places after dinner.Marlon Brando finally couldn't take it anymore, and said to her in a very serious tone: "I want you to answer me a question quickly and honestly. You can't think about it before answering me. I want to be honest." He went back and forth. She couldn't stand the words, and said, "You ask!" So Marlon Brando stared into her eyes and asked her, "Are you ticklish?"

Dinner broke up amidst loud laughter.Marlon Brando can only laugh at himself like this, and can't call God: God doesn't listen to the phone.