Chapter 52 british journal half leaf

The morning is gloomy, the breeze is mild and the spring is cold; buy a few copies of the daily newspaper in front of the Russell Square station, drink coffee and read the newspaper every time you return to the trip: the news is dull, the editorial is fresh, the supplement is spotless, and the book review page of the big newspaper is roughly impressive.At ten o'clock, go to Russell Hotel on the corner to see the second-hand book fair.Renmen's book smells tangy, unspeakable fragrance.Dozens of booths are in order, browse one by one, and the price of Zhishu has increased by 20-30% compared with two years ago.The old illustrations of prints seem to be very popular. Eric Gill engraved an exlibris for his wife, and the price was ninety pounds, which is really outrageous!Passing a booth specializing in birds and birds, the young woman sitting on the side of the stall was breastfeeding the baby in her arms, with thick hair covering her shoulders, skin as white as ice, and a soft posture, just like the female statue in John Buckland Wright's woodcut illustration "Hymn to Prosepine"; In front of the booth, there was a bloated old man who chatted with him while flipping through books. His appearance and demeanor were very similar to Churchill, because he recalled an anecdote of Qiu Weng: Churchill went to a buffet lunch in the United States, and the main dish was frozen fried chicken; Dish, very politely said: "May I have a piece of breast meat?" The hostess interjected and said: "Mr. Churchill, it is not customary in our country to talk about breast meat, we say white meat or dark meat." Qiu Weng apologized frequently.The next day, the hostess suddenly got an orchid sent by Qiu Weng, with a note saying: "Please distinguish this flower from my wife's white meat, thank you very much!" Weng Shengping carefully chooses every word, how can he not avenge his words in vain.Thinking of this, the number of book-viewing customers in front of the booth has increased by four or five, and the ancient books of birds are suddenly popular!After reading it in a hurry at 11:30, I got a pocket illustrated book "Quotations for Bookworms" and several photo postcards of yellowed ladies from the beginning of this century.When I left the Russell Hotel, I saw the sun was shining all over the sky, and the green shadows of the small park across the street were full of midsummer atmosphere.Drive to Handover Sq.The St. George Street Gallery can watch the Forbidden Library Shougong Illustration Exhibition. The two-story small building is full of small prints from the 18th century to the present.The Hungarian painter Zichy's "Embrace" selected by the Times Literary Supplement is indeed the most exquisite. The price is 112 pounds, but unfortunately it has been ordered by those who know it; .It is said that the world's richest collectors of erotic paintings are two ladies, one is the sister of the Shah of Iran, and the other is the Beatles widow Yoko Ono.Since the UK held the first exhibition of pornography illustrations last year, the antique erotic market has sprung up like bamboo shoots, off-stage transactions have turned into on-stage transactions, and high-quality goods from all over the continent have also flowed into the study rooms of wealthy families in London.The original works are not to be approached, so you have to buy a catalog of the exhibition with color illustrations and four types of color postcards, just to quench your thirst.It was hot at noon, and after eating at Coconut Grove, I went to another gallery to pick up two small paintings I bought yesterday. They were all color etchings on Stephen Whittle's "Elements of English Rural Houses".Back at 2 o'clock, I took a nap for half an hour, my spirits improved, and I strolled to the Shaftesbury Avenue theater to watch E. M． The film adaptation of Forster's novel A Room with a View, the whole film renders the atmosphere just right, and the layout of the dialogue is also in line with the mentality of the British scholarly family.The street was full of sun after the game, and we walked back to Russell Square on the original road, passing by the deep alley near the British Museum, and suddenly heard the elegant piano sound from the tavern of the Whitehall inn, all of which were old songs; drinking a glass of beer inside, the room was deserted, I don't see the drinkers, but I see the old twilight player, closing his eyes and flicking the keys alone, drunk in the feelings of the past like poetry and wine.

July 1986