Chapter 8 genius dream

I was an eccentric girl raised as a genius with no purpose in existence other than to develop my genius.However, when the childhood fantasies gradually faded, I found that I had nothing but the dream of a genius—all but the eccentric shortcomings of a genius.The world forgives Wagner for his madness, but they will not forgive me. With a little American publicity, maybe I'll be hailed as a child prodigy.When I was three years old, I could recite Tang poetry.I still remember standing unsteadily in front of the rattan chair of a Manchu Qing old man, reciting "The merchant woman does not know the hatred of subjugation, she still sings flowers in the backyard across the river", watching his tears roll down.I wrote my first novel, A Family Tragedy, when I was seven.When encountering characters with complex strokes, I often go to ask the cook how to write them.The second novel is about a girl who breaks up in love and commits suicide.My mother criticized: If she wanted to commit suicide, she would never take the train from Shanghai to West Lake to drown herself.But I because of the poetic background of the West Lake.Finally stubbornly saved this.

The only extracurricular readings I have are a few fairy tales, but my mind is not bound by them.When I was eight years old, I tried a utopian novel titled Happy Village.The people of Happy Village are a militant plateau nation. Because of their meritorious service in overcoming the Miao people, they were granted tax exemption and autonomy by the Chinese emperor.Therefore, Happy Village is a big family isolated from the outside world, farming and weaving by itself, preserving the lively culture of the tribal era. I purposely sewed together half a dozen exercise-books in anticipation of a masterpiece, but I soon lost interest in this great subject.Now I still keep many frames of the illustrations I drew, introducing the services, architecture, and interior decoration of this ideal society, including the library, "martial arts hall", chocolate shop, and roof garden.The public dining room is a pavilion in the lotus pond.I don't remember if there were cinemas or socialism there - they seemed to be doing fine even though they lacked both.

At the age of nine, I hesitated whether to choose music or art as my life's career.After watching a video about a poor painter, I cried a lot and decided to become a pianist and play in magnificent concert halls.I am extremely sensitive to colors, notes, and words.When I play the piano, I imagine that the eight notes have different personalities, wearing bright clothes and dancing hand in hand.When I was learning to write articles, I liked to use words with strong colors and sonorous rhymes, such as "pearl gray", "twilight", "wanmiao", "splendour" and "melancholy", so I often fell into the problem of piling up.To this day, I still love to read tacky Parisian fashion reports just for the catchy wording.

In school I get free development.My self-confidence grew stronger and stronger, until when I was sixteen, my mother returned from France to study her long-lost daughter. "I regret that I nursed your typhoid fever so carefully," she told me. "I would rather see you die than see you live and make yourself suffer everywhere." Learn to mend socks.I dreaded going to the barbershop, dreading meeting customers, dreading trying on clothes for a tailor.Many people have tried to teach me how to knit, but none of them succeeded.I have lived in one room for two years, and I am still at a loss when asked where the electric bell is.I took a rickshaw to the hospital every day to get an injection. For three consecutive months, I still didn't know the way.All in all, in the real society, I am equal to a waste.My mother gave me two years to learn to adapt to the environment.She taught me to cook; to wash clothes with soap powder; to practice walking posture; to look at people's eyes; to remember to close the curtains after lighting the lamp;

When it comes to common sense in dealing with people, I am surprisingly stupid.My two-year plan was a failed experiment.My mother's grievous warnings had no effect on me except to throw my mind off balance. There is a part of the art of living that I am not incapable of understanding.I know how to read "Beautiful Clouds in July", listen to the Scottish soldiers playing bagpibe, enjoy wicker chairs in the breeze, eat salted peanuts, appreciate the neon lights on rainy nights, and reach out from the double-decker bus to pick the green leaves on the top of the trees.I am filled with the joy of life when there is no human interaction.But I can't overcome this gnawing little trouble for a day, life is a gorgeous robe, full of fleas.