Chapter 47 Chapter 47: Harp in the wind at the end of the road

In New York City at that time there were a number of charities of a similar nature to that of the Captain, and Hurstwood now frequents them in a similarly unfortunate manner. One of these was the Catholic Mercy on Fifteenth Street. The charity house of the monastery. This is a row of red brick family houses. An ordinary wooden donation box is hung in front of the door. On the box is a notice that free lunch is provided for all who come to ask for help at noon every day. This simple The notice is written in a very unremarkable manner, but in fact it contains a very wide range of charitable causes. In New York, where there are so many charities and causes, it is not likely to cause those comparisons. The attention of the comfortable man. But to a man who has such a thing in mind, such an enterprise is increasingly important and worthy of careful observation. Unless one pays special attention to this kind of thing, one can, at noon, Stand on the corner of Sixth Avenue and Fifteenth Street for days without noticing that every few seconds a weather-beaten, heavy-footed, emaciated People in ragged clothes. However, this is an absolutely true fact, and the colder the weather, the more obvious it is. Because of the narrow space and the insufficient kitchen, the charity has to arrange meals in batches, and only 25 people can be allowed at a time. There are no more than 30 people dining, so you have to line up outside and go in in order, which makes such a spectacle happen every day, but it has been commonplace for several years, day after day, and it is not surprising now. These People waited patiently in the freezing weather, like cattle, for hours before they could get in. No one asked them questions, and no one served them. They ate and went away, and some of them came every day of the winter on time. here.

Throughout the alms, a tall, benevolent woman was always at the door, counting the number of people who could enter. These people moved forward in an orderly manner. They were not competing for the first place, and they were not anxious. It was almost like a team of dumb people. The team can be seen here even in the coldest weather. They clapped their hands and stomped hard in the biting wind. Their fingers and faces appeared to have severe frostbite everywhere. In broad daylight A closer look at these people shows that they are almost the same type of people. They belong to the kind of people who sit on park benches during the day when the weather is bearable and sleep on them at night in summer. .they hang out on the Bowery and those seedy East End streets, where rags and haggard looks are no surprise. They're the kind of people who huddle in boarding-house living rooms on a cold day. ;they're the kind of people who flock to some of the cheaper overnight places on some of the South East Side streets that don't open until six o'clock. Crude food, eaten at irregular times, and eaten voraciously, seriously They were all pale, with loose flesh, sunken eye sockets, flat chested, but bright eyes, and red lips that looked feverish by comparison. Their hair was not much combed, and their ears The color was lacking, the shoes were worn out, and the toes were exposed and the heels were exposed. They were of the sort of adrift and helpless people, one of whom would come up to every crowd, like a wave of driftwood on a storm-stricken beach.

For almost a quarter of a century, in another part of New York, the baker Fleischmann has been adjudicating anyone who comes at the door of his restaurant on the corner of Broadway and Tenth Street in the middle of the night to ask for alms. Giving a loaf of bread. Every night for twenty years, about 300 people lined up, walked through the door at the designated time, and took bread from a large box outside the door. Then disappeared into the night .From the beginning to the present, the nature or number of these people has not changed much. Those who have seen this small team here every year, have known two or three of them. Two of them have been in the past fifteen years. Hardly missed a single one. Forty or so were regulars. The rest of the line were strangers. In times of economic panic and especially hard times, it was rare to see more than three hundred. In an economy where unemployment is rarely heard In times of prosperity there is hardly any reduction. Whether it is winter or summer, whether it is storm or sunshine, whether it is peace or prosperity, this same number of people will gather miserably in the middle of the night. In front of Fleischmann's Breadbox.

It was a severe winter, and Hurstwood was a frequent visitor to the above-mentioned two charities. One day was so cold that begging in the street was not a pleasure, so he waited until noon to find such alms for the poor. At eleven o'clock in the morning , there were already a few men like him stumbling across Sixth Avenue, their thin clothes fluttering in the wind. They came early and wanted to go in first. At this time they were all leaning against the wall of the Ninth Regiment Armory The place faced the section of Fifteenth Street. Because they had another hour to wait, they lingered at a distance at first restrainedly, but other people came, and they moved closer. , to keep their first priority. Hurstwood, coming from Seventh Avenue west to join the procession, stopped not far from the door, closer to the door than the others. Those who came first But those who were waiting at a distance were now approaching, and, though silent, they showed with a resolute air that they had come before him.

Seeing that his actions were opposed, he cast an unhappy look at the line, then stepped out, and stood at the end of the line. When order was restored, the animal antipathy subsided. "It's almost noon," ventured one of them. "It's almost here," said the other; "I've been waiting almost an hour." "Oh, but it's so cold!" They stared anxiously at the door, which they all had to go in. A grocer's clerk carted in several baskets of food, and there was some talk about grocers and food prices. "I see that the price of meat has gone up," said one, "and it would be very good for the country if there were a war."

The line is expanding rapidly, and there are already more than 50 people. The actions of the people at the top of the line clearly show that they are thankful that they can wait less time than those at the back. People often stick their heads out, looking Look at the line behind. "It doesn't matter how far ahead you are, as long as you are among the first twenty-five," said one of the first twenty-five. "Everyone goes in together." "Humph!" exclaimed Hurstwood, who had been forced out by them. "This flat tax is a good idea," said another, "without it there would be no rules at all."

Most of the time, no one spoke, and the haggard people moved their feet, looked around, and patted their arms. At last the door opened, and out came the benevolent nun. She only signaled with a wink. The procession moved forward slowly, one after the other, until they had counted twenty-five. Then, she stretched out a A thick arm stopped the people behind, and the line stopped. At this time, there were still six people standing on the steps, one of whom was the former manager. They waited like this, some were talking, and some could not help crying Some, like Hurstwood, were brooding. At last he was let in. For he had waited so hard for the meal, and was almost annoyed when he was about to go away.

About two weeks later, at eleven o'clock in the evening, he waited patiently for the midnight bread. He was unlucky that day, but now he was able to look at his fate with more sanity. Even if he got He can still come to this place if he doesn't have dinner, or if he feels hungry late at night. At a few minutes to twelve, a large box of bread is rolled out. At exactly twelve o'clock, a German with a round belly and a round face stands beside the box. , shouted "Ready". The whole team moved forward immediately, everyone took the bread one by one, and went their own way. This time, the former manager ate while walking, silently dragging his heavy feet. Spend the night in the street, go back to sleep.

By January, he had almost decided that the game of his life was over. Life had always seemed a precious thing, but now it was always hungry and weak, which made the world less lovely, Difficult to perceive. A few times, when fate drove him to a corner, he thought he was doomed. But any change in the weather, or a quarter or a dime, changed his mood. , so he continued to wait. Every day he looked for some old newspapers thrown on the floor to see if there was any news about Carrie. But he found nothing all summer and autumn. Then he noticed that his eyes began to hurt, and so rapidly aggravated that at last he dared not read the newspaper in the dim bedroom of the boarding-house he frequented. The poor and erratic diet was deteriorating every faculty of his body. His only hope was to be able to Ask for money and ask for a berth so that you can doze off on it.

He began to find that because of his rags and thin body, people regarded him as a veteran vagabond and a beggar. The police chased him away when they saw him. Chased him out. Pedestrians waved him away. He found it increasingly difficult to get anything from anyone. Finally, he admitted that it was time for the game to end. This was after he begged countless passers-by and was repeatedly rejected...everyone hurriedly avoided him. "Would you please give me a little alms, sir?" he said to the last man; "for God's sake, I'm dying of starvation." "Well, go away," said the man, who happened to be a commoner himself. "You're useless fellow. I'll give you nothing."

Hurstwood put his red hands in his pockets. Tears welled up in his eyes. "That's true," said he, "I'm useless now. I was good enough. I've had money too. I'm going to get rid of it." And then, thinking of death, he walked toward the Bowery. Go. Someone had gassed himself before, why didn't he do that? He thought of a boarding house with small airless rooms with gas nozzles that he felt were pre-arranged for whatever he wanted to do. Yes, the rent was fifteen cents a day. Then he remembered that he hadn't even a quarter. On the way, he met a gentleman with a relaxed air, who had just come out of a good barber shop. "Please give me a little charity?" he begged the man boldly. The gentleman looked him over, and reached for a dime. But he had only quarters in his pocket. "Here," he said, handing Hurstwood a quarter, to send him off. "You go now." Hurstwood walked on, wondering. He felt a little pleased at the sight of such a large shiny coin. He remembered how hungry he was, and how he could get a berth for a quarter. Thinking of this, he temporarily gave up the idea of ​​seeking death. Only when he can get nothing but humiliation, it seems worth dying. One day in mid-winter, the coldest season came. The first day was dark, and the next day it snowed. He was so unlucky that he only got ten cents when it was dark, and he used the money to fill his stomach. In the evening he found himself at the corner of Main Avenue and Sixty-seventh Street, turned there a little while, and turned at last toward the Bowery. He was especially tired at this moment, for he had wandered so impulsively in the morning. He walked slowly with his wet feet, the soles of his shoes scraping the pavement. A thin old coat was pulled up to his reddened ears with cold, and his battered bowler hat was pulled down low. His ears were turned over. His hands were in his pockets. "I'm going to Broadway now," he said to himself. When he reached Forty-second Street, the illuminated signs were in full glory. Many people hurried to dine. On every street corner, through the brightly lit windows, the merrymakers in the luxurious restaurants could be seen. Men and women. The street is full of carriages and crowded trams. He was so tired and hungry, he shouldn't have come here, the contrast was too sharp. Even he couldn't help feeling the scene, deeply recalling the good times in the past. "What's the use?" thought he, "I'm all over. I'm going to get away from it all." People looked back at him, his shambling figure was so strange. Several policemen kept their eyes on him, so as to prevent him from begging. Once, aimlessly, he stopped and looked in the window of a stately restaurant, before which a lighted sign shone. Through the large glass windows of the restaurant, the red and gold decoration could be seen. .Palm trees. White napkins and shining glass tableware, especially those leisurely diners. Although his heart was exhausted, the strong hunger made him realize the importance of all this. He stood still, grinding The torn trousers were soaked in snow water, and he stared blankly into it. "Eat," he muttered, "yes, if you want to eat, everyone else has." Then, his voice became lower and lower, and the fantasy in his heart disappeared a little. "It's so cold," said he, "very cold." On the corner of Broadway and Thirty-ninth Street, incandescent lights illuminated Carrie's name and read "Carrie Madonda and the Casino Troupe." It was lit. The light was so bright that it attracted Hurstwood's attention. Looking up, he saw a large gold-edged notice-board bearing a graceful, life-size portrait of Carrie. Hurstwood stared at the portrait for a moment, sniffing, and raising one shoulder, as if something were grabbing him. But he was so exhausted that he could not even think clearly. "It's you," he said finally, to her in the picture. "I'm not good enough for you, am I? Hey!" He lingered, trying to think clearly. But he couldn't think clearly. "She's got it," he said incoherently, thinking of money. "Ask her to give me some." He went to the side door. Then, forgetting what he was going to do, he stopped, thrusting his hands deeper into his pockets to warm his wrists, and suddenly remembered what he was going to do. The back door! Here it is. He came to the door and went in. "What's the matter?" said the porter, glaring at him, and seeing him stop, went and pushed him. "Get out," he said. "I want to see Miss Madonda," he said. "You want to see her, don't you?" said the other, almost amused by the fact. "Get out of here," and pushed him again. Hurstwood had no strength to resist. "I want to see Miss Madonda," he tried to explain, as he was driven away. "I'm a good man. I..." The man gave him one last push, and closed the door. With this push, Hurstwood slipped and fell on the snow. This made him sad, and some vague sense of shame returned. He began to cry out. , cursing dumbfoundedly. "Damn dog!" he said, "damn old dog," brushing the snow from his worthless coat. "I... I used to have a man like you." At this moment a great feeling of loathing for Carrie came over him... just a feeling of rage, after which he forgot all about it. "She should have given me something to eat," he said, "she should have given me something to eat." Desperately, he turned and went back to Broadway, and walked forward through the snow, begging all the way. Shouting, losing his train of thought, remembering this and forgetting that. Like a mental decline. People with incoherent thoughts often have like that. A few days later, on a bitterly cold evening, he made his only definite decision in his mind. At 4 o'clock, the sky was already hazy with night. The snow fell heavily, and the bitterly cold snowflakes were blown into long, thin strands by the strong wind. line. The street was covered with snow like six inches of icy, soft carpet, which was run over and trampled and turned into brown mud. On Broadway, people wore long coats , carrying umbrellas, and walking cautiously. On the Bowery, people slouched through the streets with their collars and hats pulled to their ears. On Broadway, businessmen and tourists rushed to the comfortable hotels. Go. On the Bowery Street, people who came out to do business in the cold turned around one dark shop after another, and the depths of the shops were already lit. There was the usual sound of rolling cars. The whole city was covered by the rapidly thickening snow. At this moment, Carrie was in her comfortable room at the Waldorf Hotel, reading a book which Ames had recommended to her. The story was very moving, and having been recommended by Ames aroused her keen interest, so She had grasped almost all the moving meaning of the story. For the first time she realized how boring and worthless all she had read was on the whole. But she was tired and yawned, Go to the window and look out of the window at the winding procession of horse-drawn carriages passing Fifth Avenue. "It's bad weather, isn't it?" she said to Laura. "Damn it!" said the little woman, coming up to her. "I wish the snow would be heavy enough to go to the sleigh." "Why," said Carrie, still affected by old man Goriot's pain, "that's all you can think of. Don't you feel sorry for the homeless people to-night?" "I'm poor, of course," said Laura, "but what can I do? I have nothing, too." Carrie laughed. "Even if you had, you wouldn't care," she said. "I'd care too," said Laura, "but no one ever helped me when I was poor." "Isn't it dreadful?" said Carrie, looking at the stormy sky. "Look at that man over there," Lola laughed, seeing a man fall. "How timid men look when they fall, don't they?" "We must take the carriage to-night," answered Carrie absent-mindedly. Mr. Charles Drouet had just entered the lobby of the Imperial Hotel, and was shaking off the snow from his fine long coat. The bad weather drove him back to the hotel early, and aroused his desire to seek out those who could The pleasure of shutting out the snow and the sorrows of life. The chief thing he wanted to do was to have a good supper, a young woman for company, and a good night at the theater. "Hi, hello, Harry!" he said to a man who was lounging in a comfortable chair in the hall. "How are you?" "Oh, so-so," said another. "The weather is terrible, isn't it?" "Well, so to speak," said another, "I'm sitting here thinking where I'm going to go tonight." "Come with me," said Drouet, "and I can introduce you to a very pretty chick." "Who is it?" asked another. "Oh, two girls here on Forty Street. We can have a good time. I'm looking for you." "How about we go find them and take them out to dinner?" "Of course," said Drouet. "I'll go upstairs and change my clothes." "Well, I'm at the barber's," said the other. "I want a shave." "Very well," said Drouet, crunching in a pair of fine leather shoes, toward the elevator. The old butterfly flew as lightly as ever. There were three related figures on a Pullman sleeper bus heading for New York at a speed of 40 miles an hour in the wind and snow that night. "The dining-car is called for supper for the first time," cried one of the waiters in a snow-white apron and jacket, hurrying across the aisle of the carriage. "I don't want to play anymore," said the youngest of the three, the dark-haired beauty, who looked very haughty because of her luck, as she pushed a hand of cards away from her face. "Shall we go to dinner?" asked her husband, who was as handsome as rich clothes could make a man. "Oh, it's still early," she answered, "but I don't want to play any more." "Jessica," said her mother, who also dressed as a help to the study of how good clothes beautify the elderly. "Put the tie clip on fast . . . it's coming out." Jessica fastened the tie-pin at her command, stroked her lovely hair, and glanced at the little jewel-encrusted watch. Her husband studied her closely, for from a certain point of view, a beautiful woman Even cold is charming. "Well, we won't have to suffer any more of this weather soon," said he, "and we'll be in Rome in a fortnight." Mrs. Hurstwood was sitting comfortably in a corner, smiling. It was a good fortune to be the mother-in-law of a rich young man... She had looked into his financial situation herself. "Do you think the boat will sail on time?" asked Jessica. "If the weather keeps like this, will it?" "Oh, on time," replied her husband. "The weather doesn't matter." Along the aisle came a fair-haired son of a banker. He was also a Chicagoan, and he had been paying attention to this haughty beauty for a long time. Even now, he did not hesitate to look at her from time to time, and she noticed it. So , she purposely put on an indifferent look, and turned her beautiful face away completely. This was not at all out of the prudence of a woman, it was just to satisfy her vanity. At this moment Hurstwood was standing in front of a dirty four-story building in a side street not far from the Bowery. The original pale yellow stucco had been disfigured by smoke and rain. He was among a crowd... a crowd already, and growing. There were only two or three people at first, and they loafed about the closed wooden door, stamping their feet for warmth. They wore crumpled and faded bowler hats. Their ill-fitting jackets were drenched and heavy with the melting snow. , with the collar turned up. The trousers were like sacks, and the cuffs were frayed and flung about over the big wet shoes. The uppers were worn out, almost in tatters. They didn't want to go in, Just wandering around dejectedly, hands deep in pockets, squinting at the crowd and at the gradual lighting of street lamps. As the minutes passed, the number increased. Among them were beards Grey, sunken-eyed old men, some younger people who are sick and thin, and some middle-aged people. All of them are skinny. In this thick pile of people, there is a face that is so pale that it seems to be drained Bloody veal. Another face as red as a red brick. Some were arched, with thin shoulders rounded. Some had artificial legs. Others were thin with clothes dangling from their bodies. What you see here are big ears, swollen nose, thick lips, especially bloodshot red eyes. In this whole crowd, there is no normal, healthy face, no upright, straight body, no frankness. firm gaze. They huddled together under the wind and snow. Those wrists that were exposed outside their jackets or pockets were red with cold. Those ears that were half covered by various hat-like things still looked frozen and numb. Frostbite. They kept changing their feet in the snow to support the weight of their bodies. One foot, the other, almost swaying together. As the crowd at the door grew, there was a murmur of words. This was not a conversation, but a series of general comments to anyone. There were swearing and swearing. "Damn it, I wish they were quicker." "Look at that policeman looking over here." "Maybe it's not cold enough!" "I wish I was in Sing Sing Prison right now." At this time, a more piercing cold wind blew, and they moved closer together. It was a crowd that approached slowly, stood on their feet, and pushed each other. No one got angry, no one begged, and no one said Words of intimidation. All bored dully, with no jest or friendly exchange to alleviate the misery. A carriage rattled past with a figure leaning on it. One of those nearest the door saw it. "Look at that guy in the car." "He doesn't feel so cold." "Ah, ah, ah!" cried the other, and the carriage had gone so far that it was out of hearing. The night was getting darker. People on their way home from get off work appeared on the sidewalk. Workers and shop girls walked by quickly. The trams across the city began to crowd. The gas street lamps flickered, and every window was illuminated It was red. This group of people was still lingering at the door, unwavering. "Aren't they ever going to open the door?" asked a hoarse voice, reminding everyone. This question seemed to draw everyone's attention to the closed door, so many people looked in the direction of the door. They looked at the door like silent beasts, and guarded the door like dogs, whining and pressing Staring at the doorknob. They shifted their feet, blinked, murmured, cursed, argued. But still they waited, and the snowflakes still flew, and the biting flakes still whipped them. The old hats and high shoulders of the crowd piled up. There were small piles and bow-shaped strips, but no one brushed it off. Some people squeezed in the middle of the crowd, the body temperature and exhalation melted the snow, and the snow water It dripped down the brim of his hat and landed on his nose, and he couldn't reach out to wipe it off. The snow on the people standing outside didn't melt. Hurstwood couldn't squeeze in the middle, so he stood with his head bowed in the snow, his body curl up. A light shone through the transom at the head of the door. This gave the onlookers a surge of excitement and hope, followed by a murmur of reaction. At last there was the creaking of the latch inside, Everyone pricked up their ears. There was also the sound of chaotic footsteps inside, and everyone whispered again. Someone shouted: "Hey, slow down in the back," and then the door opened. The crowd pushed each other, like Bestial cruelty. Silence, which just shows that they are like beasts. Then they entered, scattered like floating logs, and disappeared without a trace. Only those wet hats and wet shoulders, a group of cold. Withering. Disgruntled fellows, swarming between the dreary walls. It was only six o'clock, and every hurrying passerby's face showed that they were on their way to supper. But supper was not served here. … ..nothing but the bed. Hurstwood put down the fifteen cents, and walked slowly, wearily, to the room assigned to him. It was a gloomy room...wooden floors, dusty, hard beds. A small gas nozzle lit up such a poor corner. "Hmph!" he said, clearing his throat, and locking the door. Now he began to undress without haste, but at first he only took off his coat, which he used to plug the gap under the door. He also stuffed his vest there. His old, wet and worn hat was gently put on the table. Then he took off his shoes and lay down. He looked as if he had thought for a while, for then he got up again, turned off the gas, and stood calmly in the dark, out of sight of anyone. A few minutes passed... during which he did not Thinking of something, only hesitating... He turned on the gas again, but did not use a match to light it. At this moment, he stood there, completely hidden in the benevolent night, while at this moment The whole room was filled with the gas that had been released. When he smelled the gas, he changed his mind and touched the side of the bed. "What's the use?" he said softly, as he stretched himself and lay down to rest. By this time Carrie had attained what at first glance appeared to be the purpose of life, or at least partially attained, as the gratification of the first desires available to man. She could go about showing off her finery, her carriage, her furniture, her bank balance. .She also has so-called friends...those who bow down to her fame with a smile. These are all things she dreamed of in the past. There are applause and fame. These were out of reach in the past. Quite The important things are now trivial. Insignificant. She still has her type of beauty, but she feels lonely. When she has nothing to do, she sits in the rocking chair and whispers and dreams. There are originally two kinds of men in the world, the rational and the emotional...the reasoning mind and the feeling heart. The former make men of action...generals and statesmen; the latter make poets and dreamers...all artists. Like a harp in the wind, the latter type of people will respond to every breath of fantasy, expressing failure and success in the pursuit of ideals with their own emotions. People don't understand dreamers, just as they don't understand ideals. In the eyes of dreamers, the laws and ethics of the world are too harsh. He always listens to the voice of beauty, trying to catch its wings that fly by in the distance He watched and wanted to catch up, and his feet were worn out from running. Carrie just watched and pursued, rocking the rocking chair and humming. It must be remembered that there is no reason to play here. When she first saw Chicago, she found that the city had the most loveliness she had ever seen, and, driven only by emotion, she instinctively turned to Its bosom. The clothes are gorgeous. The surroundings are elegant and the people seem to be content. So she goes to these things. Chicago and New York; Drouet and Hurstwood; Just a random coincidence. It wasn't them that she longed for, but what they represented. But time proved that they didn't really represent what she wanted. Ah, the entanglements of life! We still do not see them so clearly. Here is a Carrie, at first poor. Simple. Amorous. She desires every loveliest thing in life, and finds It was as if I were kept out of the wall. The law said, "You may desire anything lovely, but you will not approach it unless you do it rightly." The custom said, "You cannot improve your situation except by honest work." If honest work is unprofitable and unbearable; if it is a long way which wears one's feet to weariness, but never leads to beauty; Who could blame her for taking the despised path that would swiftly realize one's dreams? Often it is not evil, but the desire for good, that leads men astray. Often it is not evil, but good, that confuses the less rational .Sentimental people. Carrie was in the midst of greatness and wealth, but was not happy. As she had thought when Drouet nursed her, she had thought: "Now I am among the best of circumstances"; and as in As she had thought when Hurstwood seemed to offer her a better prospect, she had thought: "Now I am happy." But, like it or not, the world has its own way, so she feels lonely now. She is always generous to the needy. When she walks on Broadway, she no longer cares to walk past her. It would be enviable if they had more of the tranquility and beauty that shone in the distance. Drouet renounced her claim, and was no longer seen. Hurstwood's death, she had no knowledge of. A black boat that slowly rolled out of the Twenty-seventh Street pier every week, took his and many other The unidentified corpse of the deceased was carried to the Boulder cemetery. So ended the interesting story between these two guys and her. Their influence on her life was evident in the nature of her desires alone. At one point she thought they both represented the greatest success. They are representatives of the finest realms...titled Messenger of Happiness and Serenity, certificates gleaming in their hands. Once the world they represent can no longer tempt her, the honor of their Messenger Sweeping is a matter of course. Even if Hurstwood reappeared in his old handsome appearance and brilliant career, he would not be able to fascinate her now. She already knew that in his world, as in her own In the same situation, there is no happiness to speak of. Sitting there alone now, she can see how a man who is only good at feeling and not good at reason is led astray in the pursuit of beauty. Although her illusions are often shattered, she still looks forward to that Good day, when her dreams will become reality. Ames shows her one step forward, but there are still steps to be made on this basis. If her dream is to be realized, she has to take more steps It will always be the pursuit of that pleasant radiance that lights up the distant peaks of the world. O, Carrie, O Carrie! O, the blind pursuit of the human heart! Onward, onward, it urges, where beauty goes, it pursues. Whether it is the lonely sound of sheep bells in the quiet field, or The brilliance of beauty in the rural countryside, or the flash of inspiration in the eyes of passers-by, people will understand, and react, and catch up. Only when the feet are sore from walking, as if there is no hope, will there be heartache and anxiety. Then Know that you can have neither too much nor enough. Sitting in your rocking chair, leaning against your window and dreaming, you alone will long. Sitting in your rocking chair, leaning against your window, You will dream that you will never feel happy.