Chapter 45 Chapter Forty-Five

Philip soon realized that it was Cronshaw's inspiration which had made his company wise.The grotesques in Lawson's mouth were borrowed from Cronshaw, and even Clutton, who tried not to fall into the mold, in expressing his opinions, consciously or unconsciously borrowed from the long-timer. Some words of the author.What they discussed at the dinner table were some of Cronshaw's ideas; when they judged the rights and wrongs of things, they had to quote Cronshaw's authoritative opinions.They inadvertently paid him some respect, and made amends by laughing at his weaknesses of character, and bemoaning his many vices.

"It is needless to say that poor old Cronshaw is never going to be any more," they said, "the old man is beyond repair." In fact, only a few people in their circle appreciated his genius, and they were quite proud of it.Because of the contempt peculiar to young people for middle-aged people who do stupid things, they cannot help but put on an air of condescension when they talk about him behind his back.However, they believed that this man was so depressed that he was born at an untimely time. In this era, only one hero is allowed to stand out from the crowd, and they were able to get to know such an outstanding person, after all, his face was somewhat radiant.Cronshaw never came to Grevia's.For nearly four years he had lived with a woman whom only Lawson had ever seen.They lived in dire conditions in a small flat on the sixth floor of a run-down flat in Great Augustine Street.Lawson once described with relish the squalor and rubbish in the house:

"That pungent stench will make your internal organs turn over." "Don't talk about it at dinner, Lawson," someone advised. But Lawson was too excited to stop, and insisted on describing the smells that had penetrated his nostrils.He also vividly described the appearance of the woman who opened the door for him, not to mention the smugness when he told it.She was dark, short and plump, and very young.The black hair on the temples seems to be fluffed up at any moment.She was wrapped in a scruffy blouse, not even a corset.The red face, the sexy wide mouth, and the pair of radiant and soul-stirring eyes remind people of Franz Hales' masterpiece "Boom" displayed in the Louvre Palace. The Himian Woman.She exudes a wave of energy that attracts bees and butterflies all over her body, which is both interesting and terrifying.An unkempt baby is playing on the floor.It was no secret that the slut, behind Cronshaw's back, was hanging out with some naughty lads in the Latin Quarter.However, Cronshaw, who is so talented and loves beauty more than his life, should be mixed with such a treasure, which really puzzles the innocent young people who often absorb Cronshaw's wit and wisdom at the cafe table.Cronshaw himself seemed to admire her indelicate language, and often relayed some of it to others.He jokingly called her La fille de mon concierge.Cronshaw, penniless, scraped by writing reviews of art exhibitions for one or two English-language newspapers, and doing a bit of translation.He used to be an editor of an English-language newspaper in Paris until he lost his job because of drinking too much, but he still does odd jobs for the paper from time to time, reporting on the great auction at the Truvaux Hotel, or introducing the vaudeville theater performances. The newspaper play or something.Life in Paris had penetrated into his bones; and despite all the poverty, toil, and hardships he had tasted here, he would rather give up everything in the world than life here.He stayed in Paris all the year round, and even in the heat of summer, when all his friends and acquaintances left Paris for the summer, he did not leave: he was only a mile away from the Boulevard Saint-Michel, and he felt uncomfortable all over.It is strange to say that he still can't speak a word of decent French.He wore a battered suit from the Pretty Gardener's, and he had always looked like a Brit, and he probably wouldn't change it until he died.

This man was indeed born at a bad time. If he had been born a century and a half ago, he would have been very successful.Because at that time, just being able to speak well was enough to go in and out of the social world, make friends with celebrities, and get drunk. "I should have been born in the nineteenth century," he said to himself. "I lack rich and powerful patrons. Otherwise, I could publish my poetry collection on his donation and dedicate it to some dignitary. How I wish I could write a few rhyming couplets for some countess' poodle .My whole soul longs to have a love affair with the nobleman's maid, and to chat with the bishops."

As he spoke, he casually quoted a line from the romantic poet Laura: "Je suis venu trop tard dans un monde trop vleux." He likes to see some strange faces.He had a good impression of Philip, because Philip seemed to have such a rare ability when talking with people: not too much and not too little, which can lead to topics of discussion without affecting the other party's eloquence.Philip was fascinated by Cronshaw, but he didn't know that what Cronshaw said was mostly old-fashioned, and there was very little novelty.His speech has a distinctive personality and has a strange power of its own.His voice is loud and melodious, and the way he clarifies the facts is enough to make young people fall in love with him.Every word of his seemed to be so thought-provoking that it was no wonder that Lawson and Philip often lingered back and forth between their respective hotels on their way home to discuss some point that Cronshaw had casually raised.As a young man, everything depends on the result, and Cronshaw's poetry fell short of expectations, which puzzled him a little.Cronshaw's poems have never been collected, but mostly published in magazines.After a great deal of talk Philip brought with him a circle of pages torn from The Yellow Book, The Saturday Review, and other magazines, each page containing a poem of his.Philip was startled to find that most of them reminded him of Henley or Swinburne.Cronshaw could change other people's works into his own poems, but he also needed a brilliant pen.Philip talked about his disappointment with Cronshaw in front of Lawson, but Lawson broke the words casually, and when Philip got down to the Lilac Garden, the poet smiled at him tactfully:

"I hear you don't think highly of my poetry." Philip was embarrassed. "Nothing," he replied, "I am very fond of reading Your Excellency's great books." "Why should I care about my face?" He waved his chubby body, and said, "Actually, I don't value my poems too much. The value of life lies in itself, not in how to describe it. I My goal is to explore the many facets of experience that life has to offer, to capture the emotional ripples it evokes from its fleeting moments. I see my writing as an elegant talent, one that augments rather than detracts from real life fun. As for what posterity will say - let them go to hell!"

Philip smiled and said nothing, because he couldn't hide it from people with discerning eyes: the poet in front of him likes to scribble on paper, and has never written any decent works.Cronshaw looked at Philip thoughtfully, and filled his glass.He sent the waiter to buy a pack of cigarettes. "It's funny to hear me talk like that. You know I'm a poor guy living on the top floor of a flat with a tacky slut who steals wild men behind my back, with barbers and garc ons de Cafe hookup. I translate unrefined books for British readers, and write reviews for some worthless paintings. In fact, I don’t even want to dirty my mouth by cursing these paintings. Well. But tell me, what is the real meaning of life?"

"Oh, that's a very difficult question to answer! Please answer it yourself." "No, the answer is worthless unless you find it out for yourself. May I ask why you are here?" Philip had never asked himself such a question before. He pondered for a while, and then replied: "Well, I can't tell: I think it's about fulfilling one's responsibilities, making the best of one's talents, while avoiding hurting others." "In short, people treat me with virtue, and I treat others with virtue, right?" "I guess it's fair to say that."

"Character of a Christian." "No," said Philip indignantly, "it has nothing to do with Christian character, it's a purely abstract morality." "But there is no such thing as an abstract moral code!" "If this is the case, then, suppose you left the wallet because you were drunk when you left here, and I picked it up, why do you think I should give you all the money back? It can't be that Be afraid of the police."" "That's because you are afraid that you will go to hell if you commit sins, and because you want to accumulate some evil virtues so that you can go to heaven."

"But I don't believe in either hell or heaven." "That's possible. Kant didn't believe in anything when he conceived the categorical imperative. You discarded the creeds, but you still retained the creed-based ethics. You are still a Christian in your bones; so if heaven There's a God in there, and you'll be rewarded. God isn't as stupid as the church says he is. He just asks you to obey his laws, and I don't think God cares a bit whether you believe him or not." "But if I forget my purse, you will give it back," said Philip. "It wasn't motivated by abstract morals, but simply because I was afraid of the police."

"There is absolutely no way the police will find out." "My ancestors lived in civilization for a long time, so the fear of the police has penetrated deep into my bone marrow. And my concierge will never hesitate for a moment. You may say, she is In the criminal category. No, she's just freed from worldly prejudices." "But at the same time honor, virtue, conscience, decency--everything is thrown away," Philip said. "Have you done anything wrong in the past?" "I don't know. I think I probably did." "Look at the way you talk like a nonconformist minister. I've never done anything wrong." Cronshaw, wrapped in a shabby overcoat with the collar turned up, and his hat pulled down, had a round, ruddy face, with little twinkling eyes, and it was funny only because Philip took it seriously. It didn't feel funny at all. "Have you never done anything you regret?" "How can I feel regret when everything I do is inevitable?" Cronshaw retorted. "That's the tone of fatalism." "People have an illusion that their will is free, and this illusion is so deep-rooted that even I am willing to accept it. When I act in one way or another, I always think that I am a free man. The creator of the will. In fact, after the fact, it is very clear: the actions I take are completely the result of the joint action of various eternal and indestructible cosmic forces. I personally cannot prevent it. It is inevitable So, even if I do something good, I don't want to ask for credit, and if I do something bad, I don't want to blame myself." "I'm a little dizzy." "Some whiskey," interjected Cronshaw, handing the bottle to Philip. "If you want to clear your mind, there's nothing like drinking it. If you drink beer, your brain won't get rusty." Philip shook his head, and Cronshaw went on: "You're a nice fellow, but you can't drink, you know. Being sane is a hindrance to our conversation, you know. But I'm talking about good things and bad things," said Philip, realizing that he had resumed what he had just said. Head, "It's a completely traditional expression, and it doesn't give any specific meaning. For me, the words evil and good have no meaning. I neither praise nor condemn any behavior. It's about taking it all in your head." "There must be one or two others in the world," Philip remarked. "I only speak for myself. Only when my activities are restricted by others do I feel their presence. For them, there is a world turning around each person. Each person is on his own terms. As far as I am concerned, it is also the center of the universe. My personal ability defines the scope of my authority to the world. As long as it is within the scope of my ability, I can do whatever I want. We love to live in groups, so we live in society Among them, society is held together by force, that is, by force (that is, the police) and the power of public opinion (that is, Mrs. Grandy). Then you have before you a formation with society on the one hand and individuals on the other. : Both are organisms dedicated to self-preservation. They compete vigorously with each other. I am alone and have to accept social reality. But it is not too much, because as a weak person, I can pay taxes in exchange for social benefits. protection from the bullying of the strong. But I submit to its laws out of desperation. I do not recognize the justice of the laws: I do not know what justice is, but what power is. For example, I live in a In countries with conscription, I paid taxes for police protection and served in the army (which kept my house and estates safe from encroachment) so that I owe nothing to society. S then When I come down, I use my cunning to deal skillfully with the power of society. Society makes laws for B to protect itself. If I break the law, society will put me in prison or even kill me. It has the power to do so , so I have this right. If I break the law, I am willing to accept the state's revenge, but I will never regard this as punishment for me, nor will I feel that I have really committed any crime. Society uses fame, wealth, and the praise of my fellow-citizens as bait to lure me into serving it, but I don't care for the praise of my fellow-citizens, and I don't pay much attention to fame. Still doing well.", "If everyone thought like you, wouldn't society immediately fall apart!" "What does other people have to do with me? I only care about myself. Anyway, most of the human beings do things for fame and gain, and what they do will always bring convenience to me directly or indirectly. I am happy Sit back and reap the rewards." "I think it's too selfish for you to look at things this way." "Do you think that people in the world do things without self-interested motives?" "yes." "I don't think so. When you're older, you'll see that making the world a tolerable place to live starts with acknowledging the inevitability of human selfishness." "If that's the case," cried Philip, "then what's the point of living? Take away the calling, take away the good and the beautiful, and why should we come into this world?" "The splendid East has come to give us the answer," said Cronshaw, smiling. Cronshaw raised his hand and pointed towards the entrance of the shop: the door of the shop opened, and with a gust of cold wind, two itinerant vendors came in.They were Arabs from the Levant, each with a roll of blankets over his arm, and they came to sell cheap rugs.It was a Saturday night, and the cafe was full, and the two vendors were seen passing from table to table.The shop was smoky, the air was turbid, and there was a stench from the drinkers.Their arrival seemed to add a mysterious atmosphere to the store.They were dressed in European clothes, old thin overcoats with all the fluff frayed, but each wore a fez on his head.His face was blue with cold.One was a middle-aged man with a black beard; the other was a young man of about eighteen with pockmarked face and blind in one eye.They passed Cronshaw and Philip. "Wonderful God! The Prophet Muhammad is the spokesman of God," said Cronshaw eloquently. The middle-aged man walked in front, with a flattering smile on his face, like a mongrel dog accustomed to being beaten.I saw him squinting towards the door, showing a erotic painting furtively and nimbly. "Are you Massaed Dean, a merchant from Alexandria? Or did you bring these things from as far away as Baghdad? Oh, my uncle, look at that one-eyed man over there, I think that lad looks a bit like a Sheikh Rachard gave her one of the three kings tales, didn't he?" The peddler, though he did not understand a word of Cronshaw's words, smiled more and more, and he produced a sandalwood box as if by magic. "No, show us the fine fabrics of the Eastern looms," said Cronshaw.I want to use this to make a point and to add some interest to my story. " "The Oriental spread out a tablecloth of red and yellow, with a vulgar and ugly pattern on it, which was ridiculous. "Thirty-five francs," he said. "Oh, uncle, this piece of material is neither from the weavers in Samarkand, nor from the dyeing workshop in Bukhara." "Twenty-five francs," said the merchant with a flattering smile. "Who knows where it's from, maybe it's a product from my hometown, Minghan." "Fifteen francs," begged the merchant with the black beard. "Come on, my boy," said Cronshaw, "if only the Wild Ass could piss on your grandma's grave!" The Oriental suppressed the smile on his face, and walked towards another table calmly with his goods in his hands. "Have you ever been to the Cluny Museum? There you can see the Persian carpets with elegant colors and colorful patterns, which is really amazing. From them, you can see the hidden oriental secrets and feel the beauty of oriental sensuality , saw Hafiz's rose and Omer's wine glass. In fact, you will see much more than that. Didn't you just ask what the true meaning of life is? Go and look at those Persian rugs, maybe someday you will will find out. "You're playing tricks," said Philip. "I am drunk," replied Cronshaw.