Chapter 52 cozy feeling (2)

Alas, the dullness and the constant repetition of life have pulled me out of my contemplation once again--the worry of the same day--someone is ringing my doorbell. 6. Tuo A messenger chews gum for elephants, judging by the strength of his jaws and the amount of chewing. "Mrs. Michel?" he asked. He placed a package casually in my hand. "Is there nothing to sign for?" But he has disappeared without a trace. It was a rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper, and tied tightly with a thin piece of string, the kind you use to tie the tops of potato sacks or to tie to corks for fun in apartments. Cats play, teasing cats is the only sport.In fact, this package tied with string reminds me of Manuela's silk packaging, because although the paper has a rustic taste and lacks a sense of refinement, it brings a certain kind of similarity and sincerity to the packaging of appropriate things carefully. Sex, the design of the highest ideas begins with the most vulgar little things.Beauty is a kind of mean.This sublime thought appears in the hands of the ruminating messenger.

Aesthetics, if we ponder a little seriously, we will find that aesthetics is nothing but the inheritance of the golden mean, and similarly there is the spirit of Bushido.The understanding of the mean is deeply rooted in our hearts.In each moment of life, this understanding of the mean enables us to understand the quality of life, to enjoy life with a strong need when everything is in harmony.I am not speaking only of beauty that is peculiar to the realm of art.Anyone who pursues the greatness in small things like me will pursue beauty and know how to dig out the essence of the heart. Under the beautification of daily clothes, beauty will appear in some ordinary way, making people believe that beauty should be like this, even Believe in beauty as it is.

I untied the string and tore the wrapping paper.It turned out to be a book, a hardcover book bound with a navy blue cover, the cover was rough and very rough.In Japanese, Tuo means "an ordinary beauty".I'm not quite sure if I understand correctly, but the cover of this hardcover book is unmistakably Tuo. I put on my glasses and read the title of the book.Profound Thought No. 11 birch Taught me that I am nothing Also taught me that my life has the value of continuing Mum announced over dinner last night that she had been doing "psychoanalysis" for ten years, and it seemed like a big motivation worth celebrating with champagne.Everyone in the family would chime in and say, it's incredible!And all I see is that psychoanalysis has the same penchant for never-ending suffering as Christianity.And what my mother didn't mention was that she had been on antidepressants for exactly ten years.But it was obvious that she didn't connect the two things together.I don't think she took antidepressants to relieve anxiety, but to be able to bear the stress of psychoanalysis.When she finished talking about the process of psychotherapy, I really felt like I was going to hit the wall and forget it.The therapist guy, every once in a while, he'll say "hmmm" and repeat the end of his mother's sentence ("I'm going to Le Nôtre with my mother." "Hmm, your mother?" "I I love chocolate." "Well, chocolate.").Just return the psychiatrist?Then I can call myself a psychiatrist tomorrow.In addition, he would also show his mother the notes of the lecture on "the origin of Freud's theory". It contains some rich content.Delusion of understanding is the most seductive.To me, that's not its own value.There are so many smart people that they can pile up into mountains.There are many idiots in this world, but there are also many smart people. What I want to say is that wisdom itself has no value, nor does it have any meaning.For example, some very intelligent people spend their lives studying the gender of angels.But a lot of smart people have the same problem: that is, they think wisdom is a result.There is only one thought on their minds: that is, it is stupid to be smart.When wisdom itself becomes the goal, the act of exhibiting it becomes strangely strange: the mark of its existence is not how cleverly and easily it arises, but rather obscure feelings.If only you had heard Mom's paraphrase of "Psychotherapy"...it's symbolic, it breaks taboos, it boils down to reality with a lot of psychoanalytic formulas and weird syntax.What nonsense!Even what Colombe reads (she's studying Guillaume Ockham, the fourteenth-century theologian) isn't this weird, it should be like this: Better be a thinking friar than a postmodern thinker.