Chapter 10 Chapter 6 The End-2

"Zero pour moi." (French proverb: work without success.) On the weekend after I was discharged from the hospital, under Handik’s repeated and strong requests, the bottle of vintage Goya Manor Mist wine that I treasured was finally pulled out by him as he wished. Dropped the cork and squandered it. A very informal dinner was organized for this purpose at Mosman's house - Mosman's mother volunteered to cook for us; and Taphne announced that she would surprise everyone with dessert. So that night, after enjoying a whole set of orthodox home-cooked French dinners, we were also forced to each eat a homemade chestnut cake with a dark chocolate color and a burnt crust that needed to be peeled off in advance.

"The new baking method learned from TV?" Taphne said shyly, "but it seems to have failed." We didn't mind that - while the presentation of those desserts didn't wow everyone, the shells were well deserved: the aftertaste of the food and wine lingered on the tongue anyway, with an extra With a strong chestnut fragrance, people can't help but want to shout: “Je suis tres contente! (French: What a contentment!)” Liberty City spent Christmas in 2002 in a peaceful and peaceful environment, and ushered in the New Year in 2003—the fireworks outside the New Palace and Michelle Cathedral bloomed and withered all night, removing the smell of gunpowder and welcoming the new Spread to every family's living room, bedroom, balcony? Then quietly dispersed.The first ray of sunshine in the new year pushed the carnival to a climax, and then led everything to burnout and serenity again. Half a month has passed in the new year, and everything that happened last year is being quickly forgotten by people—some people Perhaps not fond of such oblivion? Today, January 16, 2003, a lackluster Thursday morning, is the thick aroma of Tanzanian coffee wafting from the La Pavone coffee machine—an aroma strong enough to freeze the air? This feeling of being deeply buried in the aroma of coffee pushed the lazy atmosphere in the detective agency to the extreme in such a bright sunny day.

I didn't expect to think about that heavy case again on such a beautiful morning, but unfortunately, accidents are everywhere-open today's "Libertarian" and turn over the forty-seventh page: in the lower right corner, an article titled For "Spring of Scissorhands" The serialized novels caught my attention. I never read the literary edition. In order to save reading time, I asked Taphne to pre-select the pages I don't intend to read before giving the newspaper to me-my assistant is happy to do this because She just wants to watch the daily entertainment edition and TV promo, as well as fashion, travel, movies, beauty, etc.? She probably doesn't pay much attention to the literature edition, otherwise, she must also be attracted by this topic.

I don't know when this unsigned novel was serialized.However, this should be the last chapter of this novel serialization-I, who is used to reading from back to front, saw the words "full text" at the end of the article at first glance. It took me five minutes to finish reading this last chapter. "Everything in life is fictitious, hypothetical, and doubtful? But everything in novels may be real." Now I totally believe that statement. I'm out of the office - of course, intending to have my assistant find all the papers from the previous few weeks. Today's forty-seventh edition, which I intend to read carefully, was thinly placed on the edge of the desk. By chance, a gust of wind came from the open window and shook it to the ground.Perhaps it was lucky enough that the forty-eighth edition was still ruthlessly suppressed below.Through the innumerable gaps in the blinds, the morning sun shines on it. The place in the lower right corner—the place where the novel is located, seems to have been carefully cut. Section 15 Author: Anonymous There is a symbolic wooden fence, and not far away is the street in the morning. Every few steps, you can see one or two snail tracks crushed by cars and bicycles? New snails slide over such tracks, over the same corpses: across the street, and here—here itself, everywhere is the abyss toward hell, faint, smelling of corruption Yes, this side of the wooden fence is the cemetery, the quiet final place .

It was the tombstone of Scissorhands, just a tombstone—we already knew that someone else's body was buried in it: a body with no head, no hands, no feet? Probably nothing.Let's look at the tombstone, which bears a disgraceful, but no less glorious name—the name of Scissorhands, and nothing else. It was raining like fog in such an early morning, and someone stood in front of this tombstone that was slightly moistened by rain and dew.He held a useful knife in his hand—this tall, red-haired man was struggling to carve something on this tombstone. It should be clear when we think about it: He is carving the forgotten epitaph for our scissorhands.

But he is not the administrator of the cemetery, nor is he a grave keeper. We don't know who he is, and neither does the boy. A boy with tea-colored pupils and a head of lush curly blond hair—he may be the child of the gravekeeper. When he saw this strange visitor in the morning, he came to him and watched him engrave stroke by stroke. those words. This is such a monotonous and boring job. After watching it for a few minutes, the boy felt bored—he turned around and wanted to leave. "That? Please don't leave in a hurry," the sculptor suddenly spoke—it was a deep and hoarse voice, and he smiled slyly at the boy:

"If you stay, I'll give you a small gift." He put the hand holding the knife into his coat pocket, and stuffed the other hand into the back pocket of his trousers. "What is it?" The curious boy turned around. "it is this." The red-haired man took out a hat from his back pocket—it was a chic hair hat. He made a demonstration first himself: he put the hat on his head and tidied it up a bit. Seen from behind, this tall man with short red straight hair seemed to have immediately turned into a A woman with long curly auburn hair in men's clothing: or rather, a man with long hair.

The boy showed genuine interest in the trick—he clapped his hands with delight. "Now, are you willing to stay?" He took off the hair cap, "And this will be your reward." He handed the hair cap to the boy, and the boy immediately put it on his head—it was too big for him, and he could hardly see anything with it on: but he still Wear it stubbornly, showing a smug smile. "Okay. Shall I stay here?" the boy replied tolerantly. "What are you doing here?" "I'm carving an epitaph for myself? My little friend." He said, and resumed his carving work.

"Only dead people need epitaphs - my dad told me." The boy was puzzled. "Shhh~`", the red-haired man showed an extremely mysterious expression, "I lied to them——Actually, I didn't die. Originally, I shouldn't appear here again, but? You know, I don't I hope there's nothing on my tombstone," he whispered to the boy. "You're right." The boy thought for a while, "How did you fool them?" "Ha, that couldn't be easier?" The man smiled, "I found a man with the same blood type as mine, charmed him, and moved him to the roof of that building in advance."

"? I pulled out some of that man's red hair, and put some on my sofa, bed, under the desk? Conspicuous and inconspicuous places. In this way, when those stupid policemen come to my house to collect evidence, would mistake those for my hair." "? I pretended I was crazy in my conversation with that stupid detective - I beat him so hard that he couldn't move, and then, ran up to the attic? I've packed the poor dead man with explosives, especially On the head: I can't let people see what he looks like." "? That stupid detective helped me out - he threw a signal device into my collar. Of course I took it out intact and stuffed it back into the dead man's clothes? ? Ha, I threw the man down from the top floor, head down, and the dynamite blasted the man into pieces: Ha! I can imagine that the signal device and some fragments of him were fused together, It just happens to be the ironclad proof that I'm dead?"

It was only at this point that the red-haired man recovered from his excitement—the boy must have been frightened by his crazy words, and had already quietly run away without a trace.A hair hat was left on the damp soil of the cemetery, already badly soaked by the rain. "Huh? Je n'ai pas de temps?" (French: I don't have much time?), he said to himself, shaking his head. "Talking to children is a waste of time." He picked up the hair hat, shook off the water and mud on it hastily, and stuffed it back into his back pocket. The epitaph on the tombstone has already carved out a simple outline - and now, he is about to start the second processing to make the stiff cursive characters appear smoother. But we can at least read the epitaphs - unfortunately they are not written in French: Immortality Steps on the Brink of Death, Withered Life Weeps (End of the full text, at 7:00 am on May 1, 2006 (local time in Germany)) For a long time, I thought it was impossible to complete.The setbacks encountered in writing in reality make me willing to often write some such as "Angels Are So Close to Hell" and "From Necrophobia to Necrophilia" Such "academic articles" of about 10,000 words.The beginning and the middle of a long novel will give people the illusion that there is no end in sight, and that illusion is the enemy of long writing—even if you have a good outline and idea, if you do not have perseverance and the perseverance to overcome yourself, and It can only be said that it was "by chance" that a novel was completed in this way. Finished to my surprise.The tricks of the prisoners in this article are gradually full and perfect in the dialogue.The repeated overthrow and reconstruction of the details of the case in the dialogue, and the repeated refutation and revision of the assumptions of the case? It is my new attempt in this article to present the due details in a large number of dialogues and relatively few scene descriptions. The ending, using the end of a novel to lead to the end of a whole story, is nothing new: at least Shakespeare used it. In The Taming of the Shrew, the whole article is a play watched by Drunk Sly. "Everything in life is fictitious, hypothetical, and doubtful? But everything in novels may be real." - This sentence quoted by Wenzel in the article is actually my opinion of this Summary of the whole case.Although we can reconstruct the case from the dialogue, it does not mean that the reconstruction is true; similarly, "Spring Scissorhands", the novel in which we only see the last section, may also It is not a symbolic restoration of this case (the author may not be Dr. Gelt or Evante, but a literary lover who knows or even does not know about the whole case—even if, out of literary considerations, I am writing this at the end There are a lot of coincidences deliberately arranged in the chapters of the book), the content of the first fourteen sections can be quite different. After reading it carefully, readers can't be sure of the real story, but only get several different hypotheses about this case-such as the "second hypothesis" mentioned in the "Second Hypothesis" about Dr. Gelt's escape from the Third Hospital. In the whole process, if some new details and dialogues are added, a completely different result can be obtained: I gave up the intention of making the case more complicated, and it is also out of literary considerations-from the existing details, We've been able to filter out the psychology and character traits of the various main characters pretty well. Another example is that many details of the Dilser case were deleted from the outline after my repeated consideration-although once these extra thousands of words are added, readers will have a clearer grasp of the prisoner's character and heart. Specific: But this is not what I really want. (Author's Note: We know that Ms. Dilther is the doctor's wife - I once wanted to insert a whole section of the description of her being killed because she discovered Dr. Gelt's secret as Ms. Dilther, this part After many deliberations, deletions and revisions, it was finally condensed into the introduction part of this article) I just drew a face, and attentive readers can see the different faces hidden under this face. That's the fun of writing. Wenzel May