I decided to write this story myself, at best as a reflection of my own life, and the lives of one or two people close to me.Its main purpose is nothing more than self-entertainment. Long ago, when I was a poor youth, I wanted to write a book.Writing in obscurity and dreaming of becoming a writer one day has often been a way for me to free myself from misery.I read in bliss with admiration and communion that in so doing it still affords leisure, opportunity, and partly the realization of dreams that otherwise had no hope of being realized.I feel that a brief account of my past, such as that involved here, is very necessary to solidify the continuity of thought.The passing of the years finally makes people start to recall the past.Youth is not important to a 40-year-old, but it is different to a 72-year-old.I have lost my youth now.The old and new lives are so different that I often find it unbelievable.Everything has changed.That afternoon, when I was walking through the field, I suddenly stopped in the deserted area of ​​Sway Star (note a place name in central England.), and couldn't help asking myself: among the weeds, rubbish and broken earthen pots, hold me Is the revolver ready to murder?Has this ever happened in my life?Have I ever had such emotions, thoughts and attempts?Surely the dream-generating elf from the dream world would not let the phantom memory record my dead life? "I think that there must be many people who are alive now who have experienced similar confusing things. At the same time, I also think that those young people who are growing up will replace us in the great cause of human communication. To describe the tiniest thought of the hazy old world that ever crossed my mind before. And my own experience is perhaps more typical of that upheaval. I was caught midway by a passion. Then, once Strange events have put me at the center of a new order...

Standing in front of the open window, telescope in hand, Parlod looked for the comet, found it, then was not sure, and finally could not find it again. I was thinking of talking about something else at the time, so I thought the comet was a nuisance, but Parod was so engrossed in it.I felt my head was very hot, I had a little fever, and my heart was full of worries and pain.I wanted to open up to him—at least I wanted to relieve my pain by narrating my experience in some romantic way, so I didn't take the comet he told me about at all. Although it is the first time for me to hear that there are such dust among the countless stars in the sky, even if I don't hear such news, I don't regret it at all.

I'm about the same age as Palod.He is 22 years old, eight months older than me.He was—I think he really was—a "high profile clerk" in a small law firm in Ovulkaso, and I was the third in command at the Rawdon Bank office in Clayton. We met at an important meeting of the Young Men's Christian Association in Swishing.We found out that we were both taking courses at Ovurkaso, he in science and I in shorthand.We often go home together.So we struck up a friendship (I should clarify: Swasinri, Clayton, and Owulkaso are three neighboring towns. They are all in the middle of a large industrial area).We exchanged our inner understanding of religion with each other, and poured out our common interest in socialism.Twice he had dinner at my mother's house on a Sunday night, and I could come and go as I pleased.At the time, he was tall, with an uneven neck and wrists, fair-haired, shy and enthusiastic.Two nights a week he attends evening classes at the hairdresser's salon in Ovurkaso.Unknowingly, his mind broadened, and the mysterious outer space fascinated him.His uncle farmed at Leete's on the other side of the moor, and he insisted on an old pair of binoculars from his uncle.He bought a cheap constellation chart and a Whitaker almanac.For a while, gazing at the stars was the most satisfying thing in his life.He doesn't like daylight and moonlight to disturb him.He was strongly attracted by the deep space, the infinite universe, and some kind of unlit, flowing mysterious object in the unexplored chaotic world.With the help of extremely detailed articles in the monthly Sky, which is published to cater to these space-obsessed souls, at least, until new visitors from outer space reach our galaxy, He already has a pair of binoculars.

He stared intently at the pin-like point of light, as if there was no one else around.I had to wait patiently for him. "It's amazing." He sighed, and then, as if feeling that his words weren't enough to express his satisfaction, he added, "It's amazing." He turned to me and said, "Would you like to see it?" I had to see, and I had to hear, how this rare intruder became one of the largest comets we can see this century; Flying from somewhere; Palod seems to think so; how the spectrometer has analyzed its chemical composition, which has been confounded by the unprecedented novelty of the green spectrum; filmed.It runs in an unusual direction, with its tail facing the sun.

Just then I felt a dark well of thought, first of Nettie Stuart and the letter she had just written to me, then of old Rawdon's disgusting note that afternoon. Face.Now, I'm going to write a reply to Nettie, and I need to find a suitable excuse for Boss Doncei to be late for work. At this time, the fire of missing Nettie is burning in my mind... Nettie is the daughter of Head Gardener Stuart.Her father, Stuart, worked for the widow of the rich Mr. Ferrer. Nettie and I had kissed and become lovers before we were eighteen.Her mother and my mother were cousins ​​and old classmates.Then, as a result of a car accident, my mother was prematurely widowed and landed in rental housing (she became the landlord of Clayton's interim vicar).This status is much lower than that of Mrs. Stuart.My mother, too, was a good customer, frequenting the gardener's cabin in the tower at Zexhill, and keeping in touch with friends there.

I still remember it was a long golden evening in July.The evening does not give way easily out of politeness to the night to meet the moon and its attendant stars.Nettie and I swear to each other with the shyness of first love by the goldfish pond where the yew-lined sidewalks meet.I still remember something haunting me at the time - the thrill of adventure. Nettie was dressed in white that day.Her black eyes sparkled, and the hair on her forehead fluttered in the gentle night wind.Around her lovely mannequin neck was a little string of pearls, and in the hollow of her neck was a small gold charm.I kissed her.And, for the next three years, I kissed her too.I even considered my future life with her, for her, I could die.

I have two photos on hand.They made me see a shy young man in an ill-fitting dress, which was Nettie.It was true that Nettie was not well dressed.She looks a little stiff, but, from the photo, I can see her and feel the joy she exudes.Her mysterious fascination for me is often in my mind.The joy of success flying across her face reveals the photo.Because of this, I never threw these photos away. The true beauty is beyond description.I wish I could draw.This way, I can draw something instead of trying to describe it.There is something magnetic about her eyes.There was some slight shift in her upper lip, which seemed to close sweetly and smile again.It was a deep, beautiful smile.We kissed each other, and then, for the time being, decided not to tell either of our parents the irrevocable choice we had made.Finally, it's time for us to break up.I walked shyly past the crowd, and walked with my mother through the moonlit garden to the railway station at Zexchel.On the way, frightened fawns rustled the bushes.Finally, we're back in Clayton's dark basement.For almost a year afterward I never saw Nettie again and could only think of her secretly.

When we met for the second time, we decided to correspond with each other.In order to be able to communicate secretly, we really tried every means.As Nettie did not want anyone in the family, not even the only sister, to know about her, I had to seal my precious letter and forward it to her quietly through her friends who lived near London. I still remember her address at that time, although it has changed now, and no one can find those houses, streets, and suburbs. Correspondence alienated us because, for the first time, we used letters to communicate our feelings.It's looking to express emotion with thought.

You must understand that the field of thought was in a very strange state at that time.The mind is governed by abnormal laws.This is because people artificially create, delete, suppress, distort customs and practices, and use various excuses to distort thinking to the point of confusion.Intuition keeps people silent about "truth".I was brought up by my mother in a quaint, conservative environment.That environment constrains you with some kind of religious law, requires you to abide by certain codes of conduct, and forces you to accept concepts under a certain social and political system.And these have little to do with the realities and needs of social life.

In fact, my mother's religion does smell of lavender, and every Sunday, she puts aside all the things that need to be done, including the laundry that needs to be done and the furniture that must be cleaned every day.She shaded her knobby hands, chapped with constant washing, with carefully mended black gloves, put on an old silky black coat and a millinery hat, and took me to church.I am also different from before, appearing clean and cute.We sang hymns in church, we worshiped, we heard prayers loudly, and then we read them loudly. When the priest finally bowed and said listlessly short, "Let us bless the Father, let us bless the Son!" we stood up, sighing with everyone, feeling refreshed and reassured. New relief.

My mother's religion has a hell.In that hell there is a very scary devil with curly red hair.The devil can have the same power as the king of Britain.It strongly reproaches people with evil desires of the flesh.It wants us to believe that by suffering violently, we are freed simply and forever from the pain and annoyance we suffer in this unfortunate world.However, in fact, there is no end to the disasters of this world, Amen.In fact, those red-haired fiends with billowing flames look like a lot of fun.The admonitional color of the whole story has faded before I was born, and it has been filled with soft imaginary colors.I don't remember it ever filling me with terror as a child.Now I know that all of this was just a series of expressions on my poor old mother's anxious, dusty face.It makes her cute.I think it may be that our good lodger, Mr. Gabitas, wonderfully changed into a priest's coat, and raised his voice, giving it the manliness of an Elizabethan prayer, which made my mother's love of God a special interest arose.She displayed an overly sensitive obedience to God, and distinguished God from disreputable priests.In fact, if I'm not mistaken, she wanted me to do what she did. I retain the strongest sympathy, and a certain inexpressible jealousy, for my lost youth.I find it difficult for me to stick to my writing, especially when people accuse me of being a tall, awkward young man who is stupid, posturing, and impulsive.That's how I look in that old photo.I admit I shudder when I think about what on earth keeps me writing about those memorable events of my loved ones….However, I hope that none of this fails. For me, Nettie's letter was extremely simple.The handwriting is slightly rounded, the font is not neat, and the language is not very good.Her first two or three letters used the word "dear" with shy emotion, and I remember being confused at first.Then, when I understood, I couldn't help but cheer up because she used the word "asthore" under my name, which I guess means "dear".But when I showed excitement, she wrote back with less joy. As to how we quarreled in our young and clumsy ways, and then, uninvited, I went to Chex Hale on a Sunday to make things worse, and how afterwards I wrote a letter she thought lovely letter, and then things finally turned around again, etc;I also won't tell us about the tumultuous relationship we had because of a misunderstanding.It was me who started it, and I regretted it in the end, until now the trouble finally arose.And, every once in a while, we'd have some kind of romantic bonding moment, and I'd love her very, very intensely.And throughout the process, there will be those unfortunate moments when I am alone in the dark and I will think of her so intensely, of her eyes, of her touch, of her sweetness, of her. The joy of being.But when I sit down to write, I think of Shelley, Burns, myself, and other unrelated matter.It's harder to express when one falls in love amid turmoil than not being in love at all. As for Nettie, I knew she didn't love me, but those somewhat mysterious characters.My voice cannot arouse her passion.So we continued to write and quarrel.Suddenly, she wrote me a letter saying that she was not sure if she could associate with a socialist, a godless person without scruples.Then, suddenly, she changed into another, more forceful tone, using many unexpected words.She didn't think we were a good fit for each other, with very different interests and ideas.She's been trying to break up our relationship.In fact, I gave up thinking about it, though I did not fully understand it under such a sudden blow.I received her letter just as I was returning home after the old Rawdons had rudely refused to give me a raise.I was always in a state where I wasn't very important either to Nettie or to the Rawdons.I can't get rid of this mentality, so I can only talk about comets to get relief. Where am I standing? I've become so used to seeing Nettie as an inseparable part of me, that traditional "true love" that makes me so hopeful that she'll change her mind in the face of these carefully chosen words about a breakup.We kissed and whispered.After being so close, I was deeply shocked.I felt suddenly abandoned by the universe, forgotten, so I had to express myself decisively and positively immediately.I want to comfort my deeply hurt and self-esteem, but no matter what religion I know, or the attitude of disregarding religion, I can't comfort myself. Shall I go back to Lawton at once, and find my way quickly at the promising bank near Forbe Hill's house? In any case, the first step in the plan is easy to do.Go to Lawton, and say, "You shall hear from me again." For the rest, Forbe Hill will disappoint me.However, that doesn't matter anymore.The main problem still has to do with Nettie.I found my brain full of bits and pieces to write to her.They float around in my head and dull me Contempt, sarcasm, tenderness, what's the word? "Brother!" Palod said to me suddenly. "What?" I said. "Brydon Iron Works is on fire and the smoke is flying in the sky above me." When he interrupted my train of thought, I was about to talk to him. "Pallod," said I, "I've got to put it all aside. Old Rawdon won't give me a raise. After asking him, I don't think I can go on with the old rules. Do you understand? ?So, I may have to leave Clayton for good.” After listening to my words, Parod put down the binoculars and looked at me.After a brief pause, he said, "This is not a good time to change jobs." Lawton said the same. I always thought Palod's words sounded heroic.I said, "I'm tired of doing simple, meaningless drudgery for others. Instead of starving your spirit to death in one place, I'd rather starve your body to death in another." "I don't understand what you're talking about." Parod said slowly... From that point on, we've had a never-ending conversation.This is a warm-hearted, off-topic, very general talk.These conversations will be useful to sensible youth until the end of the world.In any case, giant has not lost its meaning so far. Memory is amazing, and it reminds me now of things I said in casual conversation.Although the situation and atmosphere at that time presented a clear picture in my mind.In fact, I can hardly say anything about it.I put on a pose according to my own ideas, very foolishly pretending to be arrogant with my feelings hurt and my heart very depressed.And Palod played a philosopher with a common sense and deep thinking. Now we're walking outside on warm summer nights, talking more casually.But, dare I say, there is one thing I do remember. I said, gesticulating in the air, "I've often wished that your comet or something like that would actually hit the world and destroy us all, strikes, wars, riots, love, jealousy And all the horrible things in life wiped away!" "Ah!" said Parod, as if the thought had struck him. When I was talking about something else, he said incoherently, "It just adds to the misery of life." "What did you say?" "A collision with a comet, that would only set things backwards, that would only make everything that life has given us worse than it is." "But why is life giving us everything?" I said. You know, that's how we talk.As we talked, we walked along the narrow street outside the house, up the steps, then into the alleys and finally up the avenue. With Palod, I always have more to say. I think I can approach my past with an almost total detachment from myself.Times have changed, and I'm actually a different person than the arrogant, stupid young man I was.I remember the troubles he had in the past.In my eyes, he is a vulgar, conceited, hypocritical, posturing guy.In fact, I don't like him except for his instinctive pity.And this pity is entirely the result of frequent contact with the very familiar.Because he is me.I might understand and account for his various motives which would cause almost every reader to lose pity for him.But why should I cover up his qualities and defend them? It's always me talking.I would be taken aback if someone told me that it was not wise for me to ramble. Parod was a taciturn young man, restrained and restrained in everything.But I have the most important gift for young people, and this gift is eloquence.In the back of my mind, my diagnosis for Palod is: a little dull.I pictured him quietly as a pregnant woman bound hand and foot by some scientific warning.I didn't notice that while my hands were exceptionally good at gesturing or holding a pen, Palod's hands could do all sorts of things.Also, I don't think the ability necessarily travels from my fingertips to somewhere in my brain, although I've been boasting about my shorthand, my literary skills, and my integral role in the business Rawdon has run. .Parod did not focus on his hard-working lessons on cones and complex calculations.Today Palod was a celebrity, a great man of a great age.His research on interactive radiation has greatly improved the level of human understanding.And I am, at best, a lumberjack in the forest of intellect.Now, as I do, he laughs and thinks: how in those early dark days I pretended to be his benefactor, and posed and said incomprehensible things! That night, I appeared very eloquent and insisted on speaking to him.Naturally, I was deeply troubled by Roden.Lawton and employers like Lawton, the injustice of the absence of wage slavery, and the cul-de-sac of our lives being forcibly dragged into blind industrialization haunt me.But when I looked at other things again, Nettie was still in the depths of my soul, watching me incredulously.Somewhere outside of me and Palod, I keep my romantic love story, which is part of the reason I keep putting on airs about him. I will not bore you with too much detail in describing the conversation of a foolish youth, though full of misery and misfortune, whose voice relieves his tormenting shame.As a matter of fact, I am now incapable of distinguishing in detail what I have said to Parod from what I have said in the past.For example, I have forgotten whether at that time, or before that, or after that, or by accident, I admit that I have become addicted to drugs. "You shouldn't be doing that," Parlord said suddenly. "You don't want to poison your brain with drugs." My brain and my eloquence will become the precious wealth of our party in the future revolution... But, now that I think about it, one thing did come up in our conversation.When I started to act, I had already made up my mind: I couldn't leave Lawton.I just wanted to insult my boss in front of Parod. "I can't put up with the Rawdons any longer," I said to Parod, with a dramatic gesture. "The cruel hour is coming," Parod said. "Next winter." "Earlier. The Americans have been overproducing. They're ready to dump. The steel trade is going up and down." "I don't care. Lawton Bank is not going to fail." "Hoarding borax? No, I heard..." "What did you hear?" "Secrets of the trade. But there's a crisis coming for the potters. It's no secret. Borrowing all the time, speculation. Bosses are no longer in one business as they used to be. That's all I can say. No Two and a half months out of the valley and the 'show' may begin." Parod delivered an unusually long speech brilliantly and forcefully. "Performance" is our local euphemism for when one has no work and no money, the day-to-day depression, full of hungry vagrants.This recurring situation was an inevitable consequence of the industrial society of the time. "I'd better stick to the Rawdons," said Parlord. "Bah!" I said, gesticulating with feigned annoyance. "There's going to be chaos," Parod said. "Who cares about that?" I said. "Let the trouble arise! The more the better. Sooner or later, this system will be destroyed. These speculative monopolies, trusts (note: one form of capitalist monopoly organization, composed of many The establishment of the trust is to monopolize the sales market, compete for the origin of raw materials and the scope of investment, in order to obtain high profits.) The capitalists made things worse and worse ...why should I be in Lawton's office, like a frightened dog, watching hungry people prowl the streets? Poor people are the main revolutionaries, and when they show up, we're supposed to go out and fight They blew the salute. Anyway, I'm going to do it now." "Sounds good," Parod began. "I'm tired of it all," I said. "I've tried my best to fight these Rowtons. I thought if I was starving too, I might talk to those hungry people." "Don't forget your mother." Parod said cautiously. This is really a problem. I glossed over the question with rhetorical rhetoric, saying: "Can a man ruin the future of the world, and even his own future, if he lacks imagination?" Leaving Palod, I returned to my own home.It was late. Our house is in a prestigious little square near Clayton Parish Church.Gabitas, curate of the parish, lived on the ground floor of our house.Upstairs lived an old lady named Holrod.She paints flowers on china, and the next room supports her blind sister.I live in the basement and sleep on the top floor.The front of the house was covered by brocade, which hung in clutter from the porch. As I walked up the steps, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Gabitas coloring photographs by candlelight in his room.The main joy of his ordinary life is to go abroad on vacation with a small weird fast mirror camera on his back, and return with a lot of blurry negatives.Those were all taken by him in places with beautiful scenery and nostalgia.The photography company developed it for him at a discounted price.He would then spend a year printing them at night so he could distribute the pictures to his friends. He has a number of jobs with Clayton National School.For example, he would inscribe his photo in Old English: "Italy Travel Photo Rev. E. B. Gabitas".It seems that this is why he lives, travels, and stands in the world for this reason, and this is his only real pleasure.With the help of blackout lights, I can see his small, angular nose, his slightly pale eyes behind spectacles, and his mouth shrunken by hard work. My mother let me into the house.She looked at me and said nothing.Because she knew something must have happened, and she also knew that even asking what happened couldn't be repaired. "Good night, Mom," I said, and kissed her a little casually. I lit the candle, and holding it at once, went out and went upstairs to bed.I didn't look back at her. "I've got supper for you, too, dear." "I don't want to eat." "But, honey..." "Good night, Mom." I went upstairs, slammed the door, blew out the candle, and lay down on the bed.After a long time, I got up and took off my clothes. There are often times like this when my mother's silent pleading face irritates me.That is indescribable.That was it that night.I feel like I have to fight this.If I don't fight and give in, I won't be able to survive.This thing hurts me, divides me, and I barely have enough patience to resist it.Obviously, for me, I had to think hard about religious issues, social issues, behavioral issues, and political issues for myself.My mother's poor simplicity of faith did nothing to help me. She couldn't understand it at all.Her belief is that people have embraced religion.Her only thought was blind obedience to established order, law, and obedience to all respected beings who are more powerful than we are.For her, freedom of belief was unimaginable.Although I often went to church with her, she already knew from various signs that I was gradually letting go of the things that had dominated her life and embracing some terrible unknowns.I dare say she could have guessed in many ways the veils I was doing; she had sensed my socialism, my spiritual rebellion against the established system; I have serious dissatisfaction with everything she considers sacrosanct.And yet, you know, her desire to protect God is nowhere near what I want to do.She always seemed to say to me, "Honey, I know it's hard. But it's harder to overthrow it. Don't fight it, honey, don't do it! Don't do anything against it. I believe that if you Violate it, and it will surely hurt you; if you violate it, it will surely hurt you." Like many women of the time, afflicted by the brutal brutality of the existing order Intimidated, she was terrified, conquered.It twisted her body and mind, made her prematurely old, and made her old eyes dim, so at the age of 55, she could only stare at my face through cheap reading glasses.Her eyes were dull and blurred, with her usual apprehension.Look at her hands again, those poor hands!In all the world you will never find a woman whose hands are so dirty, deformed by toil, so rough, cracked like bark...  In a word, it is because of this that I can say to myself that my struggle with this world and destiny is not only for myself, but also for her. That night, however, I pushed my way past her, answered her questions impatiently, left her in the hallway, and slammed the door behind me. For a long time I was angry at the misery and sin of life, at Rawdon's insults, at the callousness of Nettie's letter, at my weakness and lowliness, at what I could not stand and what I could not bear. Outraged by what he did.Nettie, Lawton, my mother, Gabitas...they kept coming to my mind over and over and exhausted me.I couldn't stop the ensuing annoyances. Suddenly, I felt emotionally drained.In the middle of the night, I heard the bell strike.I remember vividly standing up suddenly, undressing quickly in the dark, barely touching the pillow before falling asleep. However, I don't know how my mother fell asleep that night. Strangely enough, I never reproached myself for my behavior towards my mother, although I strongly reproached myself for my arrogance towards Parod. I now realize that my push past my mother, my irresponsible departure, and my silent introspection epitomize the rigidity of the mother-child relationship in this era.