「建築を志す人こそ、発想や思想の言語化を大切にしなくてはならない。「はじめに言葉ありき」。言葉にならなくては集団で創作することが非常に困難になる。自己表現の成果が、普遍性、客観性をもつものとはなりにくい。 言葉は底知れぬ力を有している。まあ、「本を読みなさい」ということなのかな？」
-－－－－－後藤春彦先生
blah blah
Posted in jast saying on by
为什么这么激昂了？在牢笼和走出牢笼的两个自己非要互掐脖子吗？一个对另一个说，你只是有比较多的时间罢了，如果我明天就自寻死路，你就能因为正义和博大而取笑我了吗？你这个过河拆桥的伪君子。不停地将我磨损啊，死神！十年后的你又懂什么是美了吗，走到较远的地方也还是不比走得更远看得更清楚，轮廓或者细节，哪个更有趣？你仰望星空的时候一定觉得那就是美吧！老天会怎么想？老天怎么会考虑到你？你这个可怜的小东西。那些衣服都可以捐献给灾区难民了吧？地方都没了。或者挑几件复古的经典样式好出来赶个潮流什么的？钱都到哪里去了？有一种越在乎钱就越要花掉的冲动，因为恨这种太过在乎的感受，消灭这种感受比身无分文来得更重要，又能怎么样，会怎么样呢？你认为自己就是一辆值钱的法拉利吗？我通常不明白汽车的品牌，它们看起来就是用来塞马路的，如果我在中间跑一定会恨到牙痒痒，我还有急事，还有急事啊！！
Which Was the Happiest?
Posted in 人物, 记录 on by
"Such lovely roses!" said the Sunshine. "And each bud will soon burst in bloom and be equally beautiful. These are my children. It is I who have kissed them to life."
"They are my children," said the Dew. "It is I who have nourished them with my tears."
"I should think I am their mother," the Rose Bush said. "You and Sunshine are only their godmothers, who have made them presents in keeping with your means and your good will."
"My lovely Rose children!" they exclaimed, all three. They wished each flower to have the greatest happiness. But only one could be the happiest, and one must be the least happy. But which of them?
"I'll find out," said the Wind. "I roam far and wide. I find my way into the tiniest crevices. I know everything, inside and out."
Each rose in bloom heard his words, and each growing bud understood them.
Just then a sad devoted mother, in deep mourning, walked through the garden. She picked one of the roses; it was only half-blown but fresh and full. To her it seemed the loveliest of them all, and she took it to her quiet, silent room, where only a few days past her cheerful and lively young daughter had merrily tripped to and fro. Now she lay in the black coffin, as lifeless as a sleeping marble figure. The mother kissed her departed daughter. Then she kissed the half-blown rose, and laid it on the young girl's breast, as if by its freshness, and by the fond kiss of a mother, her beloved child's heart might again begin to beat.
The rose seemed to expand. Every petal trembled with joy. "What a lovely way has been set for me to go," it said. "Like a human child, I am given a mother's kiss and her blessing as I go to the blessed land unknown, dreaming upon the breast of Death's pale angel.
"Surely I am the happiest of all my sisters."
In the garden where the Rose Bush grew, walked an old woman whose business it was to weed the flower beds. She also looked at the beautiful bush, with especial interest in the largest full-blown rose. One more fall of dew, one more warm day, and its petals would shatter. When the old woman saw this she said that the rose had lived long enough for beauty, and that now she intended to put it to practical use. Then she picked it, wrapped it in old newspaper, and took it home, where she put it with other faded roses and those blue boys they call lavender, in a potpouri, embalmed in salt. Mind you, embalmed - an honor granted only to roses and kings.
"I will be the most highly honored," the rose declared, as the old weed puller took her. "I am the happiest one, for I am to be embalmed."
Then two young men came strolling through the garden. One was a painter; the other was a poet. Each plucked a rose most fair to see. The painter put upon canvas a likeness of the rose in bloom, a picture so perfect and so lovely that the rose itself supposed it must be looking into a mirror.
"In this way," said the painter, "it shall live on, for generations upon generations, while countless other roses fade and die."
"Ah!" said the rose, "after all, it is I who have been most highly favored. I had the best luck of all."
But the poet looked at his rose, and wrote a poem about it to express the mystery of love. Yes, his book was a complete picture of love. It was a piece of immortal verse.
"This book has made me immortal," the rose said. "I am the most fortunate one."
In the midst of these splendid roses was one whom the others hid almost completely. By accident, and perhaps by good fortune, it had a slight defect. It sat slightly askew on its stem, and the leaves on one side of it did not match those on the other. Moreover, in the very heart of the flower grew a crippled leaf, small and green.
Such things happen, even to roses.
"Poor child," said the Wind, and kissed its cheek. The rose took this kiss for one of welcome and tribute. It had a feeling that it was made differently from the other roses, and that the green leaf growing in the heart of it was a mark of distinction. A butterfly fluttered down and kissed its petals. It was a suitor, but the rose let him fly away. Then a tremendously big grasshopper came, seated himself on a rose near-by, and rubbed his shins. Strangely enough, among grasshoppers this is a token of affection.
The rose on which he perched did not understand it that way, but the one with the green crippled leaf did, for the big grasshopper looked at her with eyes that clearly meant, "I love you so much I could eat you." Surely this is as far as love can go, when one becomes part of another. But the rose was not taken in, and flatly refused to become one with this jumping fop. Then, in the starlit night a nightingale sang.
"He is singing just for me," said the rose with the blemish, or with the mark of distinction as she considered it. "Why am I so honored, above all my sisters? Why was I given this peculiarity - which makes me the luckiest one?"
Next to appear in the garden were two gentlemen, smoking their cigars. They spoke about roses and about tobacco. Roses, they say, are not supposed to stand tobacco smoke; it fades them and turns them green. This was to be tested, but the gentlemen would not take it upon themselves to try it out on the more perfect roses.
They tried it on the one with the defect.
"Ah ha! a new honor," the rose said. "I am lucky indeed - the luckiest of all." And she turned green with conceit and tobacco smoke.
One rose, little more than a bud but perhaps the loveliest one on the bush, was chosen by the gardener for the place of honor in an artistically tied bouquet. It was taken to the proud young heir of the household, and rode beside him in his coach. Among other fragrant flowers and beautiful green leaves it sat in all its glory, sharing in the splendor of the festivities. Gentlemen and ladies, superbly dressed, sat there in the light of a thousand lamps as the music played. The theater was so brilliantly illuminated that it seemed a sea of light. Through it swept a storm of applause as a young dancer came upon the stage. One bouquet after another showered down, in a rain of flowers at her feet.
There fell the bouquet in which the lovely rose was set like a precious stone. The happiness it felt was complete, beyond any description. It felt all the honor and splendor around it, and as it touched the floor it fell to dancing too. The rose jumped for joy. It bounded across the stage at such a rate that it broke from its stem. The flower never came into the hands of the dancer. It rolled rapidly into the wings, where a stage hand picked it up. He saw how lovely and fragrant the rose was, but it had no stem. He pocketed it, and when he got home he put it in a wine glass filled with water. There the flower lay throughout the night, and early next morning it was placed beside his grandmother. Feeble and old, she sat in her easy chair and gazed at the lovely stemless rose that delighted her with its fragrance.
"You did not come to the fine table of a lady of fashion," she said.
"You came to a poor old woman. But to me you are like a whole rosebush. How lovely you are." Happy as a child, she gazed at the flower, and perhaps recalled the days of her own blooming youth that now had faded away.
"The window pane was cracked," said the Wind. "I got in without any trouble. I saw the old woman's eyes as bright as youth itself, and I saw the stemless but beautiful rose in the wine glass. Oh, it was the happiest of them all! I knew it! I could tell!"
Every rose on that bush in the garden had its own story. Each rose was convinced that it was the happiest one, and it is faith that makes us happy. But the last rose knew indeed that it was the happiest.
"I have outlasted them all," it said. "I am the last rose, the only one left, my mother's most cherished child!"
"And I am the mother of them all," the Rose Bush said.
"No, I am," said the Sunshine.
"And I," said the Dew.
"Each had a share in it," the Wind at last decided, "and each shall have a part of it." And then the Wind swept its leaves out over the hedge where the dew had fallen, and where the sun was shining.
"I have my share too," said the Wind. "I have the story of all the roses, and I shall spread it throughout the wide world. Tell me then, which was the happiest of them all? Yes, that you must tell, for I have said enough."
by Hans Christian Andersen 1868
"They are my children," said the Dew. "It is I who have nourished them with my tears."
"I should think I am their mother," the Rose Bush said. "You and Sunshine are only their godmothers, who have made them presents in keeping with your means and your good will."
"My lovely Rose children!" they exclaimed, all three. They wished each flower to have the greatest happiness. But only one could be the happiest, and one must be the least happy. But which of them?
"I'll find out," said the Wind. "I roam far and wide. I find my way into the tiniest crevices. I know everything, inside and out."
Each rose in bloom heard his words, and each growing bud understood them.
Just then a sad devoted mother, in deep mourning, walked through the garden. She picked one of the roses; it was only half-blown but fresh and full. To her it seemed the loveliest of them all, and she took it to her quiet, silent room, where only a few days past her cheerful and lively young daughter had merrily tripped to and fro. Now she lay in the black coffin, as lifeless as a sleeping marble figure. The mother kissed her departed daughter. Then she kissed the half-blown rose, and laid it on the young girl's breast, as if by its freshness, and by the fond kiss of a mother, her beloved child's heart might again begin to beat.
The rose seemed to expand. Every petal trembled with joy. "What a lovely way has been set for me to go," it said. "Like a human child, I am given a mother's kiss and her blessing as I go to the blessed land unknown, dreaming upon the breast of Death's pale angel.
"Surely I am the happiest of all my sisters."
In the garden where the Rose Bush grew, walked an old woman whose business it was to weed the flower beds. She also looked at the beautiful bush, with especial interest in the largest full-blown rose. One more fall of dew, one more warm day, and its petals would shatter. When the old woman saw this she said that the rose had lived long enough for beauty, and that now she intended to put it to practical use. Then she picked it, wrapped it in old newspaper, and took it home, where she put it with other faded roses and those blue boys they call lavender, in a potpouri, embalmed in salt. Mind you, embalmed - an honor granted only to roses and kings.
"I will be the most highly honored," the rose declared, as the old weed puller took her. "I am the happiest one, for I am to be embalmed."
Then two young men came strolling through the garden. One was a painter; the other was a poet. Each plucked a rose most fair to see. The painter put upon canvas a likeness of the rose in bloom, a picture so perfect and so lovely that the rose itself supposed it must be looking into a mirror.
"In this way," said the painter, "it shall live on, for generations upon generations, while countless other roses fade and die."
"Ah!" said the rose, "after all, it is I who have been most highly favored. I had the best luck of all."
But the poet looked at his rose, and wrote a poem about it to express the mystery of love. Yes, his book was a complete picture of love. It was a piece of immortal verse.
"This book has made me immortal," the rose said. "I am the most fortunate one."
In the midst of these splendid roses was one whom the others hid almost completely. By accident, and perhaps by good fortune, it had a slight defect. It sat slightly askew on its stem, and the leaves on one side of it did not match those on the other. Moreover, in the very heart of the flower grew a crippled leaf, small and green.
Such things happen, even to roses.
"Poor child," said the Wind, and kissed its cheek. The rose took this kiss for one of welcome and tribute. It had a feeling that it was made differently from the other roses, and that the green leaf growing in the heart of it was a mark of distinction. A butterfly fluttered down and kissed its petals. It was a suitor, but the rose let him fly away. Then a tremendously big grasshopper came, seated himself on a rose near-by, and rubbed his shins. Strangely enough, among grasshoppers this is a token of affection.
The rose on which he perched did not understand it that way, but the one with the green crippled leaf did, for the big grasshopper looked at her with eyes that clearly meant, "I love you so much I could eat you." Surely this is as far as love can go, when one becomes part of another. But the rose was not taken in, and flatly refused to become one with this jumping fop. Then, in the starlit night a nightingale sang.
"He is singing just for me," said the rose with the blemish, or with the mark of distinction as she considered it. "Why am I so honored, above all my sisters? Why was I given this peculiarity - which makes me the luckiest one?"
Next to appear in the garden were two gentlemen, smoking their cigars. They spoke about roses and about tobacco. Roses, they say, are not supposed to stand tobacco smoke; it fades them and turns them green. This was to be tested, but the gentlemen would not take it upon themselves to try it out on the more perfect roses.
They tried it on the one with the defect.
"Ah ha! a new honor," the rose said. "I am lucky indeed - the luckiest of all." And she turned green with conceit and tobacco smoke.
One rose, little more than a bud but perhaps the loveliest one on the bush, was chosen by the gardener for the place of honor in an artistically tied bouquet. It was taken to the proud young heir of the household, and rode beside him in his coach. Among other fragrant flowers and beautiful green leaves it sat in all its glory, sharing in the splendor of the festivities. Gentlemen and ladies, superbly dressed, sat there in the light of a thousand lamps as the music played. The theater was so brilliantly illuminated that it seemed a sea of light. Through it swept a storm of applause as a young dancer came upon the stage. One bouquet after another showered down, in a rain of flowers at her feet.
There fell the bouquet in which the lovely rose was set like a precious stone. The happiness it felt was complete, beyond any description. It felt all the honor and splendor around it, and as it touched the floor it fell to dancing too. The rose jumped for joy. It bounded across the stage at such a rate that it broke from its stem. The flower never came into the hands of the dancer. It rolled rapidly into the wings, where a stage hand picked it up. He saw how lovely and fragrant the rose was, but it had no stem. He pocketed it, and when he got home he put it in a wine glass filled with water. There the flower lay throughout the night, and early next morning it was placed beside his grandmother. Feeble and old, she sat in her easy chair and gazed at the lovely stemless rose that delighted her with its fragrance.
"You did not come to the fine table of a lady of fashion," she said.
"You came to a poor old woman. But to me you are like a whole rosebush. How lovely you are." Happy as a child, she gazed at the flower, and perhaps recalled the days of her own blooming youth that now had faded away.
"The window pane was cracked," said the Wind. "I got in without any trouble. I saw the old woman's eyes as bright as youth itself, and I saw the stemless but beautiful rose in the wine glass. Oh, it was the happiest of them all! I knew it! I could tell!"
Every rose on that bush in the garden had its own story. Each rose was convinced that it was the happiest one, and it is faith that makes us happy. But the last rose knew indeed that it was the happiest.
"I have outlasted them all," it said. "I am the last rose, the only one left, my mother's most cherished child!"
"And I am the mother of them all," the Rose Bush said.
"No, I am," said the Sunshine.
"And I," said the Dew.
"Each had a share in it," the Wind at last decided, "and each shall have a part of it." And then the Wind swept its leaves out over the hedge where the dew had fallen, and where the sun was shining.
"I have my share too," said the Wind. "I have the story of all the roses, and I shall spread it throughout the wide world. Tell me then, which was the happiest of them all? Yes, that you must tell, for I have said enough."
by Hans Christian Andersen 1868
breakfast and dinner
Posted in 食物, 记录 on by
今天的早餐和晚餐，蛋炒饭和意面。经过反省，我决定简化自己的备餐时间，以免给人很闲的假象。人多拥挤的地方，什么美食什么文学畅想都是天边的浮云，实际是我还在算计着下次交房租是什么时候。早餐只花了几分钟，晚上一回来开火把面煮上再说。
Merry Christmas Mr. Lawrence
Posted in 光影, 耳朵, 日本語 on by
David Bowie步履矫健，稳住暴戾的坂本龙一，上去就是两个简短有力且意味深长的吻，即压倒众生，特此留念（鲍叔啊你能不能不要这么帅，好几段看得我想哭又想笑）。大岛渚之残酷美学，荡漾于两个自恋且英俊的男角暧昧不清的关系间，留下了战场上的销魂几瞥。情感乃人类之死穴——“我的爱穿着一身被禁锢的色彩”，坂本龙一的原声做得动人唯美，像当初我看《末代皇帝》的时候那段跑出去喊Armo的悲怆场景，背景乐一上来就触动我的泪腺。北野武在青葱岁月的彼时尚且可爱，一开始对他有点误解，没想最后其实是这样一个温馨的角色，变态的温馨。David Bowieは迅速な歩で前に出って、横暴（おうぼう）している坂本に何も言わずに肩にかためて抱きついて、意味深長けれども、強くてシンプルな二つキースを顔の両側にした。我らはこういうシーンを見たら、本当に平気では入られなかったと思うよね。><（Bowie in some episodes was made me both laughing and wepting...）そして、ぬぼれている二人の曖昧な関係の間に大島渚の残酷美学をうこだますっていった。ただ、魂を奪われるぐらいシーンが戦場で余ってちゃった。情感と言うことは、本当に人間の弱点だと思う。「禁じられた色彩」の編曲が美しくて、当時「ラストエンペラー」の中にあって「走りながら叫んでいる悲しみ痛む」の一つepisodeを思い出しだ。このepisodeの背景樂を出てくれたと簡単に私の涙腺が緩ませたね。
若い頃の北野武がまた可愛いし、映画の初頭を見るとき彼に少しい誤解した、最終になると意外に性格がこんなに温かな人物だった。変態な優しいと思う。
今敏的世界
Posted in 光影, 人物 on by
今敏上个月去世，他所有的动画片我都看了过去。这位大师也是YY的高手，以致很多人回想到后来诸多精神分裂和关于梦解析的电影都离不开这位领军人物的点拨，不过这点上大可不必纠结。今敏的作品不像宫崎骏之类以孩童为视角展现出一个梦的世界，相反我觉得他的动画都非常成人化（阴暗成分，性暗示），而核心展现出的仍旧是孩童般不加限制的想象力，对精神解析的功力使其在立意上也要深刻细腻得多。另外今敏绝对是女人至上主义的，他所有的作品几乎都会由一个女神般的人物来充当主角。
按照我看片的次序，看到《未麻的部屋》的时候的确认为有大卫林奇的范儿。一个导演不一定要出片量多，但势必有强烈的个人风格可循。最为我钦佩的要属今敏的《红辣椒》，在制作上我认为是一部集他大成的作品，是最能代表今敏的作品，这个故事源于作家筒井康隆的一本书，筒井很想把这个故事拍成真人电影却苦于资金力量的欠缺，于是找到了今敏（其实如果这些动画能拍成真人的话也将是件非常了不起的事）。而要说最喜欢今敏的哪部作品则很难选择了。《东京教父》是我认为的最亲切温馨的一部，特别记得那个红色魔鬼与蓝色魔鬼的故事，还有那句“能够自由表达...是爱的源泉”。
to remember this
Posted in 记录 on by
Thomas Jefferson: “ How much pain has been caused by evils which have never happened! I expect the best, not the worst. I steer my ship with hope, leaving fear behind.”
感时泪溅花
Posted in 日本語, 记录 on by
「花火」－－－汪峰
这是一场没有结局的表演 ただ一部エンドレスのない演出だ。
包含所有荒谬和疯狂 荒唐無稽（こうとうむけ）で、狂気（きょうき）なものだ。
像个孩子一样满怀悲伤 まるで子供のように悲しいっぱい。
静悄悄地熟睡在大地上 ひっそりと静かで大地に寝ていった。
现在我有些倦了 もうちょっと疲れたなぁ。
倦得像一朵被风折断的野花 風で折っちゃった野花見たいので、
所以我开始变了 変わって
变得像一团滚动炽热的花 灼熱（しゃくれつ）のような花火になった。
看着眼前欢笑骄傲的人群 目の前に笑っている驕りの人間を見たと
心中泛起汹涌的浪花 心の中に波が沸き起こった。
跳着放荡的舞蹈穿行在旷野 放縦（ほうしょう）で踊りを踊って、広野をとおりぬけて、
感到狂野而破碎的辉煌 支離滅裂（しりめつれつ）な輝きになることを感じられた
现在我有些醉了 もうちょっと酔っ払ったなぁ
醉得像一只找不到方向的野鸽 迷っているハトのように
所以我开始变了 変わって
变得像一团暴烈炽热的花火 焼け付くような花火になった。
蓝色的梦睡在静静驶过的小车里 青色の夢が静かで通ってる車両の中に寝ていて、
漂亮的孩子迷失在小路上 きれいな子供が道に迷って
这是一个永恒美丽的生活 これは美しい永遠な生活の話であって、
没有眼泪没有哀伤 涙もなし、哀愁もなし。
------------------------------------
令人感动的歌词，试着用浅显的词汇来翻译。
这是一场没有结局的表演 ただ一部エンドレスのない演出だ。
包含所有荒谬和疯狂 荒唐無稽（こうとうむけ）で、狂気（きょうき）なものだ。
像个孩子一样满怀悲伤 まるで子供のように悲しいっぱい。
静悄悄地熟睡在大地上 ひっそりと静かで大地に寝ていった。
现在我有些倦了 もうちょっと疲れたなぁ。
倦得像一朵被风折断的野花 風で折っちゃった野花見たいので、
所以我开始变了 変わって
变得像一团滚动炽热的花 灼熱（しゃくれつ）のような花火になった。
看着眼前欢笑骄傲的人群 目の前に笑っている驕りの人間を見たと
心中泛起汹涌的浪花 心の中に波が沸き起こった。
跳着放荡的舞蹈穿行在旷野 放縦（ほうしょう）で踊りを踊って、広野をとおりぬけて、
感到狂野而破碎的辉煌 支離滅裂（しりめつれつ）な輝きになることを感じられた
现在我有些醉了 もうちょっと酔っ払ったなぁ
醉得像一只找不到方向的野鸽 迷っているハトのように
所以我开始变了 変わって
变得像一团暴烈炽热的花火 焼け付くような花火になった。
蓝色的梦睡在静静驶过的小车里 青色の夢が静かで通ってる車両の中に寝ていて、
漂亮的孩子迷失在小路上 きれいな子供が道に迷って
这是一个永恒美丽的生活 これは美しい永遠な生活の話であって、
没有眼泪没有哀伤 涙もなし、哀愁もなし。
------------------------------------
令人感动的歌词，试着用浅显的词汇来翻译。
it's puzzled me
Posted in 玩意 on by
1 x 8 + 1= 9
12 x 8 + 2= 98
123 x 8 + 3= 987
1234 x 8 + 4= 9876
12345 x 8 + 5= 98765
123456 x 8 + 6= 987654
1234567 x 8 + 7= 9876543
12345678 x 8 + 8= 98765432
123456789 x 8 + 9= 987654321
这是怎么回事？
12 x 8 + 2= 98
123 x 8 + 3= 987
1234 x 8 + 4= 9876
12345 x 8 + 5= 98765
123456 x 8 + 6= 987654
1234567 x 8 + 7= 9876543
12345678 x 8 + 8= 98765432
123456789 x 8 + 9= 987654321
这是怎么回事？
hongkong is awesome
Posted in 玩意, 写真, 记录 on by
hongkong is just like an old style fashion lady and the very comprehensive character makes her so friendliness~
everybody there speak English,life is convenient,the agricultural commodities are abundant, but there also has a high humidity level(sometimes 81% in June)
really impressed me deeply.
photos are all here:
flickr
everybody there speak English,life is convenient,the agricultural commodities are abundant, but there also has a high humidity level(sometimes 81% in June)
really impressed me deeply.
photos are all here:
flickr
Stricken City
Posted in jast saying, 日本語 on by
在都市居住的人们，对“拆”这个字太熟悉了。大红或大黑的粗笔，写上斗大的“拆”字再画个圈，也许是那个字写得多了，笔画之间孔武有力，特别是最后那个点，无一例外地点出了官威霸气。用力透纸背来形容是远远不够的，那叫“力透墙背”，要不了多久写着“拆”的墙就会轰然倒地。当然伴随着轰然，有笑有哭，有赚有赔，有赞有骂，有生有灭……。
漢字「拆」とは、取り除く、壊す意味である。この字に対して、都市で住んでいる我が国の人たちが熟知しているに違いないでしょう。真紅や真っ黒の粗い筆で、先「拆」を書いて、そして外側に丸をひとつ画き囲むのだ。この字ばかり書くかもしれないが、画数の間に、気持ちに適度な張りと余裕があるだけではなく、役人の貫ろくも感じられた。特に、最後の点、強い力が紙から透き通って見えることはとても形容できるものではなく、「壁こそから透き通る」ぐらいだ。ほどなく、書いた字の壁はごう然崩れるとともに、笑ったり泣いたり、儲けたり償ったり、ほめたりしかったり、生きたりなくしたり。。。のだ。
漢字「拆」とは、取り除く、壊す意味である。この字に対して、都市で住んでいる我が国の人たちが熟知しているに違いないでしょう。真紅や真っ黒の粗い筆で、先「拆」を書いて、そして外側に丸をひとつ画き囲むのだ。この字ばかり書くかもしれないが、画数の間に、気持ちに適度な張りと余裕があるだけではなく、役人の貫ろくも感じられた。特に、最後の点、強い力が紙から透き通って見えることはとても形容できるものではなく、「壁こそから透き通る」ぐらいだ。ほどなく、書いた字の壁はごう然崩れるとともに、笑ったり泣いたり、儲けたり償ったり、ほめたりしかったり、生きたりなくしたり。。。のだ。
sherilyn fenn by gene lumie
Posted in 人物, 美剧 on by
you have no idea about how i love this dorama and sherilyn fenn~
我想是因为我爱生活吧
Posted in 人物, 记录 on by
继续摘 毛姆<人生的枷锁>
菲利普是靠理性来欣赏作品的。他不由得暗自感叹：假如他身上也有那种所谓"艺术家的气质"（他讨厌这个用语，可又想不出别的说法），他就会像他们那样，也能借助感情而不靠推理来获得美的感受。他感到自己毫无匠心，不堪造就。他是用脑子来作画的。
"干吗不干了呢？" 菲利普沉吟了片刻。"我想是因为我爱生活吧。"
............
"哦，亲爱的老弟，要是你想做个正人君子，就千万别当艺术家。两者是水火不相容的。你听说过有些人为了赡养老母，不惜粗制滥造些无聊作品来骗取钱财—— 唔，这表明他们是克尽孝道的好儿子，但这可不能成为粗制滥造的理由。他们只能算是生意人。真正的艺术家宁可把自己的老娘往济贫院里送。我认识这儿的一个作家。有一回他告诉我，他老婆在分娩时不幸去世了。他爱妻的死，使他悲痛欲绝；但是当他坐在床沿上守护奄奄一息的爱妻时，他发现自己竟然在打腹稿，默默记下她弥留时的脸部表情、她临终前的遗言以及自己当时的切身感受。"
"要时时刻刻为生计操心，世上再没有什么比这更丢脸的了。那些视金钱如粪土的人，我就最瞧不起。他们不是伪君子就是傻瓜。金钱好比第六感官，少了它，就别想让其余的五种感官充分发挥作用。没有足够的收入，生活的希望就被截去了一半。你常听到人们说，穷困是对艺术家最有力的鞭策。唱这种高调的人，自己从来没有亲身尝过穷困的滋味。他们不知道穷困会使你变得多么卑贱。它使你蒙受没完没了的羞辱，甚至像癌一样地吞噬你的灵魂。艺术家要求的并非是财富本身，而是财富提供的保障：有了它，就可以维持个人尊严，工作不受阻挠，做个慷慨、率直、保持住独立人格的人。" （第五十一章）
菲利普是靠理性来欣赏作品的。他不由得暗自感叹：假如他身上也有那种所谓"艺术家的气质"（他讨厌这个用语，可又想不出别的说法），他就会像他们那样，也能借助感情而不靠推理来获得美的感受。他感到自己毫无匠心，不堪造就。他是用脑子来作画的。
"干吗不干了呢？" 菲利普沉吟了片刻。"我想是因为我爱生活吧。"
............
"哦，亲爱的老弟，要是你想做个正人君子，就千万别当艺术家。两者是水火不相容的。你听说过有些人为了赡养老母，不惜粗制滥造些无聊作品来骗取钱财—— 唔，这表明他们是克尽孝道的好儿子，但这可不能成为粗制滥造的理由。他们只能算是生意人。真正的艺术家宁可把自己的老娘往济贫院里送。我认识这儿的一个作家。有一回他告诉我，他老婆在分娩时不幸去世了。他爱妻的死，使他悲痛欲绝；但是当他坐在床沿上守护奄奄一息的爱妻时，他发现自己竟然在打腹稿，默默记下她弥留时的脸部表情、她临终前的遗言以及自己当时的切身感受。"
"要时时刻刻为生计操心，世上再没有什么比这更丢脸的了。那些视金钱如粪土的人，我就最瞧不起。他们不是伪君子就是傻瓜。金钱好比第六感官，少了它，就别想让其余的五种感官充分发挥作用。没有足够的收入，生活的希望就被截去了一半。你常听到人们说，穷困是对艺术家最有力的鞭策。唱这种高调的人，自己从来没有亲身尝过穷困的滋味。他们不知道穷困会使你变得多么卑贱。它使你蒙受没完没了的羞辱，甚至像癌一样地吞噬你的灵魂。艺术家要求的并非是财富本身，而是财富提供的保障：有了它，就可以维持个人尊严，工作不受阻挠，做个慷慨、率直、保持住独立人格的人。" （第五十一章）
no answer
Posted in 日本語, 记录 on by
＜Of Human Bondage＞ by William Somerset Maugham
所谓"青春多幸福"的说法，不过是一种幻觉，是青春已逝的人们的一种幻觉；而年轻人知道自己是不幸的，因为他们充满了不切实际的幻想，全是从外部灌输到他们头脑里去的，每当他们同实际接触时，他们总是碰得头破血流。看来，他们似乎成了一场共谋的牺牲品，因为他们所读过的书籍（由于经过必然的淘汰，留存下来的都是尽善至美的），还有长辈之间的交谈（他们是透过健忘的玫瑰色烟雾来回首往事的），都为他们开拓了一个虚假的生活前景。年轻人得靠自己去发现：过去念到过的书，过去听到过的话，全是谎言，谎言，谎言；而且每一次的发现，又无异是往那具已被钉在生活十字架上的身躯再打入一根钉子。不可思议的是，大凡每个经历过痛苦幻灭的人，由于受到内心那股抑制不住的强劲力量的驱使，又总是有意无意地再给现实生活添上一层虚幻的色彩。
对于菲利普来说，世上再不会有比与海沃德为伍更糟糕的事了。海沃德这个人是带着十足的书生气来观察周围一切的，没有一丁点儿自己的看法；他很危险，是因为他欺骗自己，达到了真心诚意的地步。他真诚地错把自己的肉欲当作浪漫的恋情，错把自己的优柔寡断视为艺术家的气质，还错把自己的无所事事看成哲人的超然物外。他心智平庸，却孜孜追求高尚娴雅，因而从他眼睛里望出去，所有的事物都蒙上了一层感伤的金色雾纱，轮廓模糊不清，结果就显得比实际的形象大些。他在撒谎，却从不知道自己在撒谎；当别人点破他时，他却说谎言是美的。（第二十九章）
「青春は幸せなものだ」と言うことは、ただ幻覚だ、青春をなくなった人たちの幻覚です。ところが、若者たちは現実離れした空想を持って、そして其の空想が外部から彼たちの頭に注ぎ込んでから、自分の不幸がよく知っています。現実をぶつかるたびに、さんざんなめにあいてしまいます。彼らを読んだ本（厳しくて選別して、残ったのは必然的よい本だ）や、そして、目上の人の間の話（彼たちはいつもバラ色みたい忘れっぽいな気持ちをもちながら、過ぎ去った出来事を回想して）など、このように彼らの前に見かけだけの未来を開拓されてしまいました。見たところ、彼らはまるでペテンにかかられたのいけにえとなりそうだではないでしょうか。若者たちはただ自分で発見したのは：其の前読んだ本、聞いた話、全部嘘です。其の上、毎回に発見したら、まるで生活の十字架で釘付けにした体の中にさらに一枚釘を打ったのようです。不思議なことは、およそこんな苦しみを嘗めた人が強くて抑えない力を強要させられると、すべて知らず知らずまた生活に幻の色を描いてしまいました。
Philipにとって、この世の中に、Haywardと仲間になるのよりまずいことがないですね。Haywardは、自らの考えは一切しないて、本の虫として身近に観察します。危ないので、自分を作った嘘を真剣に信じているのですから。彼は本心から自己の肉欲をロマンチックな恋情と見なして、優柔不断な性格を芸術家の気質と思って、そして、何もしない自分を浮世を避けた哲人と自慢します。もし嘘がばれてしまったら、かえって、嘘が美感のものではないのかといいました。（第二十九章）
所谓"青春多幸福"的说法，不过是一种幻觉，是青春已逝的人们的一种幻觉；而年轻人知道自己是不幸的，因为他们充满了不切实际的幻想，全是从外部灌输到他们头脑里去的，每当他们同实际接触时，他们总是碰得头破血流。看来，他们似乎成了一场共谋的牺牲品，因为他们所读过的书籍（由于经过必然的淘汰，留存下来的都是尽善至美的），还有长辈之间的交谈（他们是透过健忘的玫瑰色烟雾来回首往事的），都为他们开拓了一个虚假的生活前景。年轻人得靠自己去发现：过去念到过的书，过去听到过的话，全是谎言，谎言，谎言；而且每一次的发现，又无异是往那具已被钉在生活十字架上的身躯再打入一根钉子。不可思议的是，大凡每个经历过痛苦幻灭的人，由于受到内心那股抑制不住的强劲力量的驱使，又总是有意无意地再给现实生活添上一层虚幻的色彩。
对于菲利普来说，世上再不会有比与海沃德为伍更糟糕的事了。海沃德这个人是带着十足的书生气来观察周围一切的，没有一丁点儿自己的看法；他很危险，是因为他欺骗自己，达到了真心诚意的地步。他真诚地错把自己的肉欲当作浪漫的恋情，错把自己的优柔寡断视为艺术家的气质，还错把自己的无所事事看成哲人的超然物外。他心智平庸，却孜孜追求高尚娴雅，因而从他眼睛里望出去，所有的事物都蒙上了一层感伤的金色雾纱，轮廓模糊不清，结果就显得比实际的形象大些。他在撒谎，却从不知道自己在撒谎；当别人点破他时，他却说谎言是美的。（第二十九章）
「青春は幸せなものだ」と言うことは、ただ幻覚だ、青春をなくなった人たちの幻覚です。ところが、若者たちは現実離れした空想を持って、そして其の空想が外部から彼たちの頭に注ぎ込んでから、自分の不幸がよく知っています。現実をぶつかるたびに、さんざんなめにあいてしまいます。彼らを読んだ本（厳しくて選別して、残ったのは必然的よい本だ）や、そして、目上の人の間の話（彼たちはいつもバラ色みたい忘れっぽいな気持ちをもちながら、過ぎ去った出来事を回想して）など、このように彼らの前に見かけだけの未来を開拓されてしまいました。見たところ、彼らはまるでペテンにかかられたのいけにえとなりそうだではないでしょうか。若者たちはただ自分で発見したのは：其の前読んだ本、聞いた話、全部嘘です。其の上、毎回に発見したら、まるで生活の十字架で釘付けにした体の中にさらに一枚釘を打ったのようです。不思議なことは、およそこんな苦しみを嘗めた人が強くて抑えない力を強要させられると、すべて知らず知らずまた生活に幻の色を描いてしまいました。
Philipにとって、この世の中に、Haywardと仲間になるのよりまずいことがないですね。Haywardは、自らの考えは一切しないて、本の虫として身近に観察します。危ないので、自分を作った嘘を真剣に信じているのですから。彼は本心から自己の肉欲をロマンチックな恋情と見なして、優柔不断な性格を芸術家の気質と思って、そして、何もしない自分を浮世を避けた哲人と自慢します。もし嘘がばれてしまったら、かえって、嘘が美感のものではないのかといいました。（第二十九章）
cream of mushroom soup
Posted in 食物, 日本語 on by
今年の冬はす～こく長いかな～、god knows why! since from i came back to here, all i look forward to the return of spring. そして、暖かい服が全部杭州で置かせてっちゃうから、ある日、春の気持ちを持った私はカーテンを開くと、目を丸くになってしまったね。また、雪降ってたじゃん。あたしはむしろ春の日光に溺れてでも、ずるずる引き延ばすのは一番嫌だ。どこでも行きたくない、寒い～を言いわけにして、この天気のせいた、あなたのせいた。
这个冬天简直太长了，天知道是怎么回事。自从老家回了这里以后，我的所有期待就是春天。我把最暖和的衣服都留在了老家，没想过完元宵的那天早上，满怀春心的我一拉窗帘，当即傻了眼，又是一场雪啊！这种拖沓冗长的作风是我最不喜欢的，我宁愿一头马上溺死在春光里。哪也不想去，最先的借口就是外面冷，都怪这天气，都怪你。
夜、初めて作ったcream of mushroom soupがついに成功した。昼、せっかく日当たりがよいところ、スーぱに行って、食材などを買いだ。１本魚、１本肉、２（？）ヨーグルト。。。色々、さまざまな。外の寒い空気が吸いたくない、ほんとに悩んだな。
晚上我终于完成了第一份奶油蘑菇汤，中午趁阳光普照的时候去超市买了原料，还买了一大条鱼，一整块肉，两大袋酸奶...还有很多东西。我恨不得别再出去吸冷空气了，真是烦得要命。
这个冬天简直太长了，天知道是怎么回事。自从老家回了这里以后，我的所有期待就是春天。我把最暖和的衣服都留在了老家，没想过完元宵的那天早上，满怀春心的我一拉窗帘，当即傻了眼，又是一场雪啊！这种拖沓冗长的作风是我最不喜欢的，我宁愿一头马上溺死在春光里。哪也不想去，最先的借口就是外面冷，都怪这天气，都怪你。
夜、初めて作ったcream of mushroom soupがついに成功した。昼、せっかく日当たりがよいところ、スーぱに行って、食材などを買いだ。１本魚、１本肉、２（？）ヨーグルト。。。色々、さまざまな。外の寒い空気が吸いたくない、ほんとに悩んだな。
晚上我终于完成了第一份奶油蘑菇汤，中午趁阳光普照的时候去超市买了原料，还买了一大条鱼，一整块肉，两大袋酸奶...还有很多东西。我恨不得别再出去吸冷空气了，真是烦得要命。
发表会的尴尬
Posted in 日本語, 记录 on by
天气寒冷，在横滨这个日本暖流流经的东海岸城市，一场两年不遇的呼哧大雪出奇不意地降落，又转瞬在第二天的晴日下化作水气小天使。
上午，两个班一起举行了一个小型的日语发表会。按照抽签决定helen的出场是第15号，也是班里最后的一个，她安心地吐了口气，对 yijun眨眨眼。没错，这下毫无准备的她就有时间暗记内容，不至于被唐泽老师批得太惨了。yijun介绍得是台湾的饮品珍珠奶茶，这次发表还特意亲自煮了从台湾带来的珍珠给班里同学喝，helen打心底里就很喜欢这个做事总是井井有条，举止温和的同桌。在轮到helen心虚发表之时，很不幸台下已经聚集了其他3个班来听讲的几十个同学。helen委实无趣地讲解着关于螃蟹的食文化介绍，并假惺惺地邀请同学们在时间允许地情况下细致品味螃蟹的美味之后，又做样地回答了一个提问，终于在所有人都耐着性子因等待午饭时间已经过了10分钟而眼露杀气之前，helen嘀咕着谢天谢地，惩罚结束。这个耗了一上午的发表会于是在饥肠辘辘之下顺利谢幕。
上午，两个班一起举行了一个小型的日语发表会。按照抽签决定helen的出场是第15号，也是班里最后的一个，她安心地吐了口气，对 yijun眨眨眼。没错，这下毫无准备的她就有时间暗记内容，不至于被唐泽老师批得太惨了。yijun介绍得是台湾的饮品珍珠奶茶，这次发表还特意亲自煮了从台湾带来的珍珠给班里同学喝，helen打心底里就很喜欢这个做事总是井井有条，举止温和的同桌。在轮到helen心虚发表之时，很不幸台下已经聚集了其他3个班来听讲的几十个同学。helen委实无趣地讲解着关于螃蟹的食文化介绍，并假惺惺地邀请同学们在时间允许地情况下细致品味螃蟹的美味之后，又做样地回答了一个提问，终于在所有人都耐着性子因等待午饭时间已经过了10分钟而眼露杀气之前，helen嘀咕着谢天谢地，惩罚结束。这个耗了一上午的发表会于是在饥肠辘辘之下顺利谢幕。
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