钻进被窝，鼻子这时候更加发酸了，我知道自己不幸又要重感冒。呼，我憎恨这个冬天。心脏乱跳，我几乎都能听见，间隙上来一阵阵呕吐的冲动，我的视线僵直对着窗帘，越发模糊不清却像被钉住了一样移不开。发了狠似的使自己一下又猛地坐起来，使劲拍打自己的脑袋，大口吸凉气，好像刚刚被什么东西附体了，几乎喘不上来气。我该做点什么吧，可我莫名其妙地讨厌QQ，也不爱看电视，字也看不下去一个，我的耳朵也累了。走出这个屋子是寒冷，寒冷。
回家的路上我就感觉到体内的某些暗示和信号，我的嗓门被分裂成两个人的，他们总是异口同声地说话。把自己腌泡进满载乘客的各种车里，我竭力在车窗玻璃的昏暗背景中找到自己的影子。黑色口罩，灰色大衣和及膝的黑色皮靴，我像这夜色里一个捉摸不透的衍生物，随着地铁里发出的光在窗外飞驰，最后消失。
起初我一直在想离开55号楼时的那个跟我打招呼的人是谁，我完全想不起来，而他却像老朋友一样冲着我打招呼。后来我实在累了，觉得脑袋空荡荡，我想到原先我是真的希望能有部分记忆可以丢失掉，所以大概，这种愿望难免会带来些副作用。 转眼我的脑子里又穿插进了各种事件，各种我曾经见到过的美好的事物，像某个笑容，一件漂亮的外套，一处晃眼的景象，一碗冒热气的鸡汤。噢，我想要这个，我想要那个，可是我最后意识到我只是想要点温暖。
言之有理
Posted in 人物, 日本語, 记录 on by
「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
-－－－－－後藤春彦先生
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。
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。
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
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）
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。
对话
Posted in 日本語, 记录 on by
男孩问：“如果我对你说我爱你会怎样？”
她答道：“就像在明亮的房间里点燃蜡烛。”
少年： もしぼくはきみに「愛している。」といえば、きみがどうするの？
少女： 明るい部屋の中にろうそくに火をつけるのような。
她答道：“就像在明亮的房间里点燃蜡烛。”
少年： もしぼくはきみに「愛している。」といえば、きみがどうするの？
少女： 明るい部屋の中にろうそくに火をつけるのような。
养猫的男人..(转)
Posted in 记录 on by
喜欢猫，所以也对养猫的男人有好感。
Edward Norton也养猫。
“有一天我回家，一只猫刚好跟着我走进我的公寓。它全身都是虱子而且饿坏了。我用微波炉给它热了一条热狗，带它去看了兽医，从那以后它就再也没离开我。”
猫是一种把傲娇发挥到极致的生灵，要理解它们，爱护它们需要极端的细致和灵感。尤其是男人，养猫的更在少数。猫不像狗一样刻意讨好主人，所以大凡养猫的男人一般都有爱心有童心，而同时又个性独立。
夏衍，梁思成，基希洛夫斯基，海明威，钱钟书，老舍,季羡林都养猫...
就像他们的猫一样。即善良又乖戾，内心柔软却又特立独行。
Edward Norton也养猫。
“有一天我回家，一只猫刚好跟着我走进我的公寓。它全身都是虱子而且饿坏了。我用微波炉给它热了一条热狗，带它去看了兽医，从那以后它就再也没离开我。”
猫是一种把傲娇发挥到极致的生灵，要理解它们，爱护它们需要极端的细致和灵感。尤其是男人，养猫的更在少数。猫不像狗一样刻意讨好主人，所以大凡养猫的男人一般都有爱心有童心，而同时又个性独立。
夏衍，梁思成，基希洛夫斯基，海明威，钱钟书，老舍,季羡林都养猫...
就像他们的猫一样。即善良又乖戾，内心柔软却又特立独行。
Taxi Driver 1976
Posted in 光影, 记录 on by
Dialogues in this movie are really captivating. Also it's a heartquaking movie of Martin Scorsese's another masterpiece.I chose two or three scenes impressed me most was the Robert De Niro's soliloquy. That was truest disconsolately...... May 10. Thank God for the rain...
which has helped wash away the garbage and trash off the sidewalks.
I'm working long hours now.
Six days a week, sometimes seven days a week.
It's a long hustle, but if keeps me real busy.
I can take in a week, sometimes more when I do if off the meter.
All the animals come out at night.
Whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies.
Sick, venal.
Someday a real rain will come and wash this scum off the streets.
I go all over. I take people to the Bronx, Brooklyn, to Harlem.
I don't care. Don't make no difference to me.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Twelve hours of work, and I still can't sleep.Damn!
The days go on and on. They don't end.
All my life needed was a sense of someplace to go.
I don't believe that one should devote his life to morbid self-attention.
I believe that someone should become a person like other people.
I think it's a total of campaign buttons.
Now, all the ones we had before...
our slogan is "We are the people," and "are" is underlined.
These new buttons have "we" underlined.
That reads "We are the people."
There's a difference.
"We are the people" is not the same as "We are the people."
Let's not fight.
Look, we'll make it real simple.
We don't pay for the buttons. We throw the buttons away, all right?
Come here a minute.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
You talkin' to me?You talkin' to me?
You talkin' to me?
Then who the hell else are you talking-- You talking to me?
Well, I'm the only one here.
Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?
Oh, yeah?
Listen, you fuckers, you screw-heads.
Here is a man who would not take if anymore.
Who would not let--
Listen, you fuckers, you screw-heads.
Here is a man who would not take if anymore.
A man who stood up against the scum...
the cunts, the dogs, the fifth, the shit.
Here is someone who stood up.
直面过的惨淡人生
Posted in jast saying, 人物, 记录 on by
昨看到93年的时候MJ“娈童案”的主角突然站出来澄清事实的新闻，我着实冷笑了一下。不知道别人是怎么看待这件事，对我来说，这只是可悲的一部分。对MJ的突然离世，我称不上震惊、悲痛或怎么样，我对他生前媒体对之的林林总总也没有过分地关心。但即使这样，我也不能回避他有如上帝之子的巨星形象，他成就了一代人的经典，即使你跟他没什么关系也改变不了这个事实。
在这样是非莫辩、物欲浮华的年代，作为领袖的私生活是最值得考究的。MJ也明白这一点：不可控制的社会舆论。他自己就是个从来没得到过真正理解的孩子，孤独从未停止过。在MJ的自传里他的童年并不幸福，他有个被他形容为“最卑鄙”的父亲，十岁开始的夜总会生活使这个孩子饱经了各种世道的黑暗和丑陋面。他对父亲的憎恨使他更加憎恨自己，自卑和内疚感始终攫住他。MJ一直在做的就是要改变这一切，包括自己的人生，甚至自己的面容。还有他认为一个孩子本该拥有的尊重和爱。
成事者必纯粹，他的强大其实不难理解，逆境中的强烈愿望燃烧着他——Heal the world, We are the world, You are not alone——他像神一样歌唱。 歌德曾经描述能写出最美情诗的人内心却是痛苦与哭泣。比如海涅那样单纯而又敏感的诗人，一次爱情就可以让他写一辈子爱情诗。MJ造就的里程碑背后所藏匿的关于心灵和身体上的脆弱大抵也是如此罢。期望弥补这个世界曾对他的不公，没想一路的痴茫，与现实抗争的人生都是不可思议和充满危险。他所爱的却伤害之最深。
有不少这样的例子，当他们成为明星拥有了巨大财富，转变他们手中觉得愚蠢无比的金钱为世界做出意义的时候，我们才有机会去触碰到他们反差的内心世界。我联想到了Angelina Jolie，很强大很女神。从小Angelina Jolie爱把自己装扮成朋克女，叛逆无度放浪形骸，好刺青玩双性恋，用刀片自虐，迷恋死亡学... 用表现尖锐的个性来颠覆自己备受冷漠的存在感。她生活在单亲家庭，同样憎恨她的父亲，也同样在好莱坞成名的今天对贫民窟的孩子们表现出无条件的爱——除一生的自我求证，这些活在他人眼光里的明星在孩子们面前才真正回归成他们自己。
活法
Posted in 人物, 记录 on by
今早电车上读到稻盛和夫的人生观，发现此人很相信意念的力量，他觉得人生的前景是跟着强大的信念走的，你越逃避的事情就越会发生在你的身上，这完全归结于意念的惩罚。当中举例他当时怎样预测到手机时代的到来，并准确预测到了合同价格，将来每月的基本话费是多少。这种"预见能力"，稻盛和夫先生解释为首先要把它提高到一个强烈的愿望，直到你能"看得见"成功的意象。
有点像神话了。我觉得尊敬的稻盛和夫先生他具备的才能是他的那套哲学和思维方式，这套冷静坚韧的处事原则促使他能窥见到事物发展的客观规律，并准确判断周遭的动态并作出精准的判断。但我相信他的一个中心思想，首先一定要有梦想这个前提，这是超越现实，接近成功的原动力。我很喜欢他描写"强烈愿望"的一段话：全身上下从头顶到脚尖都充溢着这个愿望，就好比是身体划破后流出来的是"愿望"而不是血液一样。
有点像神话了。我觉得尊敬的稻盛和夫先生他具备的才能是他的那套哲学和思维方式，这套冷静坚韧的处事原则促使他能窥见到事物发展的客观规律，并准确判断周遭的动态并作出精准的判断。但我相信他的一个中心思想，首先一定要有梦想这个前提，这是超越现实，接近成功的原动力。我很喜欢他描写"强烈愿望"的一段话：全身上下从头顶到脚尖都充溢着这个愿望，就好比是身体划破后流出来的是"愿望"而不是血液一样。
Thanks
Posted in 写真, 模样, 记录 on by
迄今爲止的一切，感謝愛我的人们，感謝上帝!
--------Birthday presents, hahaa, thanks~~~~:)
--------Birthday presents, hahaa, thanks~~~~:)
我爱这土地,可是..
Posted in 记录 on by
我爱这土地
作者：艾青
假如我是一只鸟，
我也应该用嘶哑的喉咙歌唱：
这被暴风雨所打击着的土地，
这永远汹涌着我们的悲愤的河流，
这无止息地吹刮着的激怒的风，
和那来自林间的无比温柔的黎明… …——然后我死去，
连羽毛也腐烂在土地里面。
为什么我的眼里常含泪水？
因为我对这土地爱得深沉… …
作者：艾青
假如我是一只鸟，
我也应该用嘶哑的喉咙歌唱：
这被暴风雨所打击着的土地，
这永远汹涌着我们的悲愤的河流，
这无止息地吹刮着的激怒的风，
和那来自林间的无比温柔的黎明… …——然后我死去，
连羽毛也腐烂在土地里面。
为什么我的眼里常含泪水？
因为我对这土地爱得深沉… …
瓷器王国里假戏被真做
Posted in jast saying, 记录 on by
发色变黑，像墨水一样深。因困惑而隐藏着攻击性，四溅的惊叫。报纸上身段妖娆的模特，铅字印刷的罗马字朝你狞笑，有各种宪章和条约供你自由挑选，别过头争夺新乐园，制造麻烦。趣味上的缺陷，流行标语：大脑流失。重温旧梦，发明被退化取代，朦胧的脸庞，被代表，个体隐藏，拨不开的谜堆积沉淀，金字塔不在尼罗河畔。
金鱼突然肥胖，就像真菌繁殖。不费吹灰之力塑造新形象，冬日的熊熊火焰下，万人同庆。没睡醒，畅游在迷彩服中，保护色的威力大过于冰冷器械。皲裂的皮肤，一筹莫展的眼神，大地刻满皱纹，胸口干涸。N周年，伤害你最爱的人，笑脸跌落，死亡来临。
金鱼突然肥胖，就像真菌繁殖。不费吹灰之力塑造新形象，冬日的熊熊火焰下，万人同庆。没睡醒，畅游在迷彩服中，保护色的威力大过于冰冷器械。皲裂的皮肤，一筹莫展的眼神，大地刻满皱纹，胸口干涸。N周年，伤害你最爱的人，笑脸跌落，死亡来临。
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