That is the best part of beauty, which a picture cannot express; no nor the first sight of the life.
美之极致，非图画所能表，乍见所能识。
The darkness had texture and weight like a blanket of black. The silence had no expectancy. I sat brooding sombrely, drained of all sunlight and song. The world of birds and trees and laughter was as remote as a star(Alan Marshall 341). Endless stillness swarmed into my mind. Only the silhouette under the plum tree ringed in my heart, again and again. I felt keenly aware that I through to the winter of Qing once more.
I strode on the field of the palace, which carped with whiteness as if thousands of pear trees suddenly turned out in full blossom overnight in the spring breeze. The moon cast two or three squarish patches of light penetrating through the lowering veiled sky to the field. I could hear the rustling of the wind which stirred up the fallen leaves into the slightly damp air. And the snowflakes danced as light as feather in the sky. When I extended my hands to catch it, nothing could be grasped, only the coolness. I stared into space and saw nothing, only a tightness at my heart and throat, nothing else. Only the emptiness and loneliness. No unhappiness. Just alone. Unable to think or feel.(Peter III,1)
I kept walking on my way but allured by a crimson silhouette who was dancing under the plum tree that against cold white blossomed alone. Not realized the sparkle of the rosy petals on the whiteness until the light faint fragrances flew through air. As I lift my eyes again, she turned her head. I wanted to speak, but shipful words choked in my throat. All the flattery words were out of work at this moment. Her dimpled smile was peach-blossom in spring, her blue black hair a cluster of clouds. Her lips were cherries and sweat the breath from her pomegranate teeth. As if she outshone in six places the fairest face. She danced in and out of the falling petals, as a spirit, flowing under the tree. During each dance, the fairy sleeves floated with the movement of steps, the plum petals and light snow on the branches swaying through her forehead, and fell on her sleeves and skirts. All the beauties of days gone by by her beauty are all abashed. Where was she born, and from whence descended?(曹雪芹41)
I wanted to know more about her, and kept walking forward to appreciate this clearly. But the more I walked forward, the more she ran forward, and finally disappeared in the open air. When I reached out my hands to grab her with all my strength, but only one corner of the quilt was grabbed in my hand, and I realized that I was still lying on my bed in my bedroom.
Refrences:
Alan Marshall, Trees Can Speak, P.341.
Peter Abrahams, The Path of Thunfer, III, 1.
曹雪芹,《红楼梦》, p41.
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