A spot on the wall

About mid-January this year, I looked up and saw the spot on the wall for the first time. To determine which day it was, you have to recall what I saw at that time. Now I remember the fire in the stove, a yellow light shining motionlessly on my pages, and three chrysanthemums in the round glass jar on the fireplace. Yes, it must be winter. We just finished our tea because I remember smoking

I looked up and saw the spot on the wall for the first time. I looked through the smoke of cigarettes, my eyes rested on the red charcoal, and the illusion of a bright red flag flying over the castle tower came back to me. I thought of countless Red Knights riding up the side slope of the black rock in a flood. This spot interrupted my illusion and made me feel relieved, because it was a past illusion, an unconscious illusion, probably produced in childhood. The spot on the wall was a small round mark, dark black on the snow-white wall, about six or seven inches above the fireplace.

How easy it is for our minds to rush together, surrounded by a new thing, like a group of ants carrying a straw enthusiastically for a while, and then throwing it there... If this spot is the mark left by a nail, it must not be for hanging an oil painting, but for hanging a small portrait - a portrait of a lady with white powder on her curly hair, grease on her face and lips like red carnation. It's a fake, of course, and the previous tenants of the house would only choose one type of painting - the old house had to have an old-fashioned portrait to match it.

They are the kind of people - interesting people, and I often think of them in strange places, because no one will ever see them again, nor know what happened to them later. According to him, the family moved out of the house because they wanted to change a different kind of furniture. He was saying that, according to his idea, when the art should contain ideas, we broke up at once. It was like taking a train. We saw an old man in a roadside villa on the train. My wife was preparing to pour tea. A young man was raising his racket and playing tennis. As soon as the train passed, we broke up with the old lady and the young people and left them behind the train.

But I still couldn't figure out what the spot was; I thought, it didn't look like a nail. It's too big and round. I could have stood up, but even if I had stood up and looked at it, nine out of ten I could not tell what it was, because once something happened, no one could know how it happened. Alas, my God, how mysterious life is; how inaccurate thought is; how ignorant human beings are! To prove how uncontrollable we are to our private goods - how contingent our lives are compared with our civilization - I just need to list a few things that we have lost in our lives. Let's start with the three light blue cans with stapler tools, which are always the most mysterious missing items - which cat will bite them and which mouse will bite them?

And then there are the bird cages, iron skirt hoops, steel skates, Queen Ann's coal buckets, marbles stage. Hand organ - all lost, some jewelry, also lost. There are opalestones and emeralds, which are scattered near the root of turnips. How much effort they spent on saving up? I'm surrounded by weighty furniture, and I'm wearing a few clothes. It's a miracle. If you compare it to life, it's like being shot out of the subway at a speed of 50 miles an hour, and there's no hair pin left when you come out of the tunnel. Shoot naked at God's feet! Fall head-down and foot-down on the daffodil-filled prairie, like a bundle of brown paper bags thrown into the post office's delivery pipeline! Hair flying, like the tail of a horse racing. By the way, these analogies can express the speed of life, the endless consumption and repair; everything is so accidental, so coincidental.

What about the afterlife? The thick green stems were slowly pulled down and bent, the cup-shaped flowers overturned, and its purple and red light hung over people. Why on earth should a man be born here instead of there, unable to act, speak or concentrate his eyes, groping under the grass and between the giant's toes?

As for what is a tree, what is a man and a woman, or whether there is such a thing, people will not be able to say clearly in another fifty years. There's nothing else but a space full of light and darkness, with thick stems in the middle, and maybe even higher there are patches in the shape of roses that are not very clear in color - pale pink or blue. As time goes on, they will become clearer and clearer - I don't know. How about Tao?

But the spot on the wall is not a small hole. It's probably something dark, round, like a rose petal left over from summer, because I'm not a very vigilant Housekeeper - just look at the dust on the fireplace, which is said to have buried Troy three layers, with only a few broken pots. They can't be destroyed, which is completely believable.

The branches outside the window tapped softly on the glass... I hope I can think quietly, calmly and calmly. No one will disturb me. I don't need to stand up from my chair at all. I can easily think of it from this matter without feeling hostile or hindered. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, away from the hard individual facts on the surface. Let me hold on to my first fleeting thought... Shakespeare... That's right, whether it's him or someone else.

The man sat steadily in his armchair, gazing at the fire, and so a shower of ideas poured down from some very high heaven into his mind. He leaned his forehead on his hand, and people stood outside the open door and looked in --- let's suppose it happened on a summer evening --- but how dull all this historical fiction was! It didn't interest me at all. I hope I can come across a pleasant idea, which indirectly adds some luster to me. Such an idea is the most pleasant one. Even modest and gray people who sincerely believe that they do not like to be praised often have this idea in their minds. They don't flatter themselves directly. Here's the beauty. These ideas are as follows:

So I went into the house. They are talking about botany. I said I had seen a flower in the dust on the foundation of an old house in Kingsway. I said that the seed was mostly planted during Charles I's reign. What kind of flowers did people grow when Charles I was in office?"I asked -- (but I don't remember the answer) Maybe tall flowers with purple spikes. So I think about it. At the same time, I have been dressing up my image in my mind, caressing, secretly, rather than publicly worshipping it. Because if I did it openly, I would be caught by myself immediately, and I would immediately reach out and take a book to cover up myself. Strange to say, people always instinctively protect their image from being ridiculous by idolatry or some other way of dealing with it, or making it so different from the original that people don't believe it.

However, this fact may not be so strange? This question is extremely important. Suppose the mirror is broken, the image disappears, the romantic image and the dense green forest around it no longer exist, only the outer shell of the person that other people see - how dull, how shallow, how bare, how protruding the world will become! In such a world, there can be no life. When we sit face to face in buses and underground railways, we are looking in the mirror; that explains why our eyes are so dull and hazy. Future novelists will become more and more aware of the importance of these ideas, because they are not just an idea, but an infinite number of ideas; they explore the depths, pursue illusions, and increasingly exclude realistic depictions from their stories, believing that such knowledge is innate, as the Greeks think, or That's what Shakespeare Xu thought, too -- but that generalization is worthless.

Just listen and summarize the tone of the word. It reminds people of editorials, of cabinet ministers, of a whole set of things that people in childhood thought were orthodox, standard and real, and that everyone had to follow, otherwise they would run the risk of beating people in eighteen levels of hell. To sum up, it somehow reminds one of London's Sundays, Sunday afternoon walks, Sunday lunches, and also of the way people who have passed away speak, dress and habits, such as the habit of sitting together in a room until a certain hour, although nobody likes it. Everything has certain rules. At that particular time, the rule of the tablecloth was to make it out of a blanket with small yellow squares on it, just like the carpet you saw in the palace corridor in the photo.

Another kind of tablecloth is not a real tablecloth. How amazing and amazing things are when we find that these real things, Sunday lunches, Sunday walks, manor houses and tablecloths are not all real, they do have some phantom flavor, and those who do not believe that the punishment they receive is only a sense of illegitimate liberty! ___________ I wonder what's replacing them now, the real and standard things? Maybe it's men, if you're a woman. The idea of men dominates our lives by setting standards and setting Whitaker (Note: 1) British publisher, who founded The Bookseller. 》 The magazine began compiling Whitaker Yearbook in 1868.

I guess it tastes like a phantom to many men and women after the war, and we hope soon it will be laughed at like phantom, mahogany cupboard, Lancel prints, God, the devil and hell, and sent to the dustbin, leaving us all a kind of pottery. Drunken and Illegal Freedom - If Freedom Exists...

Looking at the spot on the wall under some light, it looks like it is projecting on the wall. It's not entirely circular either. I'm not sure, but it seems to cast a slight shadow, which makes me feel that if I touch it with my fingers along the wall, I will touch at some point a small undulating ancient grave, a smooth ancient grave, like those in the southern hilly grassland, which is said to be either a grave or a campsite.

Among the two, I would rather they were graves. Like most Englishmen, I preferred sadness and thought it natural to think of white bones buried under the grass at the end of a walk. It must have been written in one. There must be an antique collector who has unearthed these white bones and named them... I wonder what kind of collector would be? Most of them must be retired colonels, leading a group of elderly workers up to the top, checking mud and stone, and communicating with nearby priests.

The priest opened the letter at breakfast and found himself very important. In order to compare different arrowheads, many country trips are needed to the capital of the state, which is a pleasant duty for priests and their husbands, who are trying to make cherry sauce or to tidy up their study. They have every reason to hope that the major issue of camps or graves will remain unresolved for a long time. The Colonel himself was happy and optimistic about whether evidence could be gathered on both sides of the issue. Indeed, he eventually tended to say so.

As a result of opposition, he wrote an article to be read at the quarterly meeting of the local society. Just then he fell ill with a stroke. His last sober thought was not about his wife and children, but about camps and arrowheads, which had been stored in the exhibition cabinet of the local museum and a Chinese one. The feet of the murderer, an Elizabethan nail, a pile of Tudor-era tobacco pipes, a Roman pottery, and Nelson's drinking cups were put together - I really don't know what it proves.

No, no, nothing has been proved, nothing has been found. If I had stood up at this moment and figured out that the stains on the wall were indeed -- how could we not say that?-- A huge old nail had been nailed into the wall for two hundred years, until now, thanks to the patience of generations of maids, the top of the nail was exposed outside the paint and was on a wall. What can I get from seeing modern life for the first time in a snowy, burning room? Knowledge? Subjects for further reflection? I can think as much as I can sit or stand up. What is knowledge? Our scholars are only the offspring of witches and hermits who squat in caves and forests boiling herbs, interrogating ground mice or recording the language of stars.

Otherwise, what else can they be? Our superstitions are fading away, our respect for beauty and health is growing, and we do not respect them so much. Yeah... Yes, people can imagine a very lovely world. The world is peaceful and vast, with bright red and blue flowers in the wilderness. There are no professors, no experts, no housekeepers with police faces, where people can open the world with their own thoughts like fish with fins and fins, gently skim the stems of lotus flowers, and circle over the steamed buns of birds filled with white seabird eggs... How peaceful it is to take root in the center of the world and look up through the instantaneous flashes and reflections of the grey water and the water - if there were no Whitaker Yearbook - if there were no list of honors and humbles! ___________

I must jump up and see for myself what the spot on the wall is - a nail, a rose petal, or a crack in the wood?

Nature is playing her old trick of preserving herself here again. In her opinion, this idea is at most a waste of energy and may conflict with reality, because who can criticize Whitaker's list of dignity and inferiority? The Archbishop of Canterbury is behind the Archbishop of Justice, and the Archbishop of York is behind the Archbishop of Canterbury. Everyone has to be behind somebody. That's Whitaker's philosophy. The most important thing is to know who should be behind whom. Whitaker knows. Nature advises you not to be annoyed, but to be comforted; if you cannot be comforted, if you must destroy the peace of the hour, think of the spots on the wall.

I know what the trick of nature is - she secretly urges us to take action to put an end to those easily exciting or painful thoughts. I think that's why we always look down on the doers a little bit - we think they don't like thinking. However, we might as well look at the spots on the wall to interrupt those unpleasant thoughts.

Really, the more I look at it now, the more I feel as if I have caught a board in the sea. I experienced a satisfying sense of reality, which drove the two archbishops and the justices away from the illusion of nihility. Here is a concrete thing, a real thing. We wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, and often do so, switching on the lights, lying quietly for a while, appreciating the wardrobe, appreciating the real objects, appreciating the reality, appreciating the world outside, which proves that there are other things besides ourselves. That's what we want to figure out. Wood is a delightful thing to think about. It comes from a tree. Trees grow.

We don't know how they grow. They grow on grasslands, forests, rivers --- all things we like to think about --- they grow, grow, grow for many years without noticing us at all. On a hot afternoon, cows waved their tails under the trees; the trees dyed the river so green that you felt that the female red grouse plunged into the water should come out with green feathers. I like to think about the fish that go upstream like a flag blown up by the wind; I also like to think about the water beetles that build domes of earth bit by bit on the river bed. I like to imagine the scene of the tree itself: first, the fine dry feeling of its own wood, and then imagine it feeling the devastation of the thunderstorm; then, it feels the sap trickle out slowly and smoothly.

I also like to think about how this tree stands alone in the open fields on winter nights, the leaves close together, the iron bullets fired at the moon, nothing exposed, like an empty mast standing on the ground rolling all night. In June, the song of birds must sound very striking and unaccustomed; insects struggle to climb over the crumples of the bark, or bask in the sun on the thin green canopy of leaves. Their ruby-like eyes stare straight ahead. How cold their feet feel at this time... The cold of the earth was so intense that the fibers of the trees broke apart one by one. When the last storm hit, the trees fell down and the branches of the treetops sank deep into the soil again.

Even at this point, life is not over. This tree has a million strong and sober lives scattered around the world. Some are in the bedroom, some are on the boat, some are on the sidewalk, and some are turned into the panels of the room. Men and women sit in this room after drinking tea and smoke. The tree evokes many peaceful and happy associations. I'd like to think about them one by one - but I'm stuck in the way... Where do I think? How do I think about it? A tree? A river? Hilly grasslands? Whitker Yearbook? Narcissus fields? I can't remember anything. Everything is turning, sinking, sliding away, disappearing... Things are in turmoil. Someone was leaning over and saying to me:

"I'm going out to buy a newspaper."

"Really?"

"But there's no point in buying a newspaper... No news. Damn the war, let this war go to hell!... But anyway, I don't think we should let a snail lie on the wall.

Oh, the spot on the wall! It's a snail.