When I left for Barbeck with my grandmother two years later, I was almost indifferent to Hilbert. When I receive the charm of a new face, I hope that with the help of another girl to appreciate the beauty of Italian cathedrals, palaces and gardens, I often think sadly that the love in our hearts, for a girl, may not really be something. The reason is that although pleasant or painful dreams are intermingled with one another, they can connect this love with a woman for a certain period of time, even make us think that this love must be aroused by this woman; when we consciously or unconsciously get rid of the emotions of this dream, on the contrary, This kind of love seems to be spontaneous, coming out of our own hearts and being born for another woman. However, my "indifference" was only intermittent during the first days of my trip to Balbeck and my stay there. (Our lives seldom follow the chronological order. In the following days, there are so many things that don't follow the chronological order. I often live in farther times than I loved Hilbert's Eve or the eve of Hilbert's eve. At that time, I could never meet her again, and it immediately made me miserable, just as it happened at that time. Although the one who loved her has been almost completely replaced by another me, the former me will suddenly come out again, and this moment often comes because of a little something else, not something important. For example --- I'm going to talk about living in Normandy ahead of time, I mean living in Balbeck --- I met a stranger on the seawall and I heard him say, "The Postal Director's family." (If I didn't know how this family would affect our lives at that time), I probably thought it was. It was useless; but it would cause me great pain for myself, who had been depressed and suffering from a long separation from Hilbert. In fact, Hillbert had a talk with her father in front of me about the Post Director's home, but I never thought of it again. Memory of love does not go beyond the universal law of memory, and the law of memory is restricted by the more general law of habituation. Accustomed to make everything indifferent, so it is the things we have long forgotten that most arouse our memories of a person (because that is insignificant, we keep it all our strength on the contrary). So the best part of our memory is outside us, in the breeze with raindrops, in the musty smell of a bedroom, or in the smell of the first fire, in our minds that don't think about it and don't care to remember it, but what we have sought for ourselves Place. This is the last stock of the past, and the most wonderful part, when our tears seem to have completely dried up, it can still make us shed tears. Is it outside of us? To be more precise, it is in our hearts, but avoids our own eyes, and exists in long or short forgetfulness. Only by this forgetting can we find our old self from time to time and put ourselves in front of certain things, just as that person used to face these things, and feel pain again, because at this time we are no longer ourselves, but that person, who still loves everything that we do not care about today. Under the strong light of the habitual memory, the image of the past gradually fades away, blurs up, and there is nothing left. We will never find it again. Or more precisely, if a few words (e.g. the postmaster) are not carefully locked in oblivion, we will never find it again, just as if a book had been stored in a national library, otherwise, the book might never be found again.

But this pain and this love for Hilbert's regeneration are not more lasting than the pain and love of regeneration in people's dreams. This time, it's because in Balbeck, the old habitual forces are no longer here and can't sustain these feelings. This effect of the customary force seems to contradict each other because it follows several rules. In Paris, with the help of habit, I became more and more indifferent to Hilbert. I set off for Balbeck to change my habits, i.e. to stop habits temporarily, and successfully accomplished what I used to do. This habit often makes things indifferent, but it fixes things, makes things disintegrate but makes this disintegration continue indefinitely. For years, every day I put my mental state on the sleeve of my mental state the day before yesterday. When we got to Balbeck, we changed our bed. Every morning someone sends an early morning to the bedside, which is different from that in Paris. This may no longer support the idea that my love for Hilbert depends on survival: Sometimes (it's rare at this time, it's true), a long stay can make time stagnate, and the best way to win time is to change places. 。 My trip to Balbeck was like the first trip of a man who had recovered from a serious illness. When this moment arrived, he could find that he had recovered.

The journey from Paris to Balbeck is now bound to be taken by car, thinking it would be more comfortable. In a sense, even this journey will be more real, because it will be more intimate and feel more deeply the various gradual changes of the earth's landscape. But ultimately, the unique joy of travel does not lie in being able to go down the road and stop when tired, but in making the difference between departure and arrival not as imperceptible as possible, but as profound as possible; it lies in feeling the difference completely and completely, just as we imagine a leap. When we take us from where we live to where we want to be, the difference between the two is what we envision in our hearts. This jump, in our view, is very magical, not mainly because it crosses a space distance, but because it connects two completely different personalities on the earth, brings us from one name to another, and completes the mysterious process (better than walking, walking) in these special places of the railway station. Wherever you want to stop, you can stop, and there is no question of destination.) Imagine the jump. Railway stations are hardly part of the city, but they contain the essence of the city's personality, just as the city's name is written on the signs.

However, in all kinds of things, there is a quirk in our times that we are willing to display objects in real environment, which cancels the fundamental thing, namely, the spiritual activities that separate these objects from the real environment. What a tedious setting it is for people to "show" a picture and place it in furniture, furnishings and curtains of their contemporaries! Nowadays, a housewife is completely ignorant the first day. Once she stays in the archives and libraries for a few days, she is best at doing this in today's libraries. But when people eat dinner and look at a masterpiece in this setting, it will never give people ecstatic pleasure. This pleasure should only be given to you in one of the halls of the museum. This hall is bare and without any characteristics, but it can more symbolize the inner space of the artist when he concentrates on his creation.

People start from the station and go to distant destinations. Unfortunately, the station is also a tragic place. Because, if a miracle occurs, with the help of such a miracle, the country that only exists in our minds will soon become the one in which we live. For this reason, we must also give up the idea of going out of the waiting room and returning to the familiar room where we were just staying. Once I've made up my mind to enter the stinking den, through which I can reach the mysterious realm, into a huge factory with four glass windows, like when I go to the big factory with four glass windows in Saint Lazare to find the train for Balbeck, I have to give up all hope of staying at home for the night. This St. Lazare station, at the height of a broken city, unfolds a vast and extremely disharmonious sky, where dramatic threats gather in clusters, making the sky seem heavy, much like some of the skies that Mantana or Venezuela wrote almost fashionable in Paris. Under such a sky, only one terrible and solemn action can be accomplished, such as starting by train or erecting a cross. Reading of Masterpieces

Mantana (1431-1506), an Italian painter, painted a picture of Crucifixion, which was exhibited in the Louvre during the Pu's period.

(2) Venezuela (1528-1588), an Italian painter, has painted several "Crucifixion".

In Paris, I lay in my bed, looking out from the snow and goose feathers at the Persian Church in Balbeck. Within this time limit, my body had no objection to the trip. It was only when my body understood that it had to go out in person and that on the night of arrival, people were sending me to its strange "my" room that objections began to arise. The day before I left, I realized that when my mother did not accompany us, her resistance became more intense. My father and Mr. de Nobwa had to stay in the Ministry until they left for Spain. He preferred to rent a house in the suburbs of Paris for a holiday. In addition, to appreciate the beauty of Balbeck is not to reduce one's desire because one has to pay a painful price for it. On the contrary, it seems to me that the pain can make the impression I am going to seek realistic and ensure its authenticity. No so-called "panorama" of the same beautiful scenery, any "panorama" that I can watch without hindering me from going back to my bed to sleep, can replace this impression. It's not the first time that I feel like doing something and happy about it. The doctor who saw me was amazed at the pain of my morning start. He said to me, "I promise you, even if I can only find a week to go to the beach to enjoy the cool, I will never put on airs and wait for people to invite me. You'll see the boat race in a minute. That's great! ___________ I think I have the same deep yearning for Barbeck as the doctor. For me, even before I went to hear Beima sing, I knew that whatever I liked, it would always be my happiness, not my pursuit of happiness.

As before, my grandmother was still eager to give me artistic gifts. Naturally, she had different ideas about how to start. In order to pass this journey on a part of the classical "test" for me, she had planned to complete the journey that Mrs. De Sevigny had traveled from Paris to the East by way of Shawnee and Odyssey Bridge, half by train and half by carriage. But under the father's explicit prohibition, the grandmother had to give up the plan. My Father knows that when my grandmother arranges an outing so that all the intellectual benefits of a trip can be brought into play, he can predict in advance how many times she will miss the bus, lose her luggage, have sore throat and break the rules. She would be very happy to think that when we were going to the beach, we would not be blocked by the sudden arrival of the "damn cart of people". This "damn caravan" is the name of Mrs. Sevigny, my grandmother's favorite. Because Legrondan didn't write us an introduction letter to his sister, we didn't know anyone in Barbeck (my aunt and grandmother Serena and Victoria IV didn't appreciate that neglect). In order to highlight the close ties of the past, they still call the person they knew when they were girls Rene de Campbell and keep the gift from that person. This gift decorates a room and also decorates conversation, but the current reality has fallen short of these gifts. My two aunts and grandmothers were at Old Lady Legrondan's house, never mentioning her daughter's name anymore. They just walked out of their house and congratulated each other with words like, "That man, you know, I didn't mention her. I think they understand that naturally." They thought that this would avenge us and make us hate.

This is a place name. The city was built in 1666. Two years ago, the East India Company was established. The first ship built by the company's shipyard was named "Oriental Sun", and the name of the city was "Oriental Sun". Then the company disappeared and the place name remained the same.

(2) See the letters of Sevigny dated 27 April, 2 May and 12 August 1689, in which the three geographical names appear respectively.

See Mrs. Sevigny's letter to Mrs. Grinion dated 28 June 1671. Mrs. Sevigny wrote in the letter, "You know how sad and sad I am when the pleasant visitor has left. You know, I'm so happy that a damn train of people who are restrained and bored has gone. It is for this reason that we believe that we would rather have a disgusting guest than a pleasant one.

In Volume 1, these two aunts are named Serena and Flora.

So we have to leave Paris by the 1.22-minute train. I spent a lot of time looking for the train on the railway timetable to enjoy myself. Every time I got excited by the timetable, it even gave me the illusion that I had already started. It took so long that I didn't want to know that I knew the train like the back of my hand. In our imagination of the train, the determinant of happiness or unhappiness is more about what kind of sexual pleasure it will give us than whether we know exactly about the train, so I think I know the train very well. I have no doubt that when the weather gets cooler, I Watching the effect of arriving at a station, I will experience a special pleasure in the carriage. Although this train always evokes images of the same cities in my mind, I mosaic them with the afternoon light that the train passes through, it seems to me that this train is different from any other train. Just as people often do to a person who has never met and likes to imagine having his friendship, I finally give a blonde artist traveler a unique and unchanging face. He may take me on his journey, I may say goodbye to him at the foot of St. Lowe's Cathedral, and then he goes towards the sunset.

Saint Lo Cathedral, also known as Notre Dame de Saint Lo, was built in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Ruskin believes that the spire of the church's triangular lintel is a model of flaming architecture.

My grandmother is so easy to make up her mind to go to Balbeck that she can't go for nothing, so she's going to stay at a girlfriend's house for twenty-four hours. I took another trip from that house that night to avoid disturbance and to visit Balbeck Church the next day. We have already learned that this church is quite far from Balbeck Beach, and it may be too late to rush to the beach to start my bathing treatment. The highlights of my trip, listed before the cruel first night, may make me feel better. On that cruel first night, I would walk into a new residence and agree to live there.

But first of all, you have to leave your original residence. My mother happened to be in St. Cloud on the same day, and she had already taken all the measures, or pretended to have taken all the measures, to take us to the station and go directly to St. Cloud without having to go back to our own home. She feared that instead of going to Barbeck, I would go home with her. She even had a lot of work to do in the house she had just rented, and on the pretext that she was too short of time, she decided not to stay with us until the train started, in fact, in order to save me from this cruel farewell. Before the train started, she hid around and prepared for it. No longer can we avoid breaking up, because the energy is completely focused on that helpless and noble awake moment, breaking up suddenly seems unbearable.

For the first time in my life, I felt that my mother could live another life without me, not for me. She's going to live with my father. Maybe she thought I was in bad health and nervous, which made my father's life more complicated and bleak. This separation made me even more sad, because I thought to myself: Maybe for my mother, this is the result of the constant grief I have caused her. She didn't tell me how I kept breaking her heart, but after that, she knew she could never take a vacation together. Maybe it's also the first attempt to live a different kind of life. As her father and her age grew, she began to accept this alternative life willingly for the future. That's why I met her less than before; she was somewhat like me; she became a woman who saw her return to a house alone, and I wasn't there; she asked the doorman if there was a letter from me. This has never happened even in my nightmares.

The station employee tried to take my box away, and I could hardly answer. My mother used what she thought was the most effective way to comfort me. She felt that it was no use pretending to my grief, so she joked softly about it:

"Well, what would Barbeck Church say if it knew that people were so sad about going to see it? Is that what Raskin said about the happy traveler? Besides, I'll know if you can adapt to the environment. Even far away, I will still be with my wolf. You will receive a letter from your mother tomorrow."

(1) In the Amien Bible, Raskin often mentions the traveler and the infinite joy he encounters with works of art on his way. Proust translated Raskin's Amien Bible into French, and of course he knows Laplace's works very well. But Ruskin doesn't like traveling by train.

"Daughter," said Grandma, "I see you are like Mrs. Sevigny. A map is in front of you. It's not separated for a moment."

Then my mother tried to make me happy. She asked me what I wanted for dinner. She admired Francois so much that she could not recognize a hat and coat. She had seen the hat on my aunt's head when it was new, and the coat on my aunt's body when it was new. On, once caused her disgust. There was a big bird on the top of the hat, and the coat was covered with ugly patterns and black and shiny spots. But the coat couldn't be worn. Franois asked someone to turn it upside down and expose it in a nice colour. As for the big bird, it was thrown away long ago because it was broken. In a folk song, the most artistically conscious artist painstakingly decorates the most delicate decoration on the front of the peasant's house, so that a snow-white or pale yellow rose opens in the right place on the top of the door of the house. Sometimes you come across something so delicate that it really moves you. In the same way, velvet knots, eggshell ribbons, which would be delightful in the portraits of Chardin or Whistler, Franois put them on the hat with impeccable and simple aesthetics, and the hat became very touching.

See Mrs. Sevigny's letter to her daughter on February 9, 1671: "A map is in front of me. I know where you spend the night."

(Former) The names of Sheldon and Whistler are the first to appear in this novel. In terms of the formation of Pu's aesthetic point of view, these two painters are extremely important. Chardin (1699-1779) is a famous French painter. Pu wrote a research article about Sheldon in 1895 or so. Later, he supplemented his research on Rembrandt and published it together in the book Refutation of St. Pev. Whistler (1834-1903), an American painter, lived in Paris and London for many years. He was introduced to Whistler and saw the portrait painted by the painter for Count Mendskyou in 1891. But Skin despised Whistler. Prussian got rid of Ruskin's influence and highly praised Whistler in his articles and letters written in 1905. The situation mentioned here by Pope can be seen in many of Wyeth's portraits.

It has also been said before that modesty and integrity often give our old maid a noble facial expression. She's an introverted woman without mean feelings. She knows how to be respectful and respectful. To go out this time, she put on the clothes that people gave her without wearing, so that she can sit with us and match her, without showing that she has to be looked at. Franois wore a cherry-red, old overcoat, and her fur collar did not show itself stiffly. In that way, Franois reminded one of the images of Anna de Bretani painted by an elderly master in The Hours. In those images, everything is so well arranged that the emotions of the whole picture are well distributed in all parts, so that the gorgeous and outdated special clothes, like eyes, lips and hands, show piety and severity. (1) The Hours of Anna de Brittany, published in 1508, is the work of the French painter Jean Bourdison (about 1457-1521).

When it comes to Franois, we can't talk about ideas. She knows nothing, which means that she knows nothing, except a few rare truths that she can grasp directly in her heart. The vast world of thought did not exist for her. But in front of her clear eyes, the delicate lines of her nose and lips, and all these evidences, people would be as confused as a dog's wise and kind eyes. But it is well known that the dog knows nothing about all human thoughts. In many cultured people, there is a lack of such evidence! If there is, for them, it will mean the highest excellence, the noble performance of outstanding moral character. One can really wonder whether among the other brothers of low status, among the peasants, there are humans like the superiors in the simple-minded group, or, more precisely, whether they are destined to live among the simple-minded and deprived of knowledge because of their unjust fate. Are we more naturally and naturally close to outstanding people like most educated people? These people are like the scattered, lost and deprived members of the Jesus family, like the relatives of the wisest stratum who still remain in their childhood. For them, to have talent is to be short of knowledge. It can be seen from the undeniable light shining out of their eyes, but it does not apply to anything.

When my mother saw me holding back tears, she said to me, "Regulus is used to seeing big scenes... Besides, you're not good for your mother. Let's quote Mrs. Sevigny's words like our grandmother:'I'll have to use all my courage. You don't have that courage. (2) She tried to make me happy when she remembered that affection for others could divert the pain of selfishness. She said to me that she thought she would have a smooth journey to Santa Clau. She was satisfied with her taxi, the driver was courteous and the carriage was comfortable. Hearing these trifles, I forced a smile and nodded with agreement and satisfaction. But these things will only make me imagine my mother's departure more truthfully, and I look at her intently as if she had been separated from me. She was wearing a round straw hat and a thin skirt for going to the countryside. Because she had to travel long distances in the heat, she wore the dress, but it had changed her. She belonged to Villa Monte Dur, and I would not see her in that villa.

Regulus, a Roman general, was extremely brave in the battle against Carthage. But Plutarch did not write a biography of Regurus, but Cicero and Horace praised Regurus'achievements.

(2) Here is also a quotation of the general idea of Mrs. Sevigny's letter to her daughter dated 9 February 1617. The original saying is, "If you really want to please me, you should show me all your courage, but I am lacking such courage."

Monte is in Santa Clau.

To avoid the possibility that travel might cause me to get angry, the doctor advised me to drink a little more beer or brandy when I started so that I could be in what he called a "happy" state, in which the nervous system was less vulnerable for a short time. I'm not sure whether to follow the doctor's advice or not. But at least I hope that once I make up my mind to do that, my grandmother will admit that I have this right and reason. So when I talk about it, it seems that my hesitation is only about where I go for a drink, whether it's in the cold room or in the bar compartment. I saw a reproach on my grandmother's face, even a look of indifference. At the sight of this expression, I suddenly made up my mind to drink. Since the oral announcement was not passed without objection, it became necessary to prove that I was free to carry out this action. I shouted:

"What? You know how ill I am! You know what the doctor said to me! But you advise me so!"

When I finished explaining my discomfort to my grandmother, she looked so guilty and kind and said to me, "Go and buy beer or liquor, since it's good for you." I heard it and immediately fell into her arms, her face covered with kisses. I went to the bar compartment and drank too much alcohol, because I felt that if not, my illness would break out violently, and then she would be most sad. At the first stop, I got on the bus and went back to our car. I told my grandmother how happy I was to go to Balbeck. I felt that everything would go well. I felt that I would soon get used to being away from my mother. The bus was very comfortable and the bar owners and employees were so enthusiastic. I would like to commute frequently on this line. It's possible to meet them again. For all this good news, my grandmother didn't show my joy. She deliberately avoided my eyes and said, "Maybe you should try to sleep for a while." And turn your eyes to the window. We have lowered the curtain, but the curtain can't catch the whole glass window frame, so the solar energy will project the gentle and lazy light of a nap in the forest clearing onto the waxed oak doors and chair covers. (Compared with the advertisement hanging from the railway station on the high side of the carriage, this seems to be a life of integration with nature.) A much more convincing advertisement. The advertisement in the carriage was too high. I couldn't see the place name.

Grandma thought I closed her eyes, but I saw her glance at me from time to time through her large dotted veil, then take back her eyes, and then repeat it, just like a person trying hard to practice hard in order to form a habit.

So I talked to her, but it didn't seem to make her happy. Anyway, for me, my own voice makes me happy, and likewise, the most imperceptible and intrinsic activities of my body make me happy. So, I try to keep it going, and let every cadence of my speech linger on words for a long time, I feel that every glance of mine really lies where it falls and stays there longer than usual.

"Well, rest!" Grandma said to me, "If you can't sleep, read a book!"

And she handed me a book by Mrs. Sevigny. When I opened the book, she herself was immersed in the Memoirs of Madame Bozelet. Every time she traveled, she had to take the books of the two women writers with her. These are her two favorite authors. At this time, I intentionally keep my head still. Once I take a certain position, I keep it unchanged, and I feel a lot of happiness from it. I hold Mrs. Sevigny's book in my hand, and I do not open it or look down to read it. In front of my eyes, there are only blue curtains. I stared at the curtain and thought it was so wonderful that if anyone wanted to distract me from it, I would certainly ignore it. It seems to me that the blue color of the curtain is not because of its beauty, but because it is so vibrant that it is bringing itself into being until I finally swallow the wine, and the wine is beginning to work. All the colors that have appeared in front of me during this period have disappeared, so that compared with the blue color of the curtain, the rest of the colors are for me. It's all dark and meaningless. Those congenitally blind people, who were operated on very late, finally saw the color, which must have been the case in the dark world in which they lived. An elderly employee came to check our tickets. He was wearing a uniform jacket, and the shining silver buttons fascinated me. I really want him to sit next to us. But he went to another carriage. So I think of the life of railway workers with affection. They spend all their time on the railway. Probably not a day without seeing this elderly employee. Staring at the blue curtain, I felt the joy of my mouth half open and half closed, and finally the degree began to decrease. I want to move. I am active. I opened the book that my grandmother handed me and could fix my attention on the number of pages I chose here. As I read, I felt more and more admiration for Mrs. Sevigny.

(1) The title of the book is a fiction by the author and does not exist. It probably comes from the Memoirs of Countess Bouane. Proust wrote an article on Countess Bouane's memoirs, which was published in 1907.

Don't be fooled by some superficial features, which are related to the times and salon life. It's these places that make some people think that as long as they say something like "Call me, my good man!" Or, "I think the count is funny," or "turning over the cut grass is the most wonderful thing in the world." They form their own image of Sevigny. There is a precedent for Mrs. De Simiana, who wrote such things as "Mr. De Labray is in excellent health, sir, he can stand the news of his death" or "Oh, dear Marquis, how I like your letter! What can we do without answering your letter? (4) Or what?"Sir, it seems that you owe me a reply, and I owe you a few snuff bottles of lemon. I have just paid off eight letters of debt, and another letter is coming soon... This land has never produced so much. It looks like it's for your liking. Such sentences are like her grandmother's. She also wrote letters in this way about bleeding, lemons, etc. and thought that this was Mrs. Sevigny's letter. But my grandmother approached Mrs. Sevigny from the inner things, from the author's love for her family and nature. She taught me to like the real beauty of Mrs. Sevigny, which has nothing to do with the above examples. I am about to meet a painter in Balbeck, his name is Elstier_, which has a very profound impact on my aesthetics. Mrs. Sevigny and the painter were great artists of the same family, so the beauty in her works soon impressed me more. I realized in Balbeck that the way she showed us things was the same as Elstier, in the order in which we perceived them, not in the first place in terms of their causes. That afternoon, in that carriage, when I read the letter with Moonlight over and over again, my heart was in full swing:

This sentence was found in Mrs. Sevigny's letter to Kurange on July 22, 1671. It was thought to be very interesting at that time.

(2) Mrs. de Simiana (1674-1737), the granddaughter of Mrs. Sevigny, was married to Louis de Simiana in 1695 by her maiden name, Polina-Adamar de Mondey de Grinion. She agreed to publish her grandmother's letters and to take part in the compilation in person, but for some reason she destroyed most of her mother's letters. Her own letter was published in 1773.

This sentence comes from a letter to De Erigur dated March 15, 1735.

(4) This sentence was written to Marquis Gaumeng on March 8, 1734.

(5) This sentence was written to De Erigur on February 3, 1735.

(Previous) Letters on Bloodletting were dated 17 November 1734; letters on lemons were dated 13 January 1735 and 15 January 1735. These letters were addressed to De Erigur.

The name of Elstier first appeared in this book. In Swan's Love, the painter appeared under the name of Bishi. Elstier's prototype is basically Whistler. In a novel The Sun of the Dead published by Orlando's Bookstore in 1898, there was a painter named Neil Elstel.

I couldn't resist the temptation. I put on my hat and colourful jacket, but it wasn't necessary. I came to the tennis court, where the air was very warm, just like my bedroom. I saw hundreds of mysterious things, monks in white and black, nuns in grey and white, underwear scattered everywhere, men standing upright close to the tree and hiding... (1) Fragments of Mrs. Sevigny's letter to Mrs. Grinion dated 12 June 1680.

This was what I soon called Dostoevsky in Lady Sevigny's Letter. (Isn't she describing scenery and sex in the same way as he did?) Things.

I sent my grandmother to her girlfriend's house, and I stayed there for a few hours. Then, in the evening, I got on the train by myself, at least I didn't feel the temporary light at night. That's because I don't need to spend the night in a prison like a hotel room, and the sleepy look in the hotel room may keep me awake. Surrounding me was the calming activity of the various movements of the train. All kinds of sports accompany me if I'm not sleepy. They would come and talk to me on their own initiative, and their sounds would lullaby me to sleep. I matched the sound like the bell of Gombre Church, one rhythm at a time, the other rhythm (according to my imagination, I first heard four overlapping equal-length octaves, and then a overlapping octave rushed madly up to a black * octave). This noise made my insomnia centrifugal movement unable to move, imposed the opposite pressure on insomnia, and kept me in balance. When I did not move and my sleepiness came, I felt closely related to the pressure. The fresh impression was on the alert of a powerful force in the embrace of nature and life, and the impression of rest was exactly the same. It seemed that I was instantly able to become a fish in the sea. Sleep, sleepiness is dim by the current and waves to and fro, or into an eagle, lying on the only pillar of the storm. Masterpiece

Like boiled eggs, illustrated newspapers, cards and rivers in which boats are desperately moving but not moving forward, sunrise is a companion of long-distance rail travel. I was counting a few minutes before I filled my mind with thoughts to realize that I was asleep (I was asked to ask myself this question without any certainty, but this "uncertainty" was giving me a positive answer), just then, in the window, a small dark * Above the woods, I saw a few concave clouds, whose hairy edges were rose-colored, fixed and dead, and never changed, like the rose-colored feathers of birds, which turned pink, just like the pink paintings painted by artists on the screen at will. But I feel that, on the contrary, this color is neither lifeless nor pleasant, but indispensable and vigorous vitality. Instantly, behind the color, the light accumulates and accumulates. The colour grew deeper and deeper, and the sky became fleshy red. I pressed my eyes to the glass and tried to see it clearly, because I felt that it was closely related to the depth of nature. But the direction of the railway changed, the train turned, and the morning scene in the window frame was replaced by a village covered by night. The roof of the village is moonwhite. Under the sky still full of stars, the dirty laundry pool is like opaque mole under the night. I was sorry for losing the rose sky. Just then, I saw it again in the opposite window, but this time it was red. The railway took a second turn, and the sky abandoned the opposite window. As a result, I spent my time running from one window to the other, in order to connect my wonderful, red, distracted early morning fragments and mount them so as to have a panoramic and continuous picture.

There are many public and open-air laundry places in French countryside, which are called laundry pools.

The scenery * became more ups and downs, and the train stopped at a small station between the two mountains. At the bottom of the canyon, on the Bank of the rapids, only a cabin of the watchman could be seen. It sank into the water, and the river ran close to the window. If a person can be the product of the land, people can taste the unique charm of the land from him, especially a village girl. How I wished to see a village maid appear in front of me when I was walking alone in the Russenville Forest on the other side of Messengerlis! ___________ I hope that's probably the tall girl. I saw her coming out of the cottage, carrying a can of milk, along the path illuminated by the rising sun. Come to the station. She probably never saw anyone else in the valleys where the mountains blocked the rest of the world, except for the trains that only stayed for a short time. She walked along the carriage and sold milk coffee to several waking passengers. The morning light reddened her face, which was brighter than the pink sky. Faced with her, I felt the desire of life again. Whenever we are aware of beauty and happiness again, this desire for life springs up again in our hearts. We always forget that beauty and happiness exist alone. We always replace them in our minds with a conventional type, which is formed by finding an average of the different faces we like and the happiness we have experienced. We have only abstract images, which are dull and dull, because they happen to have no character of anything new and different from what we have experienced, which is the characteristic of beauty and happiness. So we make a sad and happy judgment about life, and we think it's right because we think that beauty and happiness have been put into it. In fact, we neglect these two things and replace them with some neutrals, in which there is not even an atom of beauty and happiness. A man of letters, people talk to him about a new "good book", he has not listened to Mr. tired of yawning, this is the case. Because he imagines the synthesis of all the good books he has read, and a good book is unique and unpredictable. It is not made up of the sum of all the preceding masterpieces, but of something. Absorbing the sum of the preceding books completely is not enough for people to find such a thing, because it happens to be in it. Outside. The literary man who was just tired of it, once he came into contact with the new work, immediately felt that he was interested in the reality described in the book. This beautiful girl immediately made me taste some kind of happiness (the only, always different, only in this form can we taste the taste of happiness), a kind of happiness that may be achieved by living around her. The same is true of this beautiful girl, who has nothing in common with the beauty patterns that I portray in her mind when I am alone. But to a large extent, there's a temporary suspension of habits at work. I benefited the dairy girl from all of my existence by longing to savor the strong enjoyment of me standing opposite her. Usually we always compress our existence to the minimum to live. Most of our abilities stay in sleep, because these abilities depend on habits, habits know what to do, habits don't need abilities. But in the morning of this journey, the old habits of my life were interrupted and the time and place changed, which made all kinds of abilities have to come out. My habit is to stay at home often and not get up early. Now that the habit is gone, all my abilities come to replace it, and there is more energy among them than anyone else. Like the waves, they all rise to the same extraordinary level - from the most despicable to the noblest, from breathing, appetite, blood circulation to feeling, to imagination. When I convince myself that this girl is different from any other woman, I don't know whether the beautiful pastoral scenery of these places adds charm to her or whether she makes these places charming. As long as I can spend my life with her hour by hour, accompany her all the way to the rapids, cows, trains, always by her side, feel that she knows me and has my place in her heart, then I will feel how sweet life should be! She will teach me about rural life and the charm of the dawn. I waved to her and asked her to bring me milk and coffee. I need her to notice me. She didn't see me. I call her. Above her tall body, her face was pink and golden, as if someone was looking at her through a large painted glass window illuminated by a lamp. She turned around and came towards me. Her face became wider and wider. I could hardly take my eyes off her face as if it were a red sun that could be fixed there. This face seems to be close to you, will always come to you, let you close to watch, that red and golden light will make you dizzy. She gave me a shrewd glance. Just then, the conductor closed the door and the train started. I saw her leave the station and take the path again. Now it's dawn: I'm leaving the dawn. Whether my excitement is aroused by this girl or, conversely, most of the pleasure I enjoy sitting beside her is caused by my excitement. In a word, she and my happiness are so integrated that I want to see her again. Lose, don't always be separated from the person involved, even if she doesn't know it herself. Not only is the state so pleasant, but especially (like a rope that makes a noise when it is pulled tighter, or a thread that vibrates faster to produce another color * it gives me another color * tone of what I see, which brings me as an actor into a strange and more incomparable world). Interesting world. As the train speeded up, I still vaguely saw the beautiful girl, who was like a part of another life completely different from the one I knew. A band separated my life from hers. In that other kind of life, things evoke different feelings, and now come out of that kind of life as if they were going to die. In order to enjoy at least the warmth associated with that kind of life, I can probably buy milk coffee from this village aunt every morning as long as I live near the station. Deplorable! I'm moving faster and faster towards another kind of life, and she'll never appear in that kind of life again! I envisioned plans so that one day I could take the same train and stop at the same station, so that I could barely accept the other kind of life. One of the benefits of such a plan is that it provides us with nourishment for a profit-seeking, active, practical, mechanical, lazy, centrifugal state of mind. Our brains are indeed in this state, because when efforts are needed to universally and individually enhance the happy impression we have had, our brains tend to avoid such efforts. On the other hand, we hope to continue to think about this sweet impression, and the brain would rather imagine it from a future perspective, skillfully preparing the time for the regeneration of this sweet impression. This is not helpful in understanding the essence of that wonderful moment, but it saves us from the painstaking effort to revisit the moment in our hearts, so that we can hope to get this happy impression from the outside world again.

Some city names, Vezley or Chartres, Bulge or Powe, are used in this brief form to identify their main churches. We often use this local meaning. If we don't know something about it, we will finally engrave the name of the whole city in our hearts. When we intend to add the concept of a city, the name of the city will immediately be like a cast, stamping it with the same style of engraving, and turning it into a cathedral. But this time at a railway station, I saw the place name Balbeck, above a cold restaurant, on a blue * alarm, almost in Persian white. I hurried across the station and the street leading to the station. I asked people where the beach was so that I could only see the church and the sea. Looking at people's expressions, they don't seem to understand what I'm asking. I am now in the old city of Balbeck, Balbeck Land, which is neither a beach nor a harbour. Of course, according to legend, the deified Christ was found by fishermen in the sea. The church is just a few meters away from me. There is a stained glass window in the church which tells the story of the discovery of this Christ. The stones for building church halls and bell towers were indeed taken from the cliffs hit by the waves. That's why I imagine the sea rushing up to the painted glass windows. But in fact, the sea is five miles away. The bell tower near the church dome on the beach of Balbeck, which I have read in books before, says itself is a Normandy cliff with all kinds of grains gathering and birds circling. So I always thought that the base of the bell tower is to accept the thousands of waves from the sea. Foam. In fact, the Bell Tower stands on a square, where two tram lines diverge, opposite a cafe, with the word "billiards" written on a gold-lettered sign at the entrance. Behind the bell tower is a large area of residential buildings, the roof of which is not doped with a mast. As I watched the cafe, I watched the pedestrians who asked for directions, as well as the station to go back, and went into the church. The church and all the rest of it, as if by chance, were the product of the afternoon. The soft dome bulging up in the sky is like a fruit. The residential chimney is bathed in the same sunshine and ripens the pink, golden and imported peel. But recognizing the statues of the apostles, which I had seen in the Trocadro Museum, standing in the doorway of the church, lined up on both sides of the Virgin Mary, and waiting for me, as if to welcome me, I was only willing to consider the eternal significance of the sculpture. The benevolent, gentle face of the Virgin Mary, with her short flat nose and bowed back, seemed to be singing a day's welcome to Alero. But people found that the expression of these holy elephants was stagnant, just like the expression of the dead. Only when people turn around them can their expressions change. I thought to myself: Here it is, this is Barbeck Church. The square looks like it knows its glory. It's the only place in the world that has Balbeck Church. What I have seen so far is a picture of this famous church, these apostles, the Virgin Mary under this gate, just rubbings. Now, it's the real church, the real Virgin Mary, the only one that's close to us: it's much better than it used to be.

(1) French Guri, an ancient Rio is equal to about four kilometers.

Maybe not as good as before. Like a young man, on the day of an exam or a duel, when he thinks of the knowledge he has stored and the courage he is going to show, he feels that the questions people ask him and the bullets he fires are nothing special. Likewise, far beyond the replica in front of me, I have in mind the image of the Virgin Mother standing high in the doorway. Various changes can pose a threat to reproductions, but they can't reach the Virgin Mother in my mind; if someone destroys the reproduction, the Virgin Mother in my mind will not suffer any damage; she is perfect and has worldwide significance. Now, my mind sees this statue, which has been sculpted for a thousand times. I am amazed at the fact that it is only a stone on the outside. I can reach it with my arms and occupy a place. There is also an election notice and my cane head as her opponent. This place is connected with the square and is inseparable from the exit of the main street. She can't avoid the eyes of people in the cafe and the tram office. Her face is half lit by the sunset --- in a moment, in a few hours, the light of the street lamp --- and the other half is accepted by the discount Silver office. The branch office of that credit company was at the same time subdued by the peculiar smell of pastry stoves and let mortals rage; if I wanted to engrave my name on this stone, then she, the famous image of the Virgin Mother, so far I gave her mortal life and beauty that I could not capture, the Virgin Mother of Balbeck, unique (exclamatory). It also means that the Virgin Mother, with the same soot stained with her adjacent house, will show all the admirers who come to see her, the marks I have scratched with chalk and the letters of my name, without removing them. All in all, this long-cherished immortal work of art, I think she and the church, like a small stone old lady, I can measure her height, count her wrinkles.

Time flies so fast that it's time to go back to the station. I'll wait at the station for Grandma and Franois to arrive, and then we'll go to the beach of Barbeck. I recalled the description of Balbeck I had read before and Swan's words: "Beautiful, as beautiful as Siena." I can only occasionally explain my disappointment, because I am not in a good mental state, because I am tired, because I will not appreciate it. I try to comfort myself by thinking that there are other perfect cities for me, which may soon be seen, just like in the pearl-like drizzle, in the fresh drizzle of Campel. As far as Balbeck is concerned, as I enter the city, I seem to have opened a crack in a place that should have been sealed. Here, a trolley car, a cafe, people coming and going in the square, and a discount silver branch are pushed irresistibly by external pressure and atmospheric force, and all of a sudden they rush into the interior of each syllable of the place name. When these things came in, the syllables closed the doors again. Now, it allows these things to be embedded in the doors of Persian churches, and it will never exclude them again. I found my grandmother in the local train that was supposed to take us to the beach of Barbeck, but she was the only one. She sent Franois in advance to make all preparations in advance. But she pointed Franois in the wrong direction and told Franois to go in the wrong direction. At this moment, there is no doubt that Franoise's train is speeding towards Nantes, and she may not wake up until Bordeaux.

Siena is an ancient city near Florence, Italy.

(2) For the association between Campel and Alfonso Bridge, see the first book.

The carriage was filled with the fleeting afterglow of sunset and the hot afternoon heat that refused to dissipate. (Alas, in the afterglow of sunset, I could see from my grandmother's whole face how tired she was from the heat.) As soon as I sat down, she asked me, "How's Barbeck?" Because with hope, her smile was so warm and bright that she thought I must feel great happiness. Seeing her like this, I dare not admit to her immediately that I am disappointed. Plus, as my body gets closer and closer to where it should be used to, the impression I'm looking for doesn't haunt my mind as it used to. In the end, with an hour to go before the end of the trip, I tried to imagine what the owner of Barbeck's Hotel looked like. For him, I don't exist at the moment. How I wish when I introduced myself to him, there was a travelling companion who was more famous than my grandmother, who certainly asked him to cut the price.

It seems that he must be very arrogant, but the outline is very vague.

On this small railway, the train stops at one station from time to time, stopping one station after another, and the Balbeck beach never arrives. The station names of these stations (Anga, Maguerdo, Gulevre Bridge, Alembo, Old St. Mars, Emonville, Mayne) are baffling to me. When you read these names in a book, you might think they have something to do with some of the names near Gombre. But for a musician's ear, two syllables, even if they are composed of several identical notes, may not have any similarity if the homophonic colours and combinations are different. Likewise, the ugly names of sand, windy and empty spaces and salt, the word "city" can't be put on them, just as the word "fly" in the word "flying pigeon" can't be put on them. Nothing reminds me of other place names, such as Luxen or Madan, more than hearing them. I often heard my grandmother mention these place names at the dinner table and in the lobby. These place names have already acquired some dark charm. Perhaps they are also mixed with the fragrance of jam, the smell of burning wood and the smell of which page of Bergott's book, the ocher red color of the house opposite, and even up to now. Today, when these place names float up from the depths of my mind like bubbles, they still retain their unique character even though they have to go through one layer to reach the surface.

These names are true or false; some of them are on this railway line, most of them are not on this line.

Some stand high on their own dunes overlooking the distant sea, some stand at the foot of the big green *, unpleasant shape of the hill, ready to sleep - the hill, shaped like a couch in a hotel room just entered, under the hill are some villas, and then stretching down is a tennis court. Sometimes it's a casino. The banner on the gate of the casino rustled in the cool sea breeze, empty and anxious. The first time I showed my master's station to me was through his usual appearance - a tennis player in a white sun hat, a station master living next to his tamarisks and roses, and a wife in a flat straw hat. Following the daily trajectory of life that I would never experience, the woman recalled the long-lost rabbit dog and then went back to her wooden cabin, where the lights were already on. With these familiar and familiar phenomena, these small stations ruthlessly hurt my strange eyes and unfamiliar heart in life.

We walked into the lobby of the Balbeck Hotel and faced the marble-like staircase. My grandmother ignored the fact that it would increase the hostility and contempt of strangers. We were going to live among these strangers. How did it aggravate my pain when she spoke to the hotel manager about "conditions"? The manager is a Pussah, with a face full of faults (digging out several boils and leaving scars on his face). Because of his distant ancestry, he has been wandering around the world since childhood with mixed accents, leaving his voice defective. He is wearing a playboy's dress, flashing the eyes of psychologists. When the slow train arrives, he usually treats the rich man as a grumbling man, and the miser in the hotel as a rich man! He probably forgot that he could not earn 500 francs a month, but he deeply despised those who thought 500 francs - or, more precisely, 25 Louis - was a number, who were always regarded as part of the pariah, and the Grand Hostel was not prepared for them. 。 It is also true that some people in this luxury hotel are respected by managers for not spending very expensive room, provided that managers know exactly that these people pay attention to spending because they are stingy rather than because they are poor. Being stingy is a problem that can be encountered in all social strata, so it really does not harm prestige at all. Social status is the only thing managers pay attention to. Social status, to be more precise, in his view there are signs of high status, such as walking into the hotel lobby without taking off your hat, wearing Golf pants and tight jackets, and pulling out cigars from high-grade leather cigar boxes inlaid with gold and red (unfortunately, none of these advantages *, nor do I). He uses exquisite words to embellish his business, but the meaning is always the opposite.

He went to Kabul for a holiday in the summer of 1907-1914. The Balbeck Hotel he described was the Kabul Hotel.

I sat on a bench and waited. I heard my grandmother ask him in a tone: "Room money..." What's the price? Ah! It's too expensive. I don't have enough money!" When he listened to his grandmother, he did not take off his hat, whistled, and her grandmother was not angry. I listen to this, try to escape into my heart, try to wander in some unchanging thoughts, and keep nothing alive from showing my body surface --- just like the skin of an animal, which acts as if it's inhibiting when people hurt them --- so that it doesn't move too much in this place. It hurts. I'm not used to this kind of place at all. It makes me more sensitive to see that others are used to it. I saw a well-dressed woman who was respectfully treated by the manager and was very friendly to the puppy behind her; a well-dressed, funny-looking young man, with feathers on his hat, went back to the hotel and asked, "Is there any letter from me?" All of them saw climbing the fake marble steps as coming home, and they seemed to be very used to it. At the same time, some gentlemen who are probably not very proficient in the art of "reception" but have the title of "chief reception" cast a stern eye on me, Minos, Aacher and Ladamont (I put my naked mind into this vision, like throwing into an unknown world in which nothing can protect my mind any more). The world is the same. Far away, behind a closed glass door, there were some people sitting in a reading room, describing the reading room, describing in turn the happiness enjoyed by the people who had the right to read quietly there, and thinking that if my grandmother, regardless of the impression that I would have, ordered me to go in. How frightening she would make me feel, I'm afraid I have to choose Dante's paintings to blend heaven and hell. Here are the three sons of Zeus, who were summoned to hell as judges after their death. Minos'name often appears in Recalling the Age Like Water.

After a while, my impression of loneliness became stronger. I admitted to my grandmother that I felt uncomfortable and I thought maybe we would have to go back to Paris soon. She did not protest, saying that she was going out to buy something, whether we were going or staying, which was useful anyway (I later learned that all these things were for me, because all the things I lacked were on Franois); and when Grandma returned, I walked down the street. The streets were bustling and crowds kept the streets as hot as indoors. The barbershop and a pastry shop were open. Frequent customers were eating ice cream in front of the statue of Diguet Truan in the pastry shop. This statue gives me pleasure, which is the same as his appearance in a pictorial newspaper, which can also make the patients who read the pictorial newspaper in the waiting room of the surgeon happy. I was surprised that some people were quite indifferent to me. Hostel managers can advise me to take a walk around the city to relax, a new residence, a place of suffering that can be seen by some as a "pleasant little place to live". That's what the Hotel Brochure says. The instructions may be exaggerated, but they are for all customers, who cater specifically to their interests. Indeed, in order to attract customers to the Barbeck Hotel, the brochure not only mentions "delicious dishes" and "amusement Park Gardens are fascinating", but also says that "Her Majesty the Queen of Fashion stops and is not regarded as a fool who will not go unpunished for adultery, and any educated man may not be willing to take the risk. "

Diguet Truan (1673-1736) was a pirate of San Maro. His statue is also in San Maro. In his Memoirs, he tells many adventures.

The more I fear my grandmother's grief, the more I need her. She was probably very frustrated and felt that if I could not bear to be so tired, there would be no hope and any travel would not be good for me. I made up my mind to go back and wait for her. The manager personally came up and pressed a button: a person I was totally unfamiliar with, known as lift (who was settled at the highest point of the hotel, probably in a Normandy Church Lantern skylight, like a picture behind a glass panel or an organist in his room), and began to walk down towards me. Lightness of movement is like a domestic squirrel, dexterous and restrained. Then he slid down a pillar and led me up behind him towards the dome of the main business hall. On each floor, on both sides of the small staircase, the dark-dark corridor is fan-shaped. A housekeeper, carrying a long pillow, walked through the veranda. The evening light blurred her face, and I put the mask of my most fanatical dream on her face, but from the look she gave me, I saw an aversion to my worthless man. The only bathroom on each floor forms only a row of vertical glass windows. The light from the glass windows illuminates the half-light and half-darkness without poetry. It is very mysterious. In the endless upward journey, in order to dispel the fatal anxiety I experienced silently through this mysterious place, I opened my voice to the young organist, the craftsman of my journey, and my captured partner, and he continued to pull his instrument plug and catheter. I apologize for taking up so much space and causing so much trouble to him, and ask him if I have hindered his artistic ability. In such a place, in order to flaunt famous masters, I not only showed curiosity, but also confessed that I had a great preference for it. But he ignored me and might be amazed at what I said; he might be absorbed in his work and all kinds of marks; he might be respectful of the place behind his ears; he might be afraid of danger; he might be too lazy to think; he might be ordered by the manager.

English: Elevator.

A person, even if it is insignificant, before and after we know him, I am afraid there is nothing more impressive about the reality of the outside world than the change in his attitude towards us. I've always been the same person. Later in the afternoon, I took the train to Balbeck with the same heart. But at six o'clock, I arrived with a vague and somewhat fearful expectation that I could not imagine what the manager, the luxury hotel and its staff looked like. Now, in this heart, it's the wart on the face of the manager who is going south and North (though, as he said, "Romania is the characteristic") - because he always uses the words he thinks are superior, but he doesn't find anything wrong with them - in fact, his nationality is Monaco, and he rings the bell to greet the elevator. The person driving the elevator, the whole puppet theatre character coming out of the Pandora box of the Grand Hotel. All this can not be denied, life here. And, like all artificial things, there is no reproductive capacity. I wasn't involved in this change, but at least it proved to me what had happened outside of me - it was meaningless, it was free - and I was just like a tourist when the sun was in front of me when I started to visit; when he saw the sun behind him, he knew that time had passed.

Managers refer to the origin of "ancestral origin" as "characteristic" - originalit.

Pandora is a figure in Greek mythology. She has a mysterious box. As soon as the box was opened, all the disasters and bad things in the world came out.

I'm so tired that my bones are broken. I have a fever. I don't have anything to sleep with. Otherwise, I'll go to bed early. At least I want to lie in bed for a while, but I can't rest in the face of such a lot of strong feelings. Why? For each of us, this mass of strong feelings is not equal to his physical body, or at least his conscious body, because the strange things that surround this body, although forcing it to perceive on the basis of constant vigilant defense, can also preserve my vision, hearing and all senses. Holding in a very limited and uncomfortable position (even if I stretch out my legs) is like the position of Cardinal La Baru in a cage, neither standing nor sitting. In a bedroom, our attention demands that we put some things here, and when we get used to it, it seems that we have moved them away and made room for ourselves. But in Balbeck's bedroom (just nominally "my" bedroom), I don't think there's any room available. It's full of objects that don't know me. I gave them a vigilant look. They also gave me a warning look. They don't care about me at all. They show that I disturb their normal life order. At home, I only heard my clock move for a few seconds in a week, when I came out of my meditation. The clock in the hotel kept talking in a strange language which might make me extremely unhappy, for the broad purple curtain listened silently and did not answer, but that attitude was very similar to that of shrugging people's shoulders to show that they were annoyed by seeing a third person. The ceiling of the room was very high, and the curtains gave it almost a historical significance. It was almost suitable for the assassination of Prince Giss, and later for a tour guide from Cook Travel Agency to lead tourists to visit it. But it was not suitable for my sleep. There are several small glass bookcases along the wall. Their existence is a torment to me. Especially in the room, there is a big dressing mirror across the whole body, which makes me confused. If I don't take it away, I don't feel like I want to relax at all. From time to time, I looked up at the ceiling --- in Paris, the objects in my room did not interfere with my eyes, not more than my own, because they were just accessories to my organs and an enlargement of my own --- the ceiling was the top platform of the hotel, which my grandmother had chosen specially for me. The smell of Kurschgrass pushed its offensive to a more intimate place than we could see and hear, to a place where we could feel the characteristics of all kinds of smells, to my last trench, almost to my heart. I am not tired of sniffing with a panicky nose and dealing with its attack with this useless and constant counter-attack. No more territory, no room, no body, only blindly threatened by the enemy that surrounded me, the heat has invaded my bone marrow, I am helpless, I really want to die. Just then, my grandmother came in. Immediately, the infinite space opened to my oppressed and expanding heart. Journey to the West

(1) Jean-La Baru (1421-1491), who was originally a priest of Louis XI and later a cardinal, was confined to the Rosh Castle National Prison by Louis XI for eleven years after secret negotiations with Charlie, and later released through the intervention of Pope Sixter IV.

(2) The Duke of Gith, Henry I (1550-1588), was assassinated on 28 December 1588 by Henry III, who coveted his throne, at the Third Conference. Painter Paul Delarosh (1797-1856) painted an oil painting on the basis of which Lebage and Galmet also made a film in 1908.

(3) Thomas Cook (1808-1892) organized a "Happy Train" trip in 1841, which was the origin of his famous travel agency. When he died, he gave the travel agency to his eldest son as a legacy.

She was wearing a high-grade dense Tulle indoor casual gown. At home, whenever one of us is sick, she wears this casual gown (she says she is comfortable wearing it and always attributes what she does to her selfish motives). This casual gown is to take care of us, take care of us, her servant's clothes, her nun's clothes. Servants and nurses take good care of people, their kindness, their advantages people realize, and their gratitude to them all increase their impression of people. They feel that people are different from their hearts in appearance, that people feel lonely, that they bear the burden of their minds and their desire for life. I knew that when I was with my grandmother, no matter how melancholy I was, it would be accepted with greater compassion. Everything about me, my worries, my desires, will be supported by my grandmother. What she supports is her desire to maintain and expand my own life --- more intense than my own desire --- and my thoughts extend in her heart without changing direction, because they have not changed places or people from my mind to hers. It's like a man standing in front of a dressing mirror trying to tie a tie, but not knowing that the end he sees is not on his side compared to the direction of his hand movement, or that a dog is chasing the hopping shadow of insects on the ground. In this world, people are always deceived by physical appearance, because we can not directly feel the heart. I was so deceived that I plunged into my grandmother's arms and put my lips on her face, as if I could enter the broad mind she had opened to me. When I put my mouth on her cheeks and her forehead like this, I sucked from there what was good and nutritious. I remained motionless for half a day. It was the earnest, assured and bold greed of a suckling child.

Then I gazed at her broad face, the outline of which was like a warm and calm beautiful cloud, and I could feel the tender light shining behind it. Everything that could accept her feelings, everything that could be said to belong to her, immediately became so sacred and so vulgar that I could not help but handle her just gray hair with my palm, with respect, caution and gentleness, as if I were touching her kindness. She was so happy in her sorrow that she spared me a kind of pain, so she remained motionless for a while. To my exhausted limbs, is such a quiet and peaceful moment, is so sweet. After a while, when I saw that she wanted to help me sleep and wanted to take off my shoes, I made a gesture to stop her and began to take off my clothes. My hand had touched the buttons on the top of my jacket and boots, and she stopped my hand with a begging look.

"Oh, come on," she said to me, "how happy it is for Grandma! Especially when you need something tonight, don't forget to knock on the wall, my bed is against your bed, the compartment is very thin. After you've fallen asleep, try knocking and see if we can hear each other."

Sure enough, I knocked three times that night. A week later, when I was uncomfortable, I repeated these three times every morning because my grandmother had to feed me milk early. When I thought I heard her wake up --- in order not to ask her to wait and go back to sleep immediately after feeding me milk --- I summoned up the courage to tap three times, timidly, gently, but clearly anyway, because I was afraid that if she was still asleep, she would interrupt her sleep, but I did. I don't want her to listen to me if she didn't hear me at first. I dare not knock any more. As soon as I knocked three times, I heard three more immediately. The tones of these three strokes are different, full of calm dignity. To be clearer, repeat them twice, which means, "Don't worry, I hear you!" Come in a minute!" Suddenly, my grandmother came. I told her that I was really worried that she would not hear me, or that she thought it was someone knocking next door. She laughed:

"How can I confuse my poor wolf's percussion with others? Even if a thousand people knocked, Grandma could tell! Do you think there are other people in the world who are so foolish, so excited, so afraid of waking me up, and afraid that they don't understand him? Anyway, this little mouse can be recognized by people as soon as it is caught, especially when it is alone and pitiful like my little mouse! I've heard him hesitate for a while. He's tossing around in bed and demanding all kinds of tricks.

Pu's mother called her two sons "my wolf".

She half-opened the shutters. On the outburst annexes of the hotel, the sunshine has settled on the roof, just as the early-rising rooftop worker began to work early and finished his work silently so as not to wake up the sleeping city, which makes him more skillful. She told me what time it was, what the weather would be like, that I didn't have to go all the way to the window, that the sea was foggy, whether the bakery had opened, and what the car that heard its noise was like when it was walking down the street: it was insignificant to open the curtains, which could be ignored, and that no one was there in the morning." Prelude"belongs only to a small part of our lives. During the day, when I talk about the fog at six o'clock in the morning, I will happily mention it in front of Franois or some strangers. The intention is not to show that I have acquired some knowledge, but to show the love I have received alone. This sweet morning moment begins with three knocks and three other answers to this rhythmic dialogue, which unfolds like a symphony. Tenderness and joy penetrate the wall, which becomes a harmonious, immaterial thing, singing like an angel. The three-hit answer, which was eagerly anticipated, was repeated twice. The partition is good at conveying grandmother's whole heart and promises to come through these three strikes, with the lightness of God's reward and the loyalty of musical beauty. But on the night I arrived in Balbeck, when my grandmother left me, I felt sad again, just as I was already sad when I left home in Paris. The things that make up the essence of our lives are the models that give us the future from our spiritual receptivity, and things that are not in this future mode are always confronting us with overwhelming resistance. My fear of staying overnight in a strange room, which many people share, may be just the most common, vague, functional and almost unconscious manifestation of this resistance. The thought that my parents might one day die, that I might have to live far away from Hilbert, or that I would have to settle in a country where I would never see my friends again, often made me feel terrible, and that resistance lay deep in the fear. It's hard for me to imagine my own death, or immortality in my writings, as Bergott promised people. I can't bring my memories, my shortcomings, my sexuality to those things that are still alive and dead. They can't accept the notion that they no longer exist. They don't want me to have a nihility or immortality where they have no place.