Mr. De Nobwa's comments on the passage I had just shown him made me extremely frustrated. I recalled that whenever I conceived an article or thought seriously, I always felt powerless. So I felt again that I was mediocre and had no literary talent. In the past, when I was in Gombre, I had some insignificant feelings. I had read some of Bergott's works, which probably led me to a state of reverie that seemed quite valuable, and my prose poems were the reflection of that state. The ambassador was very discerning. He could have immediately grasped the beauty I found in the totally deceptive phantom and exposed it. However, instead of doing so, he showed me how insignificant I was (I was objectively evaluated from outside by one of the best and smartest experts). I feel frustrated; I feel like I'm falling apart. My mind is like a fluid, whose volume depends on the capacity provided by others. In the past, it bulged up and filled the gifted container. Today, it shrank again and was suddenly shut down and confined to the narrow mediocrity by Mr. de Nobwa.

"My acquaintance with Bergott," he said to his father, turning his head. "To him, to me, it's an embarrassing thing (and an interesting thing in another way). A few years ago, Bergott traveled to Vienna, where I was an ambassador. Princess Metnick introduced him to me. He came to the embassy and asked me to invite him. Since I am France's envoy abroad, and since his work adds luster to France - to some extent, or more precisely, to a negligible extent - I can certainly put aside my dissatisfaction with his private life. However, he did not travel alone, so he asked me to invite his girlfriend. I don't like decency, and since I don't have a wife, I can open the door of the embassy a little wider. But I can't stand this shamelessness. It's disgusting, because he talks about virtue in his works, and even teaches people a lesson. His book is full of endless, even exhausted analysis, which we say privately, or painful worries, morbid regrets, and lengthy preaching (we know it's worth a few pennies) caused by trivial things. On the other hand, he's so frivolous and so cynical in his private life. Disrespectful. Anyway, I didn't answer him. The princess came to me again, and I did not promise. So I guess this man doesn't like me. I don't know what he thinks of Swan's kindness to invite us both at the same time. It's hard to say whether he himself brought it up to Swan, because he's actually a patient. This is even his only excuse."

"Is Mrs Swan's daughter present?" I took the opportunity to ask Mr. de Nobwa this question when I left the table for the living room. It's easier to hide my excitement than to sit still at the table and ask questions in the strong light.

Mr. de Nobwa seems to be trying to remember for a moment:

"Yes, a girl of fourteen or fifteen? Yes, I remember being introduced to me before dinner as the host's daughter. No, she didn't show up for long. She went to bed early, or she went to her girlfriend's house. I can't remember clearly. It seems that you are familiar with the Swans."

"I often go to Champs Elysees and play with Miss Swan. She's cute."

"Ah, so it is! It's true. I think she's cute, too. But to be honest, she's probably never better than her mother. That's not going to hurt your warm feelings, is it?

"I prefer Miss Swan's face, and of course I appreciate her mother. I often go to Bronilin Garden to meet her."

"Ah! I'll tell them all about it, and they'll be very proud."

Mr. de Nobwa spoke with the same attitude as everyone else (though not for a long time). When these people heard me say Swan was a smart man, that his parents were decent brokers, that his house was beautiful, they thought I would talk about the same smart people, the same decent brokers, the same beautiful house in the same tone. In fact, it's like a neurotic person talking to a madman and not finding out that the other person is mad. Mr. de Nobwa takes it for granted that you love beautiful women. When someone talks excitedly about a certain woman, you should pretend that he is in love, amuses him, and promises to help him. Therefore, the VIP wants to talk to Hilbert and her mother about me (I'm like Olympus). To deify into a flowing air, or to become an old man like Minerva, to steal into Mrs. Swan's salon, to attract her attention, to occupy her mind, to make her thank me for my appreciation, to invite me as an important friend and to make me a close friend of her family. He will use what he sees in Mrs. Swan's eyes. Lofty prestige to help me. Suddenly I felt so excited that I could hardly help kissing his soft hands, which seemed to have been soaked in water for too long, with white wrinkles. I almost made this gesture, thinking that the perceiver was only me. It's not easy for each of us to make an accurate judgement of our position in the eyes of others. We are afraid of overestimating ourselves, and assume that many memories of people's lives already occupy a large space in them, so it is almost impossible for the minor part of our behavior to enter into the consciousness of the speaker, let alone remain in their memory. In fact, the assumption of criminals belongs to the same type. They often revise what they say afterwards, thinking that others can't prove it. However, even for a millennium of human history, the philosophy of predicting that everything will be preserved may be more true than that of columnists who believe that everything will be forgotten. In the same Paris newspaper, the preacher in the front-page editorial wrote about a great event, a masterpiece, and especially a famous female singer: "Who will remember that ten years later?" In the third edition, the report of the Academy of Ancient Literature often talks about an unimportant fact in itself, about a poem written in the Pharaonic era that is still known in its entirety but of little value in itself, isn't it? This may not be the case for a short life. However, a few years later, I met Mr. de Nobwa, who happened to be a guest there, and I regarded him as the strongest support I could ever meet, because he was a friend of his father, a kind and helpful man, and because of his profession and origin, he was cautious in his words, but as soon as the ambassador left, he had. I was told that he had mentioned the previous dinner and that he had "seen me want to kiss his hand". I couldn't help blushing. Mr. De Nobwa's tone of voice and the content of his recollections shocked me. They were thousands of miles away from my imagination. This "gossip" made me understand how unexpected the proportion of distraction, concentration, memory and forgetfulness in the human mind was, and I was amazed at it, as I read for the first time in Masbero's book that people had the exact name of the hunters invited by King Asubanibar in the tenth century BC. Single!

Minerva, the goddess of wisdom in Roman mythology. The old man here refers to the wise man Mentor mentioned above.

(2) Masbello (1846-1916), an expert in Egyptology.

"Ah! "Sir," I said when Mr. de Nobwa announced that he would convey my admiration to Hillbert and her mother, "if you do this, and if you talk to Mrs. Swan about me, I will be grateful all my life and will serve you all my life! But I want to tell you that Mrs. Swan and I don't know each other. Nobody ever introduced me to her."

I said the last thing lest the other party think I'm bragging about the friendship I don't need. But as soon as I said it, I felt it was useless, because my warm thanks cooled him from the beginning. I saw the Ambassador's face showing hesitation and discontent, and his eyes showing drooping, narrow and distorted eyes (like a three-dimensional picture, representing a distant slant line on one side), which only looked at the invisible interlocutor who lived in him, and whose conversation had been with him ever since. Sir - this is me - can't hear. I thought that my words, though weak compared with the surging gratitude in my heart, could move Mr. De Nobwa and give him a helping hand (it would be easy for him, but it would cheer me up), but I immediately realized that their effects were counterproductive, even the bad words of anyone who was against me. Bad words do not achieve this effect. We talked to a stranger and happily exchanged impressions of passers-by. They seemed to agree that they were vulgar, but suddenly there was a pathological gap between us and strangers, because he carelessly touched his pocket and said, "Unfortunately, I didn't carry a gun, or none of them would survive." Similar to this situation, Mr. de Nobwa knows that meeting Mrs. Swan and visiting her are common and easy things, but I regard them as unattainable, and there must be great hidden things. Therefore, when he heard me say this, he thought that behind my seemingly normal wishes, there must be some other idea, some suspicious motive, some previous fault. So far, no one is willing to pay my respects to Mrs. Swan, because it will make her unhappy. So I realized that he would never do this for me. He could meet Mrs. Swan every day, year after year, and never - even once - mention me. However, a few days later, he heard something I wanted to know from her and asked his father to tell me. Of course, he didn't think it necessary to say who he was asking for. She would not know that I knew Mr. de Nobwa or that I was eager to go to her house. Maybe it's not as bad as I thought. Even if she knows these two points, the second point will not increase the first point, and the effect itself is unreliable, because for Audrey, since her own life and residence can not cause any mysterious panic, then the people who know her and visit her are by no means as magical as I imagined. If possible, I would like to write the words "I know Mr. de Nobwa" on the stone, and then throw the stone into Swan's window. I think, despite the rough way of delivery, this message will make the hostess respect me rather than dislike me. In fact, if Mr. de Nobwa accepts my commission, it will not have any effect, but will cause the Swans to dislike me. Even if I understood this, I would not have the courage to withdraw the Commission (if the Ambassador promised it) or to give up the pleasure (no matter how tragic the consequences). That is, to let me and my name accompany Hilbert for a moment in my unfamiliar home and life. Article 22 Military Regulations

After Mr. de Nobwa left, his father scanned the newspaper. I think of Rabema again. Since I feel much less pleasure in the theatre than I had originally estimated, this pleasure needs to be supplemented and absorb all the nourishment unconditionally. For example, Mr. de Nobwa praised the virtues of Rabema, which I drank as if the dry grassland immediately absorbed the water people sprinkled on it. Then my father handed me the newspaper and pointed to the above paragraph: "Fidel's performance was unprecedented, and celebrities from the arts and critics came to watch it." Fidel's role and long-standing reputation of Mrs. Rabema has achieved unprecedented success in her brilliant career. This performance deserves to be a sensation in theatre circles. Our newspaper will give a detailed report. It is only necessary to point out that authoritative critics agree that this performance has refreshed Fidel, one of the most beautiful and profound figures in Racine's works, and has become the purest and most outstanding art that contemporaries have the privilege to see. Performing. The purest and most outstanding artistic performance", a new concept that once entered my mind, drew closer to the incomplete pleasure I felt in the theatre and slightly filled its gaps, and this convergence formed something so exciting that I exclaimed,"What a great artist she is!" People may think that my sentence is not entirely from the heart. Consider the situation of many writers: they are not satisfied with the work they have just finished, but if they talk about an article praising the genius of Chateau Brion, or about a great artist who they have cited as a model (for example, they hum Beethoven's music and make it melancholy with the melancholy in their prose). For comparison), then, the concept of genius fills their minds, so when they review their works, they add the concept of genius to them, so that they feel that they are no longer the original appearance, or even convinced of their value, and will say to themselves: "After all, it's not bad!" They did not realize, however, that among all the factors that ultimately satisfied them, there was also their memory of Chateaubriand's wonderful chapters, which they compared with their own works, the former not from their hands. Let's think about those who believe in their loyalty despite being cheated by their mistresses over and over again. Others sometimes look forward to an incomprehensible survival --- for example, a hateful husband thinking of a lost, still loving wife, or an artist thinking of the honor he may enjoy in the future --- and sometimes to a comforting nihility --- because they recall their mistakes, and if there is no nihility, they must redeem themselves after death. Sin. Let's think about the tourists who are bored with their daily schedule, but are excited about the overall beauty of the trip. Let's ask, since concepts live together in our minds, which of the concepts that make us happy is not the first to seek the power we lack from different neighboring concepts like parasites?

My father stopped talking about my "diplomacy career" and my mother didn't seem very satisfied. I think she regrets not that I gave up diplomacy, but that I chose literature, because what she cares most about is that a rule of life is used to restrain my moody mood.

"Stop talking," my father shouted. "You have to be interested in what you do first. Besides, he is no longer a child. Of course, he knows what he likes. I'm afraid it's hard to change. He knows what happiness is in his life." Happiness or unhappiness in the future, let alone that night, I was troubled by my father's words that made me the master. My father's sudden kindness often makes me want to rush over and kiss his rosy cheeks above his beard. I don't do it just for fear of upsetting him. I'm like an author who feels that his reverie seems to be of little value since it's in his own hands, but he's horrified that publishers should choose the best paper for them and possibly print it in the best font. So do I. I asked myself if my desire to write really matters. Is it worth my father wasting so much goodwill on it? He said that my interests would not change and my life would be happy. These words aroused two very painful conjectures in me. The first point is that my life has already begun (and I think I'm standing on the threshold of life every day, life is still complete, starting in the morning the next day). Besides, what happens in the future will not be much different from what happened in the past. The second guess (in fact, just another form of the first one) is that I am not out of time, but subject to the laws of time like the characters in the novel, and it is for this reason that I feel extremely sad when I sit in the willow shed of Gombre and read their daily life. In theory, we know that the earth is turning, but in fact we are not aware that the ground under our feet does not seem to move when we walk, and we live in peace and contentment. The same is true of time in life. In order to make the reader feel the passage of time, the novelist has to speed up the clock madly, so that the reader can pass ten, twenty and thirty years in two minutes. At the beginning of a page, we see a hopeful lover. At the end of the same page, he is an 80-year-old man, staggering for a routine walk in the courtyard of a nursing home, and ignoring others because of the loss of memory. Father just said, "He is no longer a child, his interest will not change" and so on. These words make me suddenly see me in time and make me feel the same sadness. Although I am not an old man with mental decline in the nursing home, I seem to be a character in the novel. At the end of the book, the author said in an extremely cruel and indifferent tone: "He left the countryside less and less, and finally settled in the countryside forever." Wait.

At this time, the father, fearing that we might criticize the guests, said to his mother first:

"I admit that old man Nobua, in your words, is a bit pedantic. He said just now that it would be improper to ask the Count of Paris. I'm afraid you'll laugh. "Where did you go?" Mother answered, "I like him very much. He is so senior and so old that he can keep his childishness. This shows that he is upright and well-educated."

"Good. However, this does not affect his alertness and intelligence, which I know best. He judged two people on the committee. "My father raised his voice and he was glad that Mr. De Nobwa was appreciated by his mother and wanted to prove that he was better than she had imagined (because good feelings tend to elevate the other side, and teasing tends to belittle the other side)," he said. What do you mean by that? It's hard for princes to say...'?

"Yes, that's right. I also noticed that he was very keen and obviously had a lot of experience in life.

"It's strange that he went to Mrs Swan's house for dinner and met decent people and public servants there. Where did Mrs Swan get these people?

"Didn't you notice his witty remark?" It seems that men are the main ones to go there. ''

So they both tried to recall De Nobwa's tone of voice, as if they were recalling Bressan or Dillon's tone in the performance of "The Adventurer Woman" or "Mr. Puvalier's Son-in-law". Nevertheless, the highest praise for Mr. Nobwa's words came from Francois. Years later, when people mentioned that the ambassador called her "the first-class chef", she could not help laughing. When the mother went to the kitchen to convey this title to her, it was as if the Minister of Defense had conveyed the congratulations of the visiting monarch after his inspection. I went to the kitchen earlier than my mother because I had asked Franois, a peace-loving but hard-hearted man, not to make it too painful when slaughtering rabbits. I went to the kitchen to see how things were going. Franois told me that everything was going smoothly and neatly: "I've never met an animal like this before. He died without saying a word, as if he were mute. I know little about animal language and say that rabbits call less than chickens. Seeing how ignorant I was, Franois angrily said, "Don't come to a conclusion. You have to see if a rabbit's cry is really smaller than a chicken's. I think it's much bigger than a chicken." When Franois received Mr. de Nobwa's praise, she looked proud and calm, with bright and intelligent eyes, albeit temporarily, as if an artist was listening to someone talk about her art. Mother had sent her to several big restaurants to practice cooking skills. That night, she called the most famous restaurant a snack bar. I was as happy to hear that as I was when I found that the quality and reputation of theatrical artists were not the same. The mother said to her, "The ambassador said you can't eat the cold beef and custard you made anywhere." Franois agreed with a modest and well-deserved look, but she was not flattered by the title of ambassador. When she mentioned Mr. de Nobwa, she said in a kind tone, "This is a good old man, just like me." Because he used to call her head. When he came, she wanted to peek, but she knew that her mother was most tired of peeping behind the door or under the window, and that Franois had peeped from other servants or porters (Franois saw jealousy and gossip everywhere). They acted on her imagination, just like Jesuits or gossip. The Jewish conspiracy works on some people's imagination: it's a perennial and ominous function) so she just glances through the kitchen window, "lest she explain it to her wife," and when she sees Mr. De Nobwa's general appearance and "dexterous" posture, she really thinks so. Mr. Legrondan, "In fact, the two men have nothing in common." Nobody can make such delicious frozen juice as you do (when you are willing to do it). What's the reason for that? Mother asked her. I don't know where it came from." Franois said (she was not sure what the difference was between the verb "come" - at least some of its uses - and the verb "change"). Part of what she said was true because she was not good at --- or unwilling to --- revealing the secret of her success in frozen juice or butter, just as a graceful lady with her own costume, or a famous singer with her own voice. Their explanations often leave us out of touch. Our cooks do the same for cooking. Speaking of the restaurant, she said, "They are in such a hurry that they cook the dishes separately. Beef must be as rotten as a sponge to absorb all the soup. However, there used to be a coffee shop where the dishes were well cooked. I don't mean that they make the same frozen juice as I do, but they also burn it gently, and there's butter in the crispy. Is it Henry's? My father, who has come to us, asked that he appreciated this restaurant in Cailong Square and often went to dinner there with his colleagues. Ah, no!" Franois said that there was deep contempt in the soft voice, "I'm talking about a small restaurant. Henry's is certainly a fancy restaurant, but it's not a restaurant, it's... Soup shop!" So the Weber Restaurant?"" Ah, no, I mean good restaurants. Weber's restaurant is on Wangjia Street. It's not a restaurant. It's a hotel. I don't know if they serve the guests. I don't think they even have tablecloths. Put everything on the table carelessly. Is it the Silo Restaurant? Franois smiled.'Ah, there, in terms of flavor, I think it's mainly the ladies of the upper class. (For Franois, the upper class is the social flower.) Of course, young people need it." We found that Franois, though plain-looking, was a fearsome fellow chef, no less than the most jealous and pretentious actress. But we felt she had the right attitude towards her craft. She respected tradition because she said, "No, the restaurant I was talking about used to make several popular delicacies. Now the facade is not small. Business used to be good and made a lot of Sue (Franois, a thrifty man, calculated his money by Sue, not by Louis, a ruined man). My wife knows this restaurant, on the road, with her right hand and a little back..." The restaurant she talked about in such a fair --- mixed with pride and innocence --- was... English Cafe.

Bressan and Dillon are both famous actors.

(2) The works of French playwright Augie (1820-1889).

(3) Five acts of comedy co-written by Ogier and Sandu.

New Year's Day is here. My mother and I went to visit relatives. Afraid of being tired of me, she divided the families she was going to according to her father's road map into groups by region, not by kinship. We went to visit a distant cousin (she lived not far from us, so as a starting point), but as soon as we stepped into the living room, my mother was panicked because a friend of a suspicious uncle was eating chilled chestnuts or nuts sandwich chestnuts there. He would surely tell his uncle that he was not the first one we visited, but his uncle. Uncle's self-esteem will be hurt because he thinks we should naturally go from Madeleine Church to his botanical garden, then Augustine Street, and finally to Medical College Street.

After the visit (Grandma excused us because we were going to have dinner with her that day), I went to the shop on Champs Elysees Street and asked the female owner to forward a letter to Swan's servants who came to buy spices, honey and bread several times a week. Since the day Hillbert saddened me, I decided to write to her on New Year's Day and tell her that our old friendship had ended with the past year. My complaints and disappointments are past. From January 1st, we will build a new friendship. It will be very strong and nothing can be destroyed. It will be very beautiful. I hope Hillbert will take good care of it and keep it beautiful forever. And in case of any danger threatening it, she must tell me in time, as I promised to tell her. Same. On the way home, Franois asked me to stop at the corner of Wangjia Street, where there was an open-air stall. She picked up some pictures of Pius IX and Las Bayer as New Year's gifts, and I bought a picture of Rabema. The only face of the actress seems to be as poor as the praises she evokes. It is as constant and unsustainable as the clothes of a person who lacks a change of clothes. The small wrinkles, raised eyebrows, and other physiological features above the upper lip are invariable and are at risk of being burned and hit at any time. This face alone does not make me feel beautiful, but I have the desire to kiss it, because it must have received countless kisses, and because it seems to call me on the "photo card" with flirtatious tender eyes and naive smiles. Rabema must have all the desires she confessed to many young people under the cover of Fidel, and everything - including adding beauty to her and keeping her youthful reputation forever - could easily satisfy her desires. At dusk, I stopped in front of the poster column of the theatre to watch the poster about Rabema's performance on January 1. It's slightly rheumatic and soft. I'm familiar with this kind of weather. I feel and anticipate that New Year's Day is no different from other days. It is not the first day of the new world. In that new world, I will have the opportunity to re-recognize Hilbert, as in Genesis, as if nothing had happened in the past, as if she had sometimes disappointed me and all the signs that she foretold the future. No more. In that new world, everything in the old world disappeared without trace... Except for one thing: I want Hilbert's love. I understand that since my heart wants to rebuild the unfulfilled world around it, it means that my heart has not changed, because I think Hilbert's heart can't change either. I feel that there is no difference between new friendship and old friendship, just as there is no gap between new year and old year. Our wishes can neither control nor change the years, so we have to change the name of the years without knowing anything about them. I want to dedicate the new year to Hilbert and engrave my special thoughts on New Year's Day, which is like overlapping religion with blind laws of nature, but it's all in vain and in vain. I don't feel that it knows what people call New Year's Day. It ends at dusk as I used to. The breeze blew on the advertising column, and I recognized that I felt the same eternal substance of the past, its familiar moisture and its ignorant fluidity.

(1) Pius IX was the Pope of Rome; Las Bayer (1794-1878) was a famous French journalist and politician.

When I returned home, I had just passed the New Year's Day for the elderly; the difference between the elderly and the young was not only that they could not get New Year's gifts, but that they no longer believed in New Year's Day. I received some New Year's gifts, but there was no letter from Hillbert, the only one that made me happy. But after all, I was still very young. I wrote her a letter telling her about my passionate dream of loneliness, hoping to arouse her sympathy. The sad thing about the aging people is that they would never write such a letter because they already knew it was useless.

I lay down, and the noise of the festival that lasted until late at night kept me awake. I think of all the people who are going to spend the night in joy, of Rabema's lover or a group of dissolutes who must go to Rabema after the performance (that is, the performance I saw on the poster that night). This thought made me even more agitated on sleepless nights. In order to regain her composure, I wanted to say to myself that Rabema might not have thought of love, but I could not say it out, because the carefully deliberated poems she recited clearly reminded her how wonderful love was, and she also had deep feelings, so she performed well-known. But with new power and unexpected tenderness, the panic has amazed the audience, and in fact every audience has a personal experience of it. I lit the extinguished candle to see her face again. At the moment, it's probably being caressed by men, who give her extraordinary and vague pleasure from her (and I can't stop it), and this assumption gives me a more cruel excitement than color, a yearning, which is more evident in the trumpets (like those often heard on Carnival nival nivals and other festive nights). Deep; the trumpet came from a small hotel, without any poetry, so it's better than "In the evening, deep in the woods..." More melancholy. At this moment, Hillbert's letter may not be what I need. People's desires interfere with each other in a disordered life, so happiness seldom falls on the desires that are precisely desirable for it.

I still go to Champs Elysees when it's sunny. The delicate pink houses along the street were displayed under the changeable and light sky, because watercolor houses were popular at that time. If I said at that time I thought Gabriel's buildings were more beautiful than those around them and belonged to different times, that would be a lie. I thought that industrial buildings, at least Trocadello Palace, were more distinctive and perhaps more ancient. As a teenager, I was immersed in a turbulent sleep, so the whole block I saw in my sleep seemed like a dream. I never thought there was an eighteenth century building in Wangjia Street. I would be surprised to learn that St. Martin's Gate and St. Denim's Gate, the masterpieces of the Louis XIV era, are different times from the latest buildings in these dirty neighborhoods. Gabriel's architecture only once made me gaze for a long time, when night had fallen, and the column lost its material outline in the moonlight, as if it were cardboard. It reminded me of the setting in the light opera "Orpus in Hell", which made me feel beautiful for the first time.

(1) The Horn, a poem by French poet Vinny (1797-1863).

(2) Gabriel (1698-1782), a famous architect, was built in the second half of the eighteenth century.

(3) The industrial building was built for the Expo of 1855; the Trocadro Palace was built for the Expo of 1878, both of which have been demolished.

(4) Two acts and four operettas by composer Ofenbach.

Hilbert never returned to Champs Elysees, and I needed to see her, because I couldn't even remember her face. We look at our loved ones in an exploratory, anxious, demanding manner. We wait for the words that make us hopeful or hopeless about the next day's appointment. Before this sentence comes, we imagine joy and disappointment, either at the same time or in turn, because of this, when we face the loved ones. At times, our attention was trembling and we couldn't get a clear image of her or him. This is a kind of activity that is carried out simultaneously by various senses, but only by trying to recognize things beyond vision. It may be too tolerant to the thousands of forms, tastes and movements of a living person. Indeed, when we don't love someone, we tend to keep her (him) still. Our precious models are active as children. We always have bad pictures in our memory. I did forget Hilbert's face, except for the magical moment when she extended her smile to me - because I only remember her smile. Since I couldn't see the dear face, I tried to recall it, but in vain, I found two useless and amazing faces that were precisely engraved in my memory: the man who ran the Trojan Horse and the woman who sold maltose. When a person loses a loved one, he will never see her (him) in his dream, but he constantly dreams of so many disgusting people, even more annoyed, because when he wakes up, he can hardly bear to see them. Since there is no ability to describe the object of painful thoughts, people condemn themselves for not feeling painful. So do I. Since I can't remember Hilbert's face, I almost believe that I forgot to have her. I don't love her anymore.

She finally came back and played with me almost every day. Every day I hope to get something new tomorrow - from her. In this sense, my love is renewing day by day. But suddenly another thing changed the way I love at two o'clock every afternoon. Did Mr. Swan find my letter to his daughter, or did Hillbert tell me what was already there in order to make me more wary? On one occasion, I told her that I admired her parents very much. She had a vague, reserved, secret air - which she often had when talking about what she should do, what she should buy and who she visited - and suddenly said, "You know, they don't look up to you!" Then she laughed like a slippery water spirit (which is her habit). Her laughter tends to be very incongruous with the words and, like music, delineates another invisible surface on another plane. Mr. and Mrs. Swan did not ask Hilbert to stop playing with me, but they hoped - she thought - that it had never happened. They don't like her dealing with me. They think I'm not a noble person and can only have a bad influence on their daughter. Swan thinks I belong to that kind of brazen youth. In his conception, this kind of person hates the parents of the girl he loves, laughs at them with her behind his face, encourages her to turn a deaf ear to their words, and even refuses to meet his parents when the girl arrives. In sharp contrast to this image, which the most despicable person would never see himself like this, is the feeling in my heart. I have a strong feeling for Swan, and I believe that if he is a little aware of it, he will regret his misjudgment of me, as if it were a wrong case! I had the courage to write a long letter about my feelings for him and ask Hilbert to pass it on to him. She agreed. But, alas! To my surprise, he thought I was a bigger hypocrite. His suspicion of the feelings I so truthfully portrayed in the sixteen-page letter. My warm and sincere letter was as ineffective as my warm and sincere words to Mr. de Nobwa. The next day, Hillbert led me behind a large clump of laurel trees on the path. It was very quiet. Each of us took a chair and sat down. She told me that her father shrugged when he read the letter and said, "It's meaningless, but it proves that I can see it correctly." I am more annoyed because I am confident that my motivation is pure and my heart is kind. What I said did not touch a hair of Swan's absurd mistake! Of course he was wrong, and I believe it. Since I have so accurately described some of the undoubted characteristics of my generosity, Swan still cannot immediately identify my feelings and ask me to forgive his mistakes on the basis of these characteristics, it must be because he has never experienced such lofty feelings himself, and therefore cannot understand that others will have such feelings. Feelings.

Maybe it's just because Swan knows that generosity is just the internal form of our selfish feelings that we used to take before they were classified and named. Maybe he thinks that my affection for him is just the simple effect (and warm affirmation) of my love for Hilbert, and that all my future actions will inevitably depend on that love. It doesn't depend on my worship of him. I couldn't agree with his prediction, because I couldn't separate my love from my self, and I couldn't estimate the consequences from an experimental point of view. I was disappointed. I had to leave Hillbert for a moment because Francois was calling me. I had to accompany her to the little pavilion with a green * metal screen, much like the old Paris tax whistle, which was abandoned. Not long ago, the British built what they called a bathroom in its interior, while the French were half-conscious in their pursuit of British fashion, calling it "Vattel Crosser". I waited in the porch for Franois, and the cool musty smell of the damp and old walls made me immediately forget the worries of Swan's words conveyed by Hilbert and fill me with pleasure. It was not the pleasure that made us more unstable and difficult to be retained and controlled by us, but the pleasure. On the contrary, I can rely on a solid pleasure, which is wonderful, quiet, rich and lasting truth. It has not been explained, but it is absolutely certain. I wish I could go for a walk in Gelmont, and try to find the charm of this strong feeling, and stay there motionless to inquire about the old breath. It invites me to go deep into the truth it has not revealed, instead of enjoying the pleasure it attaches to me. But at this moment, the landlady of the pavilion, an old woman with a pink face and a red-brown wig, spoke to me. Franois said she had a "good family" because her daughter married what Franois called a "wealthy kid" who was as different from the workers as St. Simon thought the Duke was as different from the "lower class" people. Of course, the landlady probably had a bad fate before she did this job, but Franois must have said she was a marquis and belonged to the San Ferreo family. The Marquis told me not to stay in the cold, even opened a door for me and said, "You don't want to go in? This room is very clean. No money." Maybe she did the same thing as the lady at Guashi's candy store. Every time we ordered something, they always took a piece of sugar from under the glass cover on the counter and handed it to me. Unfortunately, my mother forbade me to accept it. She may also be like the old woman who sells flowers with ulterior motives. When her mother chooses flowers for the flower bed, the woman gives me autumn waves and a rose at the same time. In short, if the Marquis likes boys and opens the doors of the stone tomb cubicles where men squat like sphinxes, then what she seeks in this generosity is not an attempt to corrode, but a pleasure to give generously to her loved ones without any intention of returning them. Therefore, I have never been there for her. I've seen other customers, only an old park keeper.

(1) French pronunciation of English Water-Closet.

A moment later, Franois and I said goodbye to the Marquise, and then I left Franois to find Hilbert. I found her sitting in the chair behind the laurel bushes. This is to avoid being seen by her companions, who are playing hide-and-seek. I went and sat next to her. She pulled her bonnet very low, almost covering her eyes as if she were "peeping". The first time I saw her in Gombre, she was such a dreamy, cunning look. I asked her if she could get me to talk to her father face to face. She said she had mentioned it to her father, but he thought it was unnecessary.

"Hold it," she continued, "take your letter. I have to go find my companions, since they can't find me."

If, at this moment, Swan had suddenly arrived before I could get a letter (so sincere that he could not persuade Swan, it was incredible), I might have seen his words unfortunately come to light. Hilbert leaned back in his chair and asked me to answer the letter without handing it to me. So I approached her. I felt the strong attraction of her body. I said:

"Come on, don't let me grab it. See who's good."

She hid the letter behind her, and my hand lifted her hair braids hanging over her shoulders and reached behind her neck. She wore shoulder-length braids, perhaps because it suited her age, or because her mother wanted to extend her daughter's childhood to make herself look younger. We fought and bowed. I'm going to pull her over. She's resisting. Her hot, hard cheeks were as red and round as cherries, and she laughed as if I were tickling her. I held her tightly between my legs as if trying to climb a small tree. In this struggle, my asthma mainly comes from the passion of muscle movement and games. Like sweat beads from physical exhaustion, I spilled my joy and even had no time to rest for a moment to taste its taste. I snatched the letter at once. So Hillbert said to me kindly:

"You know, if you like, we can fight a little longer."

Perhaps she vaguely felt that I had another unspecified purpose in playing the game, but she did not see that my goal had been achieved. I was afraid that she would notice (a moment later, she made an offensive, restrained and restrained movement of shame, and my fear was justified), so I promised to continue fighting, lest she think I had no other purpose, and believed that if I had won, I would just want to stay quiet. The Tropic of Cancer

On the way home, I suddenly noticed and remembered that the cool, smoky smell of the little pavilion with metal mesh made me approach a previously hidden image without making me see it or recognize it. This is the image of Uncle Adolf's little room in Gombre, which also emits the same moisture. However, I don't understand, and I don't want to understand, for the time being, why the memory of such an insignificant image makes me so happy. At this time, I feel that Mr. De Nobwa's contempt for me is indeed justified. First, I think that the best writer is only a "piper" to him. Second, the real excitement I feel is not from some important idea, but from a kind of mildew.

For some time, in some families, when guests mentioned the name of Champs Elysees Street, mothers looked disapproving, as if they were standing in front of a famous doctor who had seen him misdiagnosed many times and could no longer trust him. It is said that Champs Elysees Park is unlucky for children. More than once, children have sore throats, measles and many children have fever. Several of my mother's girlfriends were puzzled when they saw her continuing to let me go to the Champs Elysees. Although they did not openly doubt her maternal love, they at least regretted her indiscretion.

Nervous people may be very few people who "listen to their hearts", although this is contrary to the general view. They heard a lot of things on themselves, and later found that they shouldn't make a fuss, so they never heard them. Their nervous system often shouts "Help!" As if life was at stake, it was simply because it was snowing or they were moving. Over time, they were accustomed to ignoring warnings, just as a dying soldier, driven by the warmth of battle, ignored warnings and continued to live like a healthy man for a few days. One day, with all the usual discomforts (I never paid attention to their constant internal circulation as well as the blood circulation), I ran into the dining room briskly, and my parents were sitting at the table, so I sat down too - I told myself as usual that chilling might not mean heating, but it was the reason. To be blamed; not hungry means that it's going to rain, not that I don't need to eat - but when I swallowed my first delicious steak, a burst of nausea and dizziness stopped me, which was the anxious answer to the initial pain. I used cold indifference to cover up and delay the symptoms, but the disease stubbornly refused food, so that I could not swallow. At that moment, in the same instant, I thought that I would not be allowed to go out if someone found me sick. The idea (like the instinct of the wounded) gave me courage. I hobbled back to my bedroom, measured my fever at 40 degrees, and then dressed up and went to Champs Elysees. Although my physical surface is weak and weak, my mind is laughing and urging me to pursue and pursue the sweet pleasure of playing the game of catching people with Hillbert. An hour later, my body couldn't support me, but I still felt happy around her and still had the strength to enjoy it.

As soon as she got home, Franois told everyone that I was "not feeling well" and that I must have had "cold and fever". And immediately a doctor was called in. Doctors claim that the "extreme" and "viral" fever, which tends to be caused by "pulmonary congestion", is merely a "straw fire" and will be transformed into a more "Yin-Danger" and "Potential" form. For a long time I felt suffocated and my grandmother thought I was alcoholic, but despite her objection, the doctor advised me to drink beer, champagne or brandy properly when I was on the verge of illness, in addition to taking breathless caffeine. He said alcohol-induced "relief" prevents asthma attacks. Therefore, in order to ask for wine from my grandmother, I could not hide it, but had to show that I had difficulty breathing. Whenever I feel that I'm about to fall ill and I can't anticipate it, I worry. My body - perhaps too weak to bear the secrets of the disease alone, or because I'm afraid that others will not know that I'm about to fall ill and ask for something beyond or dangerous - makes me feel that my discomfort must be precise. Tell Grandma that this accuracy * eventually becomes a physiological need. Whenever I find an unrecognized symptom in myself, I have to tell my grandmother, or my body will panic. If she pretends not to pay attention, then my body will keep me going. Sometimes I go too far, so there is pity and painful contracture in the face that is no longer as restrained as it used to be. Seeing her so painful, I was so miserable that I threw myself into her arms as if my kiss could erase her pain and my love could make her happy as my happiness. Now that she did feel how uncomfortable I was, I was relieved, and my body no longer opposed me to comfort her. I repeat that this discomfort is not painful. She does not need to pity me at all. I assure her that I am happy. My body just wants to get the pity it deserves. As long as others know the pain on its right side, it is enough. It does not object to my saying that the pain is not a cause but an obstacle to my happiness. It is not. Philosophy flaunts itself, and philosophy has no affinity with it. Almost every day before I recovered, my asphyxia broke out several times. One night, when my grandmother left me, I was still safe, but she came to see me late at night and saw me breathing fast. She cried out in astonishment: "Ah! My God, how much you suffer!" She went out at once, and the door rang. Soon she came in with the brandy she had just bought, because there was no wine at home. Soon I felt relaxed. Grandmother's face * reddish, look uncomfortable, eyes showing fatigue and discouragement.

Open it up and let you relax. She said, and suddenly left me, but I still kissed her and felt a little wet on her fresh cheeks. Was it the moisture left by the dark night air she had just crossed? I don't know. The next day, she didn't come to my bedroom until dark. It was said that she had to go out during the day. I thought she was showing me indifference, but I restrained myself from blaming her.

The congestion has been cured, but I continue to feel suffocated. What is the reason? So the parents invited Professor Godard. It is not enough for a doctor invited in this case to have knowledge alone. The symptoms he faces may be three or four different diseases, and ultimately it is his sense of smell and vision that determine which one is, although the symptoms are almost identical. This mysterious gift does not imply superior intelligence in other ways. A person who likes the worst paintings, the worst music, the least spiritual pursuit and the most vulgar can have this talent. In my case, the specific symptoms he observed may have multiple causes: neurotic spasms, nascent tuberculosis, asthma, enterotoxigenic dyspnea with renal insufficiency, chronic bronchitis, or syndromes composed of several of these factors. The way to deal with neurotic spasms is Don't take it seriously, but deal with tuberculosis must be carefully engaged in, take excessive diet therapy, and excessive diet for asthma and other joint * disease is very unfavorable, for enterotoxin * dyspnea is extremely dangerous, and enterotoxin * dyspnea required diet for tuberculosis patients is fatal. However, Godard hesitated for a moment and announced the prescription in an irrefutable tone: "Diarrhea and strong diarrhea. You can only drink milk in a few days. No meat. No alcohol." Mother murmured that I needed nourishment urgently. I was already quite nervous. This laxation and diet would break me down. Godard's eyes were anxious, as if he was afraid of missing the train. I could see that he was asking himself if the words had come from his gentle nature. He tried to recall whether he had forgotten to wear the cold mask (as if people were looking for a mirror to see if they had forgotten to wear a tie). He was doubtful and wanted to make up for it. He said in a gruff voice, "I never repeat the prescription. Give me a pen. Only milk. When we have solved the problem of breathing difficulties and insomnia, you can drink soup. I don't object to eating mashed potatoes, but we always have to drink milk and milk. This will make you happy, since Spain is the most fashionable now, Ah Lai! Ah Lai! (His students are familiar with the word game because every time he tells a heart or liver patient in hospital to eat milk as the staple food, he always says so.) Then you can gradually return to normal life. However, as long as cough and asphyxia occur again, you can repeat: "laxatives, intestinal lavage, bed rest, milk." He listened coldly to his mother's last objection, ignored it, disdained to explain why he had taken the treatment and left. My parents thought that this kind of therapy not only could not cure my illness, but also uselessly hurt my vitality, so they refused to let me try it. Of course, they try not to let the professor know that they did not do what he said, and in order to be safe, they would not go to any social place where they might meet the professor. Later, as my condition grew worse and worse, they decided to follow Godard's prescription to the letter. Three days later, I stopped breathing, coughing and breathing. So we knew that Godard saw that my main cause was poisoning (although he later said that he thought I had asthma, especially a little crazy). He flushed my liver and kidneys to make my bronchus unobstructed, thus restoring my breathing, sleep and energy. So we understand that this fool is a great doctor. I finally got up. But they no longer let me play in Champs Elysees, where the air is said to be bad. I think it's just an excuse not to let me see Miss Swan, so I forced myself to remember Hilbert's name all the time, just like the captives trying to keep their mother tongue, so as not to forget the motherland they will never see again. Mother sometimes touched my forehead with her hand and said:

"Why, the little boy no longer tells his mother about his troubles?" (former) Spanish, when fighting bulls, shout "refuel" and "drink milk" according to homophonic French, which is a word game of homophonic disagreement.

Franois approached me every day and said, "Look at the colour of Mr. Franois!" You don't look in the mirror, like a dead man!" If I had only caught a cold, Franois would have the same sad face. This sadness is more due to her "rank" than to my illness. At that time, I could not tell whether Franois's pessimism was painful or satisfying. For the time being, I thought it was social and professional.

One day, after the postman came, my mother put a letter on my bed. I opened the letter carelessly, because it could not contain the only signature that would make me happy - Hillbert's signature, and I had nothing to do with her except to meet on Champs Elysees Street. At the bottom of the letter there is a silver * stamp, which contains a knight in a helmet and a circular motto, Previamrectam, in which the font is thick. Every sentence seems to be reinforced because the crossing on the letter "t" is not marked in the middle, but above, equal to the corresponding letter on the previous line. There was a line across the face. At the bottom of the letter I saw Hilbert's signature. However, since I don't think it is possible for me to have her signature in the letter I received, I don't believe my eyes and I'm not happy. Suddenly, this signature made everything around me lose its authenticity. This incredible signature is playing a corner game with my bed, fireplace and wall at a dizzying speed. Everything in front of me shook as if I had fallen off the horse's back. I was thinking about the existence of another life. It was quite different from or even contrary to the life we knew, but it was real. When it suddenly appeared to me, I hesitated, as if it were the stations in the sculptor's Doomsday Judgment. The same is true of those who die and come back to life at the gate of heaven. The letter said, "Dear Friend: I heard that you were seriously ill and no longer came to the Champs Elysees. I don't go there either, because there are many patients there. My girlfriends come to my house for tea every Monday and Friday. Mother let me tell you that you are welcome to come back when you are well. We can continue our interesting conversation on Champs Elysees Street at home. Goodbye, dear friend, I hope your parents will allow you to come to my house for tea often. Greetings. Hilbert."

Latin means honesty without deception.

As I read this letter, my nervous system received the message with amazing agility that I met a happy event. However, my mind, that is, I myself - the main client - did not know. Happiness, through Hilbert to obtain happiness, this is what I have always yearned for, purely ideological * thing, as Leonard said painting is Cosamentale. A letter full of words cannot be absorbed by thought immediately. However, when I finished reading the letter, I thought of it, and it became the object of my reverie, Cosameatle. I couldn't help but read it again every five minutes and kiss it again. So, I know my happiness.

Italian. That is, ideological things. Leonard is da Vinci (1452-1519).

Life is full of miracles that lovers can always count on. This miracle may have been artificially created by my mother. Seeing that my life has been dull lately, she asked Hilbert to write to me. I remember my first baths in the sea. At that time, I hated sea water because I could not breathe. In order to arouse my interest in diving, my mother quietly asked my swimming teacher to put beautiful shellfish boxes and coral branches on the bottom of the water so that I thought I had found them. What's more, in life, in all kinds of different situations of life, it's better not to try to understand anything about love, because they are sometimes harsh and ruthless, sometimes unexpected, as if they follow magical rules rather than rational rules. A billionaire, rich but lovely, was abandoned by the poor, unattractive woman who lived with him. In despair, he exerted all the power of money and all the influence of the world to get her back, but in vain. In this case, we had better not use logic to explain his mistress's behavior. What stubbornness, but should think that he was destined to be hit by this, destined to die of heart disease. Lovers often have to struggle with obstacles. Their imagination, which is so excited by pain, guesses where the obstacles lie. Sometimes the obstacles lie only in a particular personality of a woman they can't change her mind. They lie in her stupidity, in the influence exerted on her by someone they don't know. Or the fear she feels is the pleasure she temporarily demands from life, which is beyond the wealth of the lover himself or her lover. In short, the lover cannot understand the nature of these obstacles, because the woman plays with her wrists to hide them from him, and because his judgment is deceived by love, he cannot accurately evaluate them. These obstacles are like tumors, which doctors have finally eliminated, but they don't know the cause. Like tumors, obstacles are always mysterious, but temporary. Generally speaking, however, they last longer than love. Since love is not a selfless passion, then, after the decline of love, the lover will no longer think about why the poor and frivolous woman who had been loved by herself should refuse his support for a long time and stubbornly.

On the issue of love, the mystery makes us unable to see the cause of the disaster, and also makes us unable to understand the sudden happy ending (for example, the outcome of Hilbert's letter). For this type of emotions, any satisfaction is often just a change of place for the pain, so it can only be called a seemingly satisfactory ending, but there is no real satisfactory ending. Sometimes, we get a temporary breath, and then within a period of time we have the illusion of recovery. Tropic of Cancer

Franois did not believe that it was Hilbert's name, because the letter G was so fancy that it looked like the letter A, leaning over the omitted letter I, and the last syllable stretched so long that it formed a zigzag ornament. If I had to find a logical explanation for the friendly attitude expressed in the letter, which filled me with joy, I might say that it was partly due to my illness (on the contrary, I thought it would make me lose my favor in the Swan family's mind forever). Not long ago, Block came to see me when Professor Godard was in my bedroom (we used his dietary therapy and invited him back). After seeing the doctor, Godard didn't leave and was pulled by his parents to eat, when Block came into my bedroom. We were chatting, and Block said he had dinner with a lady the night before, who was very close to Mrs. Swan. He heard that Mrs. Swan liked me very much, and I wanted to say that he must have made a mistake and told him that I had never met Mrs. Swan and had never spoken to her to clarify the facts, just as I had said to Mr. de Nobwa for the sake of a clear conscience and not being regarded as a liar by Mrs. Swan, but I did not. Courage to correct Block's mistake, I understand that he was deliberate. He made up the idea that what Mrs. Swan could not say was to show that he had dined with Mrs. Swan's girlfriend (which he thought was decent, but it was fictional). When Mr. de Nobwa heard that I didn't know Mrs. Swan and wanted to know her, he decided not to mention me in front of her. On the contrary, Mr. Godard, knowing from Block that Mrs. Swan knew me well and appreciated me, decided to tell her when he saw her next time (he was her personal doctor). It's a delightful child, and we have frequent contacts. It was for two reasons that he decided to talk to me whenever he had the chance to see Audrey.

So I got to know the house. The smell of perfume used by Mrs. Swann has been pervaded on the stairs, but the aroma mainly comes from the special and painful charm of Hill Bate's life. The merciless doorman became the compassionate omenedes. When I asked him if he could go upstairs, he always gladly lifted his hat to say yes to my prayers. From the outside, the window looked like a bright, cold and superficial look (like the eyes of the Swans) that separated me from the interior treasures that were not prepared for me. In the beautiful season, Hillbert and I stayed in her room all afternoon. Sometimes I opened the window for air. On her mother's reception day, we can even lean over the window to watch the guests arrive. When they got out of the car, they often looked up and waved to me, treating me as a nephew of the hostess. At this moment, Hilbert's braids touched my cheek. These very delicate (both natural and supernatural) and artistic * curvilinear hairs, in my opinion, are simply unparalleled works made of heaven's grass. The smallest hair braids are worthwhile for my country's grass to worship. But I dare not have this extravagant hope, I just want to get a photo, it will be more precious than Da Vinci's small flower reproduction photos! In order to get such a picture, I bowed to Swan's friends and even to the photographer, but instead of getting it, I provoked some disgusting people.

Hilbert's parents had forbidden me to meet her for a long time, but now - I went into the dark - dark waiting room, where they might meet at times; the waiting was more terrible and urgent than when people used to meet the king at Versailles Palace. There I bumped into a huge seven-branched clothes rack, like a candlestick in the Bible, and then muddled to salute the servant in a grey robe sitting on the wooden box, because in the dark I thought of him as Mrs. Swan, and whenever I went, one of them passed there. Smiling (not in the least) and shaking hands with me, he said, "How have you been lately? (When they said this, they never recited the letter T together, so you can imagine that as soon as I got home, I happily did this practice of canceling the recitation.) Did Hillbert know you were here? Okay, play by yourselves.

(1) Omenides, the vengeful God in the Greek tragedy Orestes, became the God of mercy.

(2) It refers to seven candlesticks (representing seven churches) in the Revelation of the Bible.

Hilbert's tea party for girlfriends has long seemed an insurmountable obstacle to our continued separation, but now it is an opportunity for us to get together. She often wrote me notes (because we were still new), and each letter was different. On one occasion, there was a blue Greyhound printed on the letter paper, with a humorous passage written in English, followed by an exclamation mark; on the other, there was an anchor or G.S. letters on the letter paper, which were drawn very long and formed a rectangle to occupy the whole top of the letter paper. On another occasion, the name Hilbert was printed in gold * on the corner of the letter paper, as if it were her signature, then a decoration, with an open black umbrella on top. On another occasion, the name was surrounded by fancy typefaces resembling Chinese hats. All the letters were capitalized, but you couldn't recognize a single letter. However, Hilbert has a variety of stationery, but there must be an end to it. So a few weeks later, I saw the letter paper she used in her first letter, with a silver * stamp that had lost its luster, a knight in a helmet, and an epigram below. At that time, I thought that the letterpaper was selected according to certain customs and different dates. Now it seems that she did this to remember which letterpaper she had used, so as not to send the same letterpaper to the correspondent, at least to the person who would please her, even if she had to repeat it, as late as possible. Hilbert's girlfriend, who had been invited to tea, said goodbye as soon as they arrived at different classes. I heard a faint voice coming from the waiting room on the stairs. It cut me off before I stepped on this floor. The connection between the past life, so that I will enter the warm room should take off the scarf, watch the hour, so as not to miss home and other things forgotten. The staircases were all wooden and were common in some houses modelled on Henry II's style, which was Audrey's long-sought but soon to be abandoned ideal. There is a sign at the entrance of the stairs that says, "No elevators when you go downstairs." In my eyes, this staircase is so wonderful that I told my parents that it was an antique that Mr. Swan brought from afar. I love the truth so much that even if I know the information is false, I will not hesitate to tell my parents, because only in this way can they respect Swan's noble staircase as I do. It's like in front of an ignorant person who doesn't know what the genius of a famous doctor is, it's better not to admit that the famous doctor can't cure rhinitis. Besides, I don't have any observation, I often can't say the name or type of the things in front of me. I only know that they are unusual since they are related to the Swans. Therefore, I don't think I must be lying when I talk about the artistic value of this staircase and its remote origin. Not necessarily a lie, but probably a lie, because my face turned red when my father interrupted me. He said, "I know those houses. I went to see one. They all have the same structure, but the Swans live on several floors, all of which were built by Bellier." He also said he wanted to rent one, but later gave up because the design was unreasonable and the lobby was too dark. That's what he said. But my instinct told me that I should sacrifice my thoughts for the charm of Swan's family and my own happiness. So I turned a deaf ear to my father's words. I obeyed my heart's orders and gave up this destructive thought (that is, Swan's family lived in a house that we might have lived in before). Far away, just as devout believers abandoned Leonan's Biography of Jesus.

Bellier (1843-1911), French engineer.

(2) Lennan (1823-1892), a French writer, once wrote History of the Origin of Christianity, of which The Biography of Jesus is the first volume.

Every time I went to tea, I climbed up the stairs at the first level and came to the area that smelled of perfume. I've lost my mind and memory, and I'm just a tool for conditioning. I seem to have seen the majestic chocolate cake, the circle of plates around it with small snacks and the patterned grey Satin napkins, all of which are the rules peculiar to Swansea. But everything that remained unchanged, like Kant's inevitable world, seemed to depend on one of the highest freedoms of action, for when we were all in Hilbert's little living room, she suddenly looked at the clock and said:

"Ah, my lunch began to disappear, and dinner had to wait until eight o'clock. I really want something to eat. How do you like it?"

So she led us into the living room, which was as dark as the inner hall of the Asian Temple painted by Rembrandt. There was a big cake imitating the structure of the building. It was majestic, gentle and kind. It stood there as if by chance and casually, waiting for Hilbert to pick up its chocolate pheasant butterfly and dismantle the Yellow butterfly. The steep brown ramps, which were built in the oven, were like pillars in Darius's palace. Not only did Hilbert decide whether to destroy this Nineveh-like cake based on his hunger level, but she also asked me if I was hungry and handed me a large, shiny, Oriental wall with bright red fruits from the collapsed building. She even asked me when my parents would have dinner, as if I still had the concept of time, as if my desperate panic had not completely eliminated the hunger, the concept of dinner, and the image of my family from my empty memory and paralyzed stomach. Unfortunately, this paralysis is only temporary. I ate the cake numbly and it was time to digest in a moment. But it's too early. At this time, Hillbert handed me "My Tea" and I kept drinking. In fact, a cup of tea was enough to make me insomnia in twenty-four hours. So the mother often said, "It's troublesome, this child is sick every time he comes back from Swan's house." However, when I was at Swan's house, did I understand that I was drinking tea? Even if I understand, I will drink the same drink, because even if I recover the discrimination of the present in a moment, I can not restore the memory of the past and the prediction of the future. My imagination can't reach the distant time - only then can I have the idea of sleeping and the need for sleeping.

Darius, king of ancient Persia, was in office from 521 to 485 B.C. and was famous for his outstanding military achievements and great civil engineering.

Nineveh, the ancient kingdom of Asia Minor, was later destroyed.

Hilbert's girlfriends are not all in such a state of excitement that they can't make rational decisions. How many people don't drink tea! "Of course, my tea didn't work!" Hilbert said in a popular phrase at the time. She fluttered the chairs around the table to dilute the solemn atmosphere and said, "We seem to be celebrating the wedding, God, these servants are silly!"

She sat side-by-side on an X-shaped chair with its feet leaning against the dining table and nibbled at the cake. A moment later, Mrs. Swan came in quickly after seeing off her guests - her reception day was often the same as Hillbert's tea party.

She sometimes wore blue velvet and often a black satin dress with white * lace. She expressed surprise (as if her daughter might have so many snacks without her consent) and said, "Gee, how delicious you are! I'm sick to see you eating cakes."

"Well, Mom, we invite you to come too." Hilbert answered. Float

"Oh, no, honey, what will my guests say? There are Mrs. Trombe, Mrs. Godard and Mrs. Bondang. You know, my dear Mrs. Bondang never makes a short visit, but she just came. What do these good people say when they see me not going back? When they leave, if there are no new guests, I will come and talk to you (which is much more interesting to me). I think I have the right to be a little quiet. I have received forty-five guests, and forty-two of them have talked about Shelom's paintings!" Then she said to me, "When you come to have tea with Hilbert, she will make your favorite tea, the kind you often drink in the small studio." As she spoke, she went away to entertain her guests. She seemed to think that I also realized what habit I was looking for when I went into this mysterious world (even if I drank tea, would that be the habit of drinking tea? As for the studio, I don't know if I have it. She said, "When will you come back?" Tomorrow We'll make toast for you. It tastes the same as Columbe's. Are you not coming? You are so bad." Since she had a salon, she imitated Mrs. Vildiran everywhere and spoke with a delicate voice. But I had never seen toast or Columbus, so her last promise didn't impress me. Strangely, when she praised our nurse, I didn't know who it meant at first. In fact, everyone used the word, and maybe it's still used in Gombre today. I don't know English, but I soon understood that she meant Francois. On Champs Elysees, I was worried that Franois would make a bad impression, but I learned from Mrs. Swan that it was because Hillbert had told me so much about my nurses that the Swans had a good feeling for me." You can feel how loyal she is to you and how kind she is." I immediately completely changed my view of Franois. Because of the reaction, I no longer think that a tutor wearing raincoats and feathers is indispensable. Mrs. Swan couldn't help saying a few words about Mrs. Bradang, saying that she was really kind, but her visit was frightening, so I realized that their relationship was not as good for me as I thought, and it could not improve my status in Swan's family at all.

(1) Scherrom (1824-1904) was a French painter.

In English, Mrs. Swan likes to clip a few English words.

If I had explored this wonderland with a shudder of reverence and joy that had unexpectedly opened its doors to me (formerly closed), then my identity was only Hillbert's friend. The kingdom that accepted me was itself in a more mysterious kingdom: where the Swans lived a supernatural life. When they met me face to face in the waiting room, they shook hands with me and then went to the mysterious kingdom. But soon I was inside the temple. For example, when Hillbert was not at home and Mr. or Mrs. Swan happened to be at home, they asked who was ringing the doorbell, and when they heard me, they asked my servant to invite me in for a talk, hoping that I would influence their daughter in this or that respect, this or that matter. I recall the letter I wrote to Swan before. It was so comprehensive and convincing that he thought it was not worth repeating. I can't help sighing: Thought, reasoning, heart, can't lead to any conversation, can't solve any difficulties, and life, when you don't know what's going on, can easily solve the difficulties. I got Hilbert's new status as a friend and had the ability to make a good impact on her, so I enjoyed the privilege of being at the top of the school like my son and classmate of the king. Because of this contingency * I could go to the palace often and meet the king in the Royal hall. Swan kindly let me into his study, as if he was not anxious to deal with many glorious and decent jobs. He left me for an hour. I was so excited that I couldn't understand him at all. I had to stammer out an answer, keep silent timidly, and sometimes summon up the fleeting courage to deal with it without saying anything. He showed me the works of art and books that he thought would interest me, and although I had no doubt that they were much more exquisite than the collections of the Louvre and the National Library, I could not see them. I would gladly agree if his dietary supervisor now asked me to give him his watch, tie pin and high-rise shoes and sign a document recognizing him as his heir, because, in a stark folklore, I was in a daze (folklore, like the famous epic, does not leave the author's name, but with Wal). On the contrary, Husband's theory is that it did have authors, creative and humble people who could be seen at any time, who invented such expressions as "putting a name on a face" without revealing their own names. As the visit continued, I was amazed that the time spent in this amazing house had left me with nothing and no satisfactory results. I was disappointed not because of any flaws in the masterpieces he showed me, nor because I couldn't look at them carelessly, but because the magic I experienced sitting in Swan's study was not due to the intrinsic beauty of things themselves, but because they were attached to them - they might be the most in the world. Ugly - special feelings above, sadness and sweet feelings. For many years I have placed my emotions in this study, which is still immersed in every corner of the study. Similarly, there is another thing. A servant in shorts told me that my wife wanted to see me, so I went through the winding corridor path (filled with the precious perfume from the distant bathroom) to Mrs. Swan's bedroom, where three beautiful and solemn women, her first, second and third maids, were smiling and dressing for her. 。 I stayed there for a moment, humiliated and grateful for her, and these feelings had nothing to do with the piles of mirrors, silver brushes and the statues or portraits of Saint Antoine of Padova from the hands of her friend, a famous artist.

Wolf (1759-1824), a German philosopher, believed that the epic Iliad and Odyssey were the combination of epics of different periods.

(2) To remember someone's name.

San Antoine (1195-1231), Portuguese missionary.

Mrs. Swan went back to her guests, but we still heard her talking and laughing, because even if there were only two people in front of her, she raised her voice to talk like many "companions", just as she used to do when "hostess" led the conversation in a small group. People like to use expressions that they have recently learned from others, at least for a while. Mrs. Swan is no exception. She sometimes uses the language of elegant people her husband has to introduce to her (she imitates their affectations, i.e. removing articles or demonstrative pronouns before modifying the characters'adjectives), and sometimes she does. Use very vulgar language (such as a girlfriend's phrase "trivial matter") and try to use it in the stories she likes to tell (which is a habit she developed in the "small group") and then say, "I like this story very much." Ah! You have to admit that the story is beautiful!" She learned the language through her husband from Gelmont, whom she did not know.