On such a day, I think people will forget everything, whether it is work or distress. They all become like children. For children, this is a holiday, a 24-hour liberation from that horrible school; For adults, this is a ceasefire with nightmare life, and it is also a short pause in endless struggle and fear all day long.
No matter who works in the objective world or in the spiritual world, it is difficult to get rid of the influence of 50 years of folk festival carnival. They also unconsciously play their roles in this carefree atmosphere. What about me? As a true Parisian, I have never missed the swaggering little shops and sheds that appeared in this grand festival.
In fact, the competition between these small shops and sheds is very fierce. They are all screaming, singing loudly and growling desperately. This is really a mixture of shouting, copper-iron collision and fireworks explosion. The faces of fools and clowns who are black and shriveled by the wind, rain and sun are twitching. They seem to be actors who are confident in their acting skills, pulling a ridiculous banter and joking like Moliere; Hercules wear pre-washed jerseys solemnly and swaggering, with neither forehead nor skull, like orangutans, but they are proud of the thick muscles on their arms; Dancers as beautiful as fairies and gorgeous as princesses are jumping under the light of small lanterns, and their short skirts are covered with golden light.
There are lights, smoke, shouts, joy and noise everywhere; Some people are spending, others are making money; People are equally happy whether they are spending or making money. The children pulled their mother's skirt to get some lollipops; Or kneel on his father's shoulder to better watch the dazzling magician like God. The smell of fried food is everywhere, overwhelming, like incense for this festival.
However, at the other end, at the end of this row of shop sheds, I saw a poor artist. He seems to be ashamed. He escaped all this splendor. He bent down as if to fall. He is as old as a zombie. He leans on a pillar of his little shack, which is even more pitiful than the broken house of the most uncivilized savage in the world, and there are two wax heads burning inside; Waxy and oily, smoking, you can see the ugliness and poverty of the broken shed.
Everywhere is joy, income and eating and drinking, everywhere is the peace of overnight food, everywhere is full of energetic fanaticism; But this is absolute pain. What is particularly striking is that he is wearing such funny rags, which can form a strong contrast more than makeup. This is for his own needs.
Poor ghost! He doesn't laugh, cry, jump, make any gestures, shout, sing any songs, sing joyfully, mourn or beg. He sat quietly. He gave up, he accepted his fate, and his future was a foregone conclusion.
However, the way he looked at the crowd and the lights was so profound and unforgettable! The torrent of people and light is only a few steps away from this disgusting suffering. I feel as if there is a hysterical hand around my neck, and my eyes are full of tears, which make me dizzy.
What should we do? Why should we ask this unfortunate old man what miracle he wants to cause in this stinking darkness? What miracle will happen after his curtain is punctured? Indeed, I dare not ask. My timid reasons will make you laugh. ...
I admit that I am afraid to fool him.
Finally, I decided to put some money on his board meeting, hoping that he would understand my intention. But at this moment, I didn't know how to squeeze, and a stream of people flooded in and swept me away from him.
The scene just now has always appeared in front of my eyes. I turned around again, trying to analyze my sudden pain just now. I said to myself: "I just saw the image of an old scholar. He has lived for a generation and is an excellent joker of this generation;" This is the image of another old poet; No friends, no family, no wife and children, despised by the poor and the ungrateful public. Forgetful people are no longer willing to step into his shop shed. "
Chapter 2: Except for a small piece of excellent foreign prose, except for the ginkgo tree (I often give its ray-like leaves to my classmates and they put them in the atlas), the whole garden is suffocating hot and bathed in the sunshine of Huang Cancan, slightly reddish and purple. But I don't know whether this red impression comes from my emotional satisfaction or because I am dizzy. Summer reflected by golden gravel, summer penetrating my straw hat, summer with almost no night ... My mother felt my deep affection for dawn and allowed me to meet it. At my request, she woke me up at half past three; Holding a basket in one hand, I walked to the narrow moor by the river to pick strawberries, black tea roots and bearded gooseberries.
At this moment, everything is still sleeping in the chaotic, moist and fuzzy blue. I walked on a gravel road, and the haze bound by my own weight first infiltrated my legs, then my lips, my ears, and the most sensitive nostrils all over my body ... It was on this road that I realized my value, an unspeakable happiness, me and the early morning breeze, the first bird.
My mother called me "beauty" and then let me go; She looked at her work-she regarded me as her "masterpiece"-and ran away and disappeared on the hillside. I may be handsome; My mother's evaluation is not always consistent with my photos at that time ... The reason why I looked handsome at that time was because I was in the prime of life, because of dawn, because my green eyes, because my blonde hair fluttered in the morning breeze, and because I was more superior as an awakened child than other sleeping children.
I went back when I heard the first mass bell. But before that, I've had a hearty meal of wild fruit, I've run around the Woods like a hound hunting alone, and I've tasted my revered spring. A clear spring tinkled out of the ground, forming a small sandbar around it. As soon as I was born this spring, I lost my courage and went underground again. Another spring, almost without trace, swept the grass like a snake and sneaked around the middle of the grass. Only clusters of blooming daffodils have confirmed its existence. The first spring water smells like oak leaves, and the other one smells like iron and hyacinthus orientalis stems. Speaking of these springs, I hope that when everything is dying, my mouth is full of their fragrance and I will leave with this imaginary spring. ...
Since Maria left me for another star-Orion, Altair, or you, the green Taibai planet? I often feel lonely. How many long years have I spent with my cat! When I say "alone", I mean that there is no matter; My cat is a mysterious companion, an elf. Therefore, I can say that my cat and I spent many long years alone and were the last writer in the decline of Latin.
Since this white creature disappeared, everything I love can be summarized by the word "decline", which is strange and special. Therefore, as far as a year is concerned, my favorite season is the last few gaunt days of summer, just before the start of autumn. As far as one day is concerned, I chose the time to go out for a walk before sunset, when brass color shone on the gray wall and copper color shone on the glass window. Similarly, in literature, what my spirit seeks for sadness and entertainment will also be those gloomy poems of the end of Rome. As long as those people haven't shown signs that the barbarians are approaching to revitalize them, they haven't learned to speak, and they are starting the first batch of naive Latin works of Christian prose.
While reading this poem (its color appeals to me more than young people's muscles), I stroked the fur of this purebred animal with one hand. At this time, under my window, there was a low and sad sound of the accordion. The accordion sounded on the long sidewalk under the poplar trees. These poplar leaves, even in summer, I think they are all yellow since Maria passed by last time. Some musical instruments are very sad, yes, the piano shines, the violin illuminates the broken soul, but the accordion makes me indulge in desperate dreams in vague memories. Now, it is playing a beautiful folk song, an old and tired song, which can make the villagers happy, but its countless sounds and festivals attract me to sleep leisurely and make me cry, like a romantic folk song. Where did your magic come from? I slowly put it away, and I didn't dare to leave a copper coin outside the window, for fear that I would find that the instrument was not for myself after I moved it.