Zhang ailing
I am a girl with an eccentric personality. I have been regarded as a genius since I was a child. I have no survival goal except developing my own genius. However, when my childhood fantasy faded away, I found that I had nothing but the dream of genius-all I had was the quirks and shortcomings of genius. The world forgave Vane's barbarism, but they won't forgive me.
With a little American publicity, maybe I will be called a child prodigy. I could recite Tang poems when I was three years old. I still remember standing unsteadily in front of an old man's cane chair in the Qing Dynasty, chanting "A merchant girl hates the motherland, but still sings flowers in the backyard crossing the river" and watching his tears roll down. At the age of seven, I wrote my first novel, a family tragedy. When I come across words with complicated strokes, I often ask the chef how to write them. The first novel is about a lovelorn girl who committed suicide. My mother criticized that if she wanted to commit suicide, she would never take a train from Shanghai to the West Lake to commit suicide. But because of the poetic background of the West Lake, I finally stubbornly retained this point.
My only extracurricular reading materials are The Journey to the West and several fairy tales, but my mind is not bound by them. When I was eight years old, I tried a novel similar to Utopia, entitled Happy Village. Happy village people are bellicose plateau people. Because of their feats in conquering Miao people, they were chartered by Emperor China, exempted from taxes and given autonomy. Therefore, Happiness Village is a big family isolated from the outside world, cultivating and weaving by itself, and preserving the lively culture of tribal times.
I sewed half a dozen exercise books together, expecting a masterpiece, but I soon lost interest in this great subject. Now I still have a few frames of my illustrations, introducing the services, architecture and interior decoration of this ideal society, including the library, "martial arts hall", chocolate shop and roof garden. The dining room is a pavilion in the lotus pond. I don't remember whether there is a cinema or socialism there-they seem to have a good life without the products of these two civilizations.
When I was nine years old, I hesitated whether I should choose music or art as my lifelong career. After watching a movie about a poor painter, I cried and decided to become a pianist and play in a grand concert hall.
I am extremely sensitive to colors, notes and words. When playing the piano, I imagine eight notes with different personalities, wearing bright clothes and dancing hand in hand. I learn to write articles with strong colors and sonorous rhymes, such as Pearl Grey, Dusk, Graceful and Graceful, Brilliant and Melancholy, so I often make stacking mistakes. Until now, I still love watching Strange Tales from a Lonely Studio and tacky Paris fashion reports, just for this attractive word.
I got free development at school. My self-confidence grew stronger and stronger until I was sixteen. My mother came back from France and looked at her daughter who had not been seen for years.
"I regret taking care of your typhoid fever," she told me. "I'd rather watch you die than watch you live and suffer everywhere."
I found that I couldn't peel apples, and I learned to mend socks after hard work. I'm afraid of going to the barber shop, meeting guests and trying on clothes for the tailor. Many people tried to teach me to knit, but none of them succeeded. After living in a room for two years, I was at a loss to ask where the clock was. I went to the hospital for injections by rickshaw every day for three months, but I still didn't know the way. To sum up, in the real society, I am equal to a waste.
My mother gave me two years to learn to adapt to the environment. She taught me to cook; Wash clothes with soap powder; Practice walking posture; Look at people's glances; Remember to close the curtains after lighting; Study facial expressions in the mirror; Don't tell jokes without humor genius.
I show amazing stupidity in my common sense of dealing with people. My two-year plan is a failed experiment. My mother's painful warning didn't affect me except that my mind was out of balance.
There is a part of the art of life that I can't appreciate. I know how to watch Clouds in July, listen to Scottish soldiers playing bagpipes, enjoy rattan chairs in the breeze, eat salted peanuts, enjoy neon lights on rainy nights, and reach out from the double-decker bus to pick the green leaves at the top of the tree. When no one handed over, I was full of joy in life. But I can't overcome this little distress for a day. Life is a gorgeous robe full of fleas.