冷笑话说，她走着走着就自私了。

人心不久。
这不是什么新的话题，太阳底下，数千年前，某个人午睡初醒，兴许就有此一叹。
人心飘忽。福哉？祸哉？忧喜哉？
人心游离，变幻无终。看不出利弊，周而复始，无止无息，只是觉得累。
心绪变化之快，正想打个呵欠，心中所想早已迁移，张开嘴却忘了要合上。
刚刚来想说自私，自私两个字，才在心里一掂量，就变了个模样。
闭目观心，还没等看到自私，却看到这一变，看这一变，不由得又想到开始那一出，心念变化快似覆掌，更甚。

 

自私，说一说自私。
自私。都懒得想。
自私就是懒得想。
心中无别人。这就自私了。

自私是懒得对别人好，是懒得文明。
是感到皮肤刺痒，伸手就抓挠，不曾细想。
是觉得烦闷，脸上就乌云郁结，不曾细想。
是得意了，不加掩饰地笑出来，不曾细想。
是觉得无趣，甩手走人，不曾细想。
是觉得饿了，取了食物就吃，不曾细想。

 

自私是一种原始的习惯。
狮子是自私的，猿猴是自私的，婴儿也是自私的。

 

自私是，不论是生活于人群中或是生活于海外孤岛，都如处于世界中心。心中无别人。
自私是自给自足，对旁人无需求，或者自以为对别人无需求。
自私的人不觉得自私，也不觉得孤独。

我偶尔觉得自私，常常觉得孤独。

我的时间啊

深渊

 1. The great deep, the primal chaos; the bowels of the earth, the supposed cavity of the lower world; the infernal pit.
 2. A bottomless gulf; any unfathomable or apparently unfathomable cavity or void space; a profound gulf, chasm, or void extending beneath.

 

Night after night, to dream of the gulf, the cliff, the abyss.

The utter darkness.

To be there, before the eternal dawn, to breath its air.
To feel, to live, to exist there!

The chill that climbs along the spine, from the moist earth.
The small, unheard cry that fills the sky.
Oh that sky, the sky of a million hues,that drip, that melt.

 

To stand here, to stare at the ancient nothingness.

 

I am,
the curved toes, the held breath, the clenched fists.
                                          Mesmerized.

This beautiful downfall.

 

This urge:
to give in,
to dare the unforgivable.

 

To forget.
To plunge.

 

Every man stands there, night after night, facing his own abyss.

 

读书的节令

读和吃一样，同一项活动，却要分出许多级别。有饱腹，解馋，尝鲜，品味等等细微分类，直至饕餮成精。各地文化因为各自地理的局限性和独特之处，产生了许多不同的流派。耳目之好，与口舌之好相比，只怕类别更是繁琐，因为每个读者都因为自己的偏好和便利，生成了种种不同的胃口。我生于西南，自幼嗜辣，喜欢干，香，脆，因为祖母的培养，也深爱软糯甜。读书方面，喜欢玲珑精巧，七层宝塔般的构造，喜欢猎奇，好冷冽内矜的笔锋，针针刺痛，也好委婉温暖的口吻，如沐春光。

读什么书和吃什么菜一样，没什么高明低下，不过一个要旨：冬吃萝卜夏吃姜，是什么时候读什么书。小孩子就该读童话，少年就该幻想，也要开始观察世界，青年的时候要立志，壮年的时候要努力劳作，弥补自己的不足，人老了，嗨，还管别人做什么，想看啥就看啥。

偶尔 会幻想，假如我可以全盘操控，我会如何调整自己的食谱。

最开始，不识字的时候，自然是图画书，一本册子几百个字，鲜艳的小花小鸟小人。然后，童话年代到了，入门可以看朴实的格林兄弟，白雪公主，灰姑娘，小槐树，民间故事的根本，百变不离其宗。然后上升到属于文学作品的故事，鼎鼎有名的海的女儿，绿野仙踪，快乐王子，彼得潘，木偶奇遇记，比较低调的普希金童话集，豪斯童话集，本土些的大林与小林，皮皮鲁与鲁西西，多看些总是好的。童话决定一个孩子想像力的基调，设立了他世界观的基础和对真善美的敏感程度，这些都是极为重要的。

进入少年阶段，差不多十岁，在过渡时期，其实可以看所谓成人们的童话：十分幻想化的脸谱小说，武侠，言情，科幻或者是推理, 这些故事比童话更为贴近现实，展现了世界的风貌，可增长基本的常识，是初等人际关系最好的教材，还提供了聊资。家长们禁止孩子涉足这些作品的主要原因是，怕他们上瘾，影响学业。这的确是一种可能性。不过让他们尽可能早地接触这些小说，会产生类似于疫苗的效果。一个在十一岁开始看武侠的孩子，到他十五岁的时候，应该已经把金庸古龙看了个遍，看言情的话，琼瑶席娟也该读完了，这时候最初无条件的热爱已经演变为一丝疲倦。在这个年龄，学习还算轻松，而他也可以更早地进入下一个阅读阶段。更何况，我始终觉得，没有读过福尔摩斯探案集的人生是不完整的。

如上所述，早慧的少年在十六岁就可以进入青年期。如果她是看言情起家的，那么可能转移到更为老道的师太极作家阵营中，三毛，亦舒，李碧华，张爱玲，Jane  Austin。一个传统中国胃的读者，应该在此时把阅读范围扩大到世界。不太关心男女之情的也许会开始看名著，而不是为了应付学校作业而上网查阅缩水版。声名显赫的十八十九世纪欧洲文学，二十世纪美国及南美文学，新世纪的跨国界文学。不喜欢文学的可以读哲学，读传记，读历史。这个年代，青年的首要任务是明白自己在人类历史中的位置，明确自己的目的，寻找值得尊敬的人并且以他们为榜样。不要怕过度理想化，因为之后的日子消磨理想的多，坚定理想的少。

青年时期，理论上讲可以一直持续到三十九岁。不过我们还是以三十岁为限好了，甚至可以更早一些。壮年，不等于中年，这时候，当年的青年应该正在实现自己的理想，为之奋斗，这时候他不会有之前那么多的时间来读书 ，而且可能更多地选择一些实用性很强的书，比如经济理财，比如教育心理，比如创新技术，比如社会现象。这些都是对的。重要的是不能放弃读书，不能让自己设定的目标从眼前消失。要记住阅读是件让人愉悦的事，并且反复温习其中的乐趣。

老年期，就约摸等于退休以后吧。那么读书就恢复成童年时期，一件没有任何目的，十分纯粹的事。读书就是为了读书。这时候，何妨重温小时候最爱的童话，少年时最欣赏的英雄，青年时的信仰。老来得闲，研究研究园艺，茶道，烹调，手工，民俗，有何不可？我老了以后，如果不能行万里路，就会看许多许多的游记，想像自己是希腊的水手，芬兰的木匠，锡兰的苦行僧，在金字塔的影子里吟诗，热带雨林的沼气中生火，雪山的冰窟内温酒，海底的沉船间舞蹈。妙哉，妙哉 ，简直妙不可言！

---

你是一只虎
我是一个猎人
我追逐你已经三天三夜
从寒苦高原一路到潮湿的沼泽地
看着你身上繁复的花纹
我觉得我们可以继续走下去
重复无数个无眠清醒的三天三夜

Cicero: On Friendship

21. Again, there is such a disaster, so to speak, as having to break off friendship. And sometimes it is one we cannot avoid. For at this point the stream of our discourse is leaving the intimacies of the wise and touching on the friendship of ordinary people. It will happen at times that an outbreak of vicious conduct affects either a man's friends themselves or strangers, yet the discredit falls on the friends. In such cases friendships should be allowed to die out gradually by an intermission of intercourse. They should, as I have been told that Cato used to say, rather be unstitched than torn in twain; unless, indeed, the injurious conduct be of so violent and outrageous a nature as to make an instance breach and separation the only possible course consistent with honour and rectitude. Again, if a change in character and aim takes place, as often happens, or if party politics produces an alienation of feeling (I am now speaking, as I said a short time ago, of ordinary friendships, not of those of the wise), we shall have to be on our guard against appearing to embark upon active enmity while we only mean to resign a friendship. For there can be nothing more discreditable than to be at open war with a man with whom you have been intimate. Scipio, as you are aware, had abandoned his friendship for Quintus Pompeius on my account; and again, from differences of opinion in politics, he became estranged from my colleague Metellus. In both cases he acted with dignity and moderation, shewing that he was offended indeed, but without rancour.

Our first object, then, should be to prevent a breach; our second, to secure that, if it does occur, our friendship should seem to have died a natural rather than a violent death. Next, we should take care that friendship is not converted into active hostility, from which flow personal quarrels, abusive language, and angry recriminations. These last, however, provided that they do not pass all reasonable limits of forbearance, we ought to put up with, and, in compliment to an old friendship, allow the party that inflicts the injury, not the one that submits to it, to be in the wrong. Generally speaking, there is but one way of securing and providing oneself against faults and inconveniences of this sort - not to be too hasty in bestowing our affection, and not to bestow it at all on unworthy objects.

Now, by "worthy of friendship" I mean those who have in themselves the qualities which attract affection. This sort of man is rare; and indeed all excellent things are rare; and nothing in the world is so hard to find as a thing entirely and completely perfect of its kind. But most people not only recognise nothing as good in our life unless it is profitable, but look upon friends as so much stock, caring most for those by whom they hope to make most profit. Accordingly they never possess that most beautiful and most spontaneous friendship which must be sought solely for itself without any ulterior object. They fail also to learn from their own feelings the nature and the strength of friendship. For every one loves himself, not for any reward which such love may bring, but because he is dear to himself independently of anything else. But unless this feeling is transferred to another, what a real friend is will never be revealed; for he is, as it were, a second self. But if we find these two instincts shewing themselves in animals, - whether of the air or the sea or the land, whether wild or tame, first, a love of self, which in fact is born in everything that lives alike; and, secondly, an eagerness to find and attach themselves to other creatures of their own kind; and if this natural action is accompanied by desire and by something resembling human love, how much more must this be the case in man by the law of his nature? For man not only loves himself, but seeks another whose spirit he may so blend with his own as almost to make one being of two.

---

Discretion is shown by not highlighting any part of this text.

Thus I speak, at the limit of honour and rectitude. Cicero is mostly correct, but we disagree on the best manner of breaking. As many times before, being a total brute, I prefer the fast lane.

Also, for political correctness:

 Le masculin est employé à la seule fin d’alléger le texte et désigne autant le féminin que le masculin.So is the incompatible serif font.

Venting

Right, I know all the tricks of the old masters to make people happy.
But I don't seem to be able to make myself happy.
Do I want to be happy? Really?
In this life,
this stretch of existence between here and there.
 
I have always felt that being happy, H-A-P-P-Y is a terribly vulgar thing, detestable, tasteless, dry and flaky, forced, unimaginative, empty, thin, threadbare, just plain boring.
It is much more ...beautiful, to suffer quietly, in solitaire, to look down or up instead of straight ahead.
But beauty too, is a state of perfect numbness.
Oh damn I just disclaimed the last thing that ties me to this place.

 

What should I be afraid of?
Abandon? Ignorance? Loneliness? Hunger? Despair? Poverty? Disease? Death? Hell? Heaven? Man?

Dear colleagues, we are going down the same drain anyway, why insist on the difference?
Yeah I know how they say it's the process that matters, guess what? Screw that.
The film that you see before you pass out you see,nah nah nah, not a flash back, it is your life, the reel recedes and catches on fire!

 

As long as I live, I will pay the price of living, while I still enjoy the pain, picking at the scars.

Wowwee, the beautiful downward spiral.

 

I despise humanity because I understand myself too well:
all the depravity that lies within here,
in this heart, in this mind,
the emblem of ungratefulness,of pure malice.

I am, I will, and sometimes I repent, yet I go on, wileful as ever.

Shameless.
Not unlike Britney Spears.

Claude Glass, Ondaatje(1984)

A somewhat convex dark or coloured hand-mirror, used to

concentrate the features of the landscape in subdued tones.

  ‘Grey walked about everywhere with that pretty toy, the claude glass,

in his hand, making the beautiful forms of the lanscape compose in its luscious chiaroscuro.' Gosse(1882)

 

[...]

For he has always loved that ancient darkness

where the flat rocks glide like Japanese tables

where he can remove clothes

and lie with moonlight on the day's heat

hardened in stone, drowning

in this star blanket this sky

like a giant trout

 

conscious how the heaven

careens over him

as he moves in back fields

kissing the limbs of trees

or placing ear on stone which rocks him

and then stands to watch the house

in its oasis of light

And he know something is happening there to him

solitary while he spreads his arms

and holds everything that is slipping away together.

 

[...]

now in this brilliant darkness where

grass has lost its colour and it's all

fucking Yeats and moonlight, he knows

this colourless grass is making his bare feet green

for it is the hour of magic

which no matter what sadness

leaves him grinning.

At certain hours of the night

ducks are nothing but landscape

just voices breaking as they nightmare.

The weasel wears their blood

home like a scarf,

cows drain over the horizon

                                      and the dark

vegetable hum onward underground

 

[...]

Drunkenness opens his arms like a gate

and over the car invisible insects

ascend out of the beams like meteorite

crushed dust of the moon

...he waits for the magic star called Lorca.

 

[...]

This is the hour

when dead men sit

and write each other.

This is the hour for sudden journeying.

 

[...]

the crickets like small pins

begin to tack down

the black canvas of this night,

begin to talk their hesitant

gnarled epigrams to each other

across the room.

 

                           Creak and echo.

Creak and echo. With absolute clarity

he knows where he is.

 

Edith Sodergran

You sought a flower
and found a fruit.
You sought a well
and found a sea.
You sought a woman
and found a soul.
- You are disappointed.

- The day cools IV