On that day, as in previous days, St. Lou had to go to East Sierra. I'm sorry that he's not in Balbeck until evening, before he's finally back. I saw some young women and looked at them from afar and found them fascinating. They came down from the carriage, some into the ballroom of the amusement park, some into the cold drink shop. I am at a stage where there is no specific object of love and my heart is still empty. At this stage, just like a woman who falls in love yearns for and seeks his love, young people yearn for and look for beauty everywhere. With a real stroke --- seeing a woman in the distance, or a woman in the back, even if we can distinguish a little form --- we can imagine what the beauty in front of us looks like. We can imagine ourselves recognizing her, our hearts are beating violently, and our steps are speeding up. As long as the woman disappeared, we were doubtful whether it was her or not; only when we could catch up with her, would we realize that we were wrong.

Besides, as my body became more and more uncomfortable, I was tempted to exaggerate the simplest pleasures, because it was difficult for me to reach women. Elegant and beautiful girls, because I can't get close to them anywhere, I feel everywhere. If it's on the beach, it's because I'm too weak. If it's in an amusement park or a candy store, it's because I'm too shy. However, if I were to die soon, I would really like to know how the most beautiful girl life can provide is made in real life. Anyway, it will be another person besides me, or no one can enjoy the supply (in fact, I don't realize that there is a desire for possession at the root of my curiosity). If Saint Lou were with me, maybe I would dare go into the ballroom. But I am a person, so I have to stand at the entrance of the hotel, waiting for the time to join my grandmother. Just then, almost at the end of the levee, I saw five or six little girls coming forward, forming a strange moving mark on the levee. They are different from all the girls who are common in Balbecks in appearance and manners. A flock of seagulls, who did not know where they came from, was pacing slowly on the beach. Late arrivals flew to and fro, chasing other seagulls. Birds fly around and the destination seems as uncertain as those who bathe in the sea. Birds do not seem to see people bathing in the sea, and for their bird minds. The destination is clearly defined. Only the seagulls are probably familiar with these birds.

One of the strangers was pushing her bicycle by hand. Two others, with golf club jerseys in their hands. Their short clothes are quite different from those of the other girls in Barbeck. Several of the other girls do play sports, but they don't wear special clothes.

This is the moment when you ladies and gentlemen come to the dyke every day to turn around. They are all exposed to the relentless firepower of holding long-handed glasses, which they are looking at closely. It seems that there is something wrong with them. The long-handed glasses have to examine every detail clearly. The wife of the Chief Justice sat proudly in the middle of the awesome row of chairs in front of the music booth. They had just turned themselves from actors to critics, and came and sat down to comment on the people they passed. All of them were walking along the seawall, as if it were swaying like the deck of a ship (because they would not lift a leg by shaking their arms, turning their eyes, flattening their shoulders, balancing what they had just done on the other side with a shake in the opposite direction, and bloodletting on their faces). Nothing was seen so as to convince people that they didn't care about the girls at all. In fact, they are secretly staring at them to avoid bumping into them. People who walk around them or come from the opposite direction bump into them, pressing, because they are both the objects of mutual covert attention, although both sides use the same scorn to cover up such attention. Notre Dame de Paris

The love of the crowd - and therefore the fear of the crowd - is one of the most powerful motivations in everyone's mind. Or try to please others, or surprise others, or try to show others that they despise them. In the heart of the settler, imprisonment, absolutely even until the end of his life, is often due to an abnormal hobby for the crowd. Such a hobby would overwhelm any other emotion, so that he would never let them see him, because he could not get the praise of the porter, pedestrian or parking driver when he went out, so he gave up all the activities that he had to go out.

Several of these people are thinking along a certain train of thought, but through their hasty gestures and distracted eyes, they are not in harmony with their neighbours'thoughtful and shaky pace and expose their own ideological activities. The girls I saw in the distance, among all these people, went straight ahead, relaxed completely, and gave the rest of humanity the inner contempt of their movements freely, without hesitation, without stiffness, and accurately did what they wanted to do. Every part of their limbs was totally independent for the rest of the body. Most of them remain motionless. That's what Waltz dancers do. It's wonderful. Although each of them is a type, different from other human types, but these people are no exception, all good-looking. However, to be honest, I saw them only for such a short time, and I dared not stare at them. I haven't caught any of them yet. One exception is that her straight nose, brown skin contrasts sharply with the skin of the Arabs in a Renaissance painting of the three kings who worshipped the newborn Jesus. I know them only through the inflexible, stubborn and smiling eyes, and the pink cheeks. It was pink with a copper-plated hue, reminiscent of hydrangea. Even with these facial features, I couldn't fix any of them on one girl instead of another (the whole is so beautiful and moving, the most different appearance is adjacent, all kinds of colors and colours meet together, and as elusive as a piece of music). When the phrases passed by, I could not distinguish one sentence from another. When I distinguished them, I immediately forgot them. According to the order of the whole march, I saw a white oval, black eyes and green eyes appear one after another. I don't know if they are the girls who have charmed me just now. I can't attribute what I see to which girl I can distinguish from others. In my view, there is no demarcation line (after a while I found out the difference between them). Through their group, a harmonious floating is expanding, which is the continuous transfer of liquid beauty, collective beauty and dynamic beauty.

It may not be entirely accidental to gather these friends in such a beautiful selection. It is estimated that these girls (whose attitudes reveal bold, flirtatious and cruel nature*) are extremely sensitive to any funny thing and any ugliness, unable to accept the attraction of morality or intelligence, and naturally gather together among their peers. They hate and ignore all the women who reveal their reflective or sensitive nature through shyness, reserve, clumsiness, and what they might call the "disgusting type". On the contrary, a mixture of elegance, flexibility and gracefulness attracts them to other people who form friendships with them. Their tempting forthrightness and promise to spend happy time with them are only manifested in this way. I can't tell exactly what class they belong to. Maybe that class is at this stage of its development, either because of wealth and leisure, or because of sports (a new custom, even popular among some people), but intellectual education has not been added to sports, this society. Like those harmonious and productive sculpture schools that have not yet pursued distorted forms of expression, the social stratum naturally and massively produces beautiful bodies, beautiful thighs, beautiful buttocks, holy and serene faces, alert and resourceful expressions. Aren't the models I see here, facing the sea, noble and peaceful, like those statues exposed to the sun on a Greek coast?

Their group, like shining comets, marched along the seawall. Even if they think that the people around them are made up of another race, even their pain will not arouse sympathy in their hearts, but on the surface they do not seem to see the crowd. They forced the stoppers to give way, as if a machine had suddenly passed, and they could not expect the machine to avoid the pedestrians. For an elderly gentleman, they do not recognize his existence and refuse to contact him. If the gentleman ran away in a hurry and laughably with fear or anger, they would at most look at each other and laugh. For those who do not belong to their group, they do not pretend to be contemptuous. Their inner contempt is enough. But whenever they encounter obstacles, they can not but overcome them quickly, or rush over, or close their feet, because each of them is full of youthful vitality, so that they need to play out, even when they are sad or in pain, they are more obedient to the needs of age than to the mood of the day. They never missed a chance to jump or ski, but did not consciously do so. They just interrupted the slow march, sowed beautiful turns in the slow march, and combined their whims with high skills, just as Chopin sowed beautiful curves in his most melancholy phrases.

An old banker, whose wife was looking for a good place for him, had not made up his mind in several places. Finally, he was asked to sit on a folding stool facing the seawall, with a music Pavilion covering the sea breeze and the scorching sun for him. When his wife saw that he was seated, she left him to buy a newspaper and read it to him later for his amusement. Just walk away for a moment, and she will leave him there alone. The meeting never lasted more than five minutes, which seemed to be quite a long time for the old man. The old lady took good care of her husband without revealing it. She often walks away for five minutes in order to make her husband feel that she can still live like everyone else without any protection. The musician's stage above him constituted a natural and attractive springboard, and the oldest of the small group of girls came running towards the stage without hesitation. She jumped over the old man's head and skillfully rubbed his feet against the edge of his Navy cap. The old man looked terrified, but the other girls thought it was funny, especially the one with green eyes and baby faces. Her eyes showed admiration and joy for this behavior. I seemed to recognize a little shyness in her eyes, the shyness of being both shy and pretending to be a good man, which was not found in other people's faces.

"Poor old helper, it really makes me feel sad, almost half-dead!" One of the girls said, with a hoarse, half-sarcastic voice.

They took a few more steps forward, then stopped for a moment in the middle of the road, disregarding the obstacles to pedestrians, in an irregular, complete, peculiar and chirping aggregate, like a group of birds gathered together before takeoff. Then they continued to walk along the seawall above the sea level.

Now their charming faces are no longer blurred and confused. Centered on the tallest old banker who jumped over his head, I've separated and clustered them (everyone's name is missing, I don't know). The small one was separated from the sea level with plump pink cheeks and green eyes; the other had brown skin and straight nose, in sharp contrast to others; the other had a white face like an egg and a bowed nose, like a chicken's mouth, and her face was similar to that of some very young people. One, a big man, was wrapped in a cloak (which made her look so poor, so incompatible with her graceful manners, that it came to people's minds to explain that the girl's parents were probably quite prominent, but their vanity was far below the Balbeck bathers, and also under themselves. Whether the child's clothes are gorgeous or not, so let her walk on the seawall in what clothes, absolutely the same to them, the small citizens will think that the clothes are too shabby; there is also a girl, eyes bright and smiling, high cheekbones, skin glossy, wearing a black * Polo cap, pressure. Very low. As she pushed a bicycle, her hips twisted as if her bones were out of joint, her jargon slang was so rude, her shouting voice was so loud, and as I passed by her (from her words, I heard an ugly "Days of Damning him"), she gave up the assumption I had just made about her partner's cloak. And they tend to conclude that all these girls are the youngest mistresses of cyclists, who often patronize the racing track. In short, none of my hypotheses assumed that they might be chaste. Looking at each other --- from the way they looked at each other and laughed, from the staring eyes of the girl with dull cheeks --- I realized that they were not chaste women. In addition, my grandmother always cared for me too carefully and carefully, so that I would not believe that it was an inseparable whole. Girls who lacked respect for the elderly would never suddenly be hindered by fear when they encounter more tempting pleasures beyond jumping over the head of an 80-year-old man.

Now, they all have their own personalities. Their eyes are bright because of self-satisfaction and companionship, and from time to time they are full of excitement or arrogance and indifference, depending on the object of their girlfriend or pedestrians on the road. They know each other very well and can walk together all the time, forming separate bodies and slowly moving forward, injecting a connection between these bodies. This connection, though invisible to the naked eye, is very harmonious, like a hot figure, the same atmosphere, so that their bodies are integrated into a whole. All parts of the whole are homogeneous, but they are indifferent to the people around them who are slowly moving in this line.

I passed by the brown skinned girl with high cheekbones and pushing a bicycle. For an instant, my eyes met her squinting, smiling eyes. This vision comes from the depths of the inhuman world that encloses the life of this small tribe. The world is an inaccessible unknown. The idea of who I am must not reach that world, and there is no place to be found. The girl, wearing a sports cap and a hat that pressed very low on her forehead, listened attentively to her companions. Did she see me when the black light in her eyes met me? What would I mean to her if she saw me? Does she know which world I belong to? It's hard for me to answer these questions, just like with telescopes, when some strange creatures appear in front of us on a neighboring planet, we can hardly conclude that there are humans living there, they can see us, they can see what thoughts we evoke in their hearts.

If we think that this girl's eyes are only shining mica wafers, we will not be greedy to understand her life and integrate her life with us. But we feel that what glitters in this reflective circle does not originate solely from its material structure. We feel that this is the black * projection of the life's view of the people and places it knows - the grass of the racetrack, the sand on the path. What is this black * projection? We don't know yet. This little Berry is more attractive to me than Berry in Persian Paradise. She pedaled through fields and woods and might take me to those places. We felt that her eyes were also a projection of the home she was going back to, the plans she was making or the arrangements people had made for her. In particular, we felt that this was herself, with her desires, her likes, her dislikes, her hazy, intermittent willingness. I know that if I can't take possession of what she sees, I can't take possession of the girl who rides a bicycle. So it was her whole life that made me want. Painful desire, because I feel it is impossible to achieve, but also intoxicating desire; until now, my life has suddenly stopped, is no longer my whole life, but has become a small part of the space in front of me, I can not wait to occupy this space, this space is the life group of these girls. Cheng. It is this desire that gives me this self-extension, self-expansion, that is happiness. Undoubtedly, there are no common habits and ideas between us, which makes it more difficult for me to make friends with them and to please them. But maybe it's because of this difference, because realizing that no factor (ingredient) that I have experienced or possessed will enter into the behaviour of these girls'nature * that my heart has just replaced satisfaction with the desire for a certain kind of life - thirsty as the thirsty earth - so far, my mind has gone from it. Without a drop of this dew, it would suck more greedily.

In Persian mythology, Berry is the messenger of heaven, holding the lotus symbolizing eternal life. Proust may have thought here of the ballet Berry, based on Paul Ducas'poems, performed by the Russian Ballet in Paris in 1912 and directed by Natalia Truhanova. In the dance play, Berry seduces Prince Iskant, who takes away her lotus and returns to heaven.

The bright-eyed girl who pushed her bicycle seemed to find me gazing at her like that and said something to the tallest girl. I did not hear what was said, but the tall girl laughed. To tell you the truth, this girl with brown skin is just because her skin is brown, and she is not my favorite. From the day I met Hilbert on the steep hillside of Dansonville, a girl with brown hair and golden complexion has always been an unreachable ideal in my heart. But let's just talk about Hilbert herself. Doesn't I love her mainly because she wore the halo of her girlfriend and went to visit the cathedral with him? Similarly, I wasn't happy to see this brown-skinned girl looking at me (which made me hopeful at first, thinking it might be easier to get in touch with her), because she would introduce me to the ruthless girl who jumped over the old man and said, "Poor old man, it really hurts me. ” The cruel girl then introduced me to every girl one by one, because she enjoyed such prestige and was their inseparable friend. I made a hypothesis: one day I will be the boyfriend of one of these girls. The strange eyes in these eyes impressed me deeply. They didn't know that sometimes they would have the effect of sunshine on a wall. Through miraculous alchemy, these eyes may be called "I am there" and some of my personal friendships penetrate their indescribable dimensions. One day, I myself may be among them, playing a part in their theory of walking along the coast. I think this hypothesis itself contains an unsolvable contradiction, just like standing in front of the theatre in the Age of Atti carving or facing pictures depicting religious rituals. I also thought that my audience could be loved by the gods and occupy a place among the marching gods.

So is it really impossible to achieve the happiness of meeting these girls? Naturally, this is probably not the first thing I give up. Just remember how many strangers there were even in Balbeck, and the speeding carriage told me to give them up forever, that was enough. This small group of girls, in my mind is so noble, as if composed of virgins in Greek mythology, and even their happiness to me, also comes from the taste of some of their pedestrians leaving quickly on the road. People we don't know, people who force us to set aside from our usual lives, have a fleeting nature. This fleeting * puts us in a state of chasing, and nothing stops us from imagining. And in our daily life, the women we often associate with finally expose their shortcomings. To strip away our happiness and imagine it is to compress it into itself, and nothing is left. As you have seen, I do not despise the middleman who pulls the strings. But if these girls go to the informant to recommend themselves, they will lose the rich and uncertain factors that give them, so I will not be so fascinated. It can arouse people's imagination that we are not sure whether we can reach the target we are pursuing. Imagination must be called to create an end, which obscures another end; it must be called to replace sensory pleasure with the idea of entering one's life, so as to prevent us from distinguishing this pleasure, from tasting its true taste, and from limiting it to our own limits. Those afternoon fishing hours, between us and the fish, we must be separated by the rolling water. Smooth meat, uncertain shape, glides around us in sky blue * transparent and moving fluid, and we don't know much about what to do with it. If we first saw the fish made into a dish and put it on the table, it would not be worth doing everything possible to catch it.

Here, the proportion of social status has changed, which is the characteristics of sea bathing life. These girls also took advantage of it. All the advantages that we can extend and enlarge in our habitual classes have become invisible here, and in fact have been cancelled. Conversely, those who others think they probably don't have these advantages are raised by an artificial category and marched forward. This artificial category is more comfortable than a girl who has never met before. That day, these girls looked so great in my eyes that they couldn't understand what I was going to do.

For this small group of girls, their stroll along the beach is just a fragment of countless flights of women on the road, which always confuses me. Here, the flight returns to that slow motion, almost to a standstill. To be more precise, at such a slow stage, people's faces are no longer swept away by the cyclone, but quiet and clear, and I think it's more beautiful. But just like what I experienced when Mrs. de Villebalisis's carriage pulled me away so fast, it didn't prevent me from thinking that if I stopped and looked closer, I would be in a girl's room if I stopped and looked at some details, some numb skin, a defect on my nose wing, a mediocre look in my eyes, a grimace when I smiled, a bad figure. It must have been a fantastic detail to replace me in face and figure. As long as I have beautiful curves and a rosy complexion from afar, I can kindly add a touching shoulder that I have always remembered or thought of beforehand, and a sweet look. Such a quick guess of a passing person may lead us to make mistakes. Sometimes we read too fast. When we first see a syllable, we can not see the rest of the syllables clearly, so we put a word in our minds. In fact, the words in the book are not the same at all.

It can't be that way now. I have examined their faces carefully. Everyone's face, I do not look from all sides, and seldom from the front, but at least according to two or three different characteristics, I am enough to make a variety of assumptions or amendments to line and skin color * at first sight, or to verify and "prove", enough to see, through a series of expressions, her. There is something permanent in their faces.

So I can safely think that in Paris and in Balbeck, in the best of scenarios, and even among the women I can stop talking to and stop looking at, I have never known them like these women this year. I don't know them at all, but they appear and disappear. Leaving me such melancholy reminds me how intoxicating it is to make friends with them. I have never seen such beauty, unknown, invaluable and incredible among actresses, village girls, or ladies boarding in church schools. As far as possible happiness in life is concerned, they are such sweet samples and in perfect condition that I am discouraged almost entirely for reason of reason, fearing that I cannot experience the most mysterious things that beautiful women can give us. I have to be assured that I will not be deceived before I experience it under the unique conditions. They are beautiful women that people have always yearned for, who never possess or comfort themselves, instead of asking for happiness from women who have no desire for it, just as Swan had refused to do before when he fell in love with Odette. As a result, he never knew what that other kind of happiness was until he died. Perhaps happiness never experienced actually does not exist. Perhaps when it comes to us, the mystery of happiness disappears. Perhaps it's just a projection of desire, a mirage. If this is the case, I can only blame the ruthlessness of the laws of nature. If this natural law applies to these girls, it should also apply to all girls, not to imperfect objects. I picked them out of all my subjects, and with the satisfaction of botanists, I realized very clearly that it was impossible to find such a complete variety as rare as these girls. At this moment, in front of me, they interrupted their light fence-like flow line. The fence, like a bunch of Pennsylvania roses, is an ornament for a garden on a cliff. The whole ocean course of a ship is reflected in it. The ship glides so slowly on the blue * plane that it is equivalent to moving from one stem to another. A lazy butterfly lingers deep in the corolla, and the hull has already surpassed the butterfly. But the butterfly was sure to get there before the ship, which was heading for the flowers. Butterflies may have to wait for a blue streak between the bow of the ship and the first petal of the rose to take off.

The name "Pennsylvania Rose" can be found in some botanists'works, referring to a rose variety in the eastern United States. This name did not prevail in Proust's time, but only represented the profound knowledge of Proust.

I went back to my room because I was going to Riverbell for dinner with Robert. My grandmother asked me to lie in bed for an hour and take a nap before leaving in the evenings of the last few days. That's what Dr. Barbeck asked me to do. Soon, he extended the nap to every night.

Besides, there is no need to leave the embankment or enter the hotel from the back of the lobby to get back to the room. In Gombre, lunch is one hour ahead of schedule every Saturday. Now it's midsummer and the days are so long that in the Balbeck Hotel, according to similar rules of advance, when people set the table for dinner, the sun is still high in the sky, which seems to be the time to eat afternoon snacks. The large glass with pulleys is still open, on the same plane as the seawall. I just stepped over the thin wooden window frames and went to the dining room. Then I left the dining room and took the elevator immediately.

As I passed the door of the office, I gave the manager a smile, which I did not hate at all. Since I arrived in Balbeck, my tolerant concern has gradually instilled a smile into his face, transforming his face like a natural lesson. His face became familiar to me and showed some general meaning, but it could be read as well as a person's handwriting. It had no resemblance to the inexplicable and intolerable square words that his face showed me on the first day. The person I saw in front of me that day has now been forgotten. Or, if I can recall it, he is no longer identical with the disgusting and slightly caricatured image of the insignificant and gentle character.

The shyness and melancholy that night when I first came to Barbeck had disappeared, and I rang the bell to call the elevator. In the elevator, like in the chest that moves along the spine, I rise alongside the person who operates the elevator. Now, instead of being silent, he said to me, "There are fewer people than a month ago, and it's getting colder." He said that not because it was true, but because he had found another job in a hotter place on the beach. He hoped that we would all hurry up and the hotel would close so that he could "return" to his new post and be at his disposal for a few days. The words "back" and "new" are not contradictory, because for an elevator driver, "back" is the usual form of the verb "enter". The only thing that surprised me was that he condescended to use the word "post" because he belonged to the modern proletariat who wanted to erase the traces of the employment system in the language. In addition, after a short time, he told me that he would have a more beautiful "overalls" and a better "treatment" when he was about to "return" to his "post".

The words "uniform" and "salary" were old and inappropriate to him. Because of the inexplicable contradiction, in the "boss" mouth, the vocabulary is desperate, but still lives longer than the concept of inequality, so I always do not understand what the elevator driver said to me. The only thing I care about is to know if my grandmother is in the hotel. The elevator driver grabbed my question and said, "That lady just went out of your place."

In French, people with little education often confuse entrer with rentrer.

I was fooled again, thinking that my grandmother had gone out. A miserable world

"No, I think that lady is an employee of your family."

The former civic language should indeed be abolished. But since in former civic languages a cook was not called an employee, I considered for a moment:

"He made a mistake. We don't own factories or employees."

Suddenly I remembered that the word "hired shellfish" also gave the servant a sense of self-esteem and satisfaction, just like the waiter in the cafe with a moustache. When he went out, his wife's close maid became a maid red.

For an elevator driver, it is not enough to satisfy his self-esteem, because when he pities his class, he says "the worker's home" or "the little man's home", just like Racine says "the poor", he uses singular numbers.

See Act II, Act 9, Lines 837 to 838 of Racine's Atari.

The warmth and shyness that I had just arrived on my first day had long gone away. Normally, I no longer spoke to the elevator driver. Now, in the short process of walking up and down the hotel, he could not get my answer. The hotel, like a toy, was carved out in the middle, layering out the branched Corridor around us. Deep in the corridor, the lights were dim and weaker. The doors of the passage or the steps of the inner stairs became small, and the lights made them all amber of golden color, soft and mysterious as the twilight hour. At dusk, Rembrandt only sketches windows or wells in an instant. On each floor, a golden ray shines on the carpet, revealing the sunset and the living room windows.

I wondered if the girls I had just seen lived in Balbeck and who they would be. When yearning goes towards a small tribe group of people of one's own choice, all those who may be related to this small tribe become the cause of emotions, and then the cause of dreams. I once heard a wife say on the seawall, "She's a girlfriend of little Simone." It was as if someone was explaining, "He's an inseparable companion of La Rochefoucault Jr." Immediately, from the face of the person who heard it, you could feel a strong desire to look more closely at the loved one who was "little Simone's girlfriend". Surely this is a privilege, probably not given to anyone. The aristocracy is relative, and there are small gaps of low value where the son of a furniture merchant can be a prince of elegance and rule a court like a young prince of Wales. Since then, I have often tried to recall how the name Simone echoed me on the beach. At that time, I couldn't tell the form of Simone. I was not sure what it meant. I wasn't sure what it meant, whether it meant one person or another. This name is full of exciting, vague and fresh feelings for the following story. Every letter, every second, is deeply engraved in our hearts because of our constant attention. This name has become (from my attitude towards little Simone, only a few years later) back to our minds. The first word in the sea (or when we wake up, or after fainting) even precedes the concepts of "what time is it now", "where are we" and even the word "I". It seems that the person it refers to is ourselves, more than ourselves, and that after a moment of unconsciousness, it precedes all rest. So far, I have not thought about the process of this word.

Somehow, from the first day on, I thought to myself, Simone's name is probably one of these girls. I kept thinking about how I could get to know the Simone family. Of course, it's through people she thinks are higher than her. If these people are just small fireworks girls among the ordinary people, it may not be difficult to ask her not to look down upon me. It is impossible to have perfect friends. As long as you do not overcome this scorn, you will not be fully integrated into your heart for those who scorn you. Every time a different image of a woman enters our hearts, unless we forget or compete to exclude the former image, our hearts will be at peace only when we turn these outsiders into something similar to ourselves. In this respect, our mind has the same reactions and activities as our body. Our bodies cannot tolerate foreign invasion unless the invader is immediately digested or assimilated.

Little Simone was probably the most beautiful of all the girls - I seemed to think she could have been my mistress, because she was the only one who turned her head two or three times and seemed to realize my staring gaze. I asked the elevator driver if he knew anyone in Balbeck. His surname was Simone. The man did not like to say that he did not know anything about it, so he answered that he seemed to have heard the name mentioned. On the last floor, I asked him to send me the latest list of foreigners.

I stepped out of the elevator, but instead of heading for my room, I walked straight down the corridor. At this moment, although the servants on this floor were afraid of the wind, they had opened the windows at the end of the corridor. This window is not facing the sea, but toward hills and valleys, but people never see clearly the scenery outside, because the glass on the window is opaque and often closed.

I stayed in front of the window for a little while, that is, the time to worship the scene. This time, people can see farther than the hill. The hotel is backed by the hill, on which there is only a house in the distance, but the vision and the sunset retain its size while decorating it with exquisite carvings and velvety jewelry boxes, just like decorating a miniature building model. Like a sacred object, it is only on rare days that it is taken out for the worship of good women and men in small temples or chapels made of gold and silver or enamel. But the time of worship was too long. The servant held a large bunch of keys in one hand and saluted me with the other hand on his priest's rimless cap, for the air was fresh and cool at night, but he did not take it off. He had come and shut the two panels again, just as he had shut the two doors of the Saint's Remnant Box, thus obscuring the small temple and the golden relics for my worship.

I went into my bedroom. As the seasons move forward, the pictures seen from the windows also change. Firstly, the interior is very bright. Only when the weather is cloudy and haze, the interior is dim. Here, in the sea-blue glass, in the iron frame of my window, the sea is inlaid like lead in the stained glass of the church. The round waves of the sea made the glass infinite. On the deep edge of the bend, which is covered with rocks, the sea spreads triangles decorated with immovable droplets drawn by delicate brush strokes, or feathers written by Pisanero, where these triangles are fixed by snow-white, never fading and creamy enamel. In the glassware of Calais II, this represents a layer of snow.

It may refer to the bird sketches made by Pisanero (Italian painter and woodcarver), which are kept in the Louvre.

(2) Calais (1846-1904), who founded Nanxi School, an art school suitable for industry, in 1890. His glass works of art were very successful at the Universal Exposition. His art is based on his love for nature and his research. As a botanist with practical experience, he also applies plant themes to his decorative art and glass products.

Soon, the days were getting shorter. When I returned to my room, the lavender sky seemed to be branded by the stiff, geometric, fleeting, glittering face of Taigou (as if it represented some magical symbol, mysterious ghost) and bent down the horizon chain towards the sea, like a religious painting above the main altar. The various parts of the sunset are reflected on the glass of the low Mahogany Bookcase along the wall. I have linked it to the famous paintings from which it was born. It seems that it is a set of scenes drawn by a former master on a framework for which religious group. Later, in the hall of the museum, people will put it in place. It is displayed separately one by one, and only through imagination can the audience place them in the original position on the decorative screen group painting at the back of the altar.

A few weeks later, when I went upstairs, it was sunset. Over the sea, the sky was a red ribbon, just like what I saw on the top of the skull floor when I came back from a walk in Gombre to go downstairs to the kitchen for dinner. The red ribbon is a complete piece and can be cut like jelly. Immediately the sea had cooled and turned blue, like the kind of fish known as mullet, and the sky was pink like the salmon we would call in Rifbell later, all of which added to my joy of going out to dinner dressed. Heavy evening haze, smoky black*, luster, agate as solid, visible to the naked eye, close to the sea, struggling to rise from the sea. Here, there, high and low, layer by layer, wider and wider. Finally, the tallest layers bend down to the deformed roots until they break away from the center of gravity that supports them until now, and it seems that they are about to drag the scaffolding that has reached the mid-heavenly height away and throw it into the sea. The skull originally refers to the place where Jesus suffered in the Bible.

I used to sit in a carriage with the impression that I needed to be free from sleepiness and imprisonment in a room. Seeing a ship as far away as a Night Walker also gives me the same impression. But I don't feel imprisoned in my own room at the moment. Because in an hour, I'm leaving here and going out in a carriage. I threw myself on the bed. I could see ships quite close to me. Strangely, people can also see ships moving in the darkness at night, as if they were swans of dark color, silent but not asleep. It seemed to me that I was on the berth of a ship, surrounded by pictures of the sea from all sides.

However, it is often just some drawings. I forgot that under the color of the picture, the beach was forming a miserable open area, and the restless sea breeze blew across the beach at night. When I first arrived in Balbeck, the night wind came, and I was so anxious. Now, even in my room, all my thoughts are still on the girls I've seen walking past me. My mood can no longer be calm, nor can I stay in a state of indifference. In my mind, there will be no real impression of beauty. Waiting for a dinner in Riverbell made me even more nervous. At this moment, my mind stays on the surface of my body. I'm going to dress this body so that I can be as likable as I can be in that brilliant hotel, before looking at my female eyes. I can't inject deep thoughts behind the color of things. Under my window, swifts and swallows flied tirelessly and gently, like fountains, like the flame of life, blending the intermittent high-jet with the immobile white lines of the long trajectory in the plane direction. This regional * natural phenomenon links the landscape I see with reality. Without this fascinating miracle, I might think that the scene * is just a daily selection of paintings. Subjectively, people started this selection of paintings in my place, and those paintings were not necessarily linked to this place. On one occasion, I thought it was a Japanese wood and copper prints exhibition: beside the red sun, which was carefully carved like the moon, there was a yellow | Color * cloud, like a lake. The lakeside is black * sharp sword, like the silhouette of the lakeside trees. There's also a faint rose, which I've never seen since I had my first pencil box. The colour * blossoms like a river, with boats stranded on the beach on both sides, waiting for people to come and drag them into the water. With the contemptuous, bored and frivolous eyes of amateurs or women who turned around the gallery between two social visits, I said to myself, "It's strange that this sunset is different, but I've already seen such a beautiful and amazing sunset."

In the evening, a boat is absorbed by the horizon and turned into a fluid. It looks like an impressionist painting in a completely different color from the horizon. Ships, like the horizon, seem to be made of a raw material. It seems that people only sketch out hulls and cables in a foggy blue sky. The cables were interlaced, and the hull became even smaller, turning it into gold and silver. Sometimes, the ocean almost occupies my entire window, above which is a streak of sky, only a line, as blue as the sea, so I think it's still the sea, only under the action of light, it shows different colors *.

On the other day, the sea was only depicted at the bottom of the window, and the rest of the window was covered with clouds. Horizontal direction, one cloud after another you push me, the result seems to be out of the artist's premeditation or expertise, the window glass is introducing "cloud research". At the same time, similar clouds appear on each piece of glass in the bookcase, but they are clouds on another part of the horizon and are stained with different colors by light, which seems to provide you with repetition of the same subject matter. This is a very cherished repetition by some contemporary painters, always from different moments. Now, due to the fixed role of art, you can see everything in a room, in the form of pastel paintings, and pressed under the glass panels.

Sometimes, on the grey of the sea and sky, a little pink is added exquisitely and delicately. At this time, a small butterfly sleeping under the window, like the wings of this Whistler flavor, entitled "Harmony of Grey and Pink *" below the painting. This is the work signed by Chelsea Master himself. The pink * is fading away and nothing can be noticed. I stood still for a moment, then drew the curtain and lay down again. From the bed, I saw a ray of light above the curtain. This line of light is also gradually fading, more and more thin. On weekdays, at this moment, I have been sitting at the table. Today, I let this moment pass over the curtain without sadness or regret, because I know that today is different from other days, like the polar day when the night only interrupts the day for a few minutes, today is longer than usual. I know that from the pupa shell at dusk, the brilliance of Riverbell Hotel is preparing to come out after a beautiful deformation.

Whistler (1834-1903), an American painter and sculptor, settled in London and lived in Chelsea. He highly appreciated Japanese art and Manet, especially in the study of color harmony. Harmony between Grey and Pink is the title of one of his paintings.

I said to myself, "It's time." I stretched out in bed, got up, and finished combing. This useless time, off the burden of material life, I feel its own charm. Others are downstairs for dinner, and here I am, gathering energy from idleness in the afternoon, only to dry my body, wear a tailless dress and tie after taking a bath. It is the long-awaited joy of reunion with a woman that guides these actions. That's a woman I noticed last time in Riverbell. She seems to have been watching me for a long time. After a while, she left, perhaps hoping that I would follow her. I add all these baits to myself in a happy mood so that I can devote myself wholeheartedly and wholeheartedly to a new life. This is a free, carefree life, and I want Saint Lucia's calmness to support my hesitation and to choose among the varieties of life and the products from all over the world. These dishes, a little by my friends, constitute a rare delicacy, which will greatly stimulate my appetite or my imagination.

Finally, the day finally arrived, and I could no longer go back to my room from the seawall through the dining room. The windows of the restaurant are no longer open, because the night has come outside, and the glass honeycomb lights are bright, attracting the poor and curious. They could not enter the bright light, and they were like a swath of black bees under the autumn wind, grabbed on the glowing and smooth walls of the glass hive.

Someone knocked at the door. It was Emmy who personally sent me the latest list of outsiders.

Before Amy leaves, don't tell me that Dreyfus deserves to die for all his crimes.

"People will know everything," he told me, "not this year, but next year.

This is what a gentleman who is very close to the staff told me.

I asked him if people could not make up their minds to reveal everything immediately before the end of the year.

"He put down his cigarette," Amy continued, mimicking the man's movements and shaking his head and thumb like his customers, which meant, "Don't ask too much."

"Not this year, Emmy," he said, tapping me on the shoulder. "It's not possible this year. At Easter, line 2."

The book is dated 1898. Since Senator Shihel Kesdoue proposed to reopen the case on October 29, 1897, the matter has become the focus of public attention. On January 13, 1898, Zola published "My Complaint" in Sinian Newspaper. Amy may refer to documents prepared by Colonel Henry, according to which Dreyfus is said to be guilty. Later, Colonel Henry was convicted of forgery and committed suicide on 31 August. But in this book, Colonel Henry was alive until the first part of The Garments, when people talked about Dreyfus.

(2) April of the following year.

Then Amy patted me on the shoulder and said, "Look, I told you exactly what you said." That means either that such a big man is so casual to him, he is very proud, or that I can more clearly see the value of the argument and the reason why we hope.

On the first page of the list of foreigners, I saw the words "Simone and his family" and felt a shock. I still harbor in my heart the long-standing dreams of my childhood. In my dream, all the tenderness in my heart and feelings melt into one, which is brought to me by a person who is as different as possible from me. This person, whom I now call Simone, recalls the youthful body I saw on the seawall. How harmonious they are when they display sports formations comparable to the famous paintings of ancient times and Giotto. With this name and the memory of this beautiful harmony, I created the man I waited for. I don't know which of these girls is Miss Simone, or whether any of them has a real surname. But I know that Miss Simone loves me, and I rely on Saint Lucia to try to get to know her immediately. Unfortunately, under these conditions, St. Lou was only allowed to extend his vacation and had to return to East Sierra every day. In order to keep him from fulfilling his military duties, I thought that besides his friendship with me, I could count on the curiosity of human naturalists. I often have this curiosity, often I have not seen what people say about that person, as long as I hear people say, which fruit shop has a beautiful cashier, I want to meet this new variant of female beauty. I want to talk about my girls in front of Saint Lucia and arouse this curiosity in his heart. Who knows I'm wrong? He was the actress's lover, and he loved her, so that curiosity had been numb. Even if he feels a little, he suppresses it because he is superstitious that whether a mistress is loyal to herself or not depends on whether he is loyal to herself. So when we set out for Riverbell's dinner, he did not promise to take an active part in the affairs of my girls.

Initially, when we arrived at Riverbell, the sun had just set, but the sky was still bright. In the garden of the hotel, the lights have not been lit yet. The heat of the day drops as if it were stored at the bottom of a vase. Along the vase's edge, the air forms a transparent, dark and thick jelly. A large cluster of roses, attached to the wall, painted pink stripes on the dim wall, just like the dendritic pattern people see in agate.

Soon after, when we got out of the carriage, the night had fallen. Either the weather is bad, or the desire to be quiet for a while delays the time for driving. In short, when we set off from Barbeck, the night * had already fallen. But on days like this, I don't feel sad when I hear the sea breeze blowing. I know this doesn't mean giving up my plan, it doesn't mean being locked up in a room. I know we are going to walk into the lobby of the hotel in the sound of Zigang music, where countless lights will beat the darkness and cold with golden broad iron and effortless efforts. So I happily got into the carriage and sat next to Saint Luke. The carriage waited for us in the torrential rain.

Now I get tired of sitting at my desk every day and starting a critical study or reading a novel. Bergott said he firmly believed that I could experience the pleasure of mental work in particular, although I did not hold that view myself. On the question of "what can I do in the future", Bergott's words recently made me feel a little hopeful about this boredom.

"In the final analysis," I thought to myself, "maybe the experience of happiness in writing a novel is not an unassailable criterion for judging whether a text is beautiful or valuable. Maybe it's just a secondary state that often comes with it, and the lack of such happiness can't predicate the article's ugliness. Maybe some masterpieces were written in yawns.

Grandma said to me that if I were in good health, I would write very well, and I would write in a happy mood. That dispelled my doubts. But my family doctor thought that a more cautious approach reminded me of the serious dangers my health might pose. He gave me a list of health care measures to follow in order to avoid accidents. I think all kinds of happiness should be subordinate to the goal. Goals are more important than happiness. The goal is to be strong enough to accomplish what may lie in me. Ever since I came to Balback, I have had careful and regular control over myself. A cup of coffee will keep me awake all night, and sleep is essential for me not to feel tired the next day.

Well, nobody wants me to touch that cup of coffee. Le Cousin Pons

But as soon as I got to Riverbell, I was in another state of mind, stimulated by new happiness. Exceptions make us enter this situation. The patiently woven web that has guided us to wisdom for so many days has broken through, and it seems that there should be no more tomorrow and noble goals to be achieved. In an instant, the whole well-planned and prudent health care mechanism that worked to maintain this noble goal disappeared. When a fellow asked me if I wanted a coat, Saint Lou always said to me:

"Will you be cold? It's better to wear it. It's not too hot."

I always answer, "No, no." Maybe I wasn't cold at the time, but anyway, I never knew what it was like to be afraid of falling ill, not to die, and to write. I hand in my coat. We entered the hotel lobby amid the military music played by the Tskang people and marched between rows of tables that had already been served, just as we marched on the road to easy honour. The band gave us military honors and triumphs that we could not match, and we felt that the rhythm of music instilled happiness into us. We hide this feeling with solemn and cold expressions and lazy manners in order to show that we are different from the women who dress up and pose in the cafe concerts. They were singing flirtatious songs and running up to the stage in a tune full of gunpowder. Their martial manners were like generals who had won battles.

From this moment on, I became another person, not my grandmother's grandson anymore. Only when I went out, I would think of her. Instead, I became the temporary younger brother of the boy who was going to serve us.

I can't get enough beer in Balbeck in a week, let alone champagne. Now I drink so much in an hour, plus a few drops of Bordeaux. I'm absent-minded and I don't know what it's like. When I was calm and sober, the taste of these drinks meant apparently laudable and easily abandoned pleasure. I saved two "Louis" a month. I wanted to buy something, but I could not remember what I wanted to buy anymore. I rewarded the violinist. Several of the waiters who served between tables ran very fast, holding a dish in their open hands, as if this was the end of the race to see who did not drop the dish on the ground. Indeed, the chocolate custard did not overturn and arrived at its destination. Although the British fried potatoes would have shaken at a gallop, they still lined up neatly around Boyak-Milk-Mutton when they arrived. I noticed a waiter who was very tall, with dark hair and powdered face, making it easier to think of some rare birds rather than humans. He kept running from end to end of the hall, seemingly aimless, reminding people of a South American parrot. These South American parrots filled the zoo's large cages with their brilliant feathers, lustre and incomprehensible disturbance.

Poyak is a river port on the Gironde River in southwestern France, near Bordeaux. Boyak mutton is a French dish.

Soon, the scene was orderly, more elegant and calm, at least in my eyes. All these dizzying activities focus on quiet harmony. I looked at the round tables, which were filled with innumerable groups. Each table was like a planet, like the planet in the old allegory. Between these different planets, there is an irresistible gravity at work. Every diner, with the exception of a wealthy host, looks at other tables with his eyes. He has a way of bringing a famous writer. With the help of the characteristics of the revolving table, the wives listened happily as they tried to tease the writers to say meaningless words. The harmony between these planetary tables does not prevent countless waiters from continually running. Because they are not sitting like diners, but standing, they operate in high-rise areas. Some run to deliver cold dishes, some change wine, some add wine glasses. Despite these special reasons, they kept running between the round tables and finally revealed the dizzying and regular rules of operation. Two ugly female cashiers, sitting behind a large bunch of flowers, were busy with endless accounting, like two magicians, busy with astronomical calculations to anticipate the occasional upheaval in this heavenly sphere designed according to Medieval science.

I have some pity for all the diners, because I feel that these round tables are not planets for them, and they never use any taxonomy in their work, so that we can get rid of the shackles of their usual appearance and observe some similarities. They think they're having dinner with someone. How much is the meal? They'll come back the next day. They seemed totally indifferent to the service of young waiters. These waiters probably don't have any urgent work at the moment. They're queuing up to deliver bread baskets. Several of them were very young, and the hotel manager slapped them as they passed by, making them dizzy and distracted with melancholy eyes. They used to work at the Barbeck Hotel. If a customer from the Barbeck Hotel recognized them, put up a few words with them and personally told them to take away the champagne they could not swallow, they would be very proud, and only then would they be comforted.

I hear my energy boosting, which has a comfortable component, but it's comfortable independent of the external objects that make us feel comfortable. The minute changes in my body and attention are enough to make me feel comfortable, just as a gentle pressure is enough to make a closed eye feel the color. I've had a lot of Bordeaux. The main reason why I want to drink is not to enjoy the comfort of a few more cups, but the consequences of the comfort of the previous cups. I let the music touch my happiness with every beat, happy and obedient to come to a stop in every beat. Thanks to those chemical techniques, a large number of bodies can be produced, and they meet only occasionally and rarely in nature. This restaurant in Riverbell, similar to those in chemical technology, brought together many women at the same time. The prospect of happiness from them excites my heart. I won't meet so many people in a year by walking or traveling encounters. On the other hand, the music we hear --- waltz, German operetta, Cafe concert songs, all of which are new to me --- is itself like a place of immortal joy, overlapping with another joy, and more intoxicating than that other one. Each melody is as special as a woman, but unlike a woman, it does not leave the secret of sensory pleasure to a favorite person. It spontaneously recommends this joy to me, looks at me greedily, walks up to me at wayward or lewd steps, talks to me and touches me, as if I suddenly become more attractive, stronger or richer. I feel something very ruthless in these tunes. Because these tunes are incompatible with all the beauty, all the brilliance of wisdom, which is divorced from material interests. For them, there is only physical pleasure. They present this joy - the joy they admire for a woman and another man to enjoy - as the only thing that exists in the world to the poor jealous man, which is the most ruthless hell that can find no way out.

But when I repeat the melody in a low voice and do not give it a kiss, it makes me feel its unique carnal desire and becomes so precious to me that I even leave my parents to follow the melody to a strange world. It is building this strange world in places invisible to the naked eye, with notes that are full of laziness and vitality, line after line. Such pleasure does not give the person who receives it a higher value, because only he can feel it. Every time we fail to attract the attention of our women in our lives, she does not know whether we have such subjective and inner happiness at that time, so this does not change her view of us at all. Nevertheless, I still felt stronger and almost irresistible. It seems to me that my love is no longer something that people can sneer at, but it does have the touching beauty and attraction of the music. The music itself seems like a lovely place, where my beloved woman and I meet and instantly become intimate.

Frequent guests of this hotel are not only semi-dusty women, but also the most elegant class. They don't have tea until about 5 p.m. or have a grand dinner here. Tea is served in a narrow corridor of glass. From the cloakroom to the dining room, the corridor goes to the garden side. Apart from several stone pillars, there are only glass doors and windows between the corridor and the garden. Here and there, doors and windows are open. As a result, in addition to many hallways, the sudden burst of bright light, dizzying and unstable light almost made it impossible to see the woman who served tea. So when these women sit there with two tables and two tables, along the narrow neck bottle and a long strip, they drink tea and greet each other with a sparkle in every movement. It can be said that it is a fish pond or basket, where the fishermen pile up the colorful fish they catch. Fish half-body outside the water, bathed in the sunshine, with its changing light in front of people like a mirror.

After a few hours, it was time for dinner. Dinner is naturally served in a restaurant. At that time, although the sky was still bright outside, the restaurant had been lit. Looking forward from the dining room, we can see that the buildings in the garden, in the afterglow of the sunset, look like ghosts with pale faces at night. Near the building there are a thousand golden elms, a touch of sunset is passing through the pale green leaves. Looking out of the glass window from the brightly lit dining room, the green tree no longer looks like a shining wet fish net, just like the women who serve tea along the blue-and-gold corridor in the afternoon, but like the water grass in the huge aquaculture pond in the light of the divine light.

People left the table. If, in the course of the meal, all the guests spend their time looking at and recognizing the guests at the adjacent tables, or calling out the names of the guests at the adjacent tables, while maintaining a perfect whole around their tables, forming the gravity of the center of gravity around the host of the evening and arriving at the refreshments. The corridor lost its power when it went for coffee. It often happens that when someone passes by, a table is having dinner and one or more particles are given up. This particle or several particles are separated from their own table because they are greatly attracted by each other's table. Some of the gentlemen or wives who came to say hello to their friends took their place again, then returned to their original position and said, "I have to slip away and go back to Mr. So-and-so... I'm his guest this evening." For a while, one could say that the two separate bunches of flowers exchanged several of them.

Then the corridor itself became empty. Often, even after dinner, the sky * is still light. The long corridor is not lit, and the trees are swaying along the glass windows of the corridor. It's like a park path covered with trees and darkness. Occasionally, a woman who eats will stay in the shadows for a long time. One evening I went out through the corridor and found the beautiful Mrs. Prince of Luxembourg sitting there among a group of strangers. I took off my hat to greet her, but did not stop. She recognized me and nodded with a smile. Far more than this greeting, it is from the movement itself that I say a few words, such as fairy music. It may be a longer saying good night, not to stop me, but to supplement that nod of greeting to form a voiced greeting. But what this sentence says is very ambiguous, and as a result I only heard voices. The voice pulled the long tune so softly that I felt it was so musical and beautiful that it was like a yellow warbler croaking in a slender branch in the dark of the woods.

Sometimes it happened that St. Lou met some of his friends and decided to spend time with them at a playground on a nearby beach. If he walked with those people, he would put me in the carriage alone. At this point, I told the driver to gallop so that the time spent without any help did not seem so long, so that I could not tell my sensitive mind what changes I had made from others since Riverbell - looking back and trying to get out of the general passive position of being caught in a gear bite. Type. The narrow path is only for one carriage to pass through, and it's a night when you can't see your fingers. It's likely to collide with another carriage coming from the opposite direction. Rocks and earthworks often collapse on cliffs, and the road surface is not smooth. The cliff cliff is vertical to the sea, right in front of us. None of this can evoke the necessary strength in my mind to bring dangerous awareness and fear back to my mind. This is because what enables us to create a work is not the desire for fame and family, but the habit of diligence; what helps us to protect the future is not the joy of the present, but the wisdom of the past. It is the crutch of rational thinking and self-control that helps our disabled minds get on the right track. However, if I arrived at Riverbell, I would have thrown the crutches far away, relaxed my nerves exceptionally, and were in a state of mental disorder and alcoholism, I would have given every minute of the moment quality and charm. The result is neither that I am more capable nor that I am more determined to protect every minute. When I depend on myself to see these as a thousand times more valuable than the rest of my life, my passion has separated every minute from the rest of my life. Like a hero, like a drunk, I shut myself up in the present. My past has temporarily disappeared, and I can no longer see my own shadow in front of me. We call this shadow our future. I put the purpose of my life no longer on realizing the dreams of the past, but on the joy of the present minute. I can't see anything farther than the joy of this minute. As a result, it is when I feel particularly happy, when I feel I can live a happy life, when I think my life should be more meaningful, that I get rid of all the worries that life can make me imagine so far, and I do not hesitate to hand over my life to accidents. It seems contradictory, but it's only a superficial contradiction. Besides, in short, I'm just focusing my indiscretion on one night, and for others, it dilutes them throughout their lives. Throughout their lives, they are not necessarily exposed to the dangers of traveling by sea, flying or car every day. Their deaths will cause their heartless people to wait at home for their return. Or the fact that a book will be published soon is the only reason they live. The book is also linked to their fragile brains.

Similarly, in Leaf Bell's Hotel, when we stay in the evening, if someone comes with the motive of killing me, because I only see my grandmother, my future life and the book I want to write in an unrealistic prospect, because I fully integrate into the perfume of the woman at the next table, the head waiter of the hotel waitress. In the euphemism and melodiousness of the polite and playing waltz, I am totally attached to the current feeling that I can't think any farther apart from it and have no other purpose. I will die with this feeling firmly in my arms. I will let people kill me, not defend myself, not move, just like smoke. Tobacco smoke numb bees, no longer intentional to protect their hard-earned food, no longer expect to preserve their hives.

In addition, I should say that in my most exhilarating mood, the most serious things have become insignificant, which has finally led me to understand Miss Simone and her girlfriends. It seems easy but indifferent to me to get acquainted with them now, because only when I feel extremely strong and every tiny change, even if it continues to make me happy, will it make sense to me. All the rest, parents, work, play, Balback's girls, are no more weighty than a drop of droplets in the gale that can't be stopped. It's only relative to the strong feeling in their hearts that drunkenness makes subjective idealism and Pure Phenomenology come true for hours. Everything is just an appearance, just with our own sublime existence. This is not to say that true love cannot exist in this state --- if we really have it, but that we clearly feel, as if we were new to a place, that there are some inexplicable pressures that have changed the scale of this emotion so that we can no longer equate it. We can find the same love again, but we have already transposed, no longer considering ourselves, and satisfied with the feeling given to it now. This feeling is enough for us, because we do not care about what is not present. Unfortunately, such a change in the coefficients of values can only work at this moment of drunkenness. At this moment, there is no more importance *. People who blow like soap bubbles will be heavy and have their weight tomorrow. We have to do our best to restart what seems to be meaningless research now. What's more, like yesterday's mathematics, this kind of tomorrow's mathematics will inevitably fall into these mathematical problems again, which is to say that even at such moments, it will restrict our mathematics, only to lose its binding force on ourselves. If there happens to be a dignified woman or a hostile woman near us, what was so difficult the day before - even if we could please her - now we feel a million times easier. In fact, this is not the case, because it is only in our view, in our heart, but we have changed ourselves. At that time, if we had come too aggressively, she would have been dissatisfied with it, unlike when we arrived the next day to tip the waiter a hundred francs. The truth is the same: no longer drunk at this time. It's just one step too late for us.

I didn't know any of the women in Riverbell that night. They became part of my drunkenness, just as reflection was part of the mirror. So they seem to be a thousand times more desirable than Miss Simone, and Miss Simone is more and more absent from me. A blonde girl, alone, depressed, wearing a straw hat full of wild flowers, looked at me for a long time, and she looked so lovely. Then it's the other one, and then the third one. Finally, it was the turn of a shiny brown-haired girl. Saint Lou knows almost all these girls, but I don't.

Saint Lucia did live so long in this limited world of flowery wine before he met the man who is now his mistress. Few of the women who came to Riverbell for dinner these nights did not know him. He himself or one of his friends slept with them at least one night. Many of them appeared at Riverbell Hotel only by accident. They come to the beach, either to reunite with their lover, or to try to find a lover. If they were with a man, St. Lou would not greet them. They looked more at Saint Luke than at the men around them. They didn't seem to know him because everyone knew that he didn't care about any woman except the actress. In the eyes of these women, this gives him a special prestige.

A woman whispered, "That's little Saint Luke. It seems that he has always loved the prostitute. It's really affectionate! What a beautiful man he is! She thinks he's amazing! How handsome! Anyway, some women are lucky! And what a man! When I was with De Orleans, I knew him very well. They are an inseparable couple! He spent a lot of time drinking for her! But now, he's not doing that anymore. He didn't do anything unfaithful to her. Ah! She can say she's really lucky! I really don't know what he can get from her. Surely he's a big fool too! Her feet are as big as a boat, her lips and moustaches are as big as American women, and her underwear is dirty! Her pants, I believe a little girl worker do not want them! Look at his eyes. For such a man, you would jump into the pit of fire. Hey, don't talk. He recognized me. He laughed. Ah, he used to know me very well. Tell him about me.

They looked at him knowingly and let me meet him. I wish he would introduce me to these women. I wish I could ask to see them and they would agree with me, even if I couldn't accept such an appointment. Otherwise, in my mind, their faces will always lack their own unique part - which seems to be covered by the Veil - which is different for every woman. We can't imagine it when we haven't seen it. It is only in the gaze that this part emerges, that it agrees with our desires and promises us that our desires will be satisfied again.

Their faces, though I see them only partially, are still far better for me than those of the women I suppose will stick to. The women's faces are unlike those of these girls. They are flat, flat, and thicker. The faces of these girls must be different from those of St. Louis to me. He apparently didn't care about the silence of pretending that he didn't know him. Greeting was so ordinary that it was okay to say hello to anyone. Through this indifference or commonness, he remembered that scattered hair, crazy mouth and half-closed eyes appeared before his eyes. This whole silent painting is just like the kind of painting that the artist used to cover it with a decent oil painting in order to deceive most of the audience. I felt that none of my life had ever entered the hearts of any of these women, nor had anything been taken to the unfathomable path of her life. For me, naturally these faces have always been closed. But knowing that these faces had been smiling was enough to make me feel that it was a reward. If their faces were not round ornaments with love memories hidden beneath them, but beautiful medals, I would not find them a bonus.

As for Robert, he could never sit upright while he was sitting. He used the smile of the court pet to hide the general's thirst for action. When I looked at him carefully, I realized how much the energetic skeleton on his triangular face was not at all displeased with his ancestors. This skeleton is more suitable for a proud Archer than for an elegant scholar. Under the delicate skin, there are bold house buildings and feudal architectural art. His head is reminiscent of those towers on the main tower of the old castle. The useless pheasants on the towers are still visible, but inside, they have been converted into libraries.

On the way back to Balbeck, I kept repeating in my heart, almost unconsciously, for a second, the words "What a sweet woman!" to any of the strangers he introduced to me. It's like singing repeated sentences. Naturally, more precisely, these words come from hyperactivity rather than persistent judgment. If I had a thousand francs on me and a jewelry store open by then, I would have bought a ring for that strange girl. It's true. When we spend certain moments of our lives in very different environments like this, we often give too generously to all kinds of people. By the next day, I would probably find these people uninteresting. But people feel responsible for what they said to them the day before and want to live up to their promises.

This evening, due to the late return, back to my room, see the bed, I am very happy. The room was no longer hostile to me. When I first came to that day, I thought I would never be able to rest in this bed. Now, exhausted limbs are looking for a support here. So my thighs, my buttocks, my shoulders, one by one, try to integrate with the mattress-covered sheets from all points, as if my fatigue were like a sculptor, intending to get a complete body mold.

But I couldn't sleep. I felt the morning was coming. There is no calm mood or healthy body. In melancholy, I seem to feel that these things will never be lost again. I have to sleep well before I can get it back. Even if you take a nap, you'll be woken up by the symphony concert in two hours. But I suddenly fell asleep and fell asleep. In dreams, we return to our youth, to our lost years, to our lost feelings, to our souls, to our bodies, to our wanderings, to our memories of the dead, to our fantasies of absurd life, to the age when nature was the most primitive ruler (it is said that we often see animals in our dreams, but forget that we are almost always in our dreams). Animals without reason radiate the light of certainty. On the contrary, we only put forward an incredible view of the scene in our dreams. Every minute this view is forgotten and destroyed. The former disappears in front of the latter, just like a street lamp, changing a film, the next comes out, and the former disappears in front of it. All these mysteries, we thought we did not understand, in fact, we almost every night in the initial contact, but also contact another big mystery, that is, elimination and rebirth. Some of the dimmed places in my past were illuminated one by one, and Riverbell's dinner was hard to digest, which made the light wander more uncertain, making me such a person: it seemed that the highest happiness was to meet Legrandan, because I had just talked with him in my dream.

In fact, even my own life is completely blocked by a new scene, just like the scenery on the stage. During the backstage change, some actors performed a funny program in the front stage. The funny show in which I played the part is the flavor of Oriental stories. Because the setting is very close to Oriental color, I don't know anything about my past, even about myself. I'm just a person who was beaten and punished for a fault. I didn't find out what the fault was. In fact, it was drinking too much Bordeaux.

Suddenly I woke up and found that thanks to this big sleep, I hadn't heard the noise of the symphony concert. It was already afternoon. I tried to get up and look at my watch to see if that was the case. At first, no effort was effective, and the head sank on the pillow and gave up halfway. This is a brief depression following drowsiness and other intoxication, or caused by drinking or by the early recovery of a serious illness. Besides, even before I looked at the time, I was sure that noon was over. Last night, I was just a weightless person who had been hollowed out (just as I had to lie down before I could sit up and wake up before I could stop). I kept tossing, talking, weightlessness and no center of gravity. I was thrown out and seemed to be able to continue this unhappy running until the moon. Bring it on. Although I fell asleep, my eyes did not see the time, but my body can calculate. It does not measure time on a dial on which time is drawn on the surface, but by gradually weighing how much my strength has recovered. Like a big bell, my body allowed strength to move from my head to the rest of my body, one level at a time, and now it has really accumulated enough of its savings over my knees. If, in the past, the sea was the environment of our lives, we had to put our blood back into the sea to restore our strength, as was the case in terms of forgetfulness and spiritual emptiness. Sometimes, within a few hours, it seems to be out of time. However, the amount of energy accumulated during this period, without expenditure, measures time by its quantity, as accurately as the weight of the clock or the time measured by the collapse of sand hills.

What's more, it's not easier to wake up from this kind of sleep than to stay up late for a long time and then want to fall asleep again. Everything tends to go on. If certain anesthetics do induce sleep, long sleep is a more powerful anesthetic. It's difficult to wake up after a long sleep. I am like a sailor, who clearly sees his ship's ropes tied to the dock, but the ship is still rocked by the waves. I do want to see the time and think of bed, but my body is thrown into sleep again every moment. It was difficult to land. I fell on my pillow two or three times before I stood up and went to my watch to compare the time on the watch with the time indicated by the rich material in my soft legs.

At last I saw clearly: "Two o'clock in the afternoon!" I rang the bell, but I fell asleep again immediately. From the calmness I felt when I woke up again and the feeling that I had spent a long night, I think I slept a lot longer this time. However, I woke up because Franois entered the room and she came in because I rang the bell. So this time I fell asleep, I thought it was probably longer than the last time, and it brought me such pleasure and forgetfulness, which actually lasted only half a minute.

Grandma pushed open my door and I asked her a lot of questions from the Legrandan family. La Cousine Bette

It is not enough to say that I have recovered my calm and health, because it is far beyond the simple question of how far calm and health are from me compared with the day before. I fought against the current all night, and then, not only did I return to peace and health, but peace and health came back to me. The head is empty, and one day it will probably be shattered. There are several places on the head that are clear and uncomfortable. My mind is at the mercy of my thoughts. Thoughts are once again in place and reunited with life. Unfortunately, up to now, my mind has not made good use of my life.