I'm so distracted that the whole thing is in a complete mess. On the first night, I was tired and had a heart attack. I tried to hold back the pain and slowly bent down to take off my shoes. But as soon as I touched the first button of the high-rise leather shoes, my chest swelled violently. A holy and strange man appeared and filled my heart. I was shocked and sobbed, and tears came out like streams. The man who came to rescue me and help me get rid of the spiritual drying up just a few years ago, at a time when I was in the same loneliness and despair, at a time when my heart was empty, he sneaked into my heart and gave me back to my own person, because he was me, but he surpassed me (container is bigger than content). And bring me content. I just found my grandmother's uncomfortable, disappointed and kind face in my memory, and loved my exhaustion. The first night I came here, my grandmother was this image. It was not my nameless grandmother's face. I seldom missed her, even surprised myself, and blamed her for it. Myself; This is the face of my real grandmother. For the first time since she fell ill on Champs Elysees Street, I have seen her vivid image again from an unintentional but complete memory. For us, this kind of realistic image can only exist through the recreation of our thinking (otherwise, everyone who has been involved in large-scale battles can become a great epic poet); in this way, I fervently yearn for her embrace, and only at this moment - she has been buried for more than a year, the reason is that Years and months are wrong, and such errors occur frequently, which often lead to inconsistencies between the event calendar and the emotional calendar - I just learned that she had passed away. From this moment on, I often talked about her and often thought about her, but in my ungrateful, selfish, ruthless young man's words and thoughts, I had never had anything like my grandmother before, because I was frivolous and eager for pleasure, because she was sick, and I looked at her as if she were a regular family meal. The memory of her past is only latent. Whenever we look at our mind, it has only one near-false value, despite its magnificent list of wealth, because sometimes these and sometimes those wealth are not entitled to deal with - real or imaginary wealth - for example, the old family name of the Galmont family. Family or grandmother's real memory, there is no exception to the two kinds of wealth, and the latter kind of wealth is much more important. Because the intermittent beating of the heart is closely related to the disorder of memory. For us, our body is like a jar, in which our spirit is confined. It is undoubtedly the existence of our body that induces us to assume that our inner wealth, our past joys and all our pains belong to us forever. It may be equally inaccurate to assume that such wealth has disappeared or reappeared. In any case, if they exist in our bodies, most of the time they are hidden in an unfamiliar area, which has no effect on us. Even the most commonly used wealth is often inhibited by memories of different sexual qualities and excludes in consciousness any possibilities that arise at the same time with them. But if the sense of wealth is restored in their hands, then they themselves have the same ability to expel everything incompatible with their fire and water, and to place themselves in US and feel their existence. However, because the "me" that suddenly reappeared has never existed since the long night when my grandmother stripped me after I arrived in Balbeck, it is natural that the minute when my grandmother stooped down to me just now did not occur after the real day when "I" did not know. Rather, it was --- as if time had different and parallel moments --- that, without continuation, followed the first night of the past. The "I" at that time had long been lost, but now it is close to me again, so that I seem to have heard clearly the words that just blurted out before, but the words that have become dreams between us are like a person who seems to wake up or not, as if he heard the sound of dreams, but the dreams have disappeared. I'm just such a person, trying to hide in my grandmother's arms, kiss her, kiss her, so as to heal her pain. Recently, different "I" has appeared in my mind like a walking horse. When I belonged to one or the other "I", I urgently needed to recall this person, but it's not easy to talk about it. It's like I'm wasting my time trying to re-experience the joy and joy of a "me", at least for a while. Of course, I'm not that "me" anymore. I gradually remembered how much I wanted to kiss my grandmother in front of the pastry chef an hour before my grandmother was in her dressing gown and bent over my boots on the sultry road. I could not wait for her to stay with me for that hour. Now, the same need springs up again. I know that I can wait for hours and hours forever, and that she can no longer snuggle beside me, and I just find it, because for the first time in my life, I feel a living, real grandmother, who bursts my heart, and I'll die. Yu saw her again, but at this time, I learned that I had lost her forever. Lost forever; I could hardly understand it, so I tried to bear the pain of this contradiction: on the one hand, as I felt, it was a life that survived in my heart, a kindness, that is to say, it was born for me, it was a love, in which everything was in my heart. In my grandmother's opinion, the genius of great people, all the wisdom that may exist since the beginning of the century, is not as good as my little shortcomings; on the other hand, once I have reviewed such a thing as now. Blessed indeed felt its arrival, felt it like the pain of a relapse of an old disease, leaped out of nothing, nihility has erased the image of love I retained, destroyed this existence, in retrospect, cancelled the destiny of our mutual destiny, as if I had seen it again in the mirror. My grandmother's moment transformed her into an ordinary outsider, just for an accidental reason that enabled her to live with me for several years, just as all this could happen with anyone else, but in the eyes of another person, I used to be nothing but nothing. The joy I've enjoyed lately has vanished, and the only joyment I can enjoy at this moment seems to be to whitewash the past and lessen the pain my grandmother suffered in the past. However, I recalled her, not only that she was wearing a dressing gown, this particular dress, almost became a symbol of fatigue, no doubt unhealthy fatigue, but she was kindly tired in my eyes; gradually, I recalled all the opportunities I had seized to let her witness my pain and need. To exaggerate the facts to her at all times and cause her inner sorrow, imagine wiping it off with my kiss, as if my charming could bring her love, and my happiness could also cause her joy; worse still, I have no happiness to speak of now, only from my memory, from this face. In the past, I had been crazily trying to find happiness in all the parts of my face, which were prominent and inclined. Even the joy of spiders and horses was not lost. For example, on the day when Saint-Lou took pictures of my grandmother, her grandmother wore a wide-brimmed hat and was slow and leisurely in the dark and moderate light. It seemed childish and almost ridiculous to put on a flirtatious posture. I couldn't help pointing this out to her. I muttered a few impatient and hurtful words. From the convulsions on her face, I felt that what I said had reached her ears and hurt her heart; in fact, these words were torn to pieces. It's me, because kissing is impossible now.

Nevertheless, I can never erase the convulsions on her face, nor forget her heart, or rather say the pain in my heart; for the dead only exist in our hearts, and when we stubbornly recall all the strikes we have inflicted on them, it is ourselves that we constantly lash at. The pain, though it tore my heart and broke my lungs, I held on tightly, because I felt deeply that it was the result of my memory for my grandmother, and it was the concrete evidence that the memory really existed in my mind. I really think of her only through pain. How I wish that the nail that holds the memory of her would stick deeper and stronger in my heart. I'm not trying to alleviate the pain by whispering and praying in her picture (the one Saint Lou took for her, I've been with her all the time), glorifying the pain and deceiving myself, as if Grandma was just out of doors, temporarily out of sight, as if we were whispering and praying to a person far away from us, although he did. Alone, but familiar with us, always integrated with us. Nevertheless, I have never done so, because what I insist on is not only enduring pain, but also respecting the unique face of my pain and the sudden pain I suffer unintentionally. Whenever the convulsions that are incompatible with the existence and nothingness of my mind reappear, I am willing to follow that. The law of pain continues to suffer. I really don't know which day it will be possible for me to realize some true feelings in those painful feelings, but I know that even if we can get a true feeling from them, it can only come from that feeling. How unique and natural that feeling is, how naturally it comes into being. The sudden discovery of death, like thunder and lightning, leaves a double mysterious impression on my mind in accordance with a supernatural and non-human symbol. (Up to now, I have been in a state of forgetfulness towards my grandmother, and I have never even thought about it if I want to realize the truth. Forgetting itself, in the final analysis, is a denial, a weakening of thinking ability, unable to reproduce the real moment in life, and has to be replaced by the usual image which is not related to the wind and horse cows.) However, perhaps the instinct of self-defense and the ingenuity of avoiding pain have already laid the foundation of their beneficial but harmful undertakings in the ruins of the smoke. So I overtasted the sweetness I felt in recalling one's beloved's evaluations in one way or another, as if this sweetness could bring all kinds of evaluations. As if it had always existed, I continued to live for it. But once I fall asleep, at this more authentic moment, my eyes are closed, everything outside is invisible, the internal organs are magically illuminated, in this sudden translucent organic heart, remnants and nothingness are finally integrated, the world of sleep (at its door, temporarily paralyzed wisdom and nothingness) Will can no longer compete for me with the harsh truth). It reflects and reflects this painful mixture. In this sleeping world, the inner perception controlled by the disorder of our body organs speeds up the rhythm of the heart or breath, because once the same level of fear, grief or regret is injected into our blood vessels, it will set off a storm with a hundred times the power; when we are involved in the black waves of our own blood, it is like throwing a wave. Entering the winding river of forgetfulness beneath the nine springs and traveling all over the streets and lanes of the inner secret city, a solemn and great face immediately emerged before our eyes, approached us, and then left us, leaving us with tears rippling. I came to the dark door, eager to find my grandmother's face, but in vain; however, I knew that she was still alive, but her vitality was weak, as pale as she remembered; the black* grew stronger and stronger, and the wind grew stronger and stronger; my father should have led me to her, but he did not see her anymore. 。 Suddenly, I couldn't breathe and felt my heart freeze. It occurred to me that I had forgotten to write to my grandmother for weeks. What would she think of me?" My lord, "I thought," how miserable it would be for her to stay in the small room she rented for her. It was as narrow as a maid used to be. She was alone and had only one person by her side to look after her. She couldn't move a step in the room because she had been paralyzed and never thought of it at all. Bed! She should have thought that after her death, I had forgotten all about her; how lonely she would feel and how abandoned she was! Ah! I must rush to see her; I can't delay another minute, I can't wait until my father comes; but where is she? How can I forget her address? I wish she could recognize me! How could I not think of her for months? It's dark and I can't find it anywhere. The strong wind makes me unable to walk. But my father doesn't wander in front of me. I shout to him,'Where's Grandma? Tell me her address? Is she in good health? Is she sure she has nothing missing? Father answered me and said,'Nothing is missing. You can rest assured. Her guardians are well organized. From time to time, we remitted her a small sum of money to buy her necessities, which she never used very much. Several times, she asked what you were doing. You even told her what you were going to write. Her face brightened and a tear was wiped away. At this moment, I seem to recall that shortly after my grandmother's death, she was like an old maid who had been banished from the house, like a strange old lady, crying humbly and saying to me, "I must be allowed to see you again, and never see me again for many years." Think about it. You've been my grandson. You won't forget being a grandmother." When I saw her face again, which was so submissive, so sad and so gentle, I could not wait to run forward and pour out to her the words I should have answered at that time: "Grandma, if you want to see me, you will see me. I am the only one in the world, and I will never leave you again." How many days and months have passed since she lay there alone, but I am not by her side, silent, which should make her sad, which should make her sad tears! What's going on in her mind? So I sobbed and begged my father, "Quick, tell me her address, take me with you." Unexpectedly, he answered, "Oh, because... Because I don't know if you'll ever see her. Besides, you also know that she is very weak and extremely weak. She is no longer the same as she used to be. I think you will be very sad to see her. I can't remember the exact number of the street.

"You'd better tell me, you know, that it's not true that dead people can't live anymore. Despite what everyone says, it's not true, because my grandmother is still alive. My father smiled sadly: "Ah! You don't understand. You're too ignorant. I thought you'd better not go. She needs nothing. Everything has been arranged for her. But isn't she alone?"" Yes, but it's better for her. She doesn't want to do anything. It's better. Otherwise, it will only add misfortune to her. Think about things is often painful, and then, you know, she is already very weak. I'll tell you exactly where you can go, but I don't see any use in going there, and I don't think the guardian will let you in to see her." However, you are fully aware that I will always live next to her, deer, deer, Francis James, fork." But I have crossed the dark and tortuous river of forgetfulness, surfaced, and now I see a world of living beings: even if I still repeat the words "Francis James, deer, deer", the following words can no longer provide me with a clear meaning, and just at that moment, how comfortable its meaning is expressed. But now I can't remember. I don't even understand how the word "Aias" my father just said to me directly means, "Be careful not to catch cold." How can that be possible? I forgot to close the shutters, and it was the bright sunshine that woke me up. But I couldn't stand the rolling waves in front of me, but in the past, my grandmother was able to watch the waves quietly for hours, and the waves were calm. This beautiful new scene immediately gave me the idea that my grandmother could not see it. How I wanted to close my ears and stop listening to the rolling waves. Because at this moment, the golden light on the beach opens a void in my heart; in the past, when I was a child, I was separated from my grandmother in a park. At this time, everything here is like the path and lawn of that park, as if to say to me: "We haven't seen her." Under the vast, magical vault, I seemed to be covered in a huge gray-blue * bell. I could not breathe. The big bell covered a corner of my vision. My grandmother was no longer there. At first glance, all around was empty, and I turned to the wall. Unfortunately, what blocked my vision was the wall that served as the messenger of the morning between us. It was as clever as a violin, expressing a subtle color of emotion to my grandmother vividly and accurately, and conveying my fear to my grandmother: I am both. Afraid of waking her up, and if she woke up, I was afraid that she would not hear, afraid that she would not move; then it echoed like the second instrument, informing me that she was coming, please rest assured as much as possible. I dare not approach the partition wall, as if it were a piano, which my grandmother might have played, and the sounds still linger. I know I can knock now, and it's okay to knock harder. It's impossible to wake her up. I can't hear any more echoes. Grandma will never come back. If heaven really exists, I have nothing else to ask, but God can tap three times gently on this partition wall. Grandma will immediately recognize and respond three times from tens of millions of sounds, which means, "Don't worry, little mouse, I understand you can't wait, but I'll come." Then pray to God that I and my grandmother will live together forever, and for both of us, it will not be too long to live together forever. The dawn here is quiet.

The river of hell drinks the water of the dead and forgets the past.

The manager came to me and asked me if I wanted to go downstairs. Anyway, he carefully arranged "seats" for me in the restaurant. Since he did not see me, he was afraid that my old problem of asthma had recurred. He hoped it was just a trivial "throat disease" and assured me that a drug he called Carriptus could be used to stop it.

He handed me a note from Albertina. This year, she did not plan to come to Balbeck, but changed her plan. Three days ago, she came to a nearby sanatorium. Although not to Balbeck, the two places are only 10 minutes away by train. Afraid of my fatigue on the journey, she dared not bother to go to the door the first night and sent someone to ask if I could receive her. I asked her if she was coming in person, not to see her, but rather to try to avoid seeing her." She came in person, "the manager answered me." She wants to meet as soon as possible, unless you have a reason. Look, "he concluded." In a word, everyone here is eager to see you. " But I don't want to see anybody.

However, the day before, I had just arrived, and I felt tempted again by the charm of sea bath convalescence. The former elevator driver silently started the elevator, this time not out of contempt, but to show respect, only to see him happy and glorious. I rose slowly along the riser and crossed the center of what I used to regard as the mystery of a strange hotel. When a helpless, unknown traveler first arrives, whether it is a regular hotel visitor who goes back to his room, a young girl who goes downstairs for dinner, a maid who passes through a corridor decorated with strange stripes, or a Miss Qianjin who comes from America, accompanied by a female companion, who goes downstairs for dinner, throws one after another at him. Look, you can't see any look that people expect. But this time, on the contrary, I felt very relaxed and happy when I went upstairs in a familiar hotel. I felt like I had finished this cycle of exercise again in my own home. It was not so short and easy as blink of an eye. It gave us a soul that made us feel good, not us. A ghost of terror. I did not expect the sudden change of soul that awaited me, and I could not help wondering whether it was necessary to take turns to stay in other hotels, where I would always eat for the first time; in hotels, on every floor, facing every door, habits might not have killed the evil god, he seemed. A happy life is being watched; in hotels, it may be necessary for me to approach strangers, luxury hotels, casinos and beaches and gather them together in the form of large coral skeletons.

The annoying president was so eager to see me that he made me feel a little happy. On the first day, I watched the billows, the blue hills, the glaciers, the waterfalls, and the elegant, solemn and carefree scenery - when I washed my hands, I heard the fragrance of the Grand Hotel. The special smell of strong soap came into being. For the first time in a long time, I smelled this special fragrance - it seemed to belong to both the present moment and the past time. It was like the real charm of a special life, floating between the present and the past. The so-called special life was like people going home. Just for the sake of changing a tie. Bed sheets are too thin, too light, too big, too tight, too hard to cover, wrapped outside the blanket, always bulging, like an indeterminate whirlpool, if in the past, it will make me sad. But it's like sails, and it's always uncomfortable. The bulging sheets shake the first bright, promising morning sun. But the sun has not yet risen. Still that night, the cruel and magical figure of the shadow came back to life. I begged the manager to go away and ask no one to enter the house. I told him that I would stay in bed all the time and refused to send him to the drugstore for that panacea. He was glad to see me say no, for he was afraid that the passengers would feel uncomfortable smelling "Kariputus". I had the honor of being praised for "your intentions" (he wanted to say "reasonable words") and told me, "Be careful not to dirty you on the door, because the lock is too tight, I sent someone to"pour"oil on the door; if a waiter knocks on your room, he will be"rolled". It must be remembered that I have never liked repetition. But would you like to drink some old wine to refresh your spirits? I have a full hall downstairs. I won't put the wine on a silver plate and bring it to you like Ionardan's head. I'll tell you first that it's not Lafite Castle, but it's almost ambiguous. If the amount is too small, you can have another fried taro made for you. I declined it all, but I was surprised that in the mouth of a person who ordered this dish many times in his life, "fish" and "taro" were indiscriminate, and "fish" was said to be "taro".

Despite the manager's acceptance, a moment later, someone sent me Marquis Campbell's corner card. The old lady came to see me and asked if I was staying here. When she learned that I had arrived only yesterday and was not feeling well, she did not insist on getting into the old four-wheeled octagon carriage with two horses and returned to Ferdinand. Go in and check out or buy something. On the streets of Balbeck and several coastal towns between Balbeck and Ferdinand, the rolling sound of the carriage was often heard, and people marveled at the luxurious display. A short stop at this or that store is not the destination of a drive. It's a snack dinner or garden party held by a squire or a wealthy man, who is very disgraceful to the marquis. But although the Marquise was of noble origin and a vast family, far above the gentry and nobles in the vicinity of Fangyuan, she was kind and simple in nature. If someone invited her as a guest, she was afraid to disappoint the other party. Therefore, even if there was no small social gathering nearby, she would gladly go to the gathering. It is true that Mrs. de Campbell prefers to be in Ferdinand when she has to exaggerate and congratulate rather than go all the way to a suffocating salon and listen to a singing girl who is usually not talented in the sultry heat, and as a distinguished lady and famous musician in the region. Garden stroll or rest, under the garden, small bay flowers, quiet, picturesque scenery. She knew that she was often unavailable and that the news had been circulated by her owners, whether they were the nobles of Mainville-La-Tandurille or Chartonguer-Logoyo or the generous Bourguilla. Nevertheless, if Mrs. de Campbell went out on that day and did not show up for the grand occasion, and this or that guest from the beach bath might have heard the marquis's carriage and seen her carriage, then her excuse for leaving Ferdinand would be untenable. In addition, the hosts often saw Mrs. de Campbell go to concerts given by some people. Although they thought it was not the place where she should go in and out, in their opinion, the Marquis was too kind to do so, which was detrimental to her position, they immediately closed their mouths once it was their turn to receive the Marquis. They were so anxious that they asked themselves if they could have the privilege of inviting her to a snack party. If the host's daughter or a music lover who is on holiday here has just finished singing a song and has a visitor's announcement (the Marquise must have come to the concert) that she saw the horse in the famous carriage parked in front of the clock shop or the drugstore, the owner's uneasy mood will be immediately lost in those days. Great comfort! So in the eyes of these masters, Mrs. de Campbell (who was sure to arrive soon, followed by her daughter-in-law and the guests in her house at that time, she asked permission to bring them together, and the master promised with pleasure) was again shining. For them, she finally arrived and they got what they wanted. Perhaps that's the key reason why they made their decision a month ago: they spent money and money on a concert. When they saw the Marquis coming, they thought no longer of how she enjoyed the gathering of the neighbours whom they considered to be very disgraceful, but of the grandeur of the old castle of the Marquis's family, and of the insolence, arrogance and almost dull humility of the daughter-in-law she had married from the Legrandan family. Flat form a sharp contrast. At this time, they seem to have read the closed-door, family-concocted news in the social life column of the Gallic newspaper: in the quiet corner of Brittany, people indulge in joy, the guests of the day concert are carefully selected; until the host promises that the concert will be held again every day, the guests will not leave. Every day, they waited for the newspaper, panicked that they had not seen the news of their concert in the newspaper, fearing that Mrs. de Campbell would be invited only to the visitors, but that many readers would not know. Happy days have finally arrived: "This year's Balbeck, summer is particularly charming. Afternoon mini-concerts were all the rage..." Thank God, Mrs. de Campbell's name is in black and white, and it's very impressive. Although it's mentioned in passing, it's in the first place. Therefore, it is necessary to pretend that the carelessness of the newspaper may cause disputes with those who can not be invited, and look worried. In the presence of Mrs. de Campbell, the Marquis is worthy of being a lady, and often says kindly, "This is what I mean." I understand the trouble that caused you, but for me, everyone knows that I'm going to visit your house, which will only make me feel very happy.

On the invitation to me, Mrs. de Campbell wrote that she would hold a concert the afternoon after tomorrow. It is true that two days ago, no matter how tired I was of social life, it would have been a pleasure for me to enjoy a concert transplanted into the garden. There was plenty of sunshine in Federer, and the garden was full of mangroves, figs, palms, and roses all over the place, which stretched to the seashore, and the sea was often full of water. Boxing, blue and uniform, like the Mediterranean landscape. The small and exquisite yacht of the host's home sails on the sea. Before the grand event, it sails to the beach across the bay to welcome the most distinguished guests. When the guests arrive, the yacht opens its awning against the sun as a restaurant for guests'refreshments. At dusk, it sends off the guests. Luxury venues are really attractive, but they cost a lot. To partly cover the cost, Mrs. de Campbell tried to increase her income, especially by renting a house her family owned for the first time in her life: Las Player Castle, which has a very different style from Ferdena's. Really, it was held in a brand new environment. A concert like this, with the help of the ignorant gentry and nobles, if two days ago, perhaps I had changed the taste of Paris's "upper class life"! ____________ Now, however, any pleasure is meaningless to me. I then responded to Mrs. de Campbell and apologized, just as I had Albertina sent away an hour ago: the possibility that grief made my heart desire | hope * disappear, like a high fever, completely hurting my appetite... My mother should arrive the next day. I felt as if I was not as guilty as I was in the past, and I understood her better. Now I have said goodbye to the strange and decadent life of the past and replaced it with memories that are constantly emerging. The past is so heartwarming that it has put on the crown of thorns for my mother and me and made our soul pure. Make it more noble. That's what I think in my heart; but in fact, there are real griefs, such as mom's --- once you lose someone you love, your inner grief will completely deprive you of your long-term, sometimes even permanent pleasure in life --- and there are other forms of grief, such as mine, in any case, such grief is only temporary. Late arrival and fast departure can only occur after a long time, because the need to "understand" the event itself can be felt; there are differences between the two kinds of grief; how many people really feel the grief and the grief that afflicts me at this moment, the difference is only in the way that the past suddenly emerges unintentionally.

As for the distress like my mother's, I will someday experience it personally. You can see it in the following narrative, but at this time there is no experience, nor the taste I imagined. Just like an actor who accompanied the protagonist to rehearse his lines, he should have been familiar with his role early, but he didn't rush to his place until the last minute. The lines he had to mention had only been read once. When he spoke his tail, he was very clever and good at hiding it. No one could see that he was late. It was just like this that when my mother arrived, This feeling of sadness I have just experienced provides me with an opportunity to express to my mother how sad I am. She just felt that I must have seen the place where I had stayed with my grandmother (not so), touched the scenery and felt sad abruptly. Compared with my mother, the pain I felt was insignificant, but it opened my eyes. For the first time in my life, I realized the tremendous pain my mother could endure. I also understood for the first time why, after her grandmother's death, her mother had been staring at the inextricable contradiction between memory and nothingness without a single tear (Franoise seldom complained to her for this reason). In addition, although my mother always wears the black veil, the more she wears it in this new place, the more I am thrilled and surprised by the changes that have taken place in her heart. It is far from enough to say that she has lost all her joy. She has melted completely into a statue, begging bitterly for fear that her actions will be too violent and her voice will be too loud to offend the painful people who hang with her. But to my particular surprise, as soon as she stepped into the room in black, I found out - and never noticed in Paris - that it wasn't her mother, but her grandmother. Just like in a royal family, when the prince dies, the prince's grandson succeeds him, so the Duke of Orleans, the Prince of Taranto and the Prince of Lom become the King of France, the Duke of Latremeier and the Duke of Galmont, respectively, and the living are often inherited through different sexual qualities, but for a deeper reason, the deceased. Property is already in existence, becoming the successor of the deceased, and continuing the interrupted life. For a girl like her mother, the great grief caused by her mother's death may only be to break the pupa shell early, speeding up the change and appearance of the beloved. Without this crisis, speeding up the development process, jumping over several stages of development, the appearance of the beloved will be slower. In mourning for the deceased, there may be some revelation that eventually makes our sexual and personality traits similar. Besides, they lurk in us; in mourning, especially our initiative * temporarily suspended --- this initiative * is mainly personal (such as my mother's understanding and from her father). As long as the beloved lives in the world, we do not hesitate to exert our initiative, even to the detriment of the interests of the beloved, thus offsetting the particularity that we inherit from the beloved. Once the beloved is not in the world, we will be anxious to judge as two people as before. We will appreciate only her in the past, who has become history, but who is intertwined with other things, and who will remain a complete self from now on. It is in this sense (far from the most ambiguous and false meaning that people usually refer to), that death is not useless, and it still exerts influence on us after death. The role of the dead is even greater than that of the living. The reason is that the real reality can only be shown through reason and is the object of rational activities. Therefore, we do not really understand everything that has to be recreated through thinking and what daily life covers up to us. In short, in our deep mourning for the deceased, we regard all the things we love as idols of worship. Not only was my mother reluctant to part with my grandmother's handbag, which had become more precious than sapphire and diamond, my grandmother's sleeves, all the clothes and clothes that made them look very similar to each other, but my grandmother had been reluctant to part with Mrs. De Sevigny's works, as well as my mother's. They are reluctant to exchange manuscripts, even with famous writers. In the past, she used to make fun of her grandmother, saying that every time she wrote to her, she had to record a sentence from Mrs. De Sevigny or Mrs. De Bozerand. And in each of the three letters that my mother wrote to me before she arrived at Barbeck, Mrs. De Sevigny was quoted as if the letter was not from her, but from my grandmother. She insisted on going down the dam to see for herself the beach that my grandmother mentioned to her every time in her letter. I watched her holding her mother's umbrella, all covered in black, walking forward from the window with pious and timid steps, stepping on the sand that her relatives had stepped on before her. It seemed as if she was looking for a deceased loved one, who might be washed back to shore by the sea. To avoid her eating alone, I had to accompany her downstairs. The Chief President of the Court and the widow of the Chief Lawyer were introduced to their mother. Mother was so passionate about everything that had to do with my grandmother that she was so excited and grateful to hear what the chief Dean had said to her that she would always bear in mind. She had nothing to say to the widow of the attorney-in-chief. Without saying a word of mourning for her deceased grandmother, her mother felt resentment. Sorrow. One was excited and the other was silent. Although my mother thought the two were far apart, they were just different ways of expressing the indifference of the dead. However, I think that my mother often gets a little warmth from my unconscious penetration of a little painful words. Just as everything that guarantees my grandmother to live in our hearts forever, my pain will only bring happiness to my mother (although she caresses me in every way). Later, my mother went downstairs to sit on the beach every day, completely following her mother's actions and reading her mother's two favorite books: Madame Jean's Memoirs and Mrs. De Sevigny's Collections of Books. Like any of us, she can't tolerate being called Mrs. De Sevigny "the Marquis of Wisdom", just as La Fontaine "Mr. Good". However, when she read the words "my daughter" in the book, she often felt that she heard her mother's voice to her.

During this pilgrimage, she did not want to be disturbed, but she was unlucky. On one occasion, she met a wife from Gombre on the beach, followed by her daughters. I think her name is Mrs. Pussan. But we always jokingly call her "You look good" in private, because when she warns her daughters to be careful about their troubles, she always opens her mouth and closes her mouth. For example, she shouts to a daughter who rubs her eyes all the time: "When you get ophthalmitis, you look good." When she saw my mother from a long distance, she burst into tears and greeted her endlessly. It was not like expressing condolences, but like teaching people. She lived in a deep courtyard in Gombre, almost isolated from the rest of the world, feeling that nothing in the world was gentle enough to soften even French words and names. She calls the silverware for drinks "Guyer" too rigid, so she calls it "Goy"; she's afraid of calling "Fenaron" and being disrespectful to the amiable author of "Telmakos" - and I am willing to regard the wisest, mildest and most loyal Bertrand de Fenaron as my closest relative, too. A friend of love, who knows him, will never forget him - he is always called "Feneron" and feels that "Nei" adds a touch of softness. The son-in-law of Mrs. Pussan was not so gentle. I forgot his name. He was a witness in Gombre and left with a silver box, which cost my uncle a lot of money. However, most of the inhabitants of Gombre still live in harmony with other members of his family, which did not cause tension. People expressed sympathy for Mrs. Pussan. She never receives visitors, but every time people beat past her fence door, they have to stop and admire the green shade of the garden, but they can't see anything else inside. In Balbeck, she didn't bother us much. I only met her once, when she was scolding her nail biting daughter: "You'll have a good look when your fingers are pushy."

When my mother was reading at the beach, I stayed alone in my room. I recalled the last moments of my grandmother's life and everything related to it. I recalled the last time she went out for a walk. We accompanied her through the stairway door, which remained as it was and remained open. In sharp contrast, the rest of the world seems to be unreal, and the pain in my heart is like poison, poisoning them all. Later, my mother insisted that I go out. On my first night, I waited for my grandmother to arrive and walked alone down the street to the Diguet Truan Monument. But now, every time I walk in this street, a scene that has long been forgotten in the casino is like an irresistible headwind, which prevents me from moving forward; I look down and don't see anything. When I recovered a little, I went back to the hotel. I knew that no matter how long I waited, it would never be possible to meet my grandmother again in the hotel. I wanted to meet my grandmother on the first night of my arrival. Since I went out for the first time after I arrived at the hotel, many strange servants I had never met stared at me curiously. A young waiter stood at the door of the hotel, took off his hat and saluted me. Then he put it on his head quickly, with dexterity and agility. I think that Emmy had commanded that, in his words, he had already "ordered" me to be more respected. But at the same time, I found that the waiter took off his hat to another guest who came in. The fact is that this young man only knows how to take off his hat and wear it in his life. His movements are impeccable. Once he realized that he had no other ability but to excel in this respect, he was loyal to his duties and took off as many hats as possible every day, which won the inconvenience of the guests, but the prevailing favor also aroused the special liking of the concierge. The concierge was responsible for hiring waiters. So far, except for this rare young man. Son, who can not find a suitable one, who can not work for a week, will be banished. Amy was puzzled about this and said in surprise, "But, as long as they are polite, it shouldn't be so difficult." Managers also strictly require them to be "on the job", meaning they must stay in their posts, maybe they want them to keep their appearance, but they just can't use the word. The open lawn behind the hotel has changed its old appearance. Several new flower beds have been built and flowers are in full bloom. But the original cluster of exotic shrubs has been removed. Even the young man who was guarding the entrance of the lawn for the first year has disappeared. He has increased his appearance at the entrance with his tender body and rare hair. Add luster. He eventually followed the example of two brothers and a typist's sister, and went away with a Polish Countess as her private secretary. Both his brother and sister were so charming that they were dug up by celebrities and celebrities from different countries in the hotel. After they left, only the younger brother stayed alone in the hotel because he squinted and nobody wanted him. The Countess of Poland and the protectors of his two brothers came to Balbeck and stayed in a hotel for some time. He was very happy. Although he was jealous of the two brothers in his heart, he also loved them. He could make good use of these weeks to cultivate a feeling of flesh and blood. Didn't the abbot of Fonteflolt leave the nuns so often to share the hospitality of Louis XIV to her sister Motmar? The sister of the Abbess is Mrs. de Montesbond, the mistress of Louis XIV. At that time, the young man had only been in Balbeck for less than a year and was not familiar with me, but when he heard the older waiter greet me by adding my surname before the word "Mr." he immediately imitated their appearance. When he first addressed me, he had a satisfied look, perhaps because he addressed a person whom he recognized as a well-known person. He showed his knowledge, perhaps because he followed the usual etiquette which he did not know before five minutes, but which he did not seem to violate in any way. I fully understand that this big hotel may be tempting to some people. It's like a grand stage set up high, with many characters coming on stage in succession, and even the scenery is very lively. Although travelers are just some kind of audience, they are always involved in the performance, as if the life of the audience is displayed in the luxurious scenes of the stage, rather than in the theatre, only the actors are performing on the stage. Tennis players can return to the hotel in white flannel, but the concierge has to wear a blue uniform embroidered with silver ribbons to deliver the letter to him. If the tennis player is reluctant to climb the stairs, it still needs the actors. There is a driver with the same gorgeous clothes driving the elevator. The corridor on the floor covers the maids and messenger maids, avoiding entanglement. When they are at sea, they are as beautiful as the curtain on the stage of Athena's Goddess Day. People who are keen to mix with beautiful maids are always turning around seven or eight corners. The gods unconsciously touch their small rooms. Downstairs, the dominant position is male*. With a group of idle, young men, the hotel is like a Jewish Christian tragedy that has been shaped and repeated forever. So when I saw them, I could not help but recite Racine's poems in my heart. This time, instead of staring at the Secretary of the embassy who greeted Mr. de Charles at the residence of Prince Gelmont, De Fogube's words came to my mind in the play Estelle, they were Adali. As soon as we stepped into the hall known as the hall in the seventeenth century, we saw a crowd of "young waiters" standing busily, especially at snack time, like the young Jews of the chorus in Racine's plays. When Adali asked the little prince, "What on earth are you doing?" If Joas answered, though vague, I could not believe that any of the waiters could answer because they were really idle. If anyone, like an old queen, asks any of them:

"All the people who are confined to this place,

What on earth are you busy with?

He can only answer at most:

"I'm watching the luxury of etiquette.

At the same time, I also make a contribution to this.

Sometimes, young actors come out of a beautiful young man, greet a more important person, and then go back to the chorus. Unless they are meditative and relaxed, they all change their attitudes together, appear respectful and dress up day after day, but in vain. Except for "holidays", they are always respectful of the "upper class" and never step into the church square. Usually, they live like ascetic monks, just like the Levites in Adali. Watching the "faithful young people" tapping and dancing on the blanket, I could not help asking myself whether I had entered the Barbeck Hotel or the Solomon Hall.

I went upstairs to my room. As usual, my thoughts were freed from the days when my grandmother was seriously ill and dying on earth, and from the growing pain I had endured. The reason for this is that when we think we are merely reproducing the suffering of a loved one, our compassion has actually exaggerated the suffering; but perhaps it is this kind of compassion that is truly reliable, which is more reliable than the consciousness of suffering people, because they have been blinded. In the drum, you can't see the pain of your own life, but the heart of compassion can see clearly, and they are sad and desperate for their misery. However, if I knew what I had not known for a long time, that my grandmother was completely conscious on the eve of her death, and that I was sure that when I was absent, I held her hand and put on my hot lips and said to her, "Farewell, my daughter, farewell forever," then, on impulse. My compassion will surely transcend my grandmother's grief. My mother never relaxed and stared at the past. So happy memories emerged in my mind. She's my grandmother. I'm her grandmother. The expression of her face seemed to be written in a language created for me; she was everything in my life, and anyone else existed only by comparison with her, only by judgment of their rights and wrongs she taught me; however, no, our relationship could not have been formed by accident. She could no longer recognize me. I will never see her. We are not dependent on each other to create, she is a stranger. I'm looking at a picture taken by Saint Lou for her stranger. After meeting Albertina, my mother insisted that I go to see her because Albertina was so beautiful that she talked to her about her grandmother and my past. I made an appointment with Albertina. I notified the manager in advance and asked her to wait in the living room. The manager answered me that he had known Albertina and her girlfriend long ago, when they were still far from being "chaste years", and he still harbored their gossip about hotels. They will be so vicious unless they are "unheard of". Or someone maliciously hurt them. It's not hard for me to understand that chastity refers to adolescence. But the word "unknown" confused me. Perhaps it is confused with "no culture", and "no culture" may be confused with "culture". As I waited for my meeting with Albertina, I stared at the photograph taken by Saint Lucia as if I could not see the picture in front of me because I could not keep my eyes on it. Just then I suddenly thought, "This is my grandmother, I am her grandson." It was like a sudden reminder of an amnesiac patient. His name is just like a patient who has changed his personality. Franois went into the room and reported to me that Albertina was downstairs. She saw the photograph and said, "Poor lady, that's her. Even the moles on her cheeks are the same. On the day when the Marquis took her picture, she kept her illness secret and was always happy at parties. Only I found her sometimes a little dull. But then it disappeared. Later, she said to me,'In case something happens to me, I'll have to leave a picture of myself. I've never taken a photo alone. Then she sent me to see Mr. Marquis, asked him if he could take a picture of her, and took care of him. Never tell Mr. Marquis that she had taken a picture herself. But when I came home and told her she could take pictures, she refused to take pictures because she thought her face was too ugly. She said to me,'If you don't stay, it's worse. She was not dumb at all, but finally she dressed herself up and put on a big Pendant hat, which she usually did not wear on sunny days. She was very satisfied with her photographs, and she told me that she didn't believe she could go back alive from Balbeck. Although I said to her directly,'Old lady, you shouldn't say that. I don't like to hear the old lady say that,'It's a dead thought for nothing. My God? She couldn't even eat, for days at a time. It was for this reason that she urged Mr. Marquis to stay away and have dinner with Mr. Marquis. She did not go to the dining table herself, and was reading, but as soon as the Marquis's carriage left, she went upstairs to sleep. Later, she was afraid that she would frighten her by not telling her wife anything beforehand. Better let her stay with her husband, Franoise, right. Franois looked at me and suddenly asked me if I was "uncomfortable". I answered her, "No," she said quickly, "You tie me here and talk to you as much as you can. The person who visited you may have arrived early. I have to go downstairs. That's not a person who will stay here. I'm afraid she's gone in such a hurry. She doesn't like to wait long. Ah! Now Miss Albertina is a character."

"Franois, you're wrong. She's quite good. It's too good to match here. You're going to inform her! I can't see her today."

If Franois had seen me cry, she might have had a good pity and lament. I cover it carefully. Otherwise, I will get her sympathy! But I sympathized with her. We tend to ignore the kindness of these poor maids, who can't see us crying, as if it would hurt our bodies; maybe it's not good for them. I remember when I was young, Franoise often said to me, "Don't cry like that. I don't like to see you cry like that." It's our fault that we can't boast and don't like to be widely quoted. So we closed our hearts and couldn't accommodate the touching countryside feeling. We were indifferent to the legendary plea of the poor maid who was fired for theft. Perhaps she suffered a grievous injustice. Her pale face *, she became doubly humble and imitated. It is a sin for Buddha to be accused. He shows how honest his father is, how well his mother behaves and how his grandmother teaches her to be human. To be sure, it was these servants who could not bear to see our god's tears that made us suffer from pneumonia because the maid downstairs liked to dress down and it was impolite to cut off the tuyere. Because, to say that a reasonable person like Franois is wrong, unless the goddess of justice is turned into a monster. However, even the smallest pleasure of the maids can arouse their master's objection or ridicule. The reason is that although their entertainment is not enough, it always contains ignorant emotional factors, which are harmful to their physical and mental health. As a result, they are likely to express their dissatisfaction: "Why, I have made such a request a year, and I do not agree with it." However, the hosts may give much more, which is not foolish or harmful to them - perhaps for their own sake. Of course, when you see the poor waitress trembling all over, you have to admit that you have not done anything wrong. Open your mouth and say, "If you have to let me go, I'll go tonight." That pitiful look of humiliation and burden makes it impossible for anyone to be cruel. However, if you meet an elderly cook who is full of vigor and complacency and holds a broomstick like a battle of power, the old lady is the first in the world. She often cries out and throws her hands away and works in a dignified manner. In the face of such a person, although she talks big and aggressive, even though she is proud of her mother's side, she is also proud of herself. It's the dignity of a small circle. You should also be good at responding to her. Don't be indifferent. On this day, I recalled, or imagined, a similar scene. I told the elderly maid of my family exactly in 1510. After that, despite all the difficulties she had made against Albertina, I had always been very affectionate to Franois. Although there were ups and downs, it was true, but the strongest love I had ever given to Franois was sympathy. Heart-based love.

I faced a picture of my grandmother and suffered a whole day. Photos are torturing me. But it's lighter than the manager's evening visit. When I spoke to him about my grandmother, he immediately offered me his condolences again, only to hear him say to me (he liked to use his inaccurate words): "On the day your grandmother was sick, I wanted to tell you, but considering the guests in the hotel, right, maybe it would hurt the interests of the hotel. It would be best for her to leave that night. But she asked me not to make a noise and assured me that she would never pass out again. Once she got sick again, she left immediately. The foreman on that floor reported to me that she had fainted again. But, oh, you're regular customers. We don't think it's too late to take good care of you, since nobody complains... My grandmother often faints, but she hides it from me. At that time, I was the least considerate of her. Although she suffered from pain, she had to pay attention to appearing happy, lest I get angry, and pretend to be as healthy as possible to avoid being driven out of the hotel door. I simply can't imagine that the word "faint" can be said to be "faint". If it involves other things, I may find it funny. However, its sound is strange and weird, like a unique discord, long echoes, enough to arouse the most painful feeling in my heart.

The next day, in order to meet my mother's requirements, I went to the beach, rather than lying on the dune for a while, hiding myself in the middle of the high and low dunes, thinking that Albertina and her girlfriend would never find me again. I lowered my eyes, only penetrating a ray of light, rose-like red, that is the inner wall of the eyes. Then the eyes closed tightly. At that moment, my grandmother came to my mind, sitting quietly in an armchair. She was so weak that she seemed to be living with another person. However, I could clearly hear her breathing; sometimes there was a sign that she understood what my father was talking to me. But even though I embraced her warmly, I could not excite a ray of love from her eyes, nor could I make her cheeks show some color. She was unconscious of herself and seemed to have no love for me, as if she had been ignorant of me all her life, maybe she could not see me at all. She was so indifferent, depressed, and angry that I could no longer understand the secret. I was busy pulling my father aside.

"You've always seen it," I said to him. "It's useful to say that she has seen everything in the world clearly. This is a complete illusion of life. If only your cousin could come and see it. Didn't he assert that the dead man had no life? It's been more than a year since she died, but in the end, she's still alive. But why didn't she kiss me?

"Look, her poor head is hanging down again." She wanted to go to the Champs Elysees right away. It's incredible! Do you really think it will kill her? Will she die again? It's impossible that she will never love me again. Is it useless for me to hug her like this? It's hard for her to never smile at me again?"" What do you want me to do? The dead are the dead.

A few days later, the picture taken by Saint Lucia was so beautiful in my eyes that it did not evoke the words Franois had said to me, because the memory of those words never disappeared in my mind, and I had become accustomed to it. But on that day, my grandmother's physical condition seemed so serious and painful to me, but because of some tricks, she wore a hat on her head and slightly hid her face, even though I had already seen the flaw, she succeeded in deceiving me. In contrast, this photo was taken. I think she is so elegant and graceful, so carefree, not as painful as I imagined, and healthier than I imagined. Nevertheless, she did not realize that her eyes had a strange look, a dim, frightened look, like the eyes of a designated animal approaching the end. Her tragic look, like a prisoner sentenced to death, inadvertently revealed a look of gloom, which was unbearable, though It escaped my eyes, but it made my mother never have the heart to look at the picture. In her view, it was not so much a picture of her mother as a microcosm of her illness, but a slap in the face of my grandmother by the devil. Quiet Don River

Then one day, I finally decided to send someone to Albertina to receive her in the near future. It was on a hot morning, when the children were playing and laughing, the swimmers were laughing and laughing, the newspaper sellers were shouting and selling, and the tens of millions of voices turned into fires and sparks, which depicted the hot beach, the ripples of the sea, the rows of beaches washed away, and the cool showers came; at this time, the symphony came. The concert began, and the sound of the music was intertwined with the sound of the water, and the sound of the piano echoed in a long way, as if a large group of bees were lost in the sea, buzzing, and I was full of desire. Desiring to hear Albertina's laughter again, to see her girlfriends, the girls clearly appearing on the waves, deeply imprinted in my memory, is the indivisible charm of Balbeck, the unique flower god of Balbeck; I made up my mind to send Franois a message to Albertina. When she meets next week, at the same time, the sea slowly rises. With the surge of peaks, the glittering water submerges the melody of pleasant sounds one after another, and the phrases appear intermittent, just like the stringed angels curling up on the top of the Italian church, looming between the roofs of porphyry blue or Jasper green. But on the day of Albertina's visit, the weather turned bad and cool again. Besides, I was disappointed and could not hear her laughter; she was in a terrible mood. This year, Barbeck is a real bore." She said to me, "I try not to stay too long. You know I've been here since Easter for more than a month. No one can see. You think it's not very interesting." Although it had just rained and the weather changed, I accompanied Albertina all the way to Epleville. In her own words, she often "shuttled" between the beach where Mrs. Bondang's villa was located and Angleville, where she "lodged" at the home of Rosmond's relatives; after arriving at Epleville, she said I paced along the road alone. When I was traveling with my grandmother, Mrs. de Villebarisis's carriage was on that road. The road was pitted and the sun was shining and the water in the pit was not dried. It looked like a swamp. I thought of my grandmother, who could not take two steps in the past. It must be covered with sludge. But as soon as I set foot on that road, I was dazzled. In August, my grandmother and I saw that the place had only fallen leaves, like an apple orchard. Now the apple trees could not see the edges, the flowers were blooming, the colours were colourful, and it was a wonder. My feet were stuck in the mud, I was dressed in a ball costume, and I could not take care of myself. All I wanted to do was not stain the pink satin. Under the red sun, the satin is shining brilliantly, wonderfully and amazingly; the vast sea is set against the apple trees, just like the background of Japanese lithography. If I look up at the clear sky between the flowers, the sky is quiet and blue, almost showing violet flowers as if they flash out immediately, revealing the depth of the heaven. 。 Under the blue sky, the breeze is gentle, but the flowers are cold and red. Blue tits fall on branches, Jump among clusters of flowers and let them jump freely, as if someone who loves exotic scenery and colours is skillful enough to create this vibrant beautiful scenery. It touches people's heartstrings and makes people tear. No matter how strong its carving artistic effect is, it still gives people a natural feeling. These apple trees grow in the wilderness, just like farmers walking on the main road of France. Then the sun suddenly disappeared and the rain poured down; the sky was streaked and rows of apple trees were shrouded in darkness. But despite the heavy rain and the bitter wind, the apple trees are still beautiful and the pink flowers are as beautiful as ever: it's an early spring day.