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May 30 生气了就写打油诗我是大俗人，这种事儿也能生气。
我是大俗人，气了就侮辱斯文。
俗就俗吧！！
May. 27th, 2009
Who the hell do you think you are
Gnawing like a brute at my work Calling MY English Chinglish-like You bloody irresponsible jerk You gave me a score below tolerance
You will regret it, I swear I will get back at you, however long it takes A day, a month, or a year I will sack you when I am the principal
Shoot you when I have a gun Jinx you with the witch’s hoax Haunt you when I am gone But at present, be content with this verse Immersed in my hatred and my curse So long as man can breathe and eyes can see So long lives this, and this kicks the butt out of thee March 28 Opera Maniac on Opera ManiacPaul’s Operas
Paul’s case is the case of a depressed young man who holds the real world in contempt, yearns for the romantic and the fictional, and stages his own destruction in his pursuit of beauty, finery, and the unreal. It is therefore not surprising that Paul’s one passion in life is opera—fictionalized musical production in which divas and tenors sing in enchanting falsettos. Four particular operas are mentioned in “Paul’s Case”: Faust, Martha, Rigoletto, and Pagliacci. This repertoire, together with the order in which the four operas are presented, is in effect a reflection of the process of Paul’s own gradual destruction. Near the beginning of the story, when Paul is dismissed from the presence of the school staff, he runs “down the hill whistling the ‘Soldier’s Chorus’ from Faust.” Gounod’s Faust is an opera about discontent leading to destruction. Not content with having read all the books there is to read and gained all the knowledge there is to gain in this world, Faust strikes a bargain with Mephistopheles, exchanging his soul for 24 years of omnipotence. Faust here symbolizes Paul’s discontent with the humdrum and crudeness of the world immediately around him, indicating that given the opportunity, Paul would stop at nothing to “elevate” himself into his “dream world”. “The moment the cracked orchestra beat out the overture from Martha, or jerked at the serenade from Rigoletto, all stupid and ugly things slid from him.” Both Martha and Rigoletto are operas whose tension is built on changing identities. In Flotow’s Martha, tired of her aristocratic style of life, Lady Henrietta dons a crude outfit and takes up a new identity as a chambermaid. Gilda, in Verdi’s Rigoletto, in order to save the Duke of Mantua, takes up his identity and is killed in his stead. In these two operas, both heroines adopt some sort of disguise, abandoning their present situation in life for a totally opposite one. By putting these two operas in the middle of the story, when Paul has already lied himself into considerable glory as well as trouble, the authoress is actually hinting at Paul’s own burning desire for a change of scene to escape the drab realities of his daily life, at the same time allowing the readers a glimpse of the drastic moves he is about to make. Pocketing the firm’s three thousand dollars, Paul makes his carefully planned grand entry into New York. Approaching the close of the story, the readers find Paul sitting in his hotel lounge, nervously drumming his fingers to the music of Pagliacci. It is perhaps significant that this happens to be the last opera that Paul will ever hear. Leoncavallo’s Pagliacci is an opera about the devastating consequences of drama turning into reality. Clown Canio, upon discovering that his wife Nedda, who plays the jilting wife opposite his jilted husband in their stage production, is actually cheating on him in real life, stabs her dead during the performance. The fate of Canio and Nedda runs parallel to that of Paul’s—the time when his “fiction” becomes reality is also the time when he crashes into his doom. Four operas—one about discontent, two about change, and one about the devastating results of fiction’s becoming reality—string up the story of Paul’s miserable life. “It was at the theater and at Carnegie Hall that Paul really lived; the rest was but a sleep and a forgetting.” Only when he is at the opera is Paul really alive—for, though he himself may not be aware of it, his own life story is in his beloved operas. February 24 说话噎死人不偿命的孔子Zigong said: "What I do not want others to do to me, I also want to refrain from doing to others." The Master said, "Zi, this is not something to which you have attained."
I would give anything to see Zigong's face then. January 29 翻着玩玩
January 01 Flaubert's ParrotQuoting:
Flaubert: Pride is a wild beast which lives in caves and roams the desert; Vanity, on the other hand, is a parrot which hops from branch to branch and chatters away in full view.
The control of tone is vital. Imagine the technical difficulty of writing a story in which a badly-stuffed bird with a ridiculous name ends up standing out for one third of the Trinity, and inwhich the intention is neither satirical, sentimental, nor blasphemous. Imagine further telling such a story from the point of view of an ignorant old woman without making it sound derogatory or coy. But then the aim of Un coeur simple is quite elsewhere: the parrot is a perfect and controlled example of the Flaubertian grotesque. (It cannot help being serious and comic at the same time.)
I don't much care for coincidences. There is something spooky about them: you sense momentarilly what it must be like to live in an ordered, God-run universe, with himself looking over your shoulder and helpfully dropping coarse hints about a cosmic plan...
I don't even care for harmless, comic coincidencs. I once went out to dinner and discoverd that the seven other people present had all just finished reading A Dance to the Music of Time. I didn't relish this: not least because it meant that I didn't break my silence until the cheese course.
 December 16 纯属搞笑（2008）作文卷
学校全称：_______南京大学_____________专业：_________英语__________________
姓名：_______陈星________ 性别：______女______ 年级：_______大三_______
高考成绩____0_____ 数学___0_____ 语文____0_____ 英语 ______0______
作文要求: Currently, there has been a heated discussion on whether it is appropriate for college students to get married. Write an essay about this issue to state your opinions in less than 400 words within 45 minutes; and please write down why you write the way you do in 10 minutes (for this part, you can use either Chinese or English).
Some reputedly wise man or another once observed on the subject of marriage that "one cannot be in love and be wise"—probably a good summary of all the reasons a horrified Chinese public put forward against students' getting married while they are still at college. If the happy couple are knocked senseless by the bliss—and perhaps the burden that comes with it—of marriage, there is no chance of their surviving the challenging college and the still-more-challenging society that awaits them: thus the heated debate about the appropriateness of college students' foray into the world of matrimony.
In my most humble opinion, all this fuss (if I may use the word) is rather—sorry about that—pointless and silly when we examine the actual probability of a college-student marriage.
To get married, one first has to have an object of fervent adoration and devotion. Admittedly a lot of the college students today walk around the campus hand in hand with someone of the opposite sex; but I doubt there will be too many of them that are ready to walk hand in hand with this same someone till the end of eternity. It takes serious looking-around and weighing-the-odds to single out the person with whom till death does one part. Scooped up in an area of limited space housing a limited collection of people, college students are yet to enjoy the luxury of choice a real society can offer them.
Even if a chap is emotionally ready enough to put his head on the block whilst at college, there is still much that stands in the way of the execution of his (or her, for that matter) will. A marriage is, by all account, a most expensive stuff. The happy couple would need an apartment to start with—they can hardly expect to convert either of their dormitories into a bridal suite. Despite the good news that housing expenses are dropping straight down under the influence of an economic recession, an apartment is still quite a handful to pay for. With the purchase of an apartment come furniture bills, electricity bills, gas bills, water bills, garbage bills, food expenses, education fees for themselves, and, possibly, educational investment for the next generation—to mention but the very tip of the iceberg.
The Chinese marital law states that the youngest possible legal age for marriage is 20 for a girl and 22 for a boy. So if we have a college-student couple who has achieved all the above mentioned missions—managed to pass all their academic exams, made the decision to commit themselves to one another for the rest of their lives (or, at least, a good part of their lives) plus having enough gold jingling in their pockets to not die of starvation or of cold, and having the good fortune of being born under a set of extremely obliging parents who are willing to give their consent—all by the age of 20 or 22, then who is to stop these prodigies from signing the marriage contract?
But then, the probability of something of this sort occurring in real life is bordering dangerously on zero. In an age when even well-educated and well-paid college graduates hesitate about tying the knot around their necks, we might as well save our breath to fuss over some other issues that are worth fussing over. December 11 Fritz+Hermann+Christmas想要大大地赞美这两个人，我的英文中文水平都不够，才情也不够。所以我要写一篇中英文混杂，颠三倒四，语无伦次的。
我也说不清我为什么那么喜欢Fritz Wunderlich，为什么喜欢听他和好朋友Hermann Prey一起唱二重唱。听到这些曲子的时候，就觉得它们该sound like this--之前听过的任何版本通通被推翻。他们唱圣诞歌，声音里好像就有挂满了亮晶晶球球的绿柏，有暖暖的壁炉里噼噼啪啪的火焰，有屋外剔透的白雪，夜空晶亮的月亮。圣诞节应该这么过：热闹过后，把自己裹成个粽子，坐在花园里听Fritz 和Hermann唱Still, Still, Still. 前一阵子吵着闹着要的那张碟子Eine Weihnachtsmusik终于到手了：逼着老爸又厚着脸皮麻烦老朋友出马。说起来买这张碟子还颇有点故事。Amazon的英文网站上没有, 而是在Amazon.de上搜到的。美国那边老爸的朋友就把德国发来的一封封邮件转给中国的陈星她爸，老爸再趁着我们MSN的时候把这些邮件发给日本的陈星。陈星用她那磕磕巴巴的德文大概琢磨出意思来之后，能翻过来的用英文直翻，没本事的用中文总结之，告之老爸，老爸再告之朋友。如此如此，五次三番。中间碟子还寄丢了一次，只好和德国人再要。德国人倒也爽快，唰地又寄一张出来，附封信说，要是我们寄重了，请寄一张回来，邮费我们出。等我手里的这张终于辗转到了中国以后，美国那边来email说，我收到先前那张了。。。 说跑题了呢。
Eine Weihnachtsmusik是Fritz和Hermann一起灌的最后一张唱片。1966年六月十日和十一日录制。1966年九月十七日Fritz就去世了，九月二十六本应是他的三十六岁生日（和莫扎特还真像）。1966年十一月，这张碟子首次发行。 碟子很短很短，总共四十来分钟，两人真正合唱的只有七首，另有Fritz和Hermann各自的一首独唱。听着Hermann Prey美妙的男中音和着Fritz Wunderlich如玉般且温软且刚硬的男高音，再想到Fritz Wunderlich绚丽短暂的一生，以及他俩一样绚丽短暂的一段友谊，便不甚唏嘘。 所以碟子短归短，却曲曲天籁，摄人心魂。 Youtube的那个连接里有四首。
2:43开始的那首，美得language fails me，特别是一开头Fritz的那段。 只能说，真的就如他一开口唱的那句"Vom Himmel hoch, o Englein kommt", 天使的确是来了。 Vom Himmel hoch, o Englein kommt!
Eia, eia, susani, susani, susani. Kommt, singt und klingt, kommt, pfeit und trombt! Alleluja, Alleluja! Von Jesus singt und Maria. Kommt ohne Instrumenten nit!
Eia, eia, susani, susani, susani. Bringt Lauten, Harfen, Geigen mit! Alleluja, Alleluja! Von Jesus singt und Maria. Hier muss die Musik himmlisch sein, Eia, eia, susani, susani, susani. Weil dies ein himmlisch’ Kindelein. Alleluja, Alleluja! Von Jesus singt und Maria. December 04 Bill on Will "Before he came into a lot of money in 1839, Richard Plantagenet Temple Nugent Brydges Chandos Grenville, second Duke of Buckingham and Chandos, led a largely uneventful life.
He sired an illegitiment child in Italy, spole occasionally in the Houses of Parliament against the repeal of the Corn Laws, and developed an early interest in plumbing (his house at Stowe, in Buckinghamshire, had nine of the first flush toilets in England), but otherwise was distinguished by nothing more than his glorious prospects and many names. But after inheriting his titles and one of England's great estates, he astonished his associates, and no doubt himself, by managing to lose every penny of his inheritance in just nine years through a series of spectacularly unsound investments."
"The Droeshout engraving, as it is known (after its artist, Martin Droeshout), is an arrestingly--we might almost say magnificently--mediocre piece of work. Nearly everything about it is flawed. One eye is bigger than the other. The mouth is curiously mispositioned. The hair is longer on one side of the subject's head than the other, and the head itself is out of proportion to the body and seems to float off the shoulders, like a balloon. Worst of all, the subject looks diffident, apologetic, almost frightened--nothing like the gallant and confident figure that speaks to us from the plays."
 (The Droeshout Engraving)"The paradoxical consequence is that we all recognize a likeness of Shakespeare the instant we see one, and yet wo don't really know what he looked like. It is this like with nearly every aspect of his life and character: He is at once the best known and least known of figures."
"We are not sure how best to spell his name--but then neither, it appears, was he, for the name is never spelled the same way twice in the signature that survive. (They read as 'Willm Shaksp,' 'William Shakespe,' 'Wm Shakspe,' 'William Shakspere,' 'Willm Shakspere,' and 'William Shakspeare.' Curiously one spelling he didn't use was the one now universally attached to his name.)"
"To answer the obvious question, this book was written not so much because the world needs another book on Shakespeare as becaseu this series does. The idea is a simple one: to see how much of Shakespeare we can know, really known, from the record.
Which is one reason, of course, it's so slender."
Bravo Bill! November 10 An ElegyAn Elegy
Here lies one Chen Xing
A most pathetic thing Who had the nerve to think That her writing didn’t stink Who had a cunning plan About a play on Japan And China of course These are excellent source If dealt in the right hand Out would come something grand But no such dream ’d come real When Chen Xing was at the wheel “No, we would not play”
So the Japanese say “Look at what you wrote Too much Shakey you did quote We young people don’t like Such old-fashioned tyke Besides think about our age We’ve no experience on stage It is impossible for us to Work it out in a month or two To tell you the truth—it’s kinda sad None of our actors dares to act Therefore, Chen Xing, do you see How very unpractical you seem to be So off with your poems, off with the prose Oops! And there your play script goes.” Chen Xing stormed all the way back And that night died of a heart attack (But allow me to say it’s just as well Her writing is as bad as hell) People, let’s learn from this story Never dream for impossible glory As to Chen Xing, well, goodbye Take heart—even Shakespeares have to die November 06 Dr. Swift, I Salute YouThe Lady's Dressing Room Jonathan Swift 1732 Edited by Jack Lynch Five Hours, (and who can do it less in?) Strephon, who found the Room was void, [5] And first a dirty Smock appear'd, The Virtues we must not let pass, Why Strephon will you tell the rest? As Mutton Cutlets, Prime of Meat, Thus finishing his grand Survey, [115] But Vengeance, Goddess never sleeping Notes 1. The names Strephon and Celia come from classical pastoral poetry or romance. 2. Betty is the generic name for a maidservant. 3. Lead was used as a cosmetic to whiten the face. 4. Front, "forehead." 5. Allum flower, or powded alum, is used as an antiperspirant. 6. Tripsy, a typical name of a lapdog. 7. Whelp, "puppy." 8. Gallypots, "jars." 9. Pomatum, "ointment for the hair." 10. Hard, "near." 11. Frowzy, "messy." 12. Coifs and Pinners, "night caps." 13. Glass, "mirror." 14. Machine, "Any complicated piece of workmanship" (Johnson). 15. "Those Secrets of the hoary deep": See Paradise Lost, 2.890-91: "Before their eyes in sudden view appear/The secrets of the hoary Deep." 16. Satira, the heroine of The Rival Queens by Nathaniel Lee; quean, "A worthless woman, generally a strumpet" (Johnson). Pocky suggests either smallpox or a venereal disease. October 19 考古发现貌似这是上学期帮Lizzy糊的作业。（好好的德语系要写英语诗，北外的老师果然狠。）
发现我也很会酸的。。。
If Only
If only, if only, I had not caught your sight If only, if only, my fancy had not taken flight If only, if only, you had not turned and smiled If only, if only, your eyes were not so mild If only, if only, you had not looked at me If only, if only, my heart had not danced with glee If only, if only, you had not walked away If only, if only, I had not sighed with dismay If only, if only, it was not love at first glance If only, if only, you had not put me in a trance If only, if only, love was not madness none might cure If only, if only, passion was not torture none can endure If only, if only, I would forget you in a few days If only, if only, you might remember my fervent gaze If only, if only, we would meet again If only, if only, I loved not in vain October 11 What You WILLMuch Ado About Nothing (1995)
Director: Kenneth Branagh  Possibly the most successful and popular adaptation of a Shakespearean play ever, Kenneth Branagh’s version of Much Ado About Nothing captures the bubbling, sizzling humor and merriment in Shakespeare’s original script. The scene where Benedick and Beatrice are tricked into falling in love with one another is as delightful as it can get. Wonderful music. Excellent casting. Beautiful landscape.
Some has criticized this version of being too “bright and happy”, that it deliberately overlooks the dark undertone in Shakespeare’s original. Maybe. It’s true that one does not feel so settled after reading the play. But who cares! We mediocre film watchers love green fields and clear fountains, dashing men in regimentals, witty ladies in white muslin. We love melodious melodies, villainous villains, foolish fools, and happy happy endings. Call me vulgar. As You Like It (2007)
Director: Kenneth Branagh  This film sadly demonstrates the fact that even geniuses do not-so-very-ingenious things once in a while.
The setting is extremely unexpected to start with: 19th century Japan. Not that I am against innovation of ideas or Japan in any way, but the idea of connecting As You Like It (one of my very favorite Shakespeare plays) with Japan is just…weird. OK, I know that Rosalind is still Rosalind even when she wears a kimono and Orlando is still Orland though he turns into a way-too-skinny sumo wrestler, but hanging katakana on the trees? Man, give me a break. (I rewatched the film in my Shakespeare class at ICU again. Judging from the continuing giggling from the students around me—even at the most serious moments—the “Japanese” culture presented here is not so very Japanese after all.) Also, it would be more desirable if Orlando could be white. I am not a racist in any way. It is just that somehow I got into my head that Orlando is one of the handsomest of all Shakespeare heroes, whereas the actor playing Orlando in this film definitely has no chance of ever being called handsome (God bless him). In fact, the only really handsome man in the film is the actor playing Silvius (who, though is a genuine Brit, looks very Asian in Japanese costumes). But he only has a few scenes. But those problems can be overlooked if the play is nicely adapted. But it is not. Large chunks of important lines are cut, leaving only the main plot. But the problem is, As You Like It does not have a very exciting and clear story line like Much Ado About Nothing. Also, somehow the whole movie makes you feel very heavy. Our professor explained that in the heart of every good comedy, there is a very serious story. The play builds on this story, adding small incidences and witty language to make it a comedy. If you strip all these away, then of course you are left with only a heavy story. Also, because of the excessive cutting of the lines, the character of Rosalind is seriously damaged. Most experts claim that Rosalind is the greatest of all Shakespearean heroines. But in this version, she most certainly is not. She’s sentimental, hysterical, overly feminine, and not at all in control of the love game she herself devised. The acting also leaves much to be desired. The actress playing Rosalind makes no effort to act like a man when Rosalind turns into Ganymede. Celia is just a silly sidekick of Rosalind’s. Phoebe is too exaggerated. Silvius…well, one does not want to say anything against a handsome young man…but his tone and body language are almost the same throughout the play (perhaps this is what Shakespeare intended? Silvius is but a secondary character, desperately in love and that’s all.) On the other hand, the portray of the melancholy Jaques and the court jester Touchstone respectively is masterly. But it is still Branagh. And since there is not yet a better film version of As You Like It (pity, pity, pity), it’ll have to do for the moment.  Twelfth Night (or What You Will) (1996)
 Director: Trevor Nunn
One word: Bravo.
All star performance (though indeed with Britain, you almost always get all-star performance, think of the size of the that country). Imogen Stubbs (who played Lucy Steel in Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility, imagine my surprise…), Helena Bonham Carter (A Room with a View), Sir Ben Kingsley (Gandhi), Imelda Staunton (Sense and Sensibility, Much Ado About Nothing), Toby Stephens (Jane Eyre, Possession, I don’t really like him though, I don’t know why.)
Amazing casting: Amazingly, Viola and Sebastian actually do look broadly alike. Excellent setting: Edwardian Wonderful landscape: Cornwall Beautiful costume: Viola’s regimental is so…there is no other word for it…attractive. Olivia’s pre-Raphaelic gown makes her looks like a moving masterpiece. Wonderful acting: Just look at Imogen Stubbs. When Viola turns into Cessario, you are really convinced that this is a boy. (I perfectly understand how Olivia falls in love with “him”. I would, had it been me.) Ben Kingsley’s portray of Feste is sophisticated. And Mel Smith’s Malvolio is masterly. (I’d like to see how Laurence Olivier acts Malvolio though, that must be a treat for the eye.)  Perfect adaptation: The original flavor of the play is not lost a bit in the film. The whole film you feel sweet and bitter (not bitter sweet), happy and disappointed. The ending, with the disturbing and pathetic reappearance of poor Malvolio is a bit sad and dark, but that is the same feeling you get with reading the play. I am running out of positive adjectives here. But I’ve watched it for four nights straight. They say action speaks louder than words. September 30 !!!今年过节不收礼，
收礼只收：  Eine Weihnachtsmusikvon Fritz Wunderlich (Künstler), Hermann Prey (Künstler), Will Quadflieg (Künstler), Traditional (Komponist), Weihnachtsgeschichte Nach Lukas (Komponist)September 27 Text Books Can Be FunCutting, J., (2008), Pragmatics and Discourse: A resource book for students, Rougtledge (London), 2nd Edition, 39-40
 (Italic mine) Other forms of non-observance of maxims
Grice listed two other ways to fail to fulfil a maxim: to infringe it and to opt out. A speaker infringing a maxim or opting out of a maxim is not implying something different from the words or being intentionally misleading.
A speaker infringing a maxim fails to observe a maxim because of their imperfect linguistic performance. This can happen if the speaker has an imperfect command of the language (a child or a foreign learner), if their performance is impaired (nervousness, drunkenness, excitement), if they have a congnitive impairment, or if they are simply incapable of speakeing clearly (Thomas 1995:74). President Bush is a master at infringing the maxim of manner:
Our enemies are innovative and resourceful, and so are we. They never stop thinking about new ways to harm our country and our people, and neither do we.
George W. Bush, DC, 5 August 2004
You never know what your history is going to be like until long after you're gone.
George W. Bush, DC, 5 August 2006 September 06 给爸妈看的，与校内上那篇如有雷同，那是当然九月五日 晴
东京第五天。
还是只会说两句日语：“谢谢”“对不起”。下一个宏伟目标是学会说“我不会说日语”。
今天把这学期的课选定了：
English as an International Language
History of English Literature
Shakespeare
Pragmatics and Language Learning
12个学分，不许再多了。所以说中国的孩子还是更能吃苦。（还是国外的学分更值钱些？）南大这学期课表那么空，不算选修课，还有二十多个学分呢。
看来是没法把这学期南大的课消掉了。今天晚上给丁主任打份申请，看看能不能函授。然后十一月底回来跟班上课。不行的话。。。
我大四就要浦口鼓楼两边冲了。干脆全搬仙林去好了，日子好过一点。（想去鼓楼的同志们不要踹我。）
要不干脆我今年大休，留级算了。
就算行的话。。。
估计上课的老师也不会给我好眼色看，分数会压得忒低吧。
那就毕业在南大门口卖馒头好了。
日本这个地方挺不错的，人民特别热情耐心（不管是不是由衷的，反正让我这种小老外心里很舒服）。前两天去警察局登记，一切顺利极了，工作人员态度极好。和暑假陪日本人在我们这儿的警察局登记的经历一比，绝对是天上地下。
日本的交通秩序也好极了，三步就能跨过去的小街也有红绿灯。大家都乖乖地等着。自行车道与汽车道离得远远的，于是我这种在国内打死不敢骑车上街的人，现在也是天天骑着车招摇过市。
就是过日子太贵了，买了两本教材（教材是原版进口的所谓“洋书”，所以分外贵。唉，谁叫我是学英文的），一点纸笔就要了我一万多日元。算算差不多是一吊钱了。把我心疼的。
还有一件郁闷的事儿，就是总被当成日本人，自然得被认为会说日本话，结果干什么开头都非得说“Sorry I don't speak Japanese"。最可恶的是，路上老碰到些黄头发蓝眼睛的，分不清中国人和日本人长得有什么区别，冲上来就叽里呱啦一通日语问路。ICU因为是所“International School”，老外还特别多。看着这帮学罗马字母长大的家伙日语耍得那么溜，我作为一个说日语鼻祖语言的人，自尊心时时受到强烈的打击。
ICU的风景极好，树很多，住的房子就藏在树林子里，很有点格林童话里的味道。只可惜晚上睡觉时外面的知了实在闹腾得太厉害，有的时候床上还会有奇形怪状的虫子造访。还好我不怕虫子，不然魂不吓掉，嗓子也要叫哑了。日本的蚊子同中国的一样喜欢我。看来必要赶紧攀一个比我招蚊子的。我十分想念吴慧聪。
这个学校的学生证着实有用。图书馆、打印、电脑房，之类之类的，都靠它，只是买东西都要用现金（很好，不刷卡有助于我省钱）。南大也该学学，发那么一堆卡，收那么多押金，又浪费又麻烦。
ICU的图书馆是个好地方，书多桌子多，电脑也好用。预备开学了以后，没有课的时候就泡在里面了。有好几大架子原版的英国文学文论，还有一架子Classical Music评论，生活太美好了。
图书馆有两份中文报纸：《人民日报》《文汇报》。我开始想念《扬子》上的花边新闻了。
学校里上上下下都能说几句英文，我又是不爱出去乱逛的，所以小日子也混得挺滋润。但是估计在这么Japanese free的环境下，我是不要想学会日语了。同志们不要鄙视我。
下周一正式开始上课。一个暑假没好好学习，惰性上来了，老天保佑我还记得上课应该干什么。有人下了指示了，要为“中华之崛起”而读书呢。 August 10 Babble, BabbleThe trend nowadays—or has it always been?—is when writing a story, make sure it drags on and expends into an at-least-four-book series.
Theoretically, I suppose, it makes a lot of sense. Firstly, for a purely literary purpose, this would make it easier and easier for the author to decide how the characters would react to a certain incident, for, having lived through three or more novels, they are more or less real-life human beings on their own. Therefore, in a way, the author’s job switches from creation, which involves considerable rattling of the brain, to recording, which certainly is a good deal easier to manage. Secondly, on a commercial level, this would ensure the author stay on the best-selling list for quite a couple of weeks, as the success of former books would have established an army of enthusiastic and loyal fan. As a reader, even if you are not a fan, consider the uncomfortable suspense and torture an unfinished story would inflict upon you. I bet most people would be willing to pay a few bucks just to satisfy the desire for completeness. In practice, however, writing book series has its drawbacks, many drawbacks. Of course, there is no denying that series writers in the 21st century have provided well for themselves and, even more so, their publishers. But most of them lose something in the process of procuring wealth and fame. They lose their good name as a writer. Because it is not easy to write sequels. For one thing, people have greater expectations for the book. Nothing short of masterpiece would do, yet except for Mozart, who can really toss out of himself one masterpiece after another? For another, they constantly face a dilemma: should they keep to the characters “in character” and risk the readers’ boredom, or do they make the characters do things completely “out of character” and risk the readers’ faith? If they follow the first route, then when they are constantly improvising on basically the same bunch of people and the same story, eventually a pattern emerges, and believe me, nothing cools off the critics and readers more than a predicable pattern. If they brace themselves and opt for the adventurous, the hard-to-please public would then feel that these are not exactly a “series” of stories, and that they are cheated out of their favorite hero and heroine. Throughout the history of English literature—according to my limited and shallow knowledge of it, that is—there is only one writer who managed to make his “series” appealing from start to end, almost: Mark Twain. Yet, Twain’s series only contained two books: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and the immortal The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, the latter, except for sharing roughly the same characters, having almost nothing to do with the former. The rest of them all failed—some slightly, some dismally—at keeping up a delicious series. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes ceases to be Sherlock Holmes when he returns from the fight at the waterfall. (Of course, Doyle was conscious of his capacity and tried to kill off our beloved detective at the fight, only the plan was thwarted by the enraged public. He should have resisted public pressure. ) Louisa May Alcott’s Little Woman series is a nightmare right from the second book. Lucy Maud Montgomery, much as I love her Anne and wishes for more, failed to make her later Anne stories live up to the standards of Anne of Green Gables. C. S. Lewis almost managed to make all seven of his Narnia books interesting, except that the ending of the seventh feels so hurriedly and illogically patched up that it seriously damaged the good impression readers have harbored for the earlier stories. J. R. R. Tolkin’s Lord of the Rings series is a bore from the first letter to the last stop, and the same can be said of John Galsworthy’s Forsyte Saga. (True, these two works are profound in every respect, but you cannot say that they are very enjoyable.) J. K. Rowling dazzled the world with the first four of her Harry Potter books, luring children to sit down and read, and adults to pick up children’s books. But starting from the fifth of the series, when she has the whole world holding its breath for her to come up with a book at a speed of four-year-per-book, Harry Potter has turned from brilliant to bad, from bad to terrible, and eventually from terrible to disastrous. And now, Stephenie Meyer, whose alluring Twilight allegedly stems from a dream the authoress has, is slowly and painfully showing us how she is losing her grip with the publication of New Moon, Eclipse, and most recently, Breaking Dawn. (She seems to be contemplating a fifth, Midday Sun. I hope she gets a really good night’s sleep first.) Please do not misunderstand me, I am not criticizing. Who am I to criticize? I appreciate everything they have done to make my bookshelves full to bursting point. But honestly, I have more admiration for those who are continually creating new characters and never-heard-of-before stories. In this respect, there is no denying that Shakespeare is the boss. No one afterwards can jump out of the circle he has created. I admire those who gets good reviews not because they have bizarre stories, but because they are artists of words, like Jane Austen, like P. G. Wodehouse. It would even be desirable to get famous with one book, like Margaret Mitchell and her Gone with the Wind, and then disappear (though preferably not because of—in Mitchell’s case—death). But hey, why should our series writers stop utilizing this amazing way of getting their voices heard and making money? True, there are jerks out there like me accusing them of killing a good story; but most readers would queue up for the next book anyway. Even jerks like me queue up for the next book, because though it is just a story, though it might be badly written, it hurts not to know whether Sherlock Holmes is alive, whether Anne realizes she is in love with Gilbert, whether Harry Potter blasts the hell out of Voldemort, and whether Bella produces a houseful of the next generation of vampires. July 20 纽约一周纽约一周。
发现：
本同学真是小强，坚持轻装上阵的一贯作风，背个小包拖个小箱子就去了，弄得美国人连连赞叹这孩子有前途。十三个小时的飞机觉得一眨眼就到了，十三个小时没有睡觉还精神抖擞，根本就没有“倒时差”一说，到了哪儿就按哪儿的时间过，天黑了就睡亮了就醒，开心得很。同行的同胞里有用了六天好不容易倒成了美国时间就又要回家的，可怜可怜。
还发现：
美国人安排活动真是狠心，七点开始，晚上十点结束（大概是让我们体验体验要在投资银行干是多么艰苦），弄得陈星同学基本没看过纽约白天是什么样，只好晚上逛中央公园（我胆子大吧~），可惜天太黑，拍不下来，不好吹。
根据活动安排，抵达和离开的两天是我们的自由活动时间，我们中国的飞机是最迟到（到了就要集体吃晚餐了），最早走的（起了床收收包就上机场去了），哪里有活动时间。我能不能把这理解为种族歧视？
意识形态还真是个挺重要的东西，不管你愿不愿意承认。在老美那儿，和亚洲以及其他第三世界国家的同志们混得就是好一些；和匈牙利、波兰、捷克人话也多些。和发达国家的人就是没话说，就连和发达国家的华裔也没什么共同语言。不过也许这也许是个人原因吧，我们一队中国人里也有到哪里都吃得开的，但给我的感觉就是个flirt。（我错了，太保守了。）
纽约其实就是一脏兮兮，房子挤房子，车挤车，人挤人的大城市。也许是因为第三次出国了，一点都没有当初看到伦敦那种激动的感觉。到处碰到的服务人员一点都不热情友好，比金润发的收银员态度还差些。于是回来也不觉得有从英国日本回来以后美好极了的印象，不过觉得自己是坐了大半天的飞机去了一个大城市而已。可能是因为行程太紧，没有看到什么东西的原因吧。但在英国日本时，行程也够紧的。
美国的饭很难吃。天天一盘草，几篇面包，偶尔一块木头渣子一样的肉，浇上些叫人无比作呕的酱，还得用刀叉，真是折磨人。吃过墨西哥菜，难吃。吃过著名的意大利美食，还是难吃。还有人去吃了埃塞俄比亚大餐，自然是难吃。说起来，也就早餐和比萨饼不错。怪不得电影里老美一天到晚打电话定比萨饼呢，敢情他们自己也吃不来美国菜。 于是： 决定还是去英国读书吧。拿不到奖学金的话干脆就在南大读研好了，可以天天回家，神仙日子。 要想出国读书，一点要学会做饭。不然就下决心拿外国饭减肥。
和中国驻联合国大使助理在UN吃了顿饭，决定不去外交部了。前半辈子都要耗在各类“比亚”各种“斯坦”上，运气好才会被迟迟派到欧洲美国之类的地方。我是自私的小孩儿，这样的日子我不过。
美国还是要再去的，这次就是道开胃菜。连自由女神像都没看到，叫我回来怎么吹牛？ April 12 Call This LamentA literature lover is miserable, pathetic.
A literature lover is never here, she is always somewhere else. She yearns to go out and see the beautiful world, yet something keeps reminding her that no matter where she goes, this world would never be as beautiful and lovely as she feels it to be: her world only exist on a piece of paper, in a fanciful mind, as an ideal that is too flawless to be tolerated in reality.
She enjoys every advantage the modern age has brought her: liberty, freedom, equal rights with men (almost), a chance of higher education, opportunities for competition, fast transportation, abundant information, the Internet, computer, iPod…Yet in her heart of hearts, she does not really feel that she belongs. She clings stubbornly and desperately to another set of values, another form of culture, another stage of civilization, all of which belong to an era that has gone by—nay, worse—an era that is just an illusion, an era when gentlemen bow and ladies curtsy; when it takes forever to rattle from a place to another in a horse carriage; when classical music is popular music; when the sky is always azure and the valley green; when a boy would overlook five years of grudge and hostility and persists in the pursuit of friendship and love; when a man, his dignity mortified, his heart sighing, aching, and bleeding, touches his hat and politely wishes the object of his love a good day and happiness, after his proposal has been turned down; when old ladies spend an entire sunny afternoon on the front porch, sipping tea, drinking in the scenery that is both at once familiar and new, exchanging country gossip; when the school house hides in the heart of a wood, and leaves rustle, birds sing while the teacher goes on and on about Latin and Greek; when going to school is a sheer delight in the prospect of feeding the mind and the soul; when houses are no more than three stories high and every family has a skylight into which stars on the velvety sky beams and giggles; when there is always someone other than a parent—a sister, a bosom friend, a real chum, an understanding elderly aunt—to listen to one’s rapture and delight, sorrow and woe, tittles and tattles; when everything is just as it should be.
She knows that she is being silly and tries to put a stop to this nonsense, but in vain. She has ever so many sublime visions in her mind, they dance around as soon as she loses grip. One minute she sees green fields, another it is the roaring sea. One minute she smells the apples of autumn, another it is daffodils in spring. Her heart leaps up when she behold horses galloping on the greens, flocks grazing, birds chirping, bees buzzing, and a brook laughing gaily through. One minute she is amused to see a furious girl slams a slate over a boy’s head for teasing about her appearance, vowing she would never ever ever so much as to look at him again, another she delights in watching them, as blossoming young man and woman, walking down the woods hand in hand, laughingly recalling that unfortunate slate.
Indulging in these ideals would be delightful, if a sudden vision of herself did not always spring forth. Short-haired, flat-nosed, thin-eyed, large-boned, short and stout, she has not on her a single beautiful feature. True, a girl does not need to look like a goddess to live happily in this world, but she should have at least one nice feature that somehow catches attention and renders her unusual. Mortified, she looks about her for comfort, and finds in dismay that there is always a skyscraper or sort in her horizon, roaring engine within ear shot, and an distinct smell of 21st century in the air she breathes. And she suddenly remembers with a pang of heart that the only boy she has vowed never to speak to again is utterly spoilt, selfish, and dumb…besides, he looks grotesque. Thus, she sighs a little sigh, and retreats again into the brighter side of her mind, stays there as long as she can, until reality tries once again to stare her in the face
Though publicly scorning it, secretly she longs for a taste of romance—how can she not be, when she has witness its sweetness and glory in the other world. Not that she is a hypocrite, but that she believes in romance as an ideal, a Raphael painting protected behind a glass, Mozart’s own ending for the Requiem, something that is somehow unearthly in its earthliness—or is it the other way around? The 21st century version of romance, the campus version of romance all about her, are an insult to the things she holds dear deep down in a corner of her soul. She tosses her head at every boy she meets. Alas, when is she going to meet someone who is irresistibly handsome, incredibly talented, bewitchingly humorous, amazingly warm, wonderously patient, impossibly patient, who plays the piano or the violin or the cello or the harp—no, she should be the one playing the harp—like a maestro, who reads Wordsworth when he is in a poetic mood, A. E. Houseman when in a happy mood, and Tennyson when he is in a dramatic mood, who takes in delight in nature as much as she does and never tire of rambling in the woods, who…But of course, no such person lives on this version of the world. And even if he does, why should he look at her?
Her closest friends are in her mind, characters that comes to life at her imagination. This is not to say she has no real life bosom friends. She has, three. But they are scattered around country, miles away from her, too busy for minute-to-minute conversation. So she makes friends with those that will always be with her, night and day, sleeping or awake, friends that squeeze onto a bus with her, attend class with her, stroll along the river bank with her, with her, forever with her; friends that speak another language, know a different society, brought up for a different purpose, yet have the same desire and imagination, the same taste, the same likes and dislikes, loves and hates; friends that are literature lovers as well, but are privileged to live in literature all their lives.
Sulkily she views her own situation. She cannot live in literature…unless she starts writing, but she does not have the talent or creativity when it comes to that. Or…she might go into the show business. Film industry is earthy, infamous, chaotic, scandalous, demanding, but then she would really get the chance to outlive reality once in a while—quite often once in a while. Yet…her acting skills are just as disastrous as her looks.
If she could, she would dearly love to be something else other than a living human being. She would love to be a book. No, that would be too ambitious. She would be joyous at just being a page in a book, the page where Elizabeth teases Mr. Darcy in the ball, or where Mr. Thornton clasps Margaret to his heart, or where Anne finally makes up with Gilbert, or where Huck and Jim argues about the French language, or where Bertie messes up everyone’s life. No, that would still be asking too much. She could be content with just being a letter in a word…in a name…an e perhaps, or an l, or a z. …But of course, she could not chose.
A literature lover, thus, spends her life shedding many an invisible tear. There is no escape for her, as one can outgrow a fairytale, but never a novel. Outwardly she may be no different from anyone else, though occasionally she might seem a little dreamy. Yet inwardly…she is unreal herself. |
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