The Mark on the Wall炒豆角的家常做法
拉绿屎是什么原因
by Virginia Woolf Perhaps it was the middle of January in the prent year that I first looked up and saw the mark on the wall. In order to fix a date it is necessary to remember what one saw. So now I think of the fire; the steady film of yellow light upon the page of my book; the three chrysanthemums in the round glass bowl on the mantelpiece. Y es, it must have been the winter time, and we had just finished our tea, for I remember that I was smoking a cigarette when I looked up and saw the mark on the wall for the first time.
I looked up through the smoke of my cigarette and my eye lodged for a moment upon the burning coals, and that old fancy of the crimson flag flapping from the castle tower came into my mind, and I thought of the cavalcade of red knights riding up the side of the black rock. Rather to my relief the sight of the mark interrupted the fancy, for it is an old fancy, an automatic fancy, made as a child perhaps. The mark was a small round mark, black upon the white wall, about six or ven inches above the mantelpiece.
How readily our thoughts swarm upon a new object, lifting it a little way, as ants carry a blade of straw so feverishly, and then if that mark was made by a nail, it can't have been for a pictu春节守岁的寓意
re, it must have been for a miniature - the miniature of a lady with white powdered curls, powder-dusted cheeks, and lips like red carnations. A fraud of cour, for the people who had this hou before us would have chon pictures in that way - an old picture for an old room. That is the sort of people they were - very interesting people, and I think of them so often, in such queer places, becau one will never e them again, never know what happened next. They wanted to leave this hou becau they wanted to change their style of furniture, so he said, and he was in process of saying that in his opinion art should have ideas behind it when we were torn asunder, as one is torn from the old lady about to pour out tea and the young man about to hit the tennis ball in the back garden of the suburban villa as one rushes past in the train.
But as for that mark, I'm not sure about it; I don't believe it was made by a nail after all; it's too big, too round, for that. I might get up, but if I got up and looked at it, ten to one I shouldn't be able to say for certain; becau once a thing's done, no one ever knows how it happened. Oh! dear me, the mystery of life! The inaccuracy of thought! The ignorance of humanity! To show how very little control of our posssions we have - what an accidental affair this living is after all our civilisation - let me just count over a few of the things lost in our lifetime, beginning, for that ems always the most mysterious of loss - what cat would gnaw, what rat would nibble - three pale blue canisters of book-
贩运binding tools? Then there were the bird cages, the iron hoops, the steel skates, the Queen Anne coal-scuttle, the bagatelle board, the hand organ - all gone, and jewels too. Opals and emeralds, they lie about the roots of turnips. What a scraping paring affair it is to be sure! The wonder is that I've any clothes on my back, that I sit surrounded by solid furniture at this moment. Why, if one wants to compare life to anything, one must liken it to being blown through the Tube at fifty miles an hour - landing at the other end without a single hairpin in one's hair! Shot out at the feet of God entirely naked! Tumbling head over heels in the asphodel meadows like brown paper parcels pitched down a shoot in the post office! With one's hair flying back like the tail of a racehor. Y es, that ems to express the rapidity of life, the perpetual waste and repair; all so casual, all so
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But after life. The slow pulling down of thick green stalks so that the cup of the flower, as it turns over, deluges one with purple and red light. Why, after all, should one not be born there as one is born here, helpless, speechless, unable to focus one's eyesight, groping at the roots of the grass, at the toes of the Giants ? As for saying which are trees, and which are men and women, or whether there are such things, that one won't be in a condition to do for fifty years or so. There will be nothing but spaces of light and dark, intercted by thick stalks, and rather higher up perhaps, ro-shaped blots of an indistinct colour - dim pinks and blues - which will, as time goes on, become more definite, become - I don't
And yet the mark on the wall is not a hole at all. It may even be caud by some round black substance, such as a small ro leaf, left over from the summer, and 1, not being
a very vigilant houkeeper- look at the dust on the mantelpiece, for example, the dust which, so they say, buried Troy three times over, only fragments of pots utterly refusing annihilation, as one can believe.
背影图片大全>芒果汁的做法The tree outside the window taps very gently on l want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to ri from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any n of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard parate facts. To steady mylf, let me catch hold of the first idea Shakespeare. . . . Well, he will do as well as another. A man who sat himlf solidly in an arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so - A shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through his mind. He leant his forehead on his hand, and people, looking in through the open door - for this scene is suppod to take place on a summer's evening- But how dull this is, this historical fiction! It doesn't interest me at all. I wish I could hit upon a pleasant track of thought, a track indirectly reflecting credit upon mylf, for tho are the pleasantest thoughts, and very frequent even in the minds of modest mou-coloured people, who believe genuinely that they dislik
e to hear their own prais. They are not thoughts directly praising onelf; that is the beauty of them; they are thoughts like this:
'And then I came into the room. They were discussing botany. I said how I'd en a flower growing on a dust heap on the site of an old hou in Kingsway. The ed, I said, must have been sown in the reign of Charles the First. What flowers grew in the reign of Charles the First?' I asked- (but I don't remember the answer). Tall flowers with purple tasls to them perhaps. And so it goes on. All the time I'm dressing up the figure of mylf in my own mind, lovingly, stealthily, not openly adoring it, for if I did that, I should catch mylf out, and stretch my hand at once for a book in lf-protection. Indeed, it is curious how instinctively one protects the image of onelf from idolatry or any other handling that could make it ridiculous, or too unlike the original to be believed in any longer. Or is it not so very curious after all? It is a matter of great importance. Suppo the looking-glass smashes, the image disappears, and the romantic figure with the green of forest depths all about it is there no longer,
but only that shell of a person which is en by other people - what an airless, shallow, bald, prominent world it becomes! A world not to be lived in. As we face each other in omnibus and underground railways we are looking into the mirror; that accounts for the vagueness, the gleam of g
蛋卷头发型图片lassiness, in our eyes. And the novelists in future will reali more and more the importance of the reflections, for of cour there is not one reflection but an almost infinite number; tho are the depths they will explore, tho the phantoms they will pursue, leaving the description of reality more and more out of their stories, taking a knowledge of it for granted, as the Greeks did and Shakespeare perhaps - but the generalisations are very worthless. The military sound of the word is enough. It recalls leading articles, cabinet ministers - a whole class of things indeed which as a child one thought the thing itlf, the standard thing, the real thing, from which one could not depart save at the risk of nameless damnation. Generalisations bring back somehow Sunday in London, Sunday afternoon walks, Sunday luncheons, and also ways of speaking of the dead, clothes, and habits - like the habit of sitting all together in one room until a certain hour, although nobody liked it. There was a rule for everything. The rule for tabledoths at that particular period was that they should be made of tapestry with little yellow compartments marked upon them, such as you may e in photographs of the carpets in the corridors of the royal palaces. Tablecloths of a different kind were not real tablecloths. How shock- ing, and yet how wonderful it was to discover that the real things, Sunday luncheons, Sunday walks, country hous, and tablecloths were not entirely real, were indeed half phantoms, and the damnation which visited the disbeliever in them was only a n of illegitimate freedom. What now takes the place of tho things I wonder, tho real standard things?
Men perhaps, should you be a woman; the masculine point of view which governs our lives, which ts the standard, which establishes Whitaker's Table of Precedency, which has become, I suppo, since the war half a phantom to many men and women, which soon, one may hope, will be laughed into the dustbin where the phantoms go, the mahogany sideboards and the Lander prints, Gods and Devils, Hell and so forth, leaving us all with an intoxicating n of illegitimate freedom - if freedom exists. . . .
In certain lights that mark on the wall ems actually to project from the wall. Nor is it entirely circular. I cannot be sure, but it ems to cast a perceptible shadow, suggesting that if I ran my finger down that strip of the wall it would, at a certain point, mount and descend a small tumulus, a smooth tumulus like tho barrows on the South Downs which are, they say, either tombs or camps. Of the two I should prefer them to be tombs, desiring melancholy like most English people, and finding it natural at the end of a walk to think of the bones stretched beneath There must be some book about it. Some antiquary must have dug up tho bones and given them What sort of a man is an antiquary, I wonder? Retired Colonels for the most part, I dare say, leading parties of aged labourers to the top here, examining clods of earth and stone, and getting into correspondence with the neighbouring clergy, which, being opened at breakfast time, gives them a feeling of importan
ce, and the comparison of arrowheads necessi- tates cross-country journeys to the country towns, an agreeable neces- sity both to them and to their elderly wives, who wish to make plum jam or to clean out the study, and have every reason for keeping that great question of the camp or the tomb in perpetual suspension, while the Colonel himlf feels agreeably philosophic in accumulating evidence on both sides of the question. It is true that he does finally incline to believe in the camp; and, being oppod, indites a pamphlet which he is about to read at the quarterly meeting of the local socie ty when a stroke lays him low, and his last conscious thoughts are not of wife or child, but of the camp and that arrowhead there, which is now in the ca at th~ local muum, together with the foot of a Chine murderess, a handful of Elizabethan nails, a great many Tudor clay pipes, a piece of Roman pottery, and the wine-glass that Nelson drank out of - proving I really don't know what.
No, no, nothing is proved, nothing is known. And if I were to get up at this very moment and ascertain that the mark on the wall is really - what shall I say? - the head of a gigantic old nail, driven in two hundred years ago, which has now, owing to the patient attrition of many generations of houmaids, revealed its head above the coat of paint, and is taking its first view of modern life in the sight of a white-walled fire-lit room, what should I gain? Knowledge? Matter for further speculation? I can
