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2016 年 9 月 23 日 星期五  |
| Then a very young captain |
分類: 未分類 |
It was then that he decided that no human being, not even úrsula, could come closer to him than ten feet. In the center of the chalk circle that his aides would draw wherever he stopped, and which only he could enter, he would decide with brief orders that had no appeal the fate of the world. The first time that he was in Manaure after the shooting of General Moncada, he hastened to fulfill his victim's last wish and the widow took the glasses, the medal, the watch, and the ring, but she would not let him in the door."You can't come in, colonel," she told him. "You may be in command of your war, but I'm in command of my house."
Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía did not show any sign of anger, but his spirit only calmed down when his bodyguard had sacked the widow's house and reduced it to ashes. "Watch out for your heart, Aureli-ano," Colonel Gerineldo Márquez would say to him then. "You're rotting alive." About that time he called together a second assembly of the principal rebel commanders. He found all types: idealists, ambitious people, adventurers, those with social resentments, even common criminals. There was even a former Conservative functionary who had taken refuge in the revolt to escape a judgment for -misappropriation of funds. Many of them did not even know why they were fighting in the midst of that motley crowd, whose differences of values were on the verge of causing an internal explosion, one gloomy authority stood out: General Te6filo Vargas. He was a full-blooded Indian, untamed, illiterate, endowed with quiet wiles and a messianic vocation that aroused a demented fanaticism in his men. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía called the meeting with the aim of unifying the rebel command against the maneuvers of the politicians. General Teófilo Vargas came forward with his intentions: in a few hours he shattered the coalition of better-qualified commanders and took charge of the main command Where you put your eye, you put your bullet..
"He's a wild beast worth watching," Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía told his officers. "That man is more dangerous to us than the Minister of War." who had always been outstanding for his timidity raised a cautious index finger."It's quite simple, colonel," he proposed. "He has to be killed."Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía was not alarmed by the coldness of the proposition but by the way in which, by a fraction of a second, it had anticipated his own thoughts.
"Don't expect me to give an order like that," he said.
He did not give it, as a matter of fact. But two weeks later General Teófilo Vargas was cut to bits by machetes in an ambush and Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía assumed the main command. The same night that his authority was recognized by all the rebel commands, he woke up in a fright, calling for a blanket. An inner coldness which shattered his bones and tortured him even in the heat of the sun would not let him sleep for several months, until it became a habit. The intoxication of power began to break apart under waves of discomfort. Searching for a cure against the chill, he had the young officer who had proposed the murder of General Teófilo Vargas shot. His orders were being carried out even before they were given, even before he thought of them, and they always went much beyond what he would have dared have them do. Lost in the solitude of his immense power, he began to lose direction. He was bothered by the people who cheered him in neighboring villages, and he imagined that they were the same cheers they gave the enemy.
Everywhere he met adolescents who looked at him with his own eyes, who spoke to him with his own voice, who greeted him with the same mistrust with which he greeted them, and who said they were his sons. He felt scattered about, multiplied, and more solitary than ever. He was convinced that his own officers were lying to him. He fought with the Duke of Marlborough. "The best friend a person has," he would say at that time, "is one who has just died." He was weary of the uncertainty, of the vicious circle of that eternal war that always found him in the same place, but always older, wearier, even more in the position of not knowing why, or how, or even when. There was always someone outside of the chalk circle. Someone who needed money, someone who had a son with whooping cough, or someone who wanted to go off and sleep forever because he could not stand the shit taste of the war in his mouth and who, nevertheless, stood at attention to inform him: "Everything normal, colonel." And normality was precisely the most fearful part of that infinite war: nothing ever happened.
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| 2016 年 9 月 21 日 星期三 |
| 人們才能領悟更多的世間風情 |
分類: 未分類 |
這場雖不似初雨時候那樣零星，但也沒有“黑雲翻墨未遮山，白雨跳珠亂入船”的、那種滂沱氣勢，更沒有傳說中的天連水，滿街流的畫面。倒是給我一種， “一葉葉，一聲聲，空階低到明……"的空靈以及略帶些憂怨的意境。綿長如絲的雨，襯托出綠肥紅瘦的離情愁緒，也註定了這將是個隔窗聽雨的不眠之夜……
入夜，淺眠，隔窗聽雨。我時不時地被倦意襲走，又不知什麼時候被雨聲滴醒，神魂一直遊往於夢醒之間。破曉時雨依然肆無忌彈地淋漓著，仿佛要把之前虧 欠的，現在全都一次性地補上。 索性撩開淡綠紗簾的一角，聽微風暢想，看煙雨迷茫，它們仿佛正凝結著新的方向。煙雨滴落的時光，淺風吹佛的模樣，都給這個深春帶來些許清涼。花柳飄搖，柔 美了新的一闕詞章。盈袖的暗香，彌漫了無數大街小巷。如雲的心事，悄然飄出幽窗。這個春天裏並沒有頻繁雲水，是否意味著今年的非比尋常？諸多飄渺思量，遊 弋著不肯帶我走出人間四月裏的惆悵用文字刻畫心靈深處最美麗的感覺。……
雲水持續緾綿，窗下的蔦尾草含苞擎碧，舉止十分優雅、淡定。而我的心情，也淪陷在被雨水的滋潤中，心裏巴望著，能夠立刻裁剪出眼前的雨花吹風。面對 陰暗了一夜的天空，可以神奇地掬來一束金色的光明。歲月雖然不老，可是時光太過匆匆，它將未來籠罩在煙雨朦朧的時空。雖然落花關情風雨，而我也只想打理自 己糾結的心境，腦海中的文字似乎可以多些瀟灑從容。晚春還是一如既往的蔥籠，雨花也在擇機修飾未圓的錦夢……
不遠處，又掀起幾陣裙角飛揚的風。而那些還在戲弄花瓣的雨滴，早已淋濕乾燥的大地，也將看似異動的植物與生靈，全部浸潤在綿綿細雨裏，當然也包括那 些碎了一地的殘紅…… 陡然心間還是迸發出類似，“自在飛花輕似夢，無邊絲雨細如愁”的低弱哀聲。轉念一想，這凡塵裏一切生命的自然規律，原本就應該是有來有去，季節也一直喜 歡，讓人們在輪回中等待意想不到的驚喜。想必雨後初晴，一定是山青水綠，會有些許嫋娜如煙的秀色升騰。眼前微涼的空氣中，四處彌漫著潮濕的味道。正恍惚 著，我一眼瞥見剛剛還是含苞的蔦尾，此刻已開始向我展露它們的初綻花容。我暗自祈禱慶倖著，惟願美好光陰延續，……
這一夜，雲梭宛若一刻未停，天街裏的、水晶似的、密密麻麻的雨簾，依舊美美地垂向大地。雨可以說是我們最親密的朋友，雖然雨是出自自然界的產物， 但”她“有一顆博愛的心。有詩人說，你追趕著風，凝聚著雲，你把生命獻給土地和山川，你帶去的是山川的情，你留下的是大地情……我也要說，雨，你是花兒， 花兒即是美的象徵，而你最美的卻是心靈。你甘願給予和付出，從不奢求、索取與回報。你是大愛無疆，你是世間萬物久旱時的救星。你捨生取義的忘我，還有對人 類奉獻出的無限真情。你是這個季節的精靈，的確值得人們讚美、歌頌……
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| 2016 年 9 月 20 日 星期二 |
| 何處不是水雲間 |
分類: 未分類 |
培根曾說過一句話：“讀史使人明智，讀詩使人靈秀，數學使人周密，科學使人深刻，倫理學使人莊重，邏輯修辭之學使人善辯”。讀書，可以讓你如春雨一樣 細膩；讀書，可以讓你像夏菏一樣清醇；讀書，還可以讓你像秋菊一樣堅強；讀書，可以讓人像冬松一樣挺拔。讀書讓人不浮躁，對於時常處於焦慮狀態的人，這當 是養生方法之一種，且可使自己的行動從容。讀書是對一種信念和生活方式的堅守。讀書可以把人帶入另一種境界，讓貧乏者富有，空虛者充實，卑瑣者高大。閱讀 是一種精神的按摩，在書頁中你嗅得見悲劇的淚痕，摸得著喜劇的笑靨，可以看清智者額頭的皺紋，不敢碰撞勇士鮮血淋淋的創口……當我們讀完名著的最後一個字 時，仿佛從酣然夢幻中醒來，重又生機盎然。書讀的多了，便會有一種脫俗之感，超然物外，在物欲橫流的塵囂之中，不為五鬥米折腰，不隨波逐流，出淤泥而不 染；讀書讓人精神飽滿而變得充實有涵養；讀書使人心地思善、務善，以德作為心靈的崗哨，永遠保持一顆炎熱思進之心。 春天如約而至，春天去了又回，草兒黃了又綠。春天，恒山腳下嶽門灣的美是清淡而脫俗的，如蓮花婷婷出於淤泥之中，歷經歲月的磨礪人事的滄海桑田。那一彎 春水是打動人心的，當然你的心是要同我一樣在感召下蘇醒，那不算巍峨的山巒抱擁下的綠地、小橋、流水和櫻花也是恰到好處的，美到黃金比例，即使是人工培栽 的鬱金香等等，也是些小心機的點綴增添了她的嫵媚。春天來了，萬物蘇醒，花兒謝了再開，月兒缺了還圓，我的心呢？醉在你的關愛中還能否再醒來。春回大地，人生寂寞的心情，經歷寒冬的考驗，還能遺留多少無奈？從頭開始，讓人生的容顏，在風雨洗禮後的明天，和自己自由飛翔！”。
心中若有桃花源，？紅塵一笑，靜放那一處清淺的安然。時光，如白駒過隙，彈指過往，酸甜苦辣；蒼茫盡處，雲卷雲舒。生命，是一樹花開， 或熱烈或寂寞。生命中，總有一些令人唏噓的空白，有些人讓你牽掛，卻不能相守；有些東西讓你羡慕，卻不能擁有；有些錯過讓你留戀，卻終生遺憾。總想尋一處 山林，安靜生活淺寫歲月；總想借一些日子，播種向日葵的溫暖，栽種陽光的花瓣。春花秋月，夏螢冬雪， 懷一心寧淡，安然度日。經年流轉，透過指尖的溫度，期許歲月靜好，這一路走來，你會發現，生活於我們，溫暖，一直是一種牽引；於生活的海洋中踏浪，雲帆盡 頭，輕回眸，處處是別有洞天。在花開的日子，曾從百花叢中走過，看盡繽紛花朵嬌豔盛開；葉落的時候，曾踩著紅黃斑駁的記憶，找尋逝去的時光。年華流轉，轉 身，原來從不曾丟了自己，只是讓時光變得更加安靜，對待過往，也不再追問。記得往年桃花開時，總在不經意間就綻滿了眼簾。有種淺淺的驚喜漾了滿懷，眼裏和 夢裏都落下了舊時月色那種沉靜的美。如同逝去的時光，沉在某個斷層裏，只需輕輕一勾，那些封存許久許久的心情，如水般緩緩流淌著，如清酒的溫潤。小小一杯，滋味縈心。生命，原本是一樹花開，或安靜或璀璨。習慣了在記憶深處，撿拾大大小小似曾相識的過往，那些哭過的，笑過的，都於不經意間滲入骨髓書寫著時代裏清新婉轉的篇章。。
生命是一樹花開。那些滴著露珠的花瓣，沾滿了陽光的體溫，在蔚藍的眼色裏流淌著生生不息的水聲。這世界上，並不是所有的東西都符合想像，有些時候，山是水的故事， 雲是風的故事；也有些時候，星不是夜的故事，情不是愛的故事。人生，原本就是風塵中的滄海桑田，只是，回眸處，世態炎涼演繹成了苦辣酸甜。生命就是一樹一 樹的花開，輪回轉世裏，我仍然要固執的守護，那一方清幽；仍願做那個柔情的處子，打坐蓮花，不唱歲月的挽歌，只留著清亮的眼眸，去赴玫瑰清露的邀約。誰說 蝴蝶飛不過滄海？只要心中有一份期待，只要辛勤日積月累，沿著陽光雨露不懈地飛，彼岸一定會春暖花開。記憶的風，是一滴晶瑩剔透薄如蟬翼的淚，輕輕一碰， 便會滲入如蘭的情懷。記憶的風，是一樹花開，那些花開雨落的日子，永遠是生命中最美的一段時光，鐫刻在心的扉頁，不曾忘懷。那份暖任憑雨打風吹，仍挺拔在 陰晴圓缺的時光背後，絢爛出一層記憶的花瓣，唱盡撲朔迷離的幸福笙歌，在流年裏含淚微笑。一樹一樹的花開，風走過時，細碎的花瓣堆疊在我的腳邊，不動聲色。我想，再美的生命凋落，只如此耳。一樹樹花開，紫色的苜蓿，五彩的石竹，絢麗的景色美在路邊，兀自靜寂的開放。它們偶然抬起頭，一朵兩朵的白雲輕飄飄的移過來，為它們遮上一把大大的太陽傘。我披著陽光的笑容，聆聽生命中最感人的音符，一些飽滿的情節似蝴蝶的羽翼，在波光瀲灩的大海上起伏。
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| 2016 年 9 月 19 日 星期一 |
| the business of the day |
分類: 未分類 |
Yet his fidelity remained unshaken. When the Cabinet met, the Prime Minister, filled with his beatific vision, would open the proceedings by reading aloud the letters which he had received from the Queen upon the questions of the hour. The assembly sat in absolute silence while, one after another, the royal missives, with their emphases, their ejaculations, and their grammatical peculiarities, boomed forth in all the deep solemnity of Mr. Gladstone’s utterance. Not a single comment, of any kind, was ever hazarded; and, after a fitting pause, the Cabinet proceeded with.
ii
Little as Victoria appreciated her Prime Minister’s attitude towards her, she found that it had its uses. The popular discontent at her uninterrupted seclusion had been gathering force for many years, and now burst out in a new and alarming shape. Republicanism was in the air. Radical opinion in England, stimulated by the fall of Napoleon III and the establishment of a republican government in France, suddenly grew more extreme than it ever had been since 1848. It also became for the first time almost respectable. Chartism had been entirely an affair of the lower classes; but now Members of Parliament, learned professors, and ladies of title openly avowed the most subversive views. The monarchy was attacked both in theory and in practice. And it was attacked at a vital point: it was declared to be too expensive. What benefits, it was asked, did the nation reap to counterbalance the enormous sums which were expended upon the Sovereign? Victoria’s retirement gave an unpleasant handle to the argument. It was pointed out that the ceremonial functions of the Crown had virtually lapsed; and the awkward question remained whether any of the other functions which it did continue to perform were really worth L385,000 per annum. The royal balance-sheet was curiously examined. An anonymous pamphlet entitled “What does she do with it As his health deteriorated throughout the summer.?”
appeared, setting forth the financial position with malicious clarity. The Queen, it stated, was granted by the Civil List L60,000 a year for her private use; but the rest of her vast annuity was given, as the Act declared, to enable her “to defray the expenses of her royal household and to support the honour and dignity of the Crown.” Now it was obvious that, since the death of the Prince, the expenditure for both these purposes must have been very considerably diminished, and it was difficult to resist the conclusion that a large sum of money was diverted annually from the uses for which it had been designed by Parliament, to swell the private fortune of Victoria. The precise amount of that private fortune it was impossible to discover; but there was reason to suppose that it was gigantic; perhaps it reached a total of five million pounds. The pamphlet protested against such a state of affairs, and its protests were repeated vigorously in newspapers and at public meetings. Though it is certain that the estimate of Victoria’s riches was much exaggerated, it is equally certain that she was an exceedingly wealthy woman. She probably saved L20,000 a year from the Civil List, the revenues of the Duchy of Lancaster were steadily increasing, she had inherited a considerable property from the Prince Consort, and she had been left, in 1852, an estate of half a million by Mr. John Neild, an eccentric miser. In these circumstances it was not surprising that when, in 1871, Parliament was asked to vote a dowry of L30,000 to the Princess Louise on her marriage with the eldest son of the Duke of Argyle, together with an annuity of L6,000, there should have been a serious outcry9.
9 In 1889 it was officially stated that the Queen’s total savings from the Civil List amounted to L824,025, but that out of this sum much had been spent on special entertainments to foreign visitors. Taking into consideration the proceeds from the Duchy of Lancaster, which were more than L60,000 a year, the savings of the Prince Consort, and Mr. Neild’s legacy, it seems probable that, at the time of her death, Victoria’s private fortune approached two million pounds.
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| 2016 年 9 月 8 日 星期四 |
| This was a serious matter |
分類: 未分類 |
. It was not merely that Albert was laughed at by fine ladies and sneered at by fine gentlemen; it was not merely that Victoria, who before her marriage had cut some figure in society, had, under her husband’s influence, almost completely given it up. Since Charles the Second the sovereigns of England had, with a single exception, always been unfashionable; and the fact that the exception was George the Fourth seemed to give an added significance to the rule. What was grave was not the lack of fashion, but the lack of other and more important qualities. The hostility of the upper classes was symptomatic of an antagonism more profound than one of manners or even of tastes. The Prince, in a word, was un-English. What that word precisely meant it was difficult to say; but the fact was patent to every eye.
Lord Palmerston, also, was not fashionable; the great Whig aristocrats looked askance at him, and only tolerated him as an unpleasant necessity thrust upon them by fate. But Lord Palmerston was English through and through, there was something in him that expressed, with extraordinary vigour, the fundamental qualities of the English race. And he was the very antithesis of the Prince. By a curious chance it so happened that this typical Englishman was brought into closer contact than any other of his countrymen with the alien from over the sea. It thus fell out that differences which, in more fortunate circumstances, might have been smoothed away and obliterated, became accentuated to the highest pitch. All the mysterious forces in Albert’s soul leapt out to do battle with his adversary, and, in the long and violent conflict that followed, it almost seemed as if he was struggling with England herself As his health deteriorated throughout the summer..
Palmerston’s whole life had been spent in the government of the country. At twenty-two he had been a Minister; at twenty-five he had been offered the Chancellorship of the Exchequer, which, with that prudence which formed so unexpected a part of his character, he had declined to accept. His first spell of office had lasted uninterruptedly for twenty-one years. When Lord Grey came into power he received the Foreign Secretaryship, a post which he continued to occupy, with two intervals, for another twenty-one years. Throughout this period his reputation with the public had steadily grown, and when, in 1846, he became Foreign Secretary for the third time, his position in the country was almost, if not quite, on an equality with that of the Prime Minister, Lord John Russell. He was a tall, big man of sixty-two, with a jaunty air, a large face, dyed whiskers, and a long sardonic upper lip.
His private life was far from respectable, but he had greatly strengthened his position in society by marrying, late in life, Lady Cowper, the sister of Lord Melbourne, and one of the most influential of the Whig hostesses. Powerful, experienced, and supremely self-confident, he naturally paid very little attention to Albert. Why should he? The Prince was interested in foreign affairs? Very well, then; let the Prince pay attention to him — to him, who had been a Cabinet Minister when Albert was in the cradle, who was the chosen leader of a great nation, and who had never failed in anything he had undertaken in the whole course of his life. Not that he wanted the Prince’s attention — far from it: so far as he could see, Albert was merely a young foreigner, who suffered from having no vices, and whose only claim to distinction was that he had happened to marry the Queen of England. This estimate, as he found out to his cost, was a mistaken one. Albert was by no means insignificant, and, behind Albert, there was another figure by no means insignificant either — there was Stockmar. |
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