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英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise (52)天堂之影最后跟贴：洋八路发表于 2014-7-25 23:06 Chapter 52 2/3 Chapter 52 3/3 Without completely halting his pace, he reached forward to catch her hand. An instant of fear and wariness seemed to hinder a second of his approach, but the feeling of her fingers in his hand was too delicious to give up. She stopped, and turned to him; but thanking paradise she didn’t pull her hand away, nor did she utter any reprimand to thwart his impertinence. She raised her face to him, turned her face to his, keeping a thin gap for a timeless time. Then feeling safe and detecting no signs of alarm, he placed his other hand on her broad forehead, gently brushing it twice before sliding it to her right ear and there it remained. Then she took her hand from his, and as if immersed in a flood of unanticipated passion, lifted both of her arms to wrap around his neck. His lips sought hers; the thin distance between them vanishing. And tipping her head sightly over, he tasted her edges and soft thickness. Her tongue, like a fire, in the little damp haven, had its own mind; it looked to search, to pity, to pass her sorrow and loneliness to him, to also receive his. The sweet-sour-bitter-spice of a living experience in a place far away from their home country was condensed in the minutes of their mouths’ exchange. He was fumbling with her ponytail, soft and sleek, full and substantial. But the knot of the rubber band was stiff and strong, as severe as his full arousal. With his hard chest cushioned by her breasts, and his swift breath stifled by her warm features, they stood long in the middle of the tunnel, until the strain was gathering in his legs and thighs. They moved for the support of the wall, where, with his back leaning against the concrete, their interaction went on unflaggingly. But his more daring penetration towards her three points had been frequently hushed and pushed away, until he was fully aware of her steely resolve of refusing to budge. ‘No,’ she heaved, ‘please.’ But he tried again, and she said ‘No’ and ‘Please’ again. ‘Please’ uttered after ‘no’ was a confusing signal to him, but her gesture bespoke a definite ‘No’. Then, he heard people entering the tunnel; judging by their voices, they were two male students, probably just coming back from their dish-washing night shift. They came to near them, for a moment petrifying them, who had buried their heads into each other’s neck, until the nuisance was gone, until the tunnel was returned to them. But the disturbance, as well as her denial to his more meaningful intercourse, calmed him down. With a final kiss that bade for departure, they straightened, and holding each other’s waist, left the place that had hosted his first romance in Australia. Beside her car, on the pavement, he held her. ‘When can I see you again?’ he looked into her eyes, his hands caressing the line of her waist. She checked his gaze, and said: ‘No.’ Her short, one-syllable answer seemed to have taken a long time to reach his intoxicated head. Baffled, and bristled as if very much offended, he was questing for clarification, ‘What?’ Then emphasizing his incredulity, ‘Why?’ ‘You should have known this,’ she said, patronizingly. ‘No good can come from it.’ Though muddled and unsatisfied just the same, he seemed to catch a sober light of sense. Without finding more words to say, he loosened her, who seemed to have all at once turned back into a remote stranger to him. Seeing his disappointment, she held his hands to placate him. ‘Look, Wang Bing, we can be friends, but anything more than that would sour our friendship,’ and now keeping an arm’s length from him, she went on her dogma of morality, in her mature and sensible manner, and with her breasts distending under her clothes, ‘and if we continue to see each other, I don’t think we can control ourselves, so the best way is…’ ‘But, well, this is ridiculous,’ he cut her words, as a blood of nameless resentment was then surging to his head, rendering him utterly beside himself. ‘This is absurd, why, in the name of Chinese, in the name of Buddha, and…and…in the name of thousands of evolution and civilization of mankind, does the good time you and I are here to share have to be denied and deprived…by whom? By what kind of devil and hell? By what kind of false and pathetic temple figures and phantoms and doctrines?’ ‘Haha…’ she blurted out a laughter, but immediately resisted it by pressing her lips hard enough together not to show him offence; and subsiding, she threw him a remark, ‘Oily mouth.’ Staring at her, managing his evil emotion of which he had now come to be aware of, he opened a sad smile, ‘Sorry…’ ‘That is all right,’ she said. ‘Frankly, I may divorce him sooner or later. We have been thinking of our permanent separation as hard as of our eventual reunion. But, you see, you are different, you won’t likely be in the same boat as me.’ Upon her cool words, that had somehow called for his wife’s image to flash in his eyes, his heightened, ballooned sexual spirit was as if pricked, retreating, flattening out. Yet standing there fairly wretched, he experienced no relief but a feeling of desertion, of betrayal to his masculinity. He wanted to escape immediately from her, from the mere sight of her, who had aroused him and then smothered him and sickened him by her great sense and reason and discretion. Finally, in a low and half hateful voice, he said, ‘Okay, I understand.’ Then in his effort to be polite and like a gentleman, he put on a smile that must be more like a grimace. ‘Are you okay to drive?’ She didn’t give an answer; and seconds later, she pleaded, ‘Please, don’t be upset.’ Then, patting his arm like an elder sister, ‘You are not angry with me, are you?’ ‘No.’ ‘Do you want to hear the truth?’ ‘What?’ ‘If I give myself to you, I want all of you,’ she raised her voice as though she was the one, not him, being victimized. ‘But you won’t be all for me. Sooner or later, you will leave me for your wife, and my life will be ruined, worse off. Do you understand?’ Again he was speechless. He looked at her; and in her still, loving gaze, his self-pity was gradually transformed to a sort of compassion for her. But he felt too weak to touch her, then in a similar manner as she had done a while earlier in the subway, she threw out her arms, wrapped around his neck, pulled him down towards her bosom, kissed him soundly, once on his lips, once on his cheek. ‘Wang Bing, thank you,’ she said, and releasing him, she turned and walked round her car to the driver’s side. She opened it, slipped into it, closed it, started it, made a U turn, and gave him a gesture of goodbye through the window; she was then, officially, leaving. He was stationed on the spot, seeing her car diminishing until she turned into Station Street and, with its tail lights flicking for the last time, was perfectly lost. He thought he had at least lifted his hand and waved her a goodbye with it; but, after she was gone, when he began moving to his home for settlement, he realized that, during all the while of her pulling off, his hands had remained limb and floppy. ‘A strange woman,’ he muttered. --End of Chapter 52-- 最后发表：洋八路	洋八路 2014-7-26 00:05	22031	洋八路 2014-7-26 00:07
小故事，大道理最后跟贴： cherry_melody 发表于 2014-7-25 11:30 故事七没看懂。就是说别死心眼儿，鼓励顺手牵羊最后发表：蚝姐	天涯海角2 2014-7-25 12:19	31466	蚝姐 2014-7-25 12:36
季节是个小女人最后跟贴：谢谢分享。原创作品可以发在读书版，或者心情感悟版块，我帮您移动下。最后发表：虞宅与美丽	279041997 2014-7-24 22:33	31486	虞宅与美丽 2014-7-25 12:12
介绍一本介绍藏传佛教和寺庙的好书《西藏的寺与僧》最后跟贴：本帖最后由 LEOZHU 于 2014-7-22 21:26 编辑 autrant 发表于 2014-7-22 20:34 个人意见，如果那段描写放在文革时期我觉得还是比较恰当的，但是在解放西藏的时候，我觉得是有些过了，那 ... 您了解歷史不足夠，再多了解些就知道了。最后发表：LEOZHU	autrant 2014-6-19 12:49	121904	LEOZHU 2014-7-22 22:24
大家都去哪里买电子书KINDLE 最后跟贴：日本代购，淘宝。。。最后发表：上班ing	vivifeng2000 2014-7-22 15:55	11402	上班ing 2014-7-22 16:11
A Thousand Splendid Suns 最后跟贴：几年前看过不错，帮助了解历史文化其实看了这本书后，我觉得阿富汗的穷人比中国偏远地区的穷人生活质量还强些最后发表：pangpang	Micky2013 2014-5-19 15:00	41581	pangpang 2014-7-22 14:07
胡适的那些事儿——818中国公知祖师爷胡适之(ZT) 最后跟贴：最后发表：Ayuki	gary.smith 2014-6-18 11:28	213028	Ayuki 2014-7-21 00:41
转贴：我为什么不喜欢林徽因最后跟贴：不错~ 最后发表：Ayuki ...2 3 4 5 6..7	Wangmingtaoau 2013-10-4 10:28	20729282	Ayuki 2014-7-20 17:18
李安：这世界上唯一扛得住岁月摧残的就是才华最后跟贴：说得好~ 最后发表：Ayuki	天涯海角2 2014-7-18 11:48	21762	Ayuki 2014-7-20 17:16
英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(49)天堂之影最后跟贴：感谢分享最后发表：Plim	洋八路 2014-7-4 20:20	81906	Plim 2014-7-19 14:27
推荐易读有趣英文书最后跟贴：感谢分享最后发表：Plim	deanna_6768 2014-6-13 16:46	41906	Plim 2014-7-19 14:19
英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(51)天堂之影最后跟贴：Chapter 51 In the late afternoon of a Sunday, after spending time in the library on his assignment, Bing came across Susan. She was sitting alone on one of the benches in the open ground featuring the water pools. It was indeed a surprise, a profound disbelief that he had not have seen her since their parting two years before in the bus station at Box Hill. He had expected to run into three of his first roommates almost every day, or at least once a week because of the fact they were at the same university, sharing the same library as well as those remarkable lecture theatres. But dismal as what had been, he had never had a glimpse of any of them. ‘Hi, Susan,’ he called immediately and delightedly. Surprised and alarmed, she raised her head a little bewildered, ‘Ah, you …’ she fumbled for words, ‘sorry, I forget your name, but I remember you.’ ‘No, you haven’t forgotten my name, because I have no name,’ Bing laughed gleefully. ‘Why does a person need a name so long as he can be remembered.’ ‘Haha, yes, you are Wang, Wang Teacher,’ Susan smiled, not forgetting to touch her glasses. ‘It has been a long time. How have you been?’ ‘Not too bad, not too bad, hehe, like you, still alive in the country.’ … From her, he heard that the other two, David and Mei, had moved to Box Hill and Mont Albert respectively. She had their addresses, but had never visited them, and during the last two years she had only met them separately a couple of times. She herself was living in a flat in Glen Waverley with her classmates. Although she was currently unemployed, Susan had had a number of jobs, as a cleaner, a waitress, a worker in a garment factory, and her last, a helper in a bread shop. With the range of experience she had accumulated in this period it wouldn’t be difficult for her to get another job, but finding anything better in terms of wages and working conditions was still painstaking. ‘I could help you if you’d like to be a waitress in Chinatown,’ he said, after the idea came to him, ‘the restaurant I work in has a high waitress turnover.’ ‘Oh, really? Could you?’ Gladness and hopefulness were apparent in her voice. ‘I am okay, so long as it is stable, and the boss is kind.’ ‘Well, I don’t think the boss of the restaurant has the sort of kindness you would appreciate,’ he said easily, ‘but, hehe, I will be your supervisor if you work there.’ ‘Wonderful,’ she made a grand remark, as if she had already secured the job. ‘Look, Susan, I will look into it and let you know when a vacancy is available.’ He wanted to cool her enthusiasm, ‘in the meantime, keep on looking by your own means.’ The day was turning to dusk. Bing suggested having supper together somewhere. But the bus schedule was not agreeable on Sunday evenings. So they exchanged contact details, promising to keep in touch, and departed to their respective residence. A few days later, he called her and asked her to start to work in the restaurant the next day if she could. So Susan became a waitress, most of the time under his supervision. And one week later, she moved to his flat in Box Hill, living together with the two girls in the girl’s room. The boys in the flat suspected Susan was his girlfriend, and teased him when the girls were not around, ‘Wang Teacher, maybe we need to make a room exclusively for you and Susan…’ ‘Haha, no need to complicate that, I can always go straight into her room at night, and promise never to disturb the rest of you,’ he returned playfully. But Jessica, the girl who had once shown a certain interest in him, seemed to be a little upset, often managing a cold face to him as well as to Susan, to his best understanding of jealousy. It was true that, when he and Susan chanced to go home together late in the night, very tired and worn out, she once or twice rested her head over his shoulder, and he would fondle her hair and her eyebrows, when his desire to kiss her or even to make love to her was momentarily real and evident by his then palpitating heart. But he knew he was treating her more like a younger sister, someone weak and vulnerable needing protection in the wilderness of the world. He had never kissed her, and she seemed to understand him, with her shy and half-disappointed smile on those moments. They were two individuals, drifting in a tide to a fateful junction, where they happened to meet, sharing warmth as a pair of good country-fellows would do. Another term passed, and he was in the last semester of his three-year IT course. The light at the end of tunnel seemed to be glowing, for in about six months, as soon as he obtained his degree, he would, like most graduates, lodge his application for immigration. Three key criteria, English, Age and Skilled occupation, would then be in his favour. During this period, when the prospect of living permanently in the country came to light more frequently than ever, so did the image of his wife visit his mind. Indeed, as they had agreed prior to his departure, he should have tried to get her over to live with him through a Student Dependent Visa, but because he had never felt settled and secure enough in the place, and also because she had not mentioned this matter during their monthly phone calls, his former promise, as if forgotten by both of them, had not found a practical way or a definite time to be honoured. In his absence, she stayed with her parents, and once tried to run a small business selling clothes with her friends, but closed it after losing some money. He had asked her to study English as hard as she could, but he didn’t believe she could achieve much with it. But it wouldn’t matter, for, she would learn it here in Australia. Also, in time she would bear him a child, and be fairly occupied with motherhood. Walking towards the station in a Saturday afternoon, his imagining of his future life in the country was as sweet and angelic as the beautiful sunshine. When at the moment, two horses, pulling a cart with a number of jubilant tourists, hoofing and knocking the ground in Swanston Street, came in his direction, his heart was flying with a sudden joy. In his vision, sitting in the cart, were he and Qiuyan, and their new-born baby, and yes, his sister, his mum and dad… It was such a beautiful city; the happiness was too much as yet to speculate upon. But then, as he strolled on, he saw the old man unexpectedly in this part of street. Since the time he had sat with him and went through the entire Er-Quan Ying Yue, he had become his friend, and every now and then, he would donate some dollars to his performance. Nearing him, he paused and waited until he had finished playing his piece. ‘Nihao,’ he caught his attention, ‘Mr. Zhang, how have you moved here.’ ‘Oh, it is you, Mr. Wang,’ he lifted his head, putting aside his Erhu, ‘this is also my usual spot.’ ‘I see,’ he was curious, ‘how many usual spots do you have?’ ‘Three,’ he answered. ‘I will go to a place depending on the traffic, and also by judging the distance to other buskers in the street.’ ‘Buskers?’ the word was unfamiliar to him; it sounded like ‘baskets’, but he could tell the difference. ‘What are buskers?’ ‘A busker is a person like me in the street, playing music or singing songs, or juggling, to make fun for the public, even making a living by donations.’ For a quick moment, the scene in Mianyang, where a monkey-man entertained the public with two monkeys making love, came back to his mind. Chuckling inwardly, he said, ‘Haha, I didn’t know there was a special word for this; in Chinese, it is Jie Tou Mai Yi, selling art in the street, isn’t it?’ ‘Sort of, but here they say busking,’ ‘So, you are a busker,’ Bing was highly amused, ‘busking your Erhu for a basket of money in the street.’ ‘Haha,’ the man, sipping his tea, was undoubtedly at his most joyous moments of the day. Bing said goodbye to him. On the train, he gazed out of the window, seeing and enjoying common things along the railway. Then, he suddenly missed his guitar. How long since he had touched it? Whimsically he opened his palm and began to examine it. The lines and networks, much entwined and complicated, were as distinct as ever, but the flesh was thicker, the skin harder. He touched them, fingered and loved them alternatively with each other, as if testing their toughness and strength, as if recalling the tenderness and delicacy that had once caressed his soul through music. A thought drifted to him, clear and potent. ‘Why couldn’t I play again?’ and the idea marched a mile further, ‘I might even busk in the street, like Old Zhang.’ Instantly he subdued the idea of busking, before rejecting it altogether. That was too much to imagine. However, he decided to buy a guitar to resume his old-time hobby. Looking at the bright sky, it was still early enough for this Saturday. He got off at next station, and took a train back to the city. He didn’t know where he could find music shops; he just wandered about the streets, thinking he would eventually run into one of them so long as he didn’t overlap his route. In Burke Street, he found the shop. Most of the guitars were electric ones. In the end, he chose a classic guitar, similar to what he used to play, plus a bag and a strap, which cost a total of $129. Back on the train, with the guitar snuggled on his breast, the comfort, content and emotion, were indescribable. He imagined it was like a mother cuddling the child she had lost and found. But rather than a turbulence or an outburst of sentimentality, it was a peace, a moment of tranquillity, a feeling of what he believed to be a kind of happiness transcending a living experience. No wonder that Ar Bing and the Chinese busker Mr. Zhang had regarded the Erhu as a device of their truer lives, as an agent, as a representative of their souls, for without the instrument, life was perhaps a dreary repetition, meaningless, like a rat running in a wheel, like a sky never visited by stars and the moon. Then, he wondered, ironically, what his soul had become in the years in Australia. Had his life in the period been meaningless? And in terms of ‘value’ and ‘worthiness’ of life, had his life become better, richer and thicker, like the texture of his hands? What would have been the difference if he had not come to this country, and instead stayed at the foot of Emei Mountain and continued his teaching and played his role as a husband or even already a father in the cosiness of a family? Of course, he had seen more, experienced and endured more, in a place that was civilized so differently in many ways from his original country. But had he been happy or happier if thus compared to what he could have felt back in China? Had he smiled or laughed or entertained more here than there? Admittedly and undoubtedly, his life was enriched with a lot of new things, but whether it was better, or happier he really didn’t know. However, a number of things were certain: he had to be very conservative when enjoying beer; he had never touched his guitar during his struggle of staying alive in the country; there had been no sexual activity involving women. On impulse, he tightened his grip on the guitar, like holding a woman’s slender neck and rounded body. Heaving a deep sigh, he closed his eyes, and for the rest of the trip kept his posture unchanged, though, inwardly, a stream of blood, warm and live and alluring, seemed to course and stir his organs and his groin; his penis suffered restlessly under the guitar’s pressure. So from this day on, his everyday life, embodied in the number of hours, was partly allotted to his old hobby. A couple of weeks were all he had needed to recover his skills. He used any available timeslots he could find between his study and work; he practised at home, sometimes walking a long way to the Box Hill Gardens to pass luxurious hours of leisure, in the midst of the greenness and breeze and shades and children’s laughter, which he had often fancied as a sort of living paradise, especially after a couple of drinks. For the most part, he still played the set of classics he had played before, but would sing one or two songs on some occasions, such as when his roommate reached his birthday to celebrate the loss of a year, or the gain of a year if one thinks life is an endless line of sand outflowing from an hourglass. Then more people at Deakin discovered his guitar skills, and more celebrations demanded his contribution. His old days of campus glory seemed to have come back; his fellow Chinese, very nostalgic and sentimental and poetic as they could sometimes be, were rather generous in offering him applause as well as drinks. Then he began to toy with the idea of performing as a busker, who, to his Chinese, conservative way of thinking, was more or less a beggar. It certainly required the kind of gut-power he never thought he possessed. But Mr. Zhang encouraged him passionately, agreeing to stay nearby where he could see him and give him eye-contact support. Well, he might try just once. On the day, sitting beside Mr. Zhang, he gulped down two bottles of VB. However, just as he was about to move to the designated spot, his courage faltered, a nagging cowardice inflicting his mind. ‘Why? I don’t have to do this. Why should you invent this, behaving like a beggar in the street, in a country not your own? Is there nothing else you could do?’ ‘Hehe…’ he hesitated, mumbling uncertainly to the man, ‘…maybe, well, it is just a fancy idea.’ ‘So you are still scared?’ said Mr. Zhang, sipping his tea. ‘There is always a first time, like giving the first lesson as a teacher.’ ‘But, this is very different from the stage fright,’ he said; a conflict seemed to split his interior, reminding him of his job-seeking experience. ‘It is almost like begging, people throwing coins to me…’ he was about to say like bones being hurled at a dog, but trailed it off. ‘Well, it is just another kind of performance, you only need to see the pedestrians as your audience. And you know better that, when you play, you tend to play to yourself, talk to your own heart.’ He looked at Bing humorously, his hand holding the tea bottle half way to his lips that seemed to be forever parched and dry. ‘Of course, you don’t have to.’ The battle continued, and Bing couldn’t pluck his feet away from the territory belonging to his friend. Then, suddenly, Mr. Zhang said, ‘Why not just play here, in my place? Treat me as your only listener, won’t you?’ To his new proposal Bing laughed at once, the first free laughter since daybreak. In the meantime, Zhang began to move his gear aside, leaving his space and stool, sweeping all the coins and notes on the cloth into his bag. ‘Let’s see how many coins you can get.’ Sitting on the stool - only then he realized he hadn’t even brought his own stool - he spent a few moments readying himself, before he announced to his audience: ‘Shan Zha Shu - Hawthorn Tree’, a Russian song well known in China, in his intent to entertain his elder friend. In the middle of playing, he glimpsed a passer-by pausing to put down a coin. He didn’t raise his head to attend to the people, nor could he concentrate enough on his performance. The flush of nervousness seemed to be still lingering in him; the noise of the street was very distracting. When he finished, he looked at his friend, embarrassedly. ‘Hehe, not very well.’ ‘Oh, young man, that was beautiful,’ his comment seemed honest, rather than flattering. ‘This was the song I sang day and night in my youth.’ ‘Really? But I didn’t feel much into it.’ ‘You played very much like a professional. How many years have you practised it?’ ‘I began the hobby at my university, but haven’t played much since graduation. And for the last two years here I never touched it until just recently, since I made your acquaintance.’ While they were talking, a lady placed a five dollar bill onto the cloth and walked away briskly without looking at them. Bing was surprised. ‘What is it? She gave the money, not because of my music.’ ‘Haha, see, that is the charm of busking; there are many things you could never expect,’ Zhang said indulgently. ‘And you can watch so many people, with different colours, forms and moods and gestures.’ ‘No troubles at all?’ ‘Of course, but nothing major, only when some drunkards or beggars come to bother you. It can be part of the fun and surprise.’ ‘What? Fun?’ ‘I once encountered a ragged drunk man, he shouted at me and spat at my feet, muttering something I couldn’t understand. I was shocked, but not very much scared, because it was late afternoon, still a lot of people in the street. I remained seated, only praying he would go away soon. And after raging out his moments, probably expecting no fun or fight from me, he went away, shouting all his way at other shops.’ ‘How about night time?’ ‘That is riskier,’ he said. ‘I have heard of a number of incidents, that the buskers were bashed and their instruments taken away. For me, only once, a vagabond grabbed all the coins on the cloth.’ ‘Oh, that is terrible.’ ‘Yes, but I rarely busk at night, except on festivities.’ Then, he reminded Bing, ‘Now, play more, let me enjoy.’ … For the rest of the afternoon, Zhang lent out his spot entirely to Bing, who, his confidence gathering, played almost as naturally and comfortably as he had on other performances. The scattering notes and coins on the cloth, as they scooped them up and counted before leaving, totalled thirty-five dollars ten cents. For about three hours of his trial busking, this was about $11 per hour, a rate similar to his job in the restaurant. But this was about music, a kind of entertainment, not the dirty dishes or the unhappy customers or the slacking waitresses he had to bother. It was, indeed, both economically and spiritually, a rather worthy business. Bing had difficulty in his wheedling effort to give the money to Mr. Zhang, who was firm and stern in his refusal. ‘Like you, I am not a beggar,’ he emphasized. Later in the week, on the advice of his friend, Bing went to apply for a busker’s license from the Melbourne City Council with an annual fee of $20, and four days later he became a legitimate, licensed busker of the General Busking Class in designated streets. --End of Chapter 51--- 最后发表：洋八路	洋八路 2014-7-18 15:17	01671	洋八路 2014-7-18 15:17
转些好玩有趣的文章。最后跟贴：本帖最后由 ANDERXON007 于 2014-7-18 13:16 编辑天涯海角2 发表于 2014-7-17 17:54 有点意思补些秦观的词作。蝶恋花晓日窥轩双燕语，似与佳人。共惜春将暮，屈指艳阳都几许，可无时霎闲风雨。流水落花无问处，只有飞云。冉冉来还去，持酒劝云云且住，凭君碍断春归路。秦观(1049-1100)字少游、太虚，号淮海居士，扬州高邮（今江苏）人。曾任秘书省正字，兼国史院编修官等职。因政治上倾向于旧党，被目为元佑党人，绍圣后累遭贬谪。文辞为苏轼所赏识，是“苏门四学士”之一。工诗词。词多写男女情爱，也颇有感伤身世之作，风格委婉含蓄，清丽雅淡。诗风与词风相近。有《淮海集》、《淮海居士长短句》。《淮海居士长短句》又名《淮海词》。词集名。北宋秦观（号淮海居士）作。三卷。见于《淮海集》中。又朱孝臧《疆村丛书》本，附朱氏所撰校记一卷。明末毛晋汲古阁刊本名《淮海词》，一卷。（同上书）近来作者，皆不及少游。如“斜阳外，寒鸦数点，流水绕孤村”，虽不识字人，亦知是天生好言语也。（晁无咎）子瞻辞胜乎情，耆卿情胜乎辞。辞情相称者，惟少游而已。（蔡伯世）今代词手，惟秦七、黄九耳，唐诸人不迨也。（陈后山）秦词专主情致，而少故实，譬如贫家美女，虽极妍丽丰逸，而终乏富贵态。（李易安）少游词虽婉美，然格力失之弱。（胡元任）秦少游词，体制淡雅，气骨不衰。清丽中不断意脉，咀嚼无滓，久而知味。（张叔夏）观词情韵兼胜，在苏黄之上。流传虽少，要为倚声家一作手。（《四库提要》）秦少游自是作手，近开美成，导其先路；远祖温、韦，取其神不袭其貌，词至是乃一变焉。然变而不失其正，遂令议者不病其变，而转觉有不得不变者。后人动称秦、柳，柳之视秦，为之奴隶而不足者，何可相提并论哉！（陈廷焯《白雨斋词话》） ○四九～一一○○）字少游，又字太虚，高邮人，有“淮海集”。在苏轼苏辙兄弟俩的周围有五位作家，黄庭坚、秦观、张耒、晁补之和陈师道，所谓“苏门”。张耒和晁补之都有诗把这一“门”五口儿描写在一起，仿佛是来了个“合家欢”。不用说，一家人之间也往往分个亲疏厚薄，陈师道就觉得苏轼待秦观比待自己亲热，后人还代他抱不平。这五位诗人并不模仿苏轼的风格，而且除掉陈师道受黄庭坚的影响以外，彼此在创作上各人走各人的路。晁补之的诗最差。只有一点值得提起：宋代对李白虽然推崇，不像对杜甫那样的效法，晁补之和同时的徐积、郭祥正也许是欧阳修、苏轼以后仅有的向李白学习的北宋诗人。徐积甚至说杜甫比起李白来，就像“老骥”去追赶“秋鹰”、“霜鹘”。　秦观的诗内容上比较贫薄，气魄也显得狭小，修词却非常精致；只要看李廌“师友谈记”里记载他讲怎样写律赋的许多话，就知道他对文字的琢磨工夫多少细密，怪不得朋友说他“智巧饾订，只如填词”，又说‘铢两不差，非秤子上秤来，乃算子上算来”。他的诗句“敲点匀净”，常常落于纟韱巧，所以同时人说他“诗如词”、“诗似小词”、“又待入小石调”。后来金国人批评他的诗是“妇人语”、“女郎诗”，其实只是这个意思，而且不一定出于什么“南北之见”。南宋人不也说他的诗“如诗女游春，终伤婉弱”么？“时女游春”的诗境未必不好。艺术之宫是重楼复室、千门万户，决不仅仅是一大间敞厅；不过，这些屋子当然有正有偏，有高有下，决不可能都居正中，都在同一层楼上。 --钱钟书<宋诗选注> 最后发表：ANDERXON007	ANDERXON007 2014-7-6 18:26	71579	ANDERXON007 2014-7-18 14:14
听书听小说的进来最后跟贴： meljohn 发表于 2014-7-17 18:23 懒人听书有《推拿》吗？我是在蜻蜓里下的最后发表：凡戈 ...2	凡戈 2014-6-17 14:55	424962	凡戈 2014-7-17 21:17
请问谁有《why the west rules for now - By Ian Morris》这本书，最后跟贴：如果有想借或者和您买二手，新旧不介意，感谢！最后发表：kjking	kjking 2014-7-15 16:20	01208	kjking 2014-7-15 16:20
世间最美最禅的情歌 -- 仓央嘉措道歌最后跟贴：几个月后回来再读，自有更深的感悟感谢楼主和各位分享最后发表：blackswan ...2	DragonSeven 2013-12-24 15:03	435819	blackswan 2014-7-12 19:02
英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(50)天堂之影最后跟贴： Gone 发表于 2014-7-10 18:34 喜读这一章。斌很懂心理学啊。。忘我才能得世界。。瞎子阿炳的故事让人感动。。二泉映月是最优美动人的乐曲 ... 编辑看了这一章，去YouTube 听二泉映月，说很，haunting... 最后发表：洋八路	洋八路 2014-7-10 14:31	41735	洋八路 2014-7-10 21:47
【转】陆犯焉识——严歌苓（电影归来改著自该小说）最后跟贴：好像是前年读的这本书，人物和人性的描述非常细腻，不过年青一代的人估计是无法理解的。很想看看电影里陈道明和巩俐的演绎，但是对巩俐，我实在不觉得她能演出彩，总觉得她演的所有人物表情都太木了。最后发表：布鲁克克 ...2	ShuRyanYan 2014-7-2 11:35	313484	布鲁克克 2014-7-10 20:45
中国历史上最高水平的36首诗（下）最后跟贴：好诗最后发表：Angie	lwljan 2014-2-27 19:27	82139	Angie 2014-7-7 14:58
有人读过李异的中央警卫吗？最后跟贴：Rt 最后发表：求人真难啊	求人真难啊 2014-7-6 18:20	01104	求人真难啊 2014-7-6 18:20
英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(48)天堂之影最后跟贴：最后发表：ccatsydney	洋八路 2014-7-1 12:23	21157	ccatsydney 2014-7-1 16:36
想买金庸的书，有地方买吗？WA 最后跟贴：记得买旧版的。。。最后发表：xxmplus	mightyview 2014-1-30 16:06	111906	xxmplus 2014-7-1 10:00
英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(47)天堂之影最后跟贴：哈哈。。视野很宽哦。。等着眼珠子掉一地。。最后发表：Gone	洋八路 2014-6-24 18:47	61204	Gone 2014-6-29 23:57
桐华的《那些回不去的年少时光》最后跟贴：那些回不去的青春岁月啊，最后发表：rain1625 ...2 3 4 5	blackswan 2013-5-8 11:11	12513414	rain1625 2014-6-29 20:00
重读＜洗澡＞有感最后跟贴：最后发表：stfz	DreamRedMansion 2005-6-11 14:28	258261	stfz 2014-6-26 16:47
英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(46)天堂之影最后跟贴：Chapter 46 2/2 Entering McDonalds, the familiarity of the yellow colour and scent and warmth and decoration, made him, and obviously other three, feel somewhat at home. It was odd to think that people admire new things so much, while at the same time missing the old and the past. If one feels only comfortable in a place they are familiar with, why doesn’t he just stay home for the comfort? Such as staying in China? Such as staying in his village where he could swim in the spring water? But no, people tend to have a permanent need to see more, to receive more stimulants, to eat more, to try more, to love more, to wonder eternally what exists beyond a boundary. We call it adventure, and the adventurous mission is usually dangerous and uncomfortable and suffering, many of them even a risk to our lives. Yet we are still tempted to go and risk, obstinately as if under a spell of a perverse spirit. Musing, and chewing the hot chips, the heat of which was moderated by the chill of a Coke he was presently sucking, Bing suddenly suspected of the rightness of his coming to Australia. Why did he have to leave his wife, his parents and many other intimate souls for this place? What did he want from his life, from this new land? For next moment, the elegant face of his wife, her breasts and lips, and the wrinkles and white hair streaks of his mother, and the quiet and discontented lined face of his father, began flashing in his mind. ‘Hurry up, Wang Teacher,’ David said, ‘we need to go to Chinatown.’ Waking up from his little trance, he lifted his head, looking at David who had already finished his beef burger. ‘Now you have enough energy, with the Big Mac…’ ‘Not much, I could eat another if I were rich.’ Mei remarked, ‘You talk like you are poor.’ ‘Of course, I am; otherwise, I would have bought two Big Macs, instead of one.’ They laughed. And in the midst of their mirth, Bing, seeing that even the two girls had half finished their burgers, began to eat his own. To him, eating a burger was more like a cooking process. The raw vegetables, onions, cheese, cream, and beef were just mixed and cooked in his mouth. His hands had to clutch them skilfully lest the stuff stain his nose or his clothes. Sometimes he felt the way of eating it, with all the hunger of the moment, was not unlike a man greedily kissing a woman from various angles. On their way to Little Bourke St where Chinatown was located, he saw an odd-looking sculpture on the sidewalk. Simply made up of some rusty iron plates, it was not exactly like anything he could recognise. Then further down, there were another group of sculptures which looked like imitating white-collared workers walking on the street. But they looked excessively ugly, very thin and tall, their eyes bulging, their nostrils thrusting out, their mouths gaping like a fish just caught and brought onto the land. Their startled and bewildered expressions were numb and dumb and stupid. He wanted to touch the sculpture, but at the same time felt repulsed by its utmost nastiness. It was made of cold metal, not at all friendly and touchable and intimate like the wooden, electric poles. Yet still, as if enchanted by its weirdness and irregularity, he lingered and hovered about them, inspecting their faces curiously, until he had to be called by the impatient David, who, together with the two girls, had already crossed at the traffic lights to other side of the street. Bing had to wait at the lights. He saw two pedestrians, after looking left and right, and left and right again to be convinced of no danger of being run over, bolt across the street against the red light. There were a number of blue and white police cars parked along the street, but no people in uniform emerged to catch the offenders. Nevertheless, compared to the society he had just come from, this place was indeed more civilized. In Shanghai and in Chengdu, where traffic rules were loosely observed by and where the people forever had to compete for limited resources, so called traffic control assistants had to be employed to discipline the half-blind throngs of walkers and riders and drivers. At each street crossing, the assistants, with a red band on their arms, would wave their flags and yell, shout or whistle, demonstrating the everyday road-struggle of the urbane residents. However, according to the map, Australia was about four-fifths the area of China, but its population was just one-fiftieth. He wondered what the traffic would be like if one day the population of Melbourne’s three million was expanded six times to that of Shanghai. The roadway was also different. Very wide, it was divided equally into three lanes. The middle one was exclusively for trams, which looked like a mixture of bus and train, and the outer two were for vehicles. Each tram had long propping power-poles like the trolley-buses in Shanghai and Beijing, but its slow sleep-lulling rattling sound, and the long compartment, and its heavy pulling and panting manoeuvre, resembled more a train. The light turned green and the ticking traffic sound, meaning ‘Walk now’, began beating faster. With his heart lurching, he crossed the road nervously, as if someone or a white ghost was chasing at his back. The two girls were far ahead, and evidently absorbed in some girlish gossips, neither of them looked once back to ensure their country-fellows were not lost in their wake. Catching up with David, and then together overrunning the two girls, Bing was again assuming a default guide to the little group. ‘Wang Teacher, where to go? I see this is Bourke Street, the entrance to Chinatown?’ Mei’s raised eyebrows were very impressive. ‘But I see no sign that says Chinatown?’ ‘No, no, Chinatown is at Little Burke Street, remember the pre-affixed Little,’ he reminded Mei, ‘Little Burke should be just a little distance down the road.’ Shortly afterwards they saw, to their left, a tall and oddly standing arch, which looked very incompatible, very inharmonious to other buildings in the neighbourhood. But, it was Chinese, suggesting nothing but Chinese. For a fleeting moment, the arch impressed him as an entrance to a purplish temple, where people entered to worship Buddha or some spirits of ancestors, to gaze at those ugly-faced, half-man, half-devil figures like the ones he had seen on Emei Mountain. Straining his neck and looking up to survey the arch, he noticed the colour was not purple, or black or yellow or red or crimson, but a mixture of laced patterns, like the garment worn by women in old Chinese dynasty. In the middle of the crossbeam, from right to left, six Chinese characters said ‘Melbourne Chinatown’. Again, the stone was there. Two one-piece stone pillars supported a slanted roof. Two tourists sat on each of the outstretched pillar bases. One of them indulged himself with a leisurely smoke; the other tilted a bottle of Coke to her lips, pouring the dark liquid into her mouth very thirsty on such a warm day. Stepping inside, the two-lane street, compared to Swanston St, was very narrow. No Buddha, no common settings in a temple; it was just a normal alley where the traditional Chinese words were shown as the main shop signage, whilst English, here as a secondary language, was written underneath. ‘Look at the Shark Fin,’ asked Susan, touching her glass, ‘is it the fin of shark they serve? The most expensive food I heard of in China?’ ‘It must be,’ said David, ‘but I doubt it is the most expensive here in Australia. Sharks must be plenty and easier to catch here? How about Bear’s Palm, and Swallows’ Nest that used to be eaten by the Chinese emperors and their relatives?’ Mei, whose eyes seemed to have just located the restaurant thus mentioned, was suspicious, ‘I don’t know, the Chinese name of this restaurant means Eating-Is-First. It was not as if suggesting ‘eating shark fin first’.’ ‘Why don’t we go into the restaurant for our supper tonight?’ said Bing, excitedly. ‘We will then find out.’ ‘Are you crazy,’ said David seriously, ‘it could cost a fortune.’ ‘Well, Shark Fin may be very cheap here in Australia,’ said Bing, ‘may even be cheaper than Big Macs.’ ‘Haha, I wish so,’ David chuckled. ‘But, really this is Chinatown, we Chinese should definitely come here to eat one day.’ ‘Why just one day, why can’t we do this every day. There is no reason we shouldn’t help the business in Chinatown.’ ‘All right, but if only they can give us Chinese a big discount, for the sake of brotherhood and sisterhood.’ While two men were kidding each other upon the eating, the two girls slipped into a newspapers and stationary shop. They followed them in. The papers and magazines inside the shop were all in traditional Chinese. Bing was attracted to some special magazines displayed on the shelf. One of them had a name of Fire Qiling, meaning Fire Unicorn. With pictures of naked legs and thighs on its cover, he believed it was a kind of pornographic materials forbidden in communist China. He picked it up, and checking alertly on any eyes that might fall upon him, quickly turned it over, then as quickly put it back. It was well clothed by a layer of plastic, so he was unable to peer into its contents. He should buy one, sooner or later, he thought, when he could afford it. Bu how much was it? He was about to pick it up again to find the price, when Susan and Mei, who were a moment earlier hidden inside the shop, appeared suddenly in front of him. So he had to divert his glance immediately to other objects. Going out of the shop, four of them continued to explore Chinatown. But there were not many extra things to interest them; all eating places, one after another. Without money in his pocket, and uncertain how much they were going to cost, he felt the restaurants were practically useless. In fact, the whole of Chinatown was useless, unless maybe one day he could come and eat in one of the restaurants, or buy one or two pornographic magazines to appease his curiosity. But the enthusiasm of the other three was not as diminished as his, especially Susan, who had evidently learnt quite a lot in advanced about this city and had become very talkative. She said: ‘Melbourne Chinatown was established as early as 1850, during the Victorian gold rush. It is one of the oldest Chinatowns in the world, and is the second longest continuous Chinese settlement in western countries, after San Francisco in North America, which goes back farther ten years to 1840.’ ‘1840? Isn’t it also the year when the Opium War broke out between England and China?’ asked Bing. She answered, ‘Yes, about that time. Many Chinese were said being carried over to US, like slaves, to build railway and dig gold for them.’ ‘Slaves? Never heard of Chinese as slaves. They were not the slaves like black people, were they?’ ‘They were undoubtedly slaves, all the people whose skin had a colour, yellow or black or dark were treated as secondary citizens in those days.’ ‘But I believe white is just another type of colour, and the secondary people don’t always equal slaves,’ said Bing, surprised and amused to see Susan’s face flushing like a passionate debater over a topic. ‘Slaves are humans sold and bought as common goods like cattle, for a price. But I think Chinese only went abroad to dig the gold or seek a fortune to better their lives outside their own poor, war-stricken country. They were not sold or bought by a force beyond their control,’ he paused to clear his throat, ‘to some degree it was not very much different from the reason you and I have come here today.’ ‘Oh, really? Well…’ Susan faltered, so flushed that she had to take time to compose herself, touching her glasses before she continued, ‘well, it was a fact that the Chinese had been terribly treated by white people in western countries. Nobody could deny that.’ ‘Hehe, I am not to deny that human history in both China and abroad, on its struggling and stumbling path to civilization, had always been very ugly and brutal. There had been no less horrible treatment among Chinese themselves, between their own kin and relatives, than between people of different races or colours.’ Then, realizing he was almost preaching like a history teacher, and with an intent to avoid too direct a debate with the emotional Susan, Bing turned to other two, in softening words, ‘David, and Mei, what do you think? How do you feel, after one hundred and fifty years since the Chinese first came here to dig gold, to build this Chinatown, that today we left our country and came here again, for a reason and a purpose I don’t conceive as very different from our early pioneers?’ David hesitated, ‘Ehm, well, ehm, to be honest, if only China is an ideal and happy place for us to stay, I don’t know why we should have come here, why we should leave our parents, brothers and sisters. If we come here only to study, that is fine, but as far as I know, most of the students, me, one of them, have come here for permanent residence as the ultimate purpose.’ ‘Yes, like water always flows from high to low, so do humans flock, from bad to good.’ Then Mei, who had kept quiet and rather indifferent in the discussion, added, ‘But the fact is we don’t even know if here is worse or better yet. And, I think every person born has a right to move about the Earth.’ ‘We will soon find this out if it is a better place or not, and even that it is an entirely subjective opinion,’ Bing went on, ‘and I agree with you, every one who comes into this world not by his own choice, is entitled with a just and heaven-given right to move about the planet.’ David was amused, ‘Haha, if only such a right is not removed by other more powerful, earlier settlers, who may claim they have a right to annihilate your right.’ Bing returned, ‘In that sense, humans may be even worse than the beasts in a jungle who might not protect, defend and attack a territory with so much blood, hatred, bullets and bombs. Or maybe people just imagine they can forever own, eat and rape the Earth with their mortal claws and teeth?’ Mei complained, ‘This topic is too much,’ then seeing another arch coming to the sight, ‘look, here is another great arch, the pattern is intricate and beautiful.’ Bing was about to say the arch was ugly and grave, but taken over by Susan, ‘Has any of you heard about a woman in Queensland, who recently aired quite a lot of racist comments about Asian people in Australia?’ ‘No, who is she?’ asked Bing. ‘I read about her on internet. She doesn’t like Asian people in Australia.’ ‘Oh, she doesn’t like Asians living in Australia,’ he was a little surprised, but only for a short time before he seemed to revive his cynical tone of debate, ‘So what? People of one race naturally like or dislike one another, for various reasons based on their short, limited, narrow experience of life. Things like egotism, prejudice, pride, inheritance, living or deceased glory, languages, quantity of money, quality of clothes, body shape and height and odour, the colour of skin, the size of eyes, jobs, age, sex, power, what we eat and how we play, etc, etc, can all become the sources for our love or hate. And, also keep in mind we often don’t even like ourselves.’ ‘Haha, Wang Teacher, you are really a teacher,’ laughed Mei. But Susan pursued, ‘But the words of that woman are very disturbing, and would make many Asians angry.’ ‘Hehe, you have a right to feel angry, and have a right to air your anger as well, after all it is Australia. So long as she, or you, or we don’t resort to any violence.’ Susan replied, ‘But if she expressed more of those racist comments, the violence might eventually fall upon us. There had been so much terrible history like that, like World War Two, or the Sino-Japanese War.’ Then David interposed, ‘So what can we do? We can do nothing. We are just students and have spent a lot of money coming here to study.’ ‘Well, nobody asked us to come here to study. We applied and paid the big dollars to Australia, and its government approved. So we came here, and are supposed to earn the money also from here, to pay back the debt we have borrowed in China.’ Susan sounded rather distressed, ‘But if someone dislikes you, hates and treats you as secondary and inferior residents in this country…’ Bing hastened to join her sentence, ‘then, like what immigrants all over the world have been through, you either adjust and endure and bend, or live or fight or die in the new territory, in the new human jungle we have chosen to enter. And, remember there might be more people who dislike you, rob you, discriminate against you, do you more injustice back in China, in our own beloved home country. Living is never an easy business.’ No sooner had he uttered his words than they reached the end of Chinatown at Spring Street. Then they retraced their steps back to the tram station, and so weary and thirsty by their long walking and talking that they closed their eyes for most of the time on the tram back to Peacock Street. Prior to his sleep, Bing wondered why, in the world, there was no Japantown or Indiatown or Germantown or Englandtown or Greecetown or any other towns based on people’s origin. There was no town but Chinatown. He couldn’t figure out an answer. -- End of Chapter 46 --- 最后发表：洋八路	洋八路 2014-6-23 15:08	11173	洋八路 2014-6-23 15:11
胡适徐志摩的那些事——说说公知祖师爷胡适之的小节/(ZT) 最后跟贴： sunnykelly 发表于 2014-6-21 17:10 年纪轻轻，心火旺盛，才子佳人，互相仰慕。可以理解。归根结底，这些才子佳人终究被他们眼里的土包子毛泽 ... 其实这裤裆里的事儿，从上到下有几人敢说自己就是那么纯洁那么干净的？所以就烦那些动不动就把这个拿出来说是打击排斥异己的行为，就像薛蛮子，说实话，真挺丢人的，但是之所以丢人是因为他是公知！反而看那些下马的贪官，哪一个在这方面比蛮子强？更恶心的多地是，可是没觉得他们丢人啊，为什么？因为他们从根子里就是这路货，不如此反而奇怪了呢。所以什么蛀虫之类的屁话还是对当下的执政者去说更恰当呢最后发表：autrant	gary.smith 2014-6-20 12:13	132135	autrant 2014-6-21 22:10
小诗自娱（五）最后跟贴：最后一句得“儿”，大约音“ni”。 lz得诗真不错，后两句维妙维肖啊。最后发表：thecatinthehat	方白 2014-6-1 20:21	111860	thecatinthehat 2014-6-20 15:10
英文小说: A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(45)天堂之影最后跟贴：本帖最后由洋八路于 2014-6-19 13:11 编辑 Chapter 45 2/2 Then, with the two girls in one room, and David and him in another, they did their little task of unpacking. They were not supposed to stay there long. As soon as they found a better, and most importantly a cheaper place, they would move out. Approaching lunchtime, Maria, like a big sister, drove them in a Toyota to a grocery, where the four newcomers purchased the items such as fast noodles, bread, bunches of vegetables, eggs and tomatoes, salt, washing detergent. Bing also bought a Melbourne street directory on Maria’s advice. All up it cost him about $45, the value of which he couldn’t get a clue. So he multiplied the exchange rate of six coming to about 300 Yuan. Based on his salary as the teacher in Jiaoda, this amount, the first money he spent in Australia, had already bitten a quarter away from his monthly income. But it was a relief they didn’t need to buy crockery or cutlery or utensils, for there were plenty already in the kitchen. After coming back to the house, they boiled the water for their fast noodles, the first meal they would have in the country. Their lunch quickly finished, they discussed what to do for the rest of the day. Seeing a phone in a corner of the living room, Bing asked Maria if it was convenient to make long distance calls. The amiable Maria said each of them could make a call to China for this purpose, without an extra charge, so long as the conversation was brief. So in turn, each of them went ahead making a short phone call to China reporting their safe landing. The street they lived on was Peacock Street, and according to Maria in her Taiwan-accented Mandarin, was less than ten minutes walk to the campus. It was Thursday, they could do the registration the next day, and the formal classes wouldn’t start until the followingt Monday. Though it was 11am in the morning, Bing thought he needed some rest first to make up for the loss of sleep. But the other three, probably affected by their emotional phone calls, had less tendency to sleep. So they agreed to take a quick tour to the Deakin campus. And after Maria drew them the directions on a piece of paper, and also gave each of them a key to the house, they set off. In the beautifully named Peacock Street, they saw no peacocks; instead, a number of sparrows, as little as those in Shanghai, were jumping noiselessly in the trees. They also saw a bigger bird, with black and white striped feathers, walking leisurely across the road, proudly cocking its head sideways as if it was the master of the land. Then all at once, this bird issued forth a series of loud whistling that was as fluid and vehement as running water, its throat pumping fervently like that of a frog. ‘What a sound!’ exclaimed Susan, frankly astonished. ‘How can a bird sing like that?!’ ‘Susan, I hope you are not scared as much as by the raven,’ David chuckled. The group gave a gust of laughter, which might have bothered the freedom of the bird, for it stopped singing, taking off from the road and surging away, its white-spotted wings spinning like pinwheels. In another while, Bing looked around, ‘I wonder where the raven is?’ Both Susan and Mei rushed in at the same time, ‘No, the raven is horrible, I don’t want to see or hear any of that.’ Bing made a comment: ‘Well, I remember a story told by my friend in Beijing, when I was visiting the Great Wall. According to him, crows all over the world have inherited the type of plaintive cry of Meng Jiao Nu.’ ‘Really? I have never heard of that,’ said David. ‘I think he just invented it himself.’ ‘What is it?’ David asked keenly. The curiosity was now aroused in the knot of people, including the two girls who had shown aversion to the raven topic a moment earlier. ‘It is too long, I will tell you guys later.’ They ambled on; David and Bing ahead, the other two, chatting in a low voice like a new pair of confidential friends, straggling behind. Now without the bird’s singing, or the raven’s crowing, or the car’s running, the street relapsed into silence. The sky had again turned gloomy, but seemed to refrain from raining. The houses, loosely lined up on both sides of road, were showing no signs of human occupation. Many cars parked in the driveway and along the kerb, yet people were nowhere to be seen. On the roof of each house, a TV antenna was threaded to the short sky; some of them were taken by one or two birds, fat and grey and unperturbed, perched there brooding. The only thing familiar to him was the tall, wooden electric poles, the skins of which were as scarred and miserable as those in his village. And the wires, parallel, never coming across to touch each other, looked feeble and lonely. ‘Is it going to rain?’ Bing asked. David raised his eyes to inspect the sky, ‘Probably, but I don’t know. It was fine just now.’ They crossed Burwood Highway by a subway, and came out at the other side to find themselves right at the entrance of the campus. The six letters of DEAKIN was upside down and adhered floatingly to a slab that was rammed into the earth like a sword. No Chinese-style calligraphy was written here by some famous hands. David asked, ‘What does Deakin actually mean?’ ‘I don’t know,’ Bing said, then asked the two girls, ‘do you know what Deakin stands for?’ Mei shook her head; Susan, frowning, touched her glasses and said: ‘I read the introduction and vaguely remember it is after the name of someone famous in Australia.’ ‘Is it? That makes sense, but I find it hard to say it properly,’ said David, and then turned to Bing, ‘Wang-Teacher, what is the correct one, Dikin, or Dekin, or Diken like the translated Chinese?’ ‘Honestly I don’t know, I would think Dikin, but it sounds very odd, doesn’t it?’ ‘We will find out when local people say the word,’ Mei summed up the topic. On the campus, the first building they saw had a whitewashed masonry wall, high and very broad, with a surface curved slightly like a gigantic white plate, sparkling even in the cloudy afternoon. The name of the university was marked on its right upper corner. And the windows, or in other words, rows of identical rectangles as if punched out by a sculptor, were arrayed neatly on the larger part of the wall, very much like a careful display of standing match-boxes. ‘I saw that building on the website,’ David said, ‘what is it?’ ‘Well, it only says Deakin on the wall,’ Bing replied, ‘or maybe the library?’ ‘Not the library; the library is at the other end,’ Susan said, pointing down the main path. Bing was impressed with her knowledge. ‘How do you know? Have you been here before?’ ‘I checked the university website, and there is a map,’ said Susan, touching her glasses, ‘but I don’t know what this white building is called.’ ‘Maybe just Deakin Building; it must be the iconic building of the university,’ Mei remarked, who seemed very good at making conclusive comments. Under their feet was a paved lane, the middle of which was patterned with a zigzag of colours, like a long, multi-coloured ribbon suddenly shaken by a gust of wind. Then on their right an open space with cascading rows of concrete benches. A number of students sat there reading. A water channel began from the top, going through a number of small ponds, arriving finally at the last and also the biggest pond at the bottom. Rushing and splashing and ringing, the water feature was very impressive. At the end of the lane was the library, which was in acute contrast to Bing’s conception of a library. With a lot of shining space and shapes and with those clean and tidy chairs and cushions, it was as if entering an art gallery or a glamorous shopping centre. Inside, he saw an area of book racks and shelves, but the tables and chairs still claimed a lot more space in the room. Students loosely occupied the furniture, quietly writing something at the desk, or indulgently turning the pages of a book as if they felt better with the touch of the leaves than its actual print and content. ‘Studying must be very comfortable here,’ David remarked. ‘Yeah, but it seems to me more like a resting place than for study,’ Bing said, ‘and I wonder if I will fall asleep more easily here than the library back in China.’ The two girls went to the bookshelves. Bing followed, and began to browse through the books, taking one out, turning and skimming a little, then putting it back, then another... … On their way back, they saw a noticeboard, where heaps of paper were stuck one over another, as messy as the posters he had seen in Shangwai and in China Renmin University in May and June 1989. ‘Look, a lot of rooms to let,’ Bing said, ‘do any of you have a pen with you? The rent, $50 a week, is much cheaper than $90 we currently pay.’ ‘No, you don’t need a pen, just rip one of the pieces on its end,’ Mei said. ‘Haha, how stupid am I not noticing it.’ He immediately tore one from it. ‘It is in Box Hill.’ ‘Box Hill has a train station. I heard there were a lot of Chinese living there,’ Mei shared her intelligence. ‘And the bus is convenient.’ ‘Yes, that is what the agent told me.’ With a number of slips in their pockets, they strolled back home. The white building, now beheld from this side, was like a giant sail or a hamburger with two walls holding a thin layer of what looked like a swirling staircase. Maria was not in the house. For their dinner, the two girls cooked rice, lettuce, and tomatoes with fried eggs, while David and Bing elected to wash the dishes. After that, Bing made three calls about renting, and agreed to see the places as soon as possible. --End of Chapter 45-- 最后发表：洋八路	洋八路 2014-6-19 11:30	11317	洋八路 2014-6-19 11:33
强烈推荐这篇《菡萏花开》，作者描写得很细致，让人觉得很舒服最后跟贴： michelle.lv 发表于 2014-6-17 09:26 刚去看了一眼，从4月22号到现在都没有更新难道是等着出版商联系嘛？ ... 呵呵有可能啊… 最后发表：junlintianxia	okproperty 2014-4-22 20:27	233299	junlintianxia 2014-6-19 10:30
- 最后跟贴：社会变化太快，心境也随之变化,偶尔回顾也是另有滋味最后发表：dandany	yekai819 2014-4-23 22:42	193004	dandany 2014-6-17 08:23
非类 (小说）最后跟贴：最后发表：时光雕刻中 ...2 3 4 5	xiaopangzi 2009-5-27 19:32	14413486	时光雕刻中 2014-6-15 01:18
读书版原创征文活动——我的系列小说/散文读后感活动之《红楼梦》最后跟贴：本帖最后由 zick 于 2014-6-13 12:35 编辑刚开始给俺闺女讲呢, 准备两年讲个大概, 唉小时候咋就没人给我讲呢, 若是读过, 也不致错投了理科最后发表：zick	ljc 2013-2-24 14:06	101936	zick 2014-6-13 13:12
英文小说：A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(44)天堂之影最后跟贴：本帖最后由洋八路于 2014-6-12 16:03 编辑 Chapter 43 On 25th of February 1998, in Chengdu airport, Bing was seen off by a group of people, including Qiuyan and her parents, his parents, and Ming and her husband. Kai had planned to come but had to call it off a day before due to a university meeting he said too important for him to miss. He would first fly to Shanghai, then transfer to Melbourne. It was not all sadness like eleven years back when he was but an innocent, freshly fledged young bird, flying to a place that seemed even farther than Australia. At twenty-eight, he was now a mature, married man, taller than any of the beloved people around him. He was smiling, repeating the comforting words to his crying mother, who was the only one at present in tears, and who had always grumbled her disagreement with his idea of going abroad. Ming was a policewoman, with strong mind and bones, even her heart might have been hardened by her numerous exercises and battles in the street. And today, in her uniform, she was standing together with her husband, Gao Hui, the proprietor of a computer company, from whom Bing had borrowed most of the money for his Australian endeavour. From her face, Bing couldn’t trace the sort of weakness he remembered when she had had wept heartily at seeing him off on his first journey to Shanghai. His wife was talking to her mother as if carelessly, hiding her emotions well. They had thought she should go with him, but after considering the cost as well as the uncertainty of his adventurous nature, they decided he would go there first, and she would stay in Happy Mountain with her parents, spend her time studying English, until he had a clear idea of what living in Australia was all about before she would join him. So, after throwing the words, ‘Don’t worry, mum, don’t worry, all of you, I will call you as soon as I arrive in Australia,’ he waved and smiled to them and with his hand gestured a number of kisses to them, as if he was a soldier only returning to the regiment after winning many battles. His mother began to smile, but her smile was accompanied with more tears that she had to frequently brush away. So with his mother’s tears in his mind, and with Qiuyan’s pretending coolness, he didn’t enjoy his first flight experience as much as he had hoped. He knew he was forever a child in his mother’s regard, and he knew Qiuyan would miss him, wondering every day in his absence whether their marriage would be able to endure the separation until the time of their re-union. The night before he made love to her three times, in her easy tears and fervent limbs, in many of his whispers and promises, as if it was their last intimacy prior to the end of world. After three hours of flight, he landed in Shanghai Hongqiao Airport, where, at its domestic terminal, he had witnessed the life of his best friend disappearing around the corner. How could he have imagined then that eight years later he would come here again heading to another country? And where was Vivian at this moment? Sitting in the lounge room awaiting the next boarding, he did have some luxurious moments for reflecting on his past. However, the image of Vivian and his four years’ living experience in the city didn’t seem to be as vivid as they had been in many of his nostalgic moments back at Emei Mountain. It was as if the shortened distance had diluted rather than enhanced its intensity. At any rate, today he was just bypassing this place, leaving China for a country far, far away, where surely, more layers of substance would be imported to overwhelm the aged sediment in the bottle of his life. The flight attendants on the plane, in their one-coloured uniform, looked both serious and beautiful. They didn’t smile often, but they did have very nice and fine cheeks, and good teeth and pert noses. Any one of them seemed to be more attractive than his wife, or Vivian, or perhaps any other girls he had so far had a chance to behold. But, weren’t they just servants waiting on customers, delivering the food and cups in the same manner as in a restaurant? Then why did they appear far more superior and important than the passengers they were serving? Why did they have to be more charming than other types of servants in human society? For the moment in his curiosity as a first time plane passenger, he wouldn’t hesitate to assume that the collective beauty gathered in an aircraft served only to provoke the unnecessary desire of male passengers, make them unsatisfied with their own wives, drive them to earn money like an addict, like a swindler, like a corrupt official in order to assuage their desire. The female passengers would also suffer to no lesser extent, for in the presence of them, they might feel inferior, jealous, unhappy, piteous of their own not-as-good features and body line, worrying about their husbands’ potential infidelity. The only safe place for these beautiful servants ought to be the kindergarten, where the hearts of children are still innocent and able to enjoy the pure beauty without inflicting an unhealthy desire, as it certainly did to a vulnerable man like him. Now, these servants were demonstrating puppet-like safety measures. Their smiles looked genuine, their gestures well-conducted in time with the voice of the speaker, like school students doing the exercises broadcast over the radio between classes. There were many seats in the plane, much broader and deeper than the one that had carried him from Chengdu to Shanghai. He was sitting in the middle of six-seat row between two aisles. The whole carriage was just like a packed, big classroom. Chained by the seat belt, he didn’t have freedom, but his eyes were able to look about, peering through the little window at the dusky outside. There was a Chinese girl sitting close to the window. Frequently, she would take off her glasses and touched her eyes with her hand. Then he realized she was actually wiping away her tears, and he was sure she had a very emotional departing at the airport. Most of the passengers had a Chinese face, sad, blank and wooden, as if their hearts were still left in the airport. Some non-Chinese-faced people were talking in English, of which, to him, only words rather than sentences were comprehensible. Now and then, they were giving out free chuckles. Their faces were large, rough and ruddy, and carelessly happy. But their noses were just too long and strong, unnecessary and extravagant, how much air and oxygen did they really need? How much stuff would come out if they sneezed and blew? Now the plane had stabilized after taking off. He closed his eyes, and some of his Shanghai memories became more active and began to tease him. He wondered what Vivian was doing at this moment, whether she was right under the wings of the plane, whether the spirit of Kang was on the campus, in the dormitory, or still jumping in the basketball courts. And, yes, the watch, Vivian’s gift, must still be ticking in his luggage on the overhead storage. Last night, when he was packing his luggage, without Qiuyan’s notice he took it out from the corner inside his old case. He turned the delicate knob, and after a few rounds, it was ticking again, to his great joy and surprise. Indeed, after so many years, the watch was still functional. What a magic and cruel thing! A half thrill ran through him. He gave the watch a kiss and allowed Vivian’s face to flash a moment in his eyes, like an ember flickering its last life. Then he wound the watch to its maximum limit. The decision whether or not he should bring it with him to Australia was no longer difficult. Gently he stored it, together with his favourite books and photos, into the new case his wife had purchased for him. It would keep ticking for at least a couple of days before it was dead again. Then he felt very tired. He needed some rest and sleep. The sexual conduct with his wife last night must have consumed three quarters of his manhood, and the sexy female flight servants, restlessly shoving back and forth in the aisles, drained the rest. But his nap was soon interrupted by such a servant, who came over to deliver the supper. She asked him, very friendly though only gazing at his chin, ‘What do you want, the chicken or beef or…?’ and he looked up into her eyes, and answered ‘Beef’. In the minutes that followed he was absorbed with the first delicate and privileged food provided free, well, not free actually, by the air service. He was enjoying it very much, but not as much as a man sitting two seats away from him, as he noticed. The man, at his fifties, looking thin and healthy, had an impressive eating manner. His food was something like lasagne or soft pasta filled with a lot of sauce or cheese. Using the spoon that he applied horizontally, he scraped the food from the very top, layer by layer like water slowly levelling down, until he reached the very bottom. Each thin layer was completed neat and tidy, leaving no stains whatsoever around the box before he was ready to strip the next. In the end the whole box was so clean that it appeared even cleaner than a woman’s face. Bing observed that he was not really starving, he was just really, really appreciating the airplane-food, and managed to consume it with an ardour like an artist working on a piece of work. And, if his eating manoeuvre was not evident enough to prove such appreciation, then his calling the attendant for a second box was a double indicator. And indeed, he was finishing his second box precisely in the same manner, at the same speed, and with the same mental concentration. Glancing furtively and frequently at him, Bing’s own jaw was slowly dropping. The man must have had much flying experience. A new traveller like Bing couldn’t possibly have known that an extra meal could be asked for. After finishing his own share, Bing waited for the attendant to come over to collect the rubbish so that he could resume his nap. But for a long time she didn’t come, and when someone finally came, it was not her. He shut his eyes again, but found it hard to rest. In this craft, there was no rattling sound like in a train lulling one into sleep. The buzzing was constant, like that of a starving, giant mosquito. And all the time he had to strain his neck because of the weight of his head. It was true he was sitting in a nice seat, very comfortable to his lean buttocks, but he could not find a way to alleviate the stress on his neck. The design of the seat was very ridiculous. Sure it had a cushion supposed to support his head, and there was even a piece of soft paper with an advertisement stuck to it for the purpose. But how could he rest his head on it? Hooked and harshly bent over, it did nothing but oppose any such an attempt. Actually it was trying to rest on his head instead of the other way around. Therefore, for many hours, his efforts to sleep were futile due to the soreness of his neck. Then he had a better idea; he put down the tray and rested his head on his arms on it, like a student stealing slumber in a classroom. After how long he didn’t know, he awoke to detect the saliva trickling at the corner of his mouth, which was very good, for it meant he had had some quality sleep. Straightening up, he found people around him were all sleeping one way or another. The two foreign gentlemen - he meant the passengers without a Chinese face - impressed him the most. Sitting upright, their giant mouths were gaping upwards, in the same fashion as baby birds opening their beaks for drops of food, or as the men he remembered sleeping on the benches in Lu Xun Park. It amazed him that they were able to stick their heads back so comfortably well, against the law of gravity. For the rest of the journey, he could not do or think much else in the dull protracted hours in the chamber. Like others, he might unfasten the seat belt, go to the middle section, move and stretch his knuckle bones. Once, feeling a vague need to go to the toilet, he waited in the queue and at his turn, slid into the narrow folded door. The space was enough for him, but the flushing sound was so explosive, so frightening that he felt his heart was shocked out of his body. Then, curiously he began to wonder if the waste was sucked directly out and thrown into the sky. But well, it couldn’t be. It was unthinkable to imagine it was directly released to the sky, to be mixed up with the beautiful clouds, to make in part the sweet raindrops as well as the marvellous rainbow. However, from his belief that the train toilet did have the dirty behaviour along the railway, it was still possible the plane had a similar design, otherwise why were the toilets prohibited from use prior to landing? Well, so many man-made mysteries, in the air, and on the land! When the wheels of plane at last touched screeching on the concrete, he could almost hear a collective breath of relief from all passengers, a lucky relief they had indeed survived a trip of 7500 kilometres, high above the sea. And the travellers, with their awakening little spirits, began to fidget and fret about the seats and their precious belongings even before the plane stopped taxing. The way to the immigration counter was very long, but the flat escalator, and the shine and polish of the floor, and the colour and smiling posters on the wall, made his steps buoyant, exciting his soul to skip and swell. So this was Melbourne! So this was Australia, a country, a human society that must be very different from where he had expended the twenty eight years of his life. -- End of Chapter 43-- End of Part IV 最后发表：洋八路	洋八路 2014-6-12 16:47	01011	洋八路 2014-6-12 16:47
《四库全书》断想最后跟贴：方白发表于 2014-6-9 22:19 这世界太疯狂了，已经没办法让人静下心来读点书了。我们只能尽己所能，能读多少就多少吧。 ... 是啊… 光看帖 …都觉得时间不够呢… 最后发表：junlintianxia ...2	方白 2014-6-6 21:18	463896	junlintianxia 2014-6-12 11:42
悉尼有没有教书法，或者书法协会之类最后跟贴：有的，书法协会定期活动的。还有讲座。自己搜下吧。。最后发表：alyssa	davidguan 2014-6-10 16:21	11679	alyssa 2014-6-10 16:22
参加活动“介绍一本我读过的好书”——“用香水写作”林燕妮：《青春之葬》最后跟贴：这本书我十几年前读大学时看过，当时不知作者是谁，但印象很深，是觉得写的有些自恋的，现在想想女主角是不是可算是传说中的玛丽苏？:）我就记得女主和三个男人，一个是底层浪子，一个是留学时遇见的富家同学，什么都优秀可就是性无能，一个是性无能同学的弟弟，最后她选择嫁给性无能的那个了，所以叫青春之葬~~~但刚才去搜了下，发现网上的版本和我记忆中的不完全一样，前一半是一样的，但后面比我当时看的还多出一半来，没仔细看，不知后来女主怎样了哈最后发表：夕燃漪	静好如初 2011-8-20 21:55	216751	夕燃漪 2014-6-10 12:50
英文小说: A Shadow in Surfers Paradise(43) 天堂之影最后跟贴：洋八路发表于 2014-6-9 23:49 谢谢你的回复. 我目前的思路：原来如此。。爱情啊。。婚姻啊。。大家都是糊涂虫啊。。。。大概明白你的思路了。。是我没有读明白你的用意。。谢谢你的小说。。晚安。。最后发表：Gone	洋八路 2014-6-8 15:40	82008	Gone 2014-6-10 01:01
书最后跟贴：前两周在悉尼来着，错过了，可惜最后发表：locatelli	hedgehog 2014-6-7 19:20	21932	locatelli 2014-6-9 18:16
自学《三字经》最后跟贴：百读不厌的圣书. 全都忘光了. 最后发表：stmimi ...2	big_beast 2013-9-10 00:22	308014	stmimi 2014-6-7 11:18