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兔灰灰的小窝

每天进步一点点

 
 
 

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小说:格尔尼卡  

2012-09-08 17:31:34|  分类: 原著欣赏 |  标签: |举报 |字号 订阅

  下载LOFTER 我的照片书  |

看到BC的推介,暧色调的封面也增加了喜爱之情,立刻买下这书,化了一个月时间读完。

小说:格尔尼卡 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝
 
某日在西塘船上晚餐,看到河对面这景,瞬间就穿越了。还有比这里更适合阅读Guernica的地方吗?
小说:格尔尼卡 - 兔灰灰 - 兔灰灰的小窝
 

Guernica

Some of the smaller items offered wordless mysteries from the edge of the mantel; there was a small bronze horse with its head reared high and an iron coin bearing unknown symbols.

 

He had come back to Spain for a short break, come to this quiet town in the mountains, to tear art to pieces, to make it something it hadn’t been, or perhaps something it had been long before. This was a place he could feel art. It came up at him form the dirt and radiated down in waves from the sun. It was time to shatter art and reshape it, as one might do with bright pieces of broken glass.

 

God works in mysterious ways.

 

Farming and marriage progressed smoothly, and it was an ideal environment for the production of balanced and happy children.

 

Cows, though, were sociably curious.

Sometimes she’d whisper her secrets to these friends, feeling the relief that comes from saying words aloud, ever if only to beasts.

The cows were generous with their attention, their upturned eyes sensitive and somehow understanding.

 

I have a feeling that we will accomplish great things together.

 

If he is the most anything in the country, it is the most boastful.

 

‘What is the worst part of being blind?’ Miren asked.

‘Having to try to tell people what it’s like.’

 

‘What’s it like not having a family?’

‘Nobody touches you.’

 

She was only sixteen, but she seemed to encourage people to take part in her youth rather than give them reason to be jealous of it. She reminded them how life looked before so complicated.

 

It was peaceful there as the small stream created soothing background sounds. And as the fire warmed the cabin, the moss on the roof gave off a rich organic smell.

 

The construction of boats is a marriage of utility to function, with the conservation of space and weight being key.

He could be productive, creative, and expressive, and be gratified that his work would last long after he was gone.

 

To real Basques, every man is his own king.

 

He walked through patches of evening light that made the fallen yellow leaves glow like a path of gold. Yes, he thought, this is the way to make a living. There is romance in this, even in the name the smugglers use, the workers of the night.

 

The early autumn haze of wood smoke in the valley generally softened the sun in the morning until the midday breezes swept the air clean. Higher, he could see how the mountains overlapped and were tinted a progression of green to blue to grey to ghostly in the distance.

 

Everyone is driven by what they want most. Work out what that is, and you have the answer to who that person is. Most of the time it’s obvious, but all of us are usually too concerned about the things we want to ever stop and look at anybody else’s motives.

 

Like the people in the village, the herbs lived out their individual preferences, some seeking exposure and others darker places, with flowers attuned to the light and shadows and the length of the day.

 

Yes, to live with passion and be ruled by love is life’s only way, he preached, but in this case, love’s price might be unreasonably dear.

 

Most of them never had much anyway, so it wasn’t the poverty that so upset those in town. Some weren’t troubled by the rash of break-ins and stealing from businesses, as hunger nibbled away at people’s principles. Many understood it, recognized it as human nature, and had considered it themselves in dark moments.

 

But something more menacing filled the atmosphere now, an uncertainty that crackled in the air, in the suspicion on the streets that caused people to look down rather than ahead, and in the night that announced itself with the sound of bolts snapping shut.

 

‘Would that lead to trouble for you from above?’

‘Do you mean the Vatican or God?’

 

He had lived in Paris for more than thirty years but never sought French citizenship. Spain was his home, in his mind and his art.

Art sprang from the gut, not from assignment.

 

He wished to shock them into alertness but not scare them to the point that they could no longer absorb the message.

 

He would never be a confident dancer, but he could at least remain vertical. He felt the rhythm of the music and managed to connect it to his movements.

 

To talk of blood is theoretical; to have them see it, step in it, smell it as it darkened into sticky puddles would have been infinitely more illustrative.

 

There was a natural beauty in the countryside, the pilot thought, so like a mixture of the Alps and the Black Forest.

 

All things lost had assumed secondary relevance to survival.

 

It would be the first thing he would see. But would he be more hurt by its sight or by its absence? At some point they would discuss it. Or maybe they never would.

 

No, he would go nowhere else; grief is not a matter of geography. He needed to stay in Guernica. It would be the only place where he wasn’t an outsider.

 

The world is filled with three-legged dogs and one-legged gulls, she claimed. If they can manage with the tiny brains God provided, then so can you.

 

Find the value in what remains.

 

Too obvious. It is simple to make people uneasy, more difficult to make them think.

 

I am sorry to God, I am sorry to the baker. When the war is over, I will pay him back double. God understands, doesn’t He?

 

To help him was tricky, to guide him impossible.

 

I thought myself a god among men, and the real God decided he needed to teach me the truth.

But being shown to be a fool is a hard thing.

 

Ventures in public forced him to rise to the surface, while the rest of his time was spent at some subsurface lever, lost in thought or dreaming. If he could stay away from people, his days were less complicated. Not easier, because it all felt like wading through a viscous twilight, but less complicated.

 

Alaia no longer needed to recognize the time of day. She slept when she wished and for as long as she could. There was only waking and sleeping now, and in her solitary darkness there was little difference between the two.

 

Politics and deep beliefs were not a factor, since he had neither.

 

The work consumed the energy that might otherwise have been exploited by his mind. It was a welcome exhaustion, and after a day’s sawing he slept through most of the nightmares and all of the dreams.

 

A calm overtook Charles Swan. He felt as if he had broken free from hell’s torments and was ascending peacefully to heaven. Except that he was headed in the other direction, floating to earth through the sublime tranquility that attends the end of chaos.

 

There wasn’t time to grieve or you’d never take off again. You could remember them all later, after the war, all at once, and for a long time.

 

Nature doesn’t rush; we have to move steadily.

 

They seemed content with their lives, so certain of their direction, so insulated from uncontrollable outside forces.

 

Minguel had spoken of things to this stranger that he had not been able to say to Justo or Dodo or his father. They were all too close; they had their own suffering, and he could not expect them to carry his as well. It took this stranger to coax from him the words for such things.

 

Dodo, with his enthusiasm and infectious playfulness, had helped him gain distance form Guernica.

Nobody had a greater hatred for injustice, even when we were little. He was always trying to take on a bully. He always had more passion about whatever he was doing than anybody else.

If the fishing was bad one day, he would try to convince you it was caused by the politics of the Spanish government.

 

One officer who considered himself culturally advanced approached the artist as he sipped his coffee at a table beneath the green pavement awning. The officer held a reproduction of the mural Guernica, barely larger than postcard size.

‘pardon me,’ he said, holding the card out. ‘You did this, didn’t you?’

Picasso put his cup delicately onto its saucer, turned to the picture and then to the officer, and responded, ‘No. You did.’

 

 BC在爱琴海的米克诺斯岛阅读格尔尼卡
 
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