附：Federico Garcia Lorca - Ode to
Salvador Dali
A rose in the high garden you desire.
A wheel in the pure syntax of steel.
The mountain stripped bare of Impressionist fog,
The grays watching over the last balustrades.
The modern painters in their white ateliers
clip the square root's sterilized flower.
In the waters of the Seine a marble iceberg
chills the windows and scatters the ivy.
Man treads firmly on the cobbled streets.
Crystals hide from the magic of reflections.
The Government has closed the perfume stores.
The machine perpetuates its binary beat.
An absence of forests and screens and brows
roams across the roofs of the old houses.
The air polishes its prism on the sea
and the horizon rises like a great aqueduct.
Soldiers who know no wine and no penumbra
behead the sirens on the seas of lead.
Night, black statue of prudence, holds
the moon's round mirror in her hand.
A desire for forms and limits overwhelms us.
Here comes the man who sees with a yellow ruler.
Venus is a white still life
and the butterfly collectors run away.
*
Cadaqués, at the fulcrum of water and hill,
lifts flights of stairs and hides seashells.
Wooden flutes pacify the air.
An ancient woodland god gives the children fruit.
Her fishermen sleep dreamless on the sand.
On the high sea a rose is their compass.
The horizon, virgin of wounded handkerchiefs,
links the great crystals of fish and moon.
A hard diadem of white brigantines
encircles bitter foreheads and hair of sand.
The sirens convince, but they don't beguile,
and they come if we show a glass of fresh water.
*
Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush
or your pigments that flirt with the pigment of your times,
but I laud your longing for eternity with limits.
Sanitary soul, you live upon new marble.
You run from the dark jungle of improbable forms.
Your fancy reaches only as far as your hands,
and you enjoy the sonnet of the sea in your window.
The world is dull penumbra and disorder
in the foreground where man is found.
But now the stars, concealing landscapes,
reveal the perfect schema of their courses.
The current of time pools and gains order
in the numbered forms of century after century.
And conquered Death takes refuge trembling
in the tight circle of the present instant.
When you take up your palette, a bullet hole in its wing,
you call on the light that brings the olive tree to life.
The broad light of Minerva, builder of scaffolds,
where there is no room for dream or its hazy flower.
You call on the old light that stays on the brow,
not descending to the mouth or the heart of man.
A light feared by the loving vines of Bacchus
and the chaotic force of curving water.
You do well when you post warning flags
along the dark limit that shines in the night.
As a painter, you refuse to have your forms softened
by the shifting cotton of an unexpected cloud.
The fish in the fishbowl and the bird in the cage.
You refuse to invent them in the sea or the air.
You stylize or copy once you have seen
their small, agile bodies with your honest eyes.
You love a matter definite and exact,
where the toadstool cannot pitch its camp.
You love the architecture that builds on the absent
and admit the flag simply as a joke.
The steel compass tells its short, elastic verse.
Unknown clouds rise to deny the sphere exists.
The straight line tells of its upward struggle
and the learned crystals sing their geometries.
*
But also the rose of the garden where you live.
Always the rose, always, our north and south!
Calm and ingathered like an eyeless statue,
not knowing the buried struggle it provokes.
Pure rose, clean of artifice and rough sketches,
opening for us the slender wings of the smile.
(Pinned butterfly that ponders its flight.)
Rose of balance, with no self-inflicted pains.
Always the rose!
*
Oh Salvador Dali, of the olive-colored voice!
I speak of what your person and your paintings tell me.
I do not praise your halting adolescent brush,
but I sing the steady aim of your arrows.
I sing your fair struggle of Catalan lights,
your love of what might be made clear.
I sing your astronomical and tender heart,
a never-wounded deck of French cards.
I sing your restless longing for the statue,
your fear of the feelings that await you in the street.
I sing the small sea siren who sings to you,
riding her bicycle of corals and conches.
But above all I sing a common thought
that joins us in the dark and golden hours.
The light that blinds our eyes is not art.
Rather it is love, friendship, crossed swords.
Not the picture you patiently trace,
but the breast of Theresa, she of sleepless skin,
the tight-wound curls of Mathilde the ungrateful,
our friendship, painted bright as a game board.
May fingerprints of blood on gold
streak the heart of eternal Catalunya.
May stars like falconless fists shine on you,
while your painting and your life break into flower.
Don't watch the water clock with its membraned wings
or the hard scythe of the allegory.
Always in the air, dress and undress your brush
before the sea peopled with sailors and
ships.
西风烈，
长空雁叫霜晨月。
霜晨月，
马蹄声碎，
喇叭声咽。
雄关漫道真如铁，
而今迈步从头越。
从头越，
苍山如海，
残阳如血。
年轻人的反抗是无望的，真正的残酷在于他们的反抗是在作贱自己，他们以发泄欲望的形式将愤怒投向社会，而他们的最美结局就是年轻生命的毁灭。
FROM：大岛渚《青春残酷物语》
还是我在世界之外停滞。
自欺欺人的时候想我大概是台风眼。然而此时却感到台风席卷而来，我什么眼都不是。
啊。我是不习惯。我之前只是视而不见。
所以，在这种人人都动起来的时候我就特别凸显出来。这种凸显让我很不安。
人际关系的分岔口存在于人生的某处。我觉得，我走到最大的那个岔口了。
我可以预见不远将来每个人的扬长而去。
而我，还会在这里吗？
啊。至少现在是。我还没扬鞭。大概我根本就没有马。
那扬鞭了是不是要抽自己呢？
保研，出国，哪哪都是。
猫儿出去野了一圈又回来了，他很欢迎。
两个月内见过双方家长。
他难得出现在网上，出现一次是为了跟女友通话，很甜蜜的样子。
他说放弃考研了，他说习惯了现在的生活，他说两个人一起挺幸福的。
她说要为一个人变强，反正她总是能于某时变强的，不管是为了什么，还是什么都不为。
而我是，从来不曾努力过，所以不知道努力是怎么一回事。
我是怎么过的这二十年呢？
大概以前不努力也能过下去，现在好像有点不行了。
我要为了什么变强呢？还是无论为了什么我都不可能变强？
还是想去东边那个国家。
也许我会去的。
打不同的工。
一个人生活。
最重要的，要养一只猫。
我们人生的终极价值不取决于获胜的方式，二取决于毁灭的状态。——海明威
哲学的义务，在于消除因误解产生的幻想。——康德
最高的善之悟性，即心不存畏惧。——尼采
真正的恐惧是人们对自己的想象力怀有的恐惧。——康拉德
如果你了解拉美那块土地，你也许才能够理解所谓魔幻现实主义的源头在哪里，才能够理解电影《旅行》中在暴风雪中颤颤巍巍的学校、洪水过后四处漂着的棺、上身西装下身潜水服的总统和那许许多多奇特得波澜不惊的事情。
“拉丁美洲的日常生活告诉我们，现实中充满了奇特的事物。为此，我总是愿意举美国探险家F·W·厄普·德·格拉夫的例子。上世纪初，他在亚马孙河流域作了一次令人难以置信的旅行。这次旅行，使他大饱眼福。他见过一条沸水滚滚滚的河流；还经过一个地方，在那里，人一说话就会降下一场倾盆大雨。在阿根廷南端的里瓦达维亚海军准将城，极风把一个马戏团全部刮上天空，第二天渔民们用网打捞上来许多死狮和死长颈鹿。”
门：巴拉圭的弗朗西亚博士曾经下令全国二十一岁以上的男青年都得结婚，是不是？
马：是的。他居然还把他的国家当成一幢房子关闭起来，只许打开一扇窗户递送邮件。弗朗西亚博士这人怪极了，他居然还是一个颇有声望的哲学家，甚至能对卡莱尔进行专题研究。
门：他笃信鬼神吗？
马：不，笃信鬼神的是萨尔瓦多的马克西米利安诺·埃尔南德斯·马丁尼斯，他让人把全国的路灯统统用红纸包起来，说是可以防止麻疹流行。埃尔南德斯·马丁尼斯还发明一种钟摆，据说进餐前先在食物上摆动两下，便知食物是否下过毒药。
FROM:白先勇《蓦然回首》
