56193_007之Goldfinger 金手指等390个文件_

锘挎澀宸炲吇鐢熻冻娴?
wish mind which can only imagine man as crouching under the whip. No, for 鐖辨澀宸為緳鍑ら榿璁哄潧 the sort of tenderness I mean is utterly merciless! 鈥淎 law unto itself鈥?as we say. Of course, one must always remember that truth itself is always halved in utterance. Yet I must in this last book insist that there is hope for man, scope for man, within the boundaries of a simple law; and I seem to 鏉窞姘寸枟spa浼氭墍鍏ㄥ see mankind as gradually appropriating to itself the necessary information through mere attention, not reason, which may one day enable it to live within the terms of such an idea 鈥?the true meaning of 鈥渏oy unconfined鈥? How could joy be anything 鏉窞妗戞嬁浣撻獙璁?else? This new creature we artists are hunting for will not 鈥渓ive鈥?so much as, like time itself, simply 鈥渆lapse鈥? Damn, it鈥檚 hard to say these things. Perhaps the key lies in laughter, in the Humorous God? It is after all the serious who disturb the peace of the heart with their antics 鈥?like 鏉窞spa鍝濂?Justine. (Wait. I must fix myself a ration of gin.) 鈥業 think it better for us to steer clear of the big oblong words like Beauty and Truth and so on. Do you mind? We are all so silly and feeble-witted when it comes to living, but giants when it comes to 鏉窞鏈€澶ф礂娴翠紤闂蹭細鎵€ pronouncing on the universe. Sufflaminandus erat. Like you, I have two problems which interconnect: my art and my life. Now in my life I am somewhat irresolute and shabby, but in my art I am free to be what I most desire to seem 鈥?someone who might bring resolution and harmony into the dying 鏉窞娌瑰帇鎸夋懇浼氭墍浣撻獙 lives around me. In my art, indeed, through my art, I want really to achieve

鏉窞榫欏嚖浜ゅ弸璁哄潧

myself by shedding the work, which is of no importance, as a snake sheds its skin. Perhaps that鈥檚 why writers at heart want to be loved for their work rather than for themselves 鈥?do you think? But then this presupposes 鏉窞姘寸枟浼氭墍鏄仛浠€涔?a new order of woman too. Where is she? 鈥楾hese, my dear Clea, are some of the perplexities of your omniscient friend, the classical head and romantic heart of Ludwig Pursewarden. 鈥極uf! It is late and the oil in the lamp is low. I must leave this letter 鏉窞妗戞嬁涓€鏉¢緳鏈嶅姟 for tonight. Tomorrow perhaps, if I am in the mood after my shopping, I shall write a little more; if not, not. Wise one, how much better it would be if we could talk. I feel I have whole conversations stacked inside me, lying unused! I think it is perhaps the only real lack of which one 鏉窞澶滅敓娲绘澀宸炵櫨鑺卞潑 is conscious in living alone; the mediating power of a friend鈥檚 thoughts to place beside one鈥檚 own, just to see if they match! The lonely become autocratic, as they must, and their judgements ex cathedra in the very nature of things: and perhaps this is not altogether good for the work. But here 鏉窞鎸夋懇鎶偐 at least we will be well-matched, you on your island 鈥?which is only a sort of metaphor like Descartes鈥?oven, isn鈥檛 it? 鈥?and I in my fairy-tale hut among the mountains. 鈥楲ast week a man appeared among the trees, also a painter, and my heart began to 鏉窞鍝佽尪缃?beat unwontedly fast. I felt the sudden predisposition to fall in love 鈥?reasoning thus, I suppose: 鈥淚f one has gone so far from the world and one finds a man in that place, must he not be the one person destined to sh