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Need to buy a hookah link Source global Wall Street Journal     time 2021-09-24 16:48:57
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This difference of opinion disturbed Orlando, who had been perfectly happy until now. She began to think, was Nature beautiful or cruel; and then she asked herself what this beauty was; whether it was in things themselves, or only in herself; so she went on to the nature of reality, which led her to truth, which in its turn led to Love, Friendship, Poetry (as in the days on the high mound at home); which meditations, since she could impart no word of them, made her long, as she had never longed before, for pen and ink.

他抄近道穿过一长溜儿房间和楼梯,向宴会厅跑去。这宅子方圆五英亩,宴会厅在宅子的另一端。跑到一半,在穿过仆人住的下处时,他停住了脚步。斯图克雷太太的起居室门开着,毫无疑问,她人不在屋里,肯定是拿了钥匙伺候女主人去了。但是在她的饭桌旁,坐了一个体态臃肿的男子,身边放一只大啤酒杯,面前摆了一张纸。他衣衫不整,棕色粗呢外套,轮形皱领有点儿脏。此人手拿一支笔,却并没有写什么,似乎正在脑子里翻来覆去地掂量某个想法,直到积聚起令他满意的形态和力量。他的眼珠圆圆的,迷迷蒙蒙,如纹理奇异的软玉,一动不动地盯住一个地方。他并没看见奥兰多。尽管步履匆匆,奥兰多还是蓦地站住了。难道这是个诗人? 他是不是正在作诗?告诉我,”他想说,这世上的一切,”因为他对诗人和诗,抱有极其疯狂、荒唐的过分想法。但一个人对你视而不见,只看到食人妖魔、森林之神,或许还有海底深处,你又能对他说什么呢?奥兰多呆呆地站在那里,看那人把笔夹在手指间转来转去,凝视,思考,然后急急写了几行字。那人抬起头来,奥兰多突然觉得很不好意思,赶忙拔腿就跑。他赶到宴会厅,刚好来得及惶恐地垂下头,屈膝向高贵的女王陛下呈上一只盛满玫瑰水的钵。

‘Oh! if only I could write!’ she cried (for she had the odd conceit of those who write that words written are shared). She had no ink; and but little paper. But she made ink from berries and wine; and finding a few margins and blank spaces in the manuscript of ‘The Oak Tree’, managed by writing a kind of shorthand, to describe the scenery in a long, blank version poem, and to carry on a dialogue with herself about this Beauty and Truth concisely enough. This kept her extremely happy for hours on end. But the gipsies became suspicious. First, they noticed that she was less adept than before at milking and cheese-making; next, she often hesitated before replying; and once a gipsy boy who had been asleep, woke in a terror feeling her eyes upon him. Sometimes this constraint would be felt by the whole tribe, numbering some dozens of grown men and women. It sprang from the sense they had (and their senses are very sharp and much in advance of their vocabulary) that whatever they were doing crumbled like ashes in their hands. An old woman making a basket, a boy skinning a sheep, would be singing or crooning contentedly at their work, when Orlando would come into the camp, fling herself down by the fire and gaze into the flames. She need not even look at them, and yet they felt, here is someone who doubts; (we make a rough-and-ready translation from the gipsy language) here is someone who does not do the thing for the sake of doing; nor looks for looking’s sake; here is someone who believes neither in sheep-skin nor basket; but sees (here they looked apprehensively about the tent) something else. Then a vague but most unpleasant feeling would begin to work in the boy and in the old woman. They broke their withys; they cut their fingers. A great rage filled them. They wished Orlando would leave the tent and never come near them again. Yet she was of a cheerful and willing disposition, they owned; and one of her pearls was enough to buy the finest herd of goats in Broussa.

Masterfully, swiftly, she drove up the curving drive between the elms and oaks through the falling turf of the park whose fall was so gentle that had it been water it would have spread the beach with a smooth green tide. Planted here and in solemn groups were beech trees and oak trees. The deer stepped among them, one white as snow, another with its head on one side, for some wire netting had caught in its horns. All this, the trees, deer, and turf, she observed with the greatest satisfaction as if her mind had become a fluid that flowed round things and enclosed them completely. Next minute she drew up in the courtyard where, for so many hundred years she had come, on horseback or in coach and six, with men riding before or coming after; where plumes had tossed, torches flashed, and the same flowering trees that let their leaves drop now had shaken their blossoms. Now she was alone. The autumn leaves were falling. The porter opened the great gates. ‘Morning, James,’ she said, ‘there’re some things in the car. Will you bring ‘em in?’ words of no beauty, interest, or significance themselves, it will be conceded, but now so plumped out with meaning that they fell like ripe nuts from a tree, and proved that when the shrivelled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning it satisfies the senses amazingly. This was true indeed of every movement and action now, usual though they were; so that to see Orlando change her skirt for a pair of whipcord breeches and leather jacket, which she did in less than three minutes, was to be ravished with the beauty of movement as if Madame Lopokova were using her highest art. Then she strode into the dining-room where her old friends Dryden, Pope, Swift, Addison regarded her demurely at first as who should say Here’s the prize winner! but when they reflected that two hundred guineas was in question, they nodded their heads approvingly. Two hundred guineas, they seemed to say; two hundred guineas are not to be sniffed at. She cut herself a slice of bread and ham, clapped the two together and began to eat, striding up and down the room, thus shedding her company habits in a second, without thinking. After five or six such turns, she tossed off a glass of red Spanish wine, and, filling another which she carried in her hand, strode down the long corridor and through a dozen drawing-rooms and so began a perambulation of the house, attended by such elk-hounds and spaniels as chose to follow her.


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