There are so many people around us, living all kinds of interesting lives and stories. Neighbor's quarrel, square dance near the residence, roadside dispute when walking around the corner, neighbors who love to call on the train, all kinds of joys and sorrows of a group of friends with the same hobbies in their own circle, crazy women who feed dogs in temples, and music enthusiasts who sing "Seville Barber" on the main road with the only audio equipment left after divorce. . . . . . These are actually things that we encounter every day. See, smile, talk and forget. It was not until I read a book like "Olive Dredging" that I suddenly realized how to write more realistically and interestingly than what I saw on the spot. It is because I am too lazy and lack imagination. Let's live a lively life like watching an exhibition or browsing a glass cover.
Because the author is a painter, many words have a strong sense of picture. For example, "I'm sitting in a bookstore, I'm poor, I'm a piece of waste paper." These words were placed in front of me, as if I were really the thief hanging upside down by the broken window with spider silk, and I despised and sympathized with the scholar. The horizon in the distance is as red as a duck's egg, like the light on the stage of a drama. To describe the red sky, we just use duck egg yolk as a metaphor, but after careful consideration, we must be convinced. It must be duck eggs from Gaoyou, Jiangsu. "I have long hair, my body is thin and dirty, my shoes are criss-crossed, and I smell of radish and gutter oil." This is not only a sense of picture, but also a nose when reading. "He was covered in thick ink and jumped on the drawing table from a meter away. When he bumped, thick ink splashed on my face and even my teeth. After washing my mouth, I vomited for a long time." When I read this sentence, I didn't like it very much, because the next picture should be to push him down on the canvas to make a landscape.
I like chasing clouds and painting water very much. The favorite mantra in "Chasing the Clouds" is: "Pan broken Luo, Nineteen continents, Luo cha ghosts, DuDu mouths, flowers opposite each other, leaves, etc., clouds are all in my altar, storing cold water and putting them into white cranes". The second time I read it, I found that this sentence was already in my excerpt a year ago, and it should have been sprouted twice by DuDu. I suspect that my so-called reading is just like enjoying the cover in the exhibition hall. This topic cannot be extended too much. Recently, I despised myself in the deepest dust of the subway station. When I read The Painting of Water, I always think of Wang Xiaobo.
This rereading, consciously slow down, and occasionally write down two strokes, which is very utilitarian when writing reviews. The biggest feeling after reading it now is that the book has just been closed and most of the contents have been forgotten. My mind is full of turquoise olives. I'm really unfamiliar with olives. My only impression comes from the canned olives in the supermarket. However, I am very interested in the sacred music "If you don't crush olives into dregs".