For thousands of years, the Seine River has quietly passed by her, washing the dust of history all night; And her forehead is full of vicissitudes of life, she read all the changes in the world, quietly.
For many people who have never been to Paris, she is more of a title and a painful story. Her name is closely related to Hugo, a great French poet, novelist, literary critic and political commentator in the19th century, an innovator of poetry and the founder of romantic drama. With her wisdom and hard work, she injected blood and soul into the lifeless cold stone, making her rich and wonderful. They are like a pair of lovers.
Hugo once said in the preface of Notre Dame de Paris that a few years ago, when he visited her, he found the handwriting on the wall in the dark corner of a spire bell tower: ANARKH. These capital Greek letters, eroded by years, are dark in color and deeply embedded in stones. These indescribable symbols, especially their fateful and tragic meanings, deeply shocked his heart.
He thinks about who the suffering soul is, and he will not leave this world unless he leaves a brand of evil or disaster on the forehead of this ancient church. After the visit, the walls were painted and scraped off, and the mysterious handwriting engraved on the dark bell tower of Notre Dame disappeared. Now that it's gone, the unknown fate summarized by its tears has vanished. The person who wrote on the wall, together with the words, disappeared from the world.
At that time, there was an open-air cafe in front of Notre Dame. He drank rich coffee and sat until the sun set, watching the color of the sunset spread evenly on the white stone wall of Notre Dame. I imagine Hugo in an invisible state of mind, wandering in the huge shadow of the front wall of Notre Dame day and night, listening to the long bell from the bell tower and gently stroking the stone that will be carved with fate by the years. The mysterious words on the bell tower can't help jumping into his mind, and a noble and painful feeling slowly rises in his heart, and he begins to conceive a magnificent story.
In Grevo Square, Esmeralda, a beautiful and kind gypsy wandering girl, danced, followed by Gary, a beautiful and clever girl. Quasimodo, the bell ringer, bounced back and forth on the bell tower with his ugly deformed body, growling like a monster. The gloomy shadow of the priest, like a ghost, is thick and wet, shining through the black coat in the courtyard wall of the bell tower. ……
Those stones will surely be remembered today. At that time, he sighed deeply and piteously, his fiery fingers were like burning flames, and he felt his painful exploration of the heart of human nature.
There are two bell towers at the top of Notre Dame de Paris, and the giant clock in the south bell tower weighs thirteen tons. Quasimodo used to ring the bell here. Those clocks are the only light that can penetrate deep into the soul of deaf-mute Cyclops. He loves them, he talks to them, understands them and enjoys his unique happiness. He gave this mysterious church a special life.
At the top of this clock tower far away from the world and close to heaven, it is a noble and holy world belonging to quasimodo, and it is also a lonely and desperate world. That day, he looked out from here, and the dense houses in Paris were divided by streets. The cool breeze blows gently, and it seems that even the bell tower is shivering.
There are boiling crowds, mighty kings, domineering soldiers and, of course, tough executioners and beautiful gallows in Grevo Square. Everyone craned their necks, as if expecting a wonderful performance.
The noose bit her neck. Like an innocent butterfly, her delicate wings twitched a few times and finally stopped on the spider web. Just as the sun was rising, her white skirt drifted in the wind.
Esmeralda is dead. She died in the square where she danced and in the square where she gave quasimodo water to drink.
The eyes at the top of the tower shed tears quietly, and only one eye shed tears once. Finally, I hold the person I love and die, becoming dust that will never be separated. The bell echoed with the kindness of cruel burial.
Everything in all things is not human beauty. Ugliness is next to beauty, deformity is close to beauty, ugliness is hidden behind sublimity, beauty and evil coexist, light and darkness * * *, Hugo said.
Birth, destruction, reconstruction, Millennium. Today, the bell is still ringing and mass is still being held. During the day, people go in, cut off, and put aside the secular temporarily. Light holy water on your forehead, cross your chest, light candles in front of the altar, and then sit down quietly to get spiritual comfort and inner sublimation. Notre Dame de Paris remains Notre Dame de Paris.
The windows on the Champs Elysé es are colorful and convey the latest fashion ideas in the world, but this is not Paris. The Seine River, which flows quietly, witnessed the historical changes in silence. It is not Paris. Coffee shops all over the street, large and small, are French leisure, warm and romantic. It is not Paris. Paris is the immortal bell of Notre Dame.
On such an unforgettable night, Notre Dame de Paris finally sent me away with a bell, as if everything had been predestined. & gt& gt