We are also surrounded by such a variety of people, living all kinds of interesting lives, stories big and small. Neighbor's quarrel, live near the square dance, walking encountered roadside disputes, the train on the way to meet love to call the neighbor, a group of friends and their own *** with hobbies in their own circle of all kinds of sadness and joy, the female lunatic obsessively feed the temple dog, music enthusiasts pulling the only remaining audio equipment after the divorce in the main street singing "Barber of Seville" 。。。。。。 These are actually things we come across every day. See it, laugh about it, talk about it, and forget about it. Until I read a book like "Olive Crumbs", I suddenly realized how the writing is more real and interesting than what I saw on the spot. It is because I am too lazy and lack of imagination, put a living color of the day like watching the exhibition, or through the glass enclosure to walk through the kind of flowers.
Because the author is a painter, a lot of words have a strong sense of picture. Like "sitting in the city of books, all poor, a waste of paper", so a few words in front of the eyes, as if he really is the sticky spider silk hanging upside down in the dilapidated window of the thief, despise and sympathize with the readers. "The distant sky is as red as the yolk of a duck egg, like the light on the stage of a play", describing the redness of the sky, and using the yolk of a duck egg as an analogy, while thinking about it and being convinced, it must be the duck eggs of Gaoyou, Jiangsu Province. "With a good long hair, sparsely dirty, the leather shoes on the feet of the gutter, exuding a flavor of radish, gutter oil", this is not only a sense of picture, read and read but also to inhale the nose. "He was dipped in thick ink to kill people from a meter away from the painting table, a smash down, thick ink splash, splashed me head and face, even on the teeth are splashed with ink, rinsed his mouth, but also half a day of dry-heaving", read this when very do not like to rinse his mouth and dry-heaving this, because the next picture should be to put him pushed down on the canvas to make a landscape picture of the.
I really like the two articles "Chasing Clouds" and "Painting Water". cute as a doodad, and each time it hit me it felt brand new. It's doubtful that what I call reading a book is exactly like admiring the cover in an exhibition gallery. I can't stretch this topic too far; I've been belittling myself to the deepest dustbin of the subway station lately on the matter of reading books. When I read "Painting Water", I always think of Wang Xiaobo.
This time I re-read, I consciously slowed down, and occasionally made a couple of notes, very utilitarian, in order to write the after-reading of the time to use. Now the biggest afterthought is that the book has just been closed, the content has been forgotten most of the time. All I can think about is the green olives rolling around. I'm really not familiar with olives, and my only memory of them is from canned olives at the supermarket. However, the sacred music of "If You Don't Press the Olives into Pieces" is of great interest.