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Ned 2021-11-12 08:01:24
Never show up but never leave
A good novelist is able to control the convincing power of the story throughout. No matter what kind of style, what kind of writing technique, it must be convincing in the end.
The story told by a novel or a movie can start at will, but it cannot end at will. The story has reached this... -
Tyreek 2022-03-21 09:01:40
"The Truth About Death" by Rebecca
"Thought" and "truth".
People always believe that what they think and guess must be the truth.
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Wayne 2021-11-12 08:01:24
It turns out that everything is like that...
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Vinnie 2021-11-12 08:01:24
#重看# Clouds linger and misty Manderley is like a ghost at night, with a very gothic sense of space (the original works are inherited from "Jane Eyre" and "Wuthering Heights"), and its eerie and mysterious atmosphere is in line with Xi Pang's efforts to express The number of psychological horrors; the bad omen of the newly married heavy rain has been set, and the light source freezes the partial expression to open up the past, and the absent protagonist runs through the whole process; it is obvious that he does not love her.
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Mrs. de Winter: [opening voice-over] Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. Then, like all dreamers, I was possessed of a sudden with supernatural powers and passed like a spirit through the barrier before me. The drive wound away in front of me, twisting and turning as it had always done. But as I advanced, I was aware that a change had come upon it. Nature had come into her own again, and little by little had encroached upon the drive with long, tenacious fingers. On and on wound the poor thread that had once been our drive, and finally there was Manderley. Manderley - secretive and silent. Time could not mar the perfect symmetry of those walls. Moonlight can play odd tricks upon the fancy, and suddenly it seemed to me that light came from the windows. And then a cloud came upon the moon and hovered an instant like a dark hand before a face. The illusion went with it. I looked upon a desolate shell with no whisper of the past about its staring walls. We can never go back to Manderley again. That much is certain. But sometimes, in my dreams I do go back to the strange days of my life, which began for me in the South of France.
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Maxim de Winter: You despise me, don't you?
