This is the saddest paradox of man. The search for the boundary is to explore in the blur. Where exactly should this boundary be drawn by ink? What is the result of categorization? Wittgenstein said, "the meaning of a word is its use in the language", the definition of a word is its use in the language. All the concepts in the world cannot be accurately defined. Is there an insurmountable gap between rock and soil, between soil and gravel? In society, before an event ends, how to describe the truth of the event, even the "end" itself cannot be judged. Therefore, for people, the word "identity" becomes absurd. A photo, a string of numbers, an address, a political code name, and a story to tell, none of them can fully represent a person. But people always introduce themselves when they meet, and even when we learn a new language, we need to learn how to introduce ourselves first. At the end of the story, Emmache misses the chance to save Catherine because of the identity hidden in her name. In this world with order, people give up the truth for the sake of order, and judge according to the appearance. This is the source of tragedy. No one can escape the true selves lost by the mosaics laid by the social order. Emma Shu turned into an unrecognizable person from the sea of fire. In order to preserve a truth, he gave up his identity and let people call him. His English patient. He stopped saying I was from Hungary, I was a count, I was a member of the Royal Geographical Society. All he said was that I only had half a lung left. This disability became his identity, leaving him in an abandoned villa in Italy.
Quiet language flows along with Catherine's paintings throughout the time. This is how he went to death.
Not being able to describe ourselves accurately does not prevent us from establishing ourselves as a completely unique social being. We are living in this confusion, changing, going astray, suffering and also happy, loving.
How to define love? Catherine and her husband, Emmaus and Catherine, Hannah and Sgt. Which one is right?
Emmache hates this categorical discussion, the thing is the thing itself, not how people describe it. He said, "A thing is a thing. No matter what you put in front of it. Big car, slow car, chauffeur
-driven car, broken car. It's still a car." What description does it add. Big car, slow car, driver's car, broken car. A car is just a car.)
Catherine's answer was: "Love? Romantic love, platonic love, filial love. Quite different things, surely." (And what about love? Romantic love, Platonic love, children's love for their parents. These are all very different, sure.) Emmache could not answer her retort so easily and firmly. Because the adjectives that Emmache ignores are themselves an integral part of things, nothing is immutable, all things, nothing is immutable. A "car" is a machine, and a machine conforms to the rules by which it was designed and built, and is the least prone to change. And "love" has no established framework and is the easiest thing to change. When one person meets another and develops a feeling, the definition of "love" has inevitably changed. We can even say that "love" itself contains the changes, occurrence and disappearance of love. What a powerless thing language is, things contain themselves and their opposites, and we can only use one word to describe them. Hannah threw herself to the ground crying, and her smile as she held up fireworks in the church, from fresco to fresco. This is her love.
How do the two come together? My wife is in the desert when Emmaus said to the British officer. From Emma's point of view, it doesn't matter whether Jeffrey's wife or his own wife, Catherine is Catherine, the K in his book, and the carrier of his love. From Catherine's point of view, love is complicated love. It doesn't matter whether Jeffrey's wife or Emma's wife, Catherine is Catherine, a swimmer in the desert.
Emma is self-contradictory, and Catherine asks what he hates most. He said to Catherine, "Ownership. Being owned. When you leave, you should forget me." possess her. This paradox of love is the paradox of the definition of "love" itself. Love is not only joy, but also pain, doubt, uncertainty. All these concepts come together to form "love" that cannot be described by a single essence.
In fact, what is the difference between the concepts of "love" and "war"? Both parties involved in the concept, both about borders and possessions, must both grow in barren places, in deserts, in remote caves uninhabited, in enclosed spaces lacking air and water, and must fight for more . The roles of the same person in the two may be completely opposite. Amarsh was loyal in love, but in the war he gave the Allied military map to the Germans in exchange for personal gain. The sergeant is an active cannonball expert in war, with an active search attitude for every bomb, but a waiter in love. The diametric opposite of similar things is only because in our categorization we stay on different boundaries and draw different maps of friend and foe.
Finally, Katherine wrote: My darling, I'm waiting for you. How long is a day in the dark, or a week? The fire is gone now and I'm cold, horribly cold .
I really ought to drag myself outside, but then there'd be the sun. I'm afraid I'll waste the light on the paintings and on writing these words. We die. We die, We die rich with lovers and tribes. Tastes we have swallowed. Bodies we have entered and swum up like rivers. Fears we have hidden in, like this wretched cave. I want all this marked on my body.
We're the real countries, not the boundaries drawn on maps, the names of powerful men. I know you will come and carry me out into the palace of winds. That's all I have wanted to walk in such a palace with you, with friends, an earth without maps. The lamps gone out and I'm writing in the darkness.
(I'm waiting for you, honey. How long is a day without the light of day? Is it longer than a week? The fire is out, and I feel cold, piercingly cold.
I should have dragged myself out of the cave, where the sun was shining. Looking at pictures and writing some text may consume some power. When we die, our souls go to heaven, where there are people who love each other, regardless of race. We have swallowed each other's incense; we have been united in spirit and deeply in love; we have feared in our hearts like the gloom of this cave. I want to engrave these in my body forever.
Our country is real, with no borders drawn on a map, and no names of the powerful. I know you'll be back, take me out of the cave and step into the palace of the wind. This is my only wish: to walk in the wind with you and some friends on a land without a map... The oil is gone, the lamp is dead, and it is pitch black when I write. )
This is a wind-like freedom that people will never get.
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