I often think of Pasternak, thinking that he must be tall, handsome, sincere and kind and standing. The huge Russia cannot contain a writer's warm, sincere and contradictory nostalgia. I don't know what kind of power the Siberian winds brought to this group of writers in this special period, the snow was blowing, and the poets died with an unstoppable love for their motherland. There is no other nation in the world whose literature has such a persistent quality, as silent, vast, free, and sublime as the forest and the land... The train heading for the night climbs the ridges of the ancient earth, and I hear the great Faun in the twilight. call. No matter how I walk, I can't get out of the purity and beauty of the Purish script on this land with vertical and horizontal fields. How many times have I been willing to abandon the scorching heat of poetry and politics and walk into the rivers and mountains of Katyusha, not wanting to live, sitting on the bank like the daughter of a tree. Not all Chinese understand Russia, its breadth is beyond our imagination of war, beyond the imagination of a certain person. In the city, the melancholy and poetic singing gradually lights up the brandy night in Moscow. I will never hesitate to fall in love with any Russian man, as refined and weak as Pushkin, as arrogant as Leo Tolstoy... And In the Red Square Theater in the Snow World, the cold despair and despair of "Swan Lake" shattered my remaining religious tranquility. If you're also a Moscow-rich person, you're red.
I often think of those red people in my life, thinking that they must be open-minded and sincere, who love to laugh and never hesitate to cry. If you believe that giving without return is also a kind of happiness, you are red. You can reach and empathize with people's pain without difficulty, you are red. Always willing to sacrifice for what you love, you believe the process is a responsibility more than the result, you are red. This author never leaves the word "love", she is red.
I often think of red, thinking it must be a refined, strong, Penelope-esque saffron. In "Broken Embrace", director Pedro Almodovar gave Penelope, a beautiful and spiritual girl, a deep red. Crimson dress, crimson lips, crimson high heels, this is what I imagined the Spanish girl to be, not caring about the world and her hairstyle, casually striding through the crowd, changing the whole scene as much as possible. Air. In the film, Lena, who falls in love with the director, is desperate to betray the screenwriter and betray her life, with a debauched and pure enthusiasm. The innocent tears and innocent smiles made me believe that Penelope herself was an innocent woman. In the scene of Lena, who resembles Audrey Hepburn constantly posing in the film, people see the casual and affectionate Holly in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" and the young and lucky in "Sweetheart". Joe. And I think she's more beautiful than Hepburn, Penelope Cruz's coolness and unruliness that is different from ordinary and old-fashioned gives the character an unparalleled extreme love. In the soft music and lights, the old writer Ernest and the young girl are in love, and the shadows are intertwined. In the Spanish poetic melody, time and reason are temporarily gone, only Lena's red That is the whole meaning of life. The old man did not feel the shame of old age in this reluctant love, but chose to love and slander more resolutely. The girl did not feel guilty for indulgence in this game-like relationship. After Theo, obsessively fell into another fiery love. The moment Ernest, who was so jealous and depersonalized, pushed her down the stairs, and Lena, who was bleeding but not crying, was lying on the ground, unable to move. It was a woman who decided to say goodbye to a wrong love and decided to leave with dignity. The characters in Pedro Almodóvar's films are tough, rightly or wrongly, and people follow the only right voice of destiny to the great city of God. The sudden death of Lena, who was innocently looking for true love, on a dark red night by the sea made me secretly shed a tear for humanity. It's too congested, this world, the feelings of human beings as vast as red, don't have a small beach to rest. Since moth-to-fire rash intrusions into love, she has no room for anything, and a bright red death can cause the strongest visual and sensory vibrations at any time. The scene of Lena embracing her lover Mateo at the end of the film made me feel tragic and solemn in the red of humanity. I think I've fallen in love with this woman with strong lines, and her maddeningly sunken green eyes. She belongs to Spanish, to Spanish love. in the Among the colors, I think she is red, it must be a crimson that is independent from the world. In the body of the women she came to Pingting, the nobility that belongs only to women is as awe-inspiring as a girl who dies in a pool of blood. Respect. The dirge has been played again.
I often think of red, thinking it must be a beautiful, crazy, Van Gogh orange-red. On the golden field, sunflowers are in full swing. I don't know if color has any meaning in his schizophrenic world because of the rich expressions of art. No other plant can show a big heart so quietly on a painter's desktop. On the land of unbridled sunshine, the sunflower blooms with her independence and self in a short flowering period. Mysterious flowers, mystical colors, great and down-to-earth are always tragic. He used bold orange-red to draw a circle of fate in the time of chaotic consciousness, love and life, and bathed in sunshine for the bright red people. In a world of quiet and bright colors, Van Gogh waited to die. His brush is trembling, his eyes are sly, as if flickering candlelight, his mind is red, the red of abject poverty, he is destitute, the height of art is so cold that some more gifted people die because of talent, somewhere in heaven In this place, God must have prepared a well-lit sketchroom for the painter. The sunflower petals protrude into the blinds and continue to compose their own red. Just like Van Gogh, he insisted on art and chose to give up life. He never succumbed to a humble personality. It was blood and a burning heart. In the process of the progress of human civilization, there are always bleak periods, and there are always people who tear down their ribs and burn them. In a sense, we are all just pilgrims who follow humbly. Our eyes look back at the mountains and rivers with sympathy and yearning. The soul flew by like a goshawk, leaving an oath of unconquerableness in the sky. Apart from believing in truth, goodness and beauty, we have no other strength to resist this destined return—to return to the world at that time, and cry bitterly in front of a famous picture that is truly treasured, you can see the sadness in it. The supreme red, now I am facing the sunflowers all over the mountains and plains, I only feel the romantic tragedy consciousness revived in a grand situation in my vision. Beauty is pessimistic, there is no beauty without pessimism, and all this can only be red. Compared to Monet's cherry red, my heart is quiet again in the harbor before dawn. The sunrise, how unreal, is more like a dream scene of the painter, the red in the gray sky looks lonely and helpless, causing people to feel Faustian-like grief for unknown reasons. A sense of tragedy has been quietly remembered for many years, hidden behind the screen with great humility, eternal red.
Dr. Zhivago stumbled down the streets of Moscow, barely raising his arms to say goodbye to his lover, but he stumbled, his lungs filled with fluid, and he choked. His huge body collapsed in the sunlight, the tram passing around him. The streets and alleys of Moscow are covered with Stalin and red slogans. A young memory that belongs only to red lies down in the same fiery red of the new era, the bleak music unique to the shamisen plays, and Lana, who wears a red turban, turns at the end of the snowy night. Moving poems and moving songs, the vast land is filled with the shaking of the fallen oak tree. Dying Pasternak stared at the snow on the window lattice, the motherland did not accept him, but he was destined to accept the motherland and all its suffering, his life as a fugitive was red, my great—tragic— -red.
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