In the morning of 1923, Woolf lay in his bed.
Laura Brown lay in her husband's bed in the morning of 1941. Her husband bought her a bouquet of delicate yellow roses.
In the morning of 2001, Mrs Dalloway lay in bed with her gay girlfriend.
I got out of bed and decided to go shopping for flowers by myself, I always like to see them in the morning, lilies, musk peas, tulips, bunches of lilacs, white roses, and even the alluring irises that are somewhat mistress-like flower. They are all cute and fragile, and their lives are so short that they can't stand the wind and frost, and they can't stand the waste of time. I glanced at "Mrs. Dalloway" by the bedside, Woolf gave me too much impact, and without mental preparation, I could only keep falling, making me unable to read this book with peace of mind. Stream of consciousness, stream of consciousness, every time I follow the flow of consciousness, I drift to another world, the countryside of England, the river where Woolf committed suicide at the time, and the beautiful flowers blooming in the grass by the river.
I involuntarily picked up the book and flipped through it, and saw a passage: Tranquility descended upon her, tranquility, tranquility, at this time the needle in her hand pierced the silk smoothly, paused gently, and then gathered those green pleats together together and lightly sewed to the skirt waist. So one summer the waves gathered, lost their balance, and fell; they gathered and fell; and the whole world seemed to say more and more gloomily, "It's over," until the heart in the body lying in the sun on the beach said: "It's over." Don't be afraid anymore, the heart said. Don't be afraid anymore, said the heart, and at the same time hand over its burden to a certain sea, and the sea laments for all the sorrows, and then renews, begins, gathers, and falls at will. The body listened in solitude to the buzzing of passing bees; the waves lapping; the dogs barking, barking, barking far away.
That is the yearning for death. Death is mysterious and beautiful. Because of the unknown, there are endless temptations. We yearn deep in our hearts, the original place where our souls once lived, although we have lost all memories, we still want to abandon everything, threw himself into his arms, peacefully, forever and peacefully handed over to he. Just as I saw that poem many years ago, it touched a string in the deepest part of my heart. It was a strong resonance that I couldn't extricate myself from, and I lived in a trance all day long. It was only later that I learned that the death of the poet is like his poems. Maybe it was a subconscious desire, and God made it happen.
Woolf wanted to die. Yes, while I put down the book, I was thinking of a certain image, floating, and the description I wrote was far less rich in thoughts, those past feelings, those of my wife, of my lover, of noble sentiments, of the cruelty of war, of ambiguous suddenness. Flickering, suppressed desires, sexual orientation... (My mother asked when I was going to buy flowers, I was stunned, remembering to change.) Am I wearing that tea-green sweater and grey cashmere skirt? Or this white turtleneck sweater with a black flannel pleated skirt. Is it the piece of agate that rhythmically rhythmically rippled the last rays of light like the sunset? Or a simple long chain with quaint blue shell crimps? I hesitated, contradicted. I was escaping from the unchangeable facts of life, time passed slowly, I was forced to accept it, and many times I couldn't adapt and I was at a loss.
I watched the movie called "All the time" and I happened to have the book at the time. My "All the Time", my "Mrs. Dalloway", and my "All the Time" movie, the three of them come together in a wonderful way, as if the three women are inextricably linked.
I finally got out. Mrs. Dalloway kissed Sally once when she was young; Laura and Kitty kissed once in 1941; and Woolf, she did. Mrs Dalloway is a character in Woolf's story. Laura is a character derived from Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway," and even Woolf herself is a character in someone else's story.
She felt that the kiss was pure, and it was the cruelty that she dared not look directly at reality. Woolf was abused by her father as a child, and later sexually assaulted by her two half-brothers, which severely damaged her body and mind. As Woolf writes in "The Moment of Being", "I felt like an unfortunate little fish in the same tank as a huge, tumultuous shark." She was sexually above average. Much shy, she has since been overwhelmed by extreme apathy and self-defense panic. She has been afraid of men's sexual demands all her life. She must have hated it deeply in her heart, and it was also completely rejected. The way men express their desires always terrifies her, and perhaps that's why she turns to women's tender, harmless love. Because of this, the homosexual trend in her novels has always existed, and although it is very subtle, it is still revealed. Her rape, her failed marriage, her affair with her best friend, her schizophrenia breakdown, and so on all made me scream hysterically! I feel that despair in my throat! It's like I imagine myself dead, facing the darkness, no perception, no hope, I can't help screaming in fear of it...
I know I'm too involved (I'm crossing the road and the people in the car are looking at me), so as to forget the mission I came out with. I walked into the flower shop pretending to be relaxed, greeted the proprietress happily, and eagerly watched the quietly blooming flowers. I found that before a girl fell in love, she always had a narcissistic love for flowers. Jie Huayu, cherish Huafang, are a kind of yearning for gentle love. Look for the poetic feeling of narcissism in the same sex, and it contains subtle, hidden secrets behind a truth. Can't tell, don't know. It's such a complex beauty, but it doesn't make your reason succumb to desire. In the end, it turned into a puff of smoke and drifted away.
I'm tired of his "love". In his world, love is like a debate, and he must be the best debater forever. And my role is to surrender! I don't even want to hear his voice anymore, let alone his touch. I'm going to speak out, yes, I've decided to speak my mind, whether he takes it or not. Because I want to completely get rid of his mental torture on me.
Flowers in hand, bursts of rich floral fragrance, dissolved into the air. I know that at the end of the story someone committed suicide and disappeared like a cloud on the top of a wave; someone faced death and chose life. All the time, the moment when I feel that happiness is about to come is actually a kind of happiness. I want to live in the moment, live in the moment. They are gone and we are still living. I look at their stories and we can't learn to love life without real death. As women, we need to learn to love life first, and then we can let go of everything.
I sent that email and I am free at this moment.
Postscript - "The Hours" is all live.
Woolf is one of the three major stream-of-consciousness writers in the world, her works and her background are full of moving mysteries. I met her when I was seventeen. At that time, she shocked me no less than Zhang Ailing's impact on me. I almost went crazy and read the few novels written by her that had been translated. She knew women like that. Psychological, female needs. Aristotle once said: "All outstanding souls have the color of madness." Woolf is a typical schizophrenic patient, who often has auditory hallucinations, cannot concentrate, and is on the edge of madness. But perhaps it was her tortuous life that fulfilled her genius. She advocated feminism throughout her life, emphasizing that a woman should have her own "room". But the most ironic thing is that during her lifetime, she carried forward the awakening of female consciousness, and women were no longer suppressed by men; and after her death, many years later, what we remember is not her name, but her husband's surname. Woolf.
She said she would disappear like a cloud on the top of a wave, and she really disappeared at the bottom of the Omuse River, flowing into the darkness over time.
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