On and off, it took half a year to finally read it.
In the first half, I endured the housekeeper's rambling reminiscences and sparse travels, laughing at the honor and dignity he insisted on, feeling like a toothless old lady, repeatedly chewing on the trivial things in life, thinking about it. He was full of subjective emotional glory in his prime.
I'm so bored
But at the end, I was so sad that I was speechless.
He sat by the sea and looked back, and no one persecuted him. But he could no longer deceive himself that his master had helped the fascists, and that his proud work was the fault of his blind vanity. He was standing outside the door, on the other side of the door was his father, whom he had not seen for the last time, a weeping Miss Keaton.
This life is finally exhausted by nothingness.
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