Life is constantly binding people. When I came into contact with Thomas Hardy and Woolf's "Beautiful Beauty Orlando", it was no longer the power and disillusionment after contacting "Red and Black", nor the personal sense of decline of Martin Eden and Gatsby, nor the Chinese description. The moment of enlightenment, this is a real vastness, that kind of broad feeling is like a self-renewal of the computer system, Woolf and Hardy are intersex, a kind of height that has gone beyond words. It has refreshed my understanding of many writers. Somerset Maugham is an elegant gentleman who even swears, Hesse is a lonely musician, Camus is a ghost wandering in the soul, and there are even people who love Some of the names of Li Ao, Hong Ying, Yan Geling, Zhang Ailing, Lao She, Jane Austen, Dostoevsky, if not for comparison, just from the sense of hierarchy generated during the reading process and the overall sense after reading, these People are all thin. And the two names at the beginning can be added, Leo Tolstoy, Shakespeare, literature aside, just from the wonderful feelings and soul nourishment that the writer has for the readers that have already flowed in the blood, China has one Cao Xueqin. To sort it out, in a word, I watched "Beautiful Beauty Orlando" today, and then reviewed my reading history, and I came up with such an impression: Woolf, Hardy, Cao Xueqin, Leo Tolstoy, Shakespeare are all one Intersex people on the horizontal line, life binds people, and these people continue to expand my heart infinitely in a broad space. (Barabara jots down these moments of confusion, this is the reality of confusion, only to be corrected later)
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