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[转贴]石头下面的一颗心
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早晨，上班路过狂欢夜酒醉的小街，一切已经销声匿迹。生活缺少了夜色和霓虹灯，是不是就如同洗尽铅华的女人，满面、浑身的颓丧和落寞？
天气依旧很冷，路面冰棱四起。迎面急急走来一对老年夫妇，个子都很矮小。老头白胡茬密布，推着满载破烂儿的自行车；老妇从后低头扶物，眼神麻木得很。是幸福相伴还是演绎沧桑？我理解不出。去年我步行上班，总会遇到一个小老头，第一次相遇竟然砰然心动：这就是若干年后的自己吧？从开始上下打量他，一直到以后的从远到近的行注目礼，我虔诚地祝福这多年以后的再版或翻版的自己。时光渐渐流逝，生命渐渐黯淡，灵魂渐渐浓缩。前些天，领导的父亲、同事的母亲都得了脑血栓伴随老年痴呆，讲述着老人们当前的种种病状，听来悚然。换了是我，应该早就已经做好了***的安排吧？
2004年又没了。去年的这个时候在做什么，什么样的心事，周遭与现在有什么不同等等一切已经很模糊。不知道自己是不是象父亲评价我那般的“一个薄情寡性的人”，事实上我真的很少回忆那些具体的事情，甚至经常靠别人的提醒或自己主动提问一些关键的细节性环节。在我这里，残留的只是当初的一丝感觉并靠这一点点的感觉产生并维持当下乃至未来的决定。那些与我相反的人和行为就叫做念旧吧，我这么想。据朋友统计，2003年我总共写了12篇文章，仿佛是每个月产下一个。2004年的还没有统计。有人在意自己和自己的所谓文章，无论如何都是件得意的事。而且，自己最得意自己，自恋或许就是这样产生的。不禁想起那篇《渡口：慎终追远思无邪》了，去年的这个时候有感的蔡琴的这首歌的古典而今听起来依然神秘。又是整整的一年，物是人非。
写文章有什么用呢？炫耀，向众生展示自己的文笔？诱惑，或许会遇到一个比自己还要痴的女人倾心自己而自己也恰能喜欢她？发泄，那些人生永久的烦恼和愉悦题材号哭笑歌能增减分毫？逃避，自身现实社会的无能用键盘就可以轻易地转化成生产力进而有所改观？关于价值和效力的计算，越来越成为时尚，文章的价值和效力也越来越卑微。人们已经没有时间去读完这样那样的文章而宁可去玩网络游戏，也没有感情在这样那样的文章里去浪费而宁可去聊天，更没有兴致来关注这样那样的文章而宁可去忙些正事。只有我和类似这样的无所事事的小资闲人，终日浪迹在网络上，偶尔碰撞出一点点的火花努力去照耀一下冷漠的脸庞、温暖一下孤单的心灵。写文章其实很苦，没有效力觉得无聊，写的不满意又苦恼，不写又胀的闷。这不是孤苦伶仃的自怜，很可能是打发时间的最佳选择，也很可能是为老来将要靠燃烧这些文字来取暖做的准备。
远方的朋友在QQ上与我聊天，说你永远也不会改变了。我只有承认，承认自己上下散发的酸臭和腐朽。年终岁尾，单位聚餐，酒兴大振，纷纷粉墨登场，有人道听途说我的歌好，起哄，叫阵，鼓噪，我安然待之，以驴叫收场。若是年轻时节我一定恨自己丧失表露机遇的无能猥琐，而今我已经不想有任何的勉强自己，正如关于最近的圣诞前后的冷淡。他们更喜欢《好日子》，这我不行。冷淡与感动相对，如今其界限是如此的模糊，别人对于自己的好与不好，别人的言行的好与不好，包括自己对别人的好与不好，意识到，感受到，想说就说不想就无语，少了以往内心的挣扎和顾虑。做应该做的，与感动无干；想应该想的，与冷漠无涉。
昨夜，与朋友小酌，尽量远离商机和算计，“多个朋友多条路”，我至今还不是这么想。对于人情，我早在很年轻的时候就已经有了认知；对于不是自己想要的就不能不给，尽量简单些再简单些。小店很嘈杂，随后赶来的借酒装疯的朋友，更是凭添了嘈杂。临座的是两个中年的男人，比我们大上7、8岁的样子，衣冠楚楚。三个小菜，两瓶啤酒，一人半瓶一人一瓶半，小声说话，偶尔沉默。没有恋栈，酒没了就走，走的时候，恰巧一个椅子摊在过道中，他们没有理会，绕过去，径直出门而去。这就是成熟么？现在的我，起身，挪开了椅子。到了这个年龄，我是不是也会是这个样子？我不知道，一如不知道我的同龄人是不是象我现在的这个样子。
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悲惨世界第四部第五卷第04章：石头下面的一颗心
来源：233网校&&&【233网校：中国教育考试第一门户】&&&日
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The reduction of the universe to a single being, the expansion of a single being even to God, that is love.
Love is the salutation of the angels to the stars.
How sad is the soul, when it is sad through love!
What a void in the absence of the being who, by herself alone fills the world! Oh! how true it is that the beloved being becomes God. One could comprehend that God might be jealous of this had not God the Father of all evidently made creation for the soul, and the soul for love.
The glimpse of a smile beneath a white crape bonnet with a lilac curtain is sufficient to cause the soul to enter into the palace of dreams.
God is behind everything, but everything hides God. Things are black, creatures are opaque. To love a being is to render that being transparent.
Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the attitude of the body may be, the soul is on its knees.
Parted lovers beguile absence by a thousand chimerical devices, which possess, however, a reality of their own. They are prevented from seeing each other, they cannot they discover a multitude of mysterious means to correspond. They send each other the song of the birds, the perfume of the flowers, the smiles of children, the light of the sun, the sighings of the breeze, the rays of stars, all creation. And why not? All the works of God are made to serve love. Love is sufficiently potent to charge all nature with its messages.
Oh Spring! Thou art a letter that I write to her.
The future belongs to hearts even more than it does to minds. Love, that is the only thing that can occupy and fill eternity. In the infinite, the inexhaustible is requisite.
Love participates of the soul itself. It is of the same nature. Like it, it like it, it is incorruptible, indivisible, imperishable. It is a point of fire that exists within us, which is immortal and infinite, which nothing can confine, and which nothing can extinguish. We feel it burning even to the very marrow of our bones, and we see it beaming in the very depths of heaven.
Oh Love! Adorations! Voluptuousness of two minds which understand each other, of two hearts which exchange with each other, of two glances which penetrate each other! You will come to me, will you not, bliss! Strolls by twos in the solitudes! Blessed and radiant days! I have sometimes dreamed that from time to time hours detached themselves from the lives of the angels and came here below to traverse the destinies of men.
God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love, except to give them endless duration. After a life of love, an eternity of love is, in fact, but to increase in intensity even the ineffable felicity which love bestows on the soul even in this world, is impossible, even to God. God is the love is the plenitude of man.
You look at a star for two reasons, because it is luminous, and because it is impenetrable. You have beside you a sweeter radiance and a greater mystery, woman.
All of us, whoever we may be, have our respirable beings. We lack air and we stifle. Then we die. To die for lack of love is horrible. Suffocation of the soul.
When love has fused and mingled two beings in a sacred and angelic unity, the secret of life has been discovered so far a they are no longer anything more than the two boundaries they are no longer anything but the two wings of the same spirit. Love, soar.
On the day when a woman as she passes before you emits light as she walks, you are lost, you love. But one thing remains for you to do: to think of her so intently that she is constrained to think of you.
What love commences can be finished by God alone.
True love is in despair and is enchanted over a glove lost or a handkerchief found, and eternity is required for its devotion and its hopes. It is composed both of the infinitely great and the infinitely little.
If you are a stone, if you are a plant, be if you are a man, be love.
Nothing suffices for love. We have happiness, we possess paradise, we desire heaven.
Oh ye who love each other, all this is contained in love. Understand how to find it there. Love has contemplation as well as heaven, and more than heaven, it has voluptuousness.
"Does she still come to the Luxembourg?" "No, sir." "This is the church where she attends mass, is it not?" "She no longer comes here." "Does she still live in this house?" "She has moved away." "Where has she gone to dwell?"
"She did not say."
What a melancholy thing not to know the address of one's soul!
Love has its childishness, other passions have their pettinesses. Shame on the passions which belittle man! Honor to the one which makes a child of him!
There is one strange thing, do you know it? I dwell in the night. There is a being who carried off my sky when she went away.
Oh! Would that we were lying side by side in the same grave, hand in hand, and from time to time, in the darkness, gently caressing a finger,--that would suffice for my eternity!
Ye who suffer because ye love, love yet more. To die of love, is to live in it.
Love. A sombre and starry transfiguration is mingled with this torture. There is ecstasy in agony.
Oh joy of the birds! It is because they have nests that they sing.
Love is a celestial respiration of the air of paradise.
Deep hearts, sage minds, take life as G it is a long trial, an incomprehensible preparation for an unknown destiny. This destiny, the true one, begins for a man with the first step inside the tomb. Then something appears to him, and he begins to distinguish the definitive. The definitive, meditate upon that word. The living p the definitive permits itself to be seen only by the dead. In the meanwhile, love and suffer, hope and contemplate. Woe, alas! to him who shall have loved only bodies, forms, appearances! Death will deprive him of all. Try to love souls, you will find them again.
I encountered in the street, a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat was worn, his
water trickled through his shoes, and the stars through his soul.
What a grand thing it is to be loved! What a far grander thing it is to love! The heart becomes heroic, by dint of passion. It is no longer composed of anyth it no longer rests on anything that is not elevated and great. An unworthy thought can no more germinate in it, than a nettle on a glacier. The serene and lofty soul, inaccessible to vulgar passions and emotions, dominating the clouds and the shades of this world, its follies, its lies, its hatreds, its vanities, its miseries, inhabits the blue of heaven, and no longer feels anything but profound and subterranean shocks of destiny, as the crests of mountains feel the shocks of earthquake.
If there did not exist some one who loved, the sun would become extinct.
来源:233网校-责编:zll&&&
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