喜剧, 悲剧, 悲喜剧

If you feel, life is a tragedy, but if you think, life is a comedy. 貌似是来自于卓别林的quote: Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.

作者给我很矛盾的感觉，她精通佛家教义，被父亲的无常和宿命论影响，擅长独自一人平静的度过痛苦，endure人生的种种suffering，对痛苦有很深的理解，对死亡有一些着迷，试图理解在生和死之间的人的状态。对人群很警惕，对什么是真实抱有怀疑，对生活的表象里的虚伪嗤之以鼻。

Among people讲什么是“我”，我们都觉得自己是特殊而不同的。但是，我们有多大程度知道哪一部分是真实的自我，哪一部分是为了融入人群编造出来的。我们能不能在不融入的方式下活下来？而作为作者，把自己的情感摊开在读者面前，就好像小鸡不再能够回到壳里面，是作家的宿命。麦加恩似乎是作者的反面，一个将生活的自然和社会环境完整表述在自传里的人。

Memory is melodrama that no one is exempt from

茨维格的自杀后，托马斯曼批评他消极懦弱逃避。但是作者的视角是，他处理痛苦的方式，是与自己内心的悲喜剧做斗争，by keeping the melodrama intact to himself，最后只能肉体消亡。越是熟知我们的内心的人，我们越容易让我们的大悲大喜越过边界。那么，我们是因为不想要这样，才躲避交流，还是因为避免了交流，才没有让悲喜剧越界呢？（哪个是cause，哪个是effect？）

悲喜剧不像正剧，有清晰的观点立场，它们是为起伏的情绪服务的。记忆也是一样的，我们记忆最深的事情，往往是我们情绪起伏最大的事情，我们要记住他人，要不就是要将对方放入自己的悲喜剧，要不就是要加入他人的悲喜剧。在各人的悲喜剧中，有人投降了自杀了，有人逃避了，有人与之和平共处。也有人并不知道要怎么办。但是能够接受不知道要怎么办，似乎也是好过什么都不接受。

人们往往追问他人为何死亡， 却不会质疑人们活着的理由同样模糊

Writing is an option, so it not writing, being read is a possibility, so is not being read. Reading, however, I equate with real life: life can be opened and closed like a book; living in a choice, so is not living.

诚然，不管是写作，阅读，还是被阅读，都是一种选择。活下去也仅仅是一种选择。

Saying these words aloud put me in fear that I am again getting things wrong -- not that others will disagree or misread me, but that the nearer I get to what I want to say, the further I deviate from it. Any word is the wrong word when it is too close to the unspeakable.

I am aware that, everything I have a conversation with a book, I benefit from someone's decision against silence.

I believe that there is a truth that is truer in the unexpressed; having spoken, I am apprehensive that I no longer have a claim to that truth.

有些东西你知道是对的感受，可以一旦说出来，就变味了，脱离了TA原本的意思。终究，有些东西是不能被完全truthful的言说的，因为TA本身的性质就是不可言说。那为什么要写作。你能写出来的东西，如果注定只能是很小的一部分，很微不足道或者过于浅薄的东西呢？也许答案永远在“尝试”里面。“The answer is in the attempt.”

Why bother writing then?

Bowen from <<the death of heart>>:

Innocence so constantly finds itself in a false position that inwardly innocent people learn to be disingenuous. Finding no language in which to speak in their own terms, they resign themselves to being translated imperfectly. They exist alone; when they try to enter into relations they compromise falsifyingly-- through anxiety, through desire to impart an to feel warmth. The system of our affections is too corrupt for them. They are bound to blunder, then to be told they cheat. In love, the sweetness and violence they have to offer involves a thousand betrayals for the less innocent. Incurable strangers to the world, they never cease to exact a heroic happiness. Their singleness, their ruthlessness, their one continuous wish makes them bound to be cruel, and to suffer cruelty.

不表达的人，总是残酷的被这个世界误解，所以也许还是尝试表达？

“How is the novel? One asks that as one does about an ill person, and a novel that is not yet finished is rather like that. You reach the end and the thing is either dead or much better shape, the dead should be left in peace”

然而，能表达的东西终究只能提供有限的慰藉，语言，交流，之外，不可言说的东西，让我们认出彼此，却也永远受伤。

Often I think that writing is a futile efforts; so is reading; so is living. Loneliness is the inability to speak with another in one's private language. That emptiness is filled with public language or romanticized connections. But one must be cautious when assuming meaning. A moment of recognition between two people only highlights the inadequacy of language. What can be spoken does not sustain; what cannot be spoken undermines. (quotes《to speak is to blunder but I venture》)