Chapter 16 sixteen

I didn't go out with Rosie for over a week after that.She was going to Haversham to see her mother and spend the night there.Then she had many social engagements in London.Then one day she asked me if I would go with her to the Haymarket theater.The play was so successful that free seats were not available, so we decided to buy tickets for the back seats in the main hall.We went to Monico's for steak and beer, and then we waited outside the theater with a large crowd of people waiting to see the play.At that time, there was no custom of queuing up in an orderly manner, so as soon as the doors of the theater opened, people frantically rushed forward, scrambling to squeeze in.By the time we finally squeezed into the theater to grab our seats, we were both hot, out of breath, and almost crushed by the people around us.

After the show we walked home through St James's Park.The night was so beautiful that day, we sat down on a bench in the park.Rosie's face and her fair hair were softly radiant in the starlight.She seemed to have all over her (I express it clumsily, but I really don't know how to describe the intensity with which she gave me) a feeling of kindness and friendliness, which was frank and tender.She is like a silver flower that blooms at night, and she emits her fragrance only for the moonlight.I quietly put my arm around her waist, and she turned to look at me.This time it was me who started kissing her.She didn't move; her soft and bright red lips accepted my pressed lips calmly and warmly, she was like a lake receiving the bright moonlight.I don't know how long we were there.

I am starving.she said suddenly. Me too.I said with a smile. Where shall we go for some fish and chips? OK. At that time, Westminster was not a high-class residential area with members of parliament and other educated people, but a squalid poor area, which I knew well.We walked out of the park and across Victoria Street; I took Rosie to a fish fry shop on Horseferry Road.It was very late, and the only customer in the shop was a coachman, whose four-wheeled carriage was parked outside the shop door.We had fish and chips and a beer.A poor woman came in and bought twopence offal, wrapped it in a paper, and took it away.We ate very well.

The way back to Rosie's house was via Vincent Square, and as we were passing my house I asked her: Would you like to come in and sit for a while?You have never seen my room. What would your landlady say?I don't want to get you into trouble. Oh, she was a deep sleeper. Then I'll go in and stay for a while. I opened the door with the key, the passage was dark, and I took Rosie by the hand to lead her.I lighted the gas lamp in the living room, and she took off her hat and scratched her scalp vigorously.Then she looked around the house for mirrors, but I was very artistic in those days, and I had taken down the mirror over the mantelpiece long ago.In this room, no one can see what he looks like.

go to my bedroom.I said, there is a mirror there. I opened the bedroom door and lit a candle.Rosie followed me in and I held up the candle so she could look in the mirror.While she was brushing her hair in front of the mirror, I watched her reflection in the mirror.She took off two or three barrettes, held them in her mouth, took one of my combs, and brushed her hair from the nape of the neck.She coiled her hair on top of her head, patted it lightly, and put the bobby pins on.While she was busy with all this, her eyes happened to meet mine in the mirror, and she smiled at me.When she put on the last barrette, she turned to face me; she said nothing, but looked at me quietly, the friendly smile still in her blue eyes.I put down the candle.The room was small and the dresser was next to the bed.She raised her hand and stroked my face gently.

As I write this, I really regret that I wrote this book in the first person.If you describe yourself as amiable or sympathetic in the first-person singular, that's fine.This tone is often adopted by the writer, and more effective than any other form, when expressing the simple pride of the characters or the pathetic humor.If you see tears on your eyelashes and a gentle smile on your lips when readers read your work, then such self-expression is very touching; but if you have to write yourself as a real big When you are a fool, this way of writing is not advisable. Not long ago I saw Evelyn Evelyn in the Evening Standard.Waugh [Note: British novelist. ] in which he said that writing fiction in the first person was a despicable practice.I wish he'd explained why, but like Euclid's famous argument about parallel lines, he's just popping it off with the same casual, believe it or not attitude.I am very concerned and immediately report to Alroy.Keel asked (he reads everything, even those for which he wrote a foreword) and asked him to introduce me to some books on the art of the novel.On his suggestion, I watched Percy.Lubbock's The Technique of Fiction.I learned from this book that the only way to write a novel is to learn from Henry.James; then I read E. M．Forster's "Aspects of Fiction", from which I learned that the only way to write a novel is to learn E. M．Foster himself; then I looked at Edwin.Muir's "The Structure of the Novel", I learned nothing from this book.I did not find an answer to this controversial question in any of the books mentioned above.Still, I have found a reason why some novelists, who were famous then and are probably forgotten today, such as Defoe. ], Stern, Thackeray, Dickens, Emily.Bronte [Note: British female novelist. ] and Proust used Evelyn in their writing.Waugh's method of accusation.As we grow older, we become more aware of human intricacies, inconsistencies, and irrationality; this is where middle-aged and older writers who should have more properly pondered more serious subjects turn their minds to the imagination. The only excuse for the trivialities of human beings, because if the study of human beings is to begin with human beings, it is obviously wiser to study the coherent, flesh-and-blood important characters of fiction rather than those of real life. A irrational, vague image.Sometimes a novelist feels like God, and he wants to tell you every aspect of his characters; but sometimes he doesn't feel like God, so he doesn't tell you everything you should know about his characters things, but only what he knows.As we grow older, we feel less and less like God, so I was not surprised to hear that the older novelists were, the less inclined they were to write beyond the sphere of their personal lived experience.For this limited purpose, writing in the first-person singular is an extremely useful method.

Rosie raised her hand and stroked my face gently.I also don't know why I acted that way; it was not at all how I imagined myself to be in this situation.I let out a sob from my clogged throat.I don't know if it was because of shyness and loneliness (mental loneliness, not physical loneliness, because I was dealing with all kinds of people in the hospital all day), or because the desire was too strong at the time, anyway. I actually started to cry.I felt so ashamed and tried to control myself, but I couldn't calm down; the tears kept welling up in my eyes and running down my face.Rosie saw my tears and let out a small cry.

Oh dear, what's the matter with you?what happened?Don't do this, don't do this! She put her arms around my neck and cried too, kissing my lips, eyes and wet face.Then she undid the corset and pulled my head to her chest.She stroked my smooth face and rocked me gently back and forth as if I were a baby in her arms.I kissed her breasts, her white round neck; then she began to undo her corset Blow out the candle.she said quietly. It was she who woke me when morning light filtered through the curtains to reveal the outlines of my bed and wardrobe against the darkness of the remaining night.She kisses my lips to wake me up, and her hair falls across my face, tickling me.

I've got to get up, she said, and I don't want your landlady to see me. It's still early. Then we dressed in silence.Instead of putting the corset back on, she rolled it up and I wrapped it for her in a piece of newspaper.We tiptoed down the aisle.When I opened the gate and the two of us were out onto the street, dawn came upon us like a kitten leaping up the steps.The square was still empty; the sun was already shining in the east-facing windows of the houses along the street.I feel as energetic as I have just begun the day.We walked arm in arm until the corner of Lympas Road.

Just send it to me, said Rosie, who knows what will happen. I kissed her and watched her go away.She walked slowly, erectly, with the firm step of a country woman who loves to feel the fertile ground beneath her feet.Unable to go back to sleep, I walked slowly all the way to the embankment.The bright colors of the morning shone across the Thames.A brown barge passes down the Warhol Bridge.There was a small boat on the river near the bank, and two men were paddling hard on it.I feel hungry.