I copied more than 10 thousand words overnight, which is very rare for me, because I am too tired to sleep when I sleep. It rained outside for many days, bit by bit, like my endless manuscript, written on the back of the mimeograph of the hourly news. The yellow mimeographed handwriting penetrates the back of the paper. No matter what I write, there will always be yellow lines behind me. Blue ink masked the sad news. The Secretary-General answered the reporter's question: The rice in the account will not stop rationing, and the information from outside will be inaccurate and monotonous. It's raining, it's raining, it's dense, scattered and blank.

On rainy nights, I feel the existence of quilts even more. Turning over is a colder bed. Western-style bed, there are sheets under the blanket, and the mattress is tightly packed, which is a very solid arrangement, and people who can't sleep well can't push it open. But empty, the area is too big, it is not easy to warm; When it gets hot and dry, I can't stick my feet out. Chinese-style quilt, spread on the mattress, folded into a package, just put on the body, soon became hot, light and easy-going, but not very secure, and kicked away at once. From this, we can see the difference of national character. Japanese quilts, not nests. A square piece covers the body and does not fold. There is wind under the thick one. The quilt cover is printed with bright and lively patterns, which are big and big. It's just a picture, but there's a layer of cotton tires underneath. Dreams made under this airy quilt will not indulge in pleasure, but may dream of military training in the suburbs in the dead of winter.

People in China are afraid of soiling the delicate silk quilt, so they wrap it in sheets and sew a few stitches hastily. The quilt cover can't be put into the water, but the sheets can be removed and cleaned at any time, which is a very practical scheme. Foreigners' sheets are not tied with blankets, so it is more troublesome to get up every day, but their meaning of washing sheets seems to be more firm and clear than ours, and indeed they wash them more frequently than us. The sheets are mostly white, both at home and abroad. But white cloth is the least romantic thing. It's clean at best, and it's just the cleanliness of the hospital, which is a bit miserable. Pale pink is very comfortable, and light blue looks like the most luxurious white, really white, like clothes washed with their soap powder in American advertisements. In China, in the past, only children and newlyweds could use pink sheets, and the rest were white. Sometimes there is a piece of white cloth at the end of the quilt, called the quilt head, which can be washed frequently and is also a lazy way. It seems that there is also a kind of black velvet strip in Japan, which blocks the head and wipes off the grease on the head. Although it is resistant to dirt, it looks a little tired. Things like velvet are not native to Japan. Although it is often used, it is not used well. For example, in winter, adding a scarlet velvet scarf to their women's kimono is a little more suitable than wool or a scarf made of wool, but it is still not very nice.

I think maybe I can write an article based on this, but the thought of the article makes me anxious. I heard two faint crows, and it was almost dawn. The more anxious I am, the less I can sleep. I am most afraid of hearing chickens crow. Tomorrow is the Millennium, and time goes by. It's night. In the crow of chickens at dawn, it left and never came again, but it left and never came again, sadly and hastily, and disappeared without a shadow. At least the black shadow has some color.

Chickens crow more and more, one in the east and the other in the west, but it's better, not so empty. I think, if the picture is a crow, the picture should be an ochre sky. The picture is very long, rolled up and opened all the way, and the sky is full and endless. In the city or market that is a little hazy overhead, the crow comes from here, and its blue color rises and then stops. But be sure to leave more room for the crimson sky so that I can fall asleep.

Zhang Ailing's Classic Prose 2 Dream of Genius

I am an eccentric girl, and I have been regarded as a genius since I was a child. I have no other goal in life except developing my talent. However, when my childhood fantasy faded away, I found that I had nothing but genius's quirks. The world forgave Vane's barbarism, but they won't forgive me.

With a little American publicity, maybe I will be called a child prodigy. I could recite Tang poems when I was three years old. I still remember standing unsteadily in front of a cane chair of an old man in the Qing Dynasty, chanting that merchants and girls did not know how to die and hate, crossing the river singing backyard flowers and watching his tears roll down. When I was seven years old, I wrote my first novel, a family tragedy. When I come across words with complicated strokes, I often ask the chef how to write them. The second novel is about a lovelorn girl who committed suicide. My mother criticized that if she wanted to commit suicide, she would never take a train from Shanghai to the West Lake to commit suicide. But because of the poetic background of the West Lake. Finally stubbornly saved this.

My only extracurricular reading materials are The Journey to the West and several fairy tales, but my mind is not bound by them. When I was eight years old, I tried a novel similar to Utopia, entitled Happy Village. Happy village people are bellicose plateau people. Because of their feats in conquering Miao people, they were chartered by Emperor China, exempted from taxes and given autonomy. Therefore, Happiness Village is a big family isolated from the outside world, cultivating and weaving by itself, and preserving the lively culture of tribal times.

I sewed half a dozen exercise books together, expecting a masterpiece, but I soon lost interest in this great subject. Now I still have many frames of my illustrations, introducing the service, architecture and interior decoration of this ideal society, including library, martial arts school, chocolate shop and roof garden. The dining room is a pavilion in the lotus pond. I don't remember whether there is a cinema or socialism there. Although they lack the products of these two civilizations, they seem to live well.

When I was nine years old, I hesitated whether I should choose music or art as my lifelong career. After watching a movie about a poor painter, I cried and decided to become a pianist and play in a grand concert hall. I am extremely sensitive to colors, notes and words. When playing the piano, I imagined eight notes with different personalities, wearing bright hats and dancing hand in hand. I learn to write articles, and I like to use words with strong colors and sonorous rhymes, such as scarlet, dusk, graceful, gorgeous and melancholy, so I often make stacking mistakes. Until now, I still love watching Strange Tales from a Lonely Studio and tacky Paris fashion reports, just for this attractive word.

I got free development at school. My self-confidence grew stronger and stronger until I was sixteen, when my mother came back from France and looked at my daughter whom I hadn't seen for years.

I regret taking care of your typhoid. She told me that I would rather see you die than see you alive and let yourself suffer everywhere. I found that I couldn't peel apples, and I learned to mend socks after hard work. I'm afraid of going to the barber shop, meeting guests and trying on clothes for the tailor. Many people tried to teach me to knit, but none of them succeeded. After living in a room for two years, I still asked blankly where the bell was. I went to the hospital for injections by rickshaw every day for three months, but I still didn't know the way. To sum up, in the real society, I am equal to a waste.

My mother gave me two years to learn to adapt to the environment. She taught me to cook; Wash clothes with soap powder; Practice walking posture; Look at people's glances; Remember to close the curtains after lighting; Study facial expressions in the mirror; Don't tell jokes without humor genius.

I show amazing stupidity in my common sense of dealing with people. My two-year plan is a failed experiment. My mother's painful warning didn't affect me except that my mind was out of balance.

There is a part of the art of life that I can't appreciate. I know how to watch Clouds in July, listen to Scottish soldiers playing bagpipes, enjoy rattan chairs in the breeze, eat salted peanuts, enjoy neon lights on rainy nights, and reach out from the double-decker bus to pick the green leaves at the top of the tree. When no one handed over, I was full of joy in life. But I can't overcome this little distress for a day. Life is a gorgeous robe full of fleas.

Zhang Ailing's Classic Prose 3 "Late Night"

The troubled east wind is coming to the world again, and the pink can't stay red, and she is drunk in Aunt Feng's arms. Wicker rides the wind, bends over, scratches the hair of pedestrians, and clusters of catkins, like light clouds falling from the feet of the spring god, line up in a queue, imitating the light and clear Chun Xue flying all over the sky in February and flying into the curtains everywhere. Sandy's green grass has an obvious smell of alcohol, leaving traces of tourists. Everything is exciting to the extreme, maybe a little crazy? In this colorful and bustling spring!

There is only a lonely shadow, she, leaning against the railing; She has eyes, and those eyes that just woke up from the dream of youth are still sleepy, looking at the crazy world as if they can't understand the mystery of life. She is a laggard of the times. In the warm world of youth, she has been abandoned invisibly. She is no longer qualified and in the mood to follow those who stand in front of the times! When she woke up from a sweet dream for the first time, she was only empty and depressed; I'm disappointed to lose my golden age. Ahem! God gave life to people and created society. How can we only give us the most precious fleeting creative era in just over ten years? In this way, the butterfly in the ephemera is admirable. In the short spring, they danced heartily among the flowers. Once all the flowers were gone, they died happily in the spring, as if they had only come for dancing and pleasure all their lives, but they should be happier. Like human beings, how will the gray life of decades of wind and rain be spent after youth passes away like running water?

Unconsciously, she fell into the old man's garden. How embarrassing it is to find a hint! Besides, how can you fight the life like a movie? Especially her, she hated old people ten years ago! She used to travel overseas, whistle in the mountains, skate in the frozen harbor and talk in spacious seats. But what about now? The past is long, and the heroic behavior of that year is like a smoke cloud, without a trace. She can only sigh, and her youthful appearance and pride are gradually exhausted. She is afraid of meeting her old friend. Her changed appearance and temperament only increased their surprise and secret discussion. In order to escape, I came to this secluded corner, and flowers, birds, wind and the sun still worried her. She began to curse the scenery in spring.

The light is green and dark, showing the desolation in the middle of the night. In a corner of the darkroom, a mournful and dignified bell sounded, accompanied by a vague chanting sound, and her mind was full of thoughts. Then, a cold tear flowed to her cold lips, blocking her trembling mouth that she wanted to speak but couldn't.