我凝视这白瓷杯中的咖啡,又想起这位终生在爱与死之间作茧自缚的天才——维吉妮亚·伍尔芙。她的灵魂有着深刻的思想与错乱。我恍如看见在春光明媚的苏格兰乡下,矢车菊香气的阳光铺满整个房屋,鹅毛笔与厚质纸张在摩擦,桌旁的咖啡轻袅地散发热气,她正写着《奥兰多》。
I gazed at the coffee in the white porcelain cup, and thought of Virginia Woolf, the genius who has bound himself between love and death all my life. Her soul has profound thoughts and confusion. I can see the cornflower scented sunshine spreading all over the house in the spring countryside of Scotland. The quill pen is rubbing against the thick paper. The coffee beside the table emits heat gently. She is writing "Orlando".
我的嘴角轻轻扬起,这个天才一生传奇,终在疾病中死去。在她品完咖啡的苦与甜之后,剩下的也不过是一只空杯子,这一生,死后也带不走任何东西。
My mouth gently raised, this genius life legend, finally died in the disease. After she tasted the bitterness and sweetness of coffee, the rest was nothing but an empty cup. In this life, she could not take anything away after death.
在这片狭小的天地,我经历的,不过是寻常的人生;看见的,不过是平凡的世界。其实生活没有那么多的故事上演,只是有爱,就是我们生活的全部意义所在。这咖啡的苦与甜是综合的味道,咽一口,自己体会。
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