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˳365app:人ɽɽҽԺŽ 2480ߡ๤

2020-08-06 00:34:13  Դձ
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˳365appأ

˳365appַ:a g 9 559 v i p<`Why, wheer was yer Dad?'Connie suddenly flushed with anger.

`Do you lock the hut when you're not here?'

˳365appأ廭

`Oh, but they do! I don't think since the human species was invented, there has ever been a time when men and women have liked one another as much as they do today. Genuine liking! Take myself. I really like women better than men; they are braver, one can be more frank with them.'

Connie was contemplating a winter in London with Clifford, next winter. He and she had caught the bus all right, so they might as well ride on top for a bit, and show it.

It was strange...the prostitution to the bitch-goddess. To Connie, since she was really outside of it, and since she had grown numb to the thrill of it, it was again nothingness. Even the prostitution to the bitch-goddess was nothingness, though the men prostituted themselves innumerable times. Nothingness even that.

˳365appأ ɻ

So she plodded home to Clifford, to join forces with him again, to make another story out of nothingness: and a story meant money. Clifford seemed to care very much whether his stories were considered first-class literature or not. Strictly, she didn't care. Nothing in it! said her father. Twelve hundred pounds last year! was the retort simple and final.<`Oh do! do be impossible, General!' cried Olive.

There was Clifford's success: the bitch-goddess! It was true he was almost famous, and his books brought him in a thousand pounds. His photograph appeared everywhere. There was a bust of him in one of the galleries, and a portrait of him in two galleries. He seemed the most modern of modern voices. With his uncanny lame instinct for publicity, he had become in four or five years one of the best known of the young `intellectuals'. Where the intellect came in, Connie did not quite see. Clifford was really clever at that slightly humorous analysis of people and motives which leaves everything in bits at the end. But it was rather like puppies tearing the sofa cushions to bits; except that it was not young and playful, but curiously old, and rather obstinately conceited. It was weird and it was nothing. This was the feeling that echoed and re-echoed at the bottom of Connie's soul: it was all flag, a wonderful display of nothingness; At the same time a display. A display! a display! a display!

˳365appأйҶ ۻ

`Towards whom?'

She was silent for a few moments in anger.

<`I don't see a bit of connexion with the actual violets,' she said. `The Elizabethans are rather upholstered.'`But you've got to begin,' said Clifford.

`It won't happen,' said Dukes. `Our old show will come flop; our civilization is going to fall. It's going down the bottomless pit, down the chasm. And believe me, the only bridge across the chasm will be the phallus!'

˳365appأͻ

`Look at the way you are shut up here. I said to Clifford: If that child rebels one day you'll have yourself to thank!'

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˳365appijijŷͨ"ŷ"Э Աؾ쳤ͱӢ They had been sent to Dresden at the age of fifteen, for music among other things. And they had had a good time there. They lived freely among the students, they argued with the men over philosophical, sociological and artistic matters, they were just as good as the men themselves: only better, since they were women. And they tramped off to the forests with sturdy youths bearing guitars, twang-twang! They sang the Wandervogel songs, and they were free. Free! That was the great word. Out in the open world, out in the forests of the morning, with lusty and splendid-throated young fellows, free to do as they liked, and---above all---to say what they liked. It was the talk that mattered supremely: the impassioned interchange of talk. Love was only a minor accompaniment. ϸ

жΧѩ | ̵2018|人зͨ棺ܾϸ߽ǿִ

˳365appɽ㶫㽭򰲻 6ʡһӦ His eyes came to hers in an instant, as if wakened up. He was aware of her. ϸ

˳365appذĽϰƽ2020괺ŰݻϵĽҷ| ̵2018|Ƹίαְ
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