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移民如进化粪池 中国粪超难化吗？

作者：change?  于 2019-11-1 23:02 发表于 最热闹的华人社交网络--贝壳村

通用分类:博你一笑|已有1评论



贝壳村里潇洒的纽约游民老邱，飞大洋另辟奇径，睡大街指点人生，拍键盘闲庭信步，文笔不输残雪，信手拈来，蔑视所谓成功者，这是一种什么酷呢？穷拽？嬉皮？愤世嫉俗？现在他已经相当美国化了。但中文极其好，极其好。是因为他的一般人没有的乖张，他的一般人不敢尝试的自由吗？这个怪咖在移民的过程中思想变化（化粪）也相当值得注意。杰克伦敦年轻时（本来也没活多少年）满世界跑，一路要着吃用，对各地各种人大方小气人格高低有各种有趣的观察,也开启并成为描写艰困存亡状态下生命挣扎的名家。残雪也只是小学学历，在人生最低处以下找到自己，用超现实的实验派手法打通过去现在和未来表现人生在哲学意义上的共通性和荒谬性，被美国名作家苏珊桑塔格认为是唯一有资格问鼎诺贝尔文学奖的中国作家。

老邱的写作，他称作是日记, 确实如此，也是随笔，直观，另类，他把性行为称为“操屄”，而不是“做爱”，“性交”，“打炮”等知性，中性或感性语言，体现了这位老兄的驾驭型操作型实干型传统型目标管理型等人格特征。老邱穷游天下，心怀美女春梦，把别人丢弃的食物比如萝卜干当成宝贝，津津乐道，吃不完还舍不得扔，却瞧不起结过婚带孩子的女人，颇以黄花脸老男人自居，爱琢磨的他终于在此处无解，只有继续穷游碰运气了。如果有英国文豪萧伯纳的造化，碰到一个有缘富婆，“结合后”如果嫌累，连“操屄”都不用，依然男欢女爱，一生就悠哉游哉了。

萧伯纳1946年（90岁）在家中
上面是默片很沉闷。富婆为嘛看上老萧？看这个短视频听他1933年访美时风趣幽默兼具英国式怪异风格的谈吐可能有所启发，更不用说他的文学天才了。

老萧一向很狂，除了觉得“操屄”这种苦力活他不屑于做也征得了太太的同意外，他一直嘲讽贬低莎士比亚，专门写了一本书，没事看看挺有意思。

看这位头号“莎黑”的黑莎语录：



另外，这家伙还是一个老血红，当年公然称赞斯大林和苏联，真是不知死活的傻叉，他这种只会说真话的主儿，会被社会主义制度分分钟射成灰哦。

老邱的写作，以冷峻但极具质感的文字和不加修饰的视角挑战偏见和自得，偶尔，或者说会罕见地，在症状性的自大下表现出他的是非观和爱憎心。在纽约庇护所里的人性流露，感动甚至赞许，令人沉思，感谢美国的文明社会福利制度，让他有尊严地看待一切，让他有勇气生活在“外面”，让他有信心游走太平洋两岸企图捞到“黄花鲑鱼”，甚至让他创造出“混滋傻”这样的让钱钟书也会自叹不如的称谓挑战他的“幸运同类”。生动，具有很好的出版价值，他会碰到有慧眼的出版者吗？

语言是人的衣服，人是会根据说话做判断的。下面这位发视频的老姐, 东北人，学音乐的，在香港生活若干年，嫁到英国。看看这些经历对她人格气质的影响塑造。移民了，不入乡随俗，不经过化粪池的改造怎么行？


係英國小鎮 #嗿一碗鍾意啲湯河粉牛，要幾多錢？沿途介紹

讚！美味！令人垂涎！

牡丹妹妹，你好！最近才發現你的視频，跟你一起唱"願荣光歸香港"和你一起流淚，由六月至今能開懐不能安睡，為香港孩子們祷告，我土生土長至今六十多未嘗試 這痛心！Kingston.金斯頓，離倫敦不是很遠，2013二女兒大學時我也在那住了一個月，搭巴士去倫敦也很方便，英国小鎮各有特式。感覺這才是人住的地方。不像香港這麽糟糕，現更像人間地獄！祝福你身心安康！

睇完好想食湯河。

睇來好抵食喎！見妳吃得咁香，開心！讚

Thank you for the tour.

姐，你的这家餐馆感觉是越南那边的风味小吃

请讲普通话吧！


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4 回复 change? 2019-11-2 09:38
William Shakespeare was, famously, a playwright and an actor. George Bernard Shaw was, famously, a playwright and a critic — and a particularly acerbic critic of Shakespeare, whose cult he insisted had mushroomed by the 20th century far beyond what the man’s dramaturgy merited, and whose characters he declared “have no religion, no politics, no conscience, no hope, no convictions of any sort.”

Whew. Mayhap we should see about renaming the Folger.

Or mayhap not: Shaw was also famously a bombastic old curmudgeon (even in his youth), a genius gadfly given to making outrageous claims to get an audience’s attention, then using his peerless wit and erudition to make a watertight case for the more measured position he’d actually come to argue. (Or the opposite position: Shaw is forever giving equal time to the opponents of his own ideas.)

Indeed he would over the course of his long life shower much praise on Shakespear, to use the spelling Shaw preferred, and would even lend his name and pen to the earliest efforts to establish a national theater in England.

True, his utter impatience with “Bardolatry”—his efficiently dismissive coinage for the breathless Victorian fanboying that elevated Shakespeare to the ranks of the prophets and the philosophers—that impatience would remain with him to the grave. (Makes one long for a comic one-act that imagines him meeting a young Harold Bloom for cocktails at the Algonquin, doesn’t it?)

Saint Joan, onstage at Folger Theatre this month, may well be the most Shakespearean of Shaw’s major plays in its matter and its style, as dramaturg Michele Osherow notes. (There is Caesar and Cleopatra to consider, but that’s more of a counterargument, and best left for another season.) Look to the ephemera, though, and you’ll find a scattering of charming artifacts, each one testament to Shaw’s lifelong entanglement with Our Boy Bill.

The Dark Lady of the Sonnets, of which a types**t copy resides in the Folger Library’s collection, is probably the best known of these. Written in 1910 as an early contribution to the campaign to establish the National Theatre, it’s a hilariously imagined amongst-the-hedges encounter between an unsuspecting Elizabeth I and a Willy Shakes of such Shavian egomania that he’s barely able to avoid insulting his queen. With its thoroughly flustered monarch and its brusque braggart of a hero stealing plum phrases from everyone he encounters, it reads like nothing so much as an inverted early draft of Shakespeare in Love.

Another tasty morsel of Shavian mischief is also housed here at the Folger, again in types**t, this one bearing Shaw’s hand-inked corrections — including several joke-sharpening changes that showcase a perfectionist at work. It’s a wrecking ball of a book review, published in 1916, in which Shaw recasts the final scene of Macbeth in 2,400 words of hilariously blowsy narrative prose, all for the sake of demolishing author Arnold Bennett’s argument that plays are easier to write than novels. It’s just one of umpteen examples of Shaw’s nine-decade fascination with the Scottish Play, an obsession that might merit its own scholarly subspecialty. It’s also a reminder of both Shaw’s critical stature and his personal charm; despite the review, which was part of an extended public exchange of intellectual fire, Shaw and Bennett were to become friendly-enough correspondents that the novelist would eventually seek the master’s tutelage on, yes, playwriting.

Nothing speaks so clearly to Shaw’s evolving understanding of Shakespeare, though, as Cymbeline Refinished. Late in his life, Shaw audaciously rewrote the fifth act of Shakespeare’s oddball late romance, cutting its length roughly in half, stripping out most of the original’s surprise revelations, and making the play’s heroine Imogen more assertive almost to the point of modern feminism. Yet Shaw does, in a 1945 foreword acknowledge that his youthful dismissals of Cymbeline—as “stagey trash of the lowest melodramatic order,” most pungently—were more about how the Victorians staged Shakespeare than about what Shakespeare put on the page. He even acknowledges that the Bard might have known what he was doing when he included the notorious masque played by Sicilius et al during Posthumus’ nap.

Shaw, in short, never entirely backed away from his career-long assertion that Shakespeare was no English literary god—though he did come to view him as a singularly talented mortal. As for his own place on the spectrum between the sacred and the profane? Perhaps this quote from Shaw’s correspondence with the actress Ellen Terry best sums up his self-assessment:

“I have no objection whatever to an intelligent cutting-out of the dead and false bits of Shakespeare. But when you propose to cut me, I am paralyzed at your sacrilegious audacity.”

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