evenaswespeak's Xanga

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Sun, 23 Aug 2009 15:19:39 GMT

À Venise ou à Saigon?
Comme Tadizo et Aschebach;
Ou comme la jeune fille et l'homme chinois?

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Thu, 18 Jun 2009 14:28:30 GMT

或許已有十多年沒有提起畫筆，是你讓我重拾對繪畫和做小手工的興趣。雖然做得不好，我想你會喜歡吧！

也是你令我明白原來我可以毫無條件地疼愛一個人，原來被某人需要的感覺是這樣的。

我不想看到有人像我一樣，有一個稱不上十分愉快也談不上十分不幸的童年，但是，我的童年總有陰霾，不知是否我有妄想症而不自知，或是事情真的如此發生過，我身邊沒有太多真心疼愛自己的人，卻有一些人不知為何傷害我。

我不想陰霾走向你那兒，所以我會疼愛你，直到永遠，如有永遠的話。

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Sat, 23 May 2009 14:17:35 GMT

“In a sense, Pater’s preface and conclusion to The Renaissance were to his age what Susan Sontag’s essay Against Interpretation was to hers: a call for a new form of eroticism in criticism with an emphasis on the surface of things and a breaking down of barriers between high and low forms of art to include within the scope of criticism an understanding of the body’s relationship to the experience of art. Though hardly new as a concept of aesthetics－a renewal of the senses being one of the oldest definitions－Sontag’s attempt to redirect criticism to the focus on the body’s reactions to stimuli, most especially to pleasure for its own sake, was a way to bring back Wilde.”

The Aesthetics of Self-Invention: Oscar Wilde to David Bowie, Shelton Waldrep (2004)

Whatever happened to Dorian Gray

Wed, 22 Apr 2009 14:47:04 GMT

It was when Dorian Gray reached his end,

coarse thought itself cunningly hid under

the armour of elegance but it clumsily unmasked itself.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 17:08:12 GMT

Thus, I do have memories of love. No doubt it was not a true passion, but I am not sure whether a true passion would have made me better or only happier. Nevertheless, I see too clearly how much egotism such an emotion contains. I attached myself to you. I attached myself: that, unhappily, is the only appropriate word. Weeks went by; every day the princess found reasons to keep you there longer; I think you began to become accustomed to me. We came to exchange our memories of childhood. Thanks to you, I was aware of happy ones. Through me, you were aware of sad ones. It was as if we had divided our pasts in half. Every hour increased this shy fraternal intimacy, and I realised with horror that we had come to be thought of as fiancés.

Alexis, Marguerite Yourcenar

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Tue, 17 Mar 2009 01:46:15 GMT

莊子妻既死，惠子弔之，莊子則方箕踞鼓盆而歌。惠子曰:「與人居，長子、老、身死，不哭，亦足一，又鼓盆而歌，不亦甚乎!」莊子曰:「不然。是其始死也，我獨何能乇氣。雜手芒芴之間，變而有氣，氣變而有形，形變而有生，今又變而之死，是相與為春秋冬夏四時行也。不且偃然寢於巨室，而我噭噭隨而哭之，自以為不通手命，故止也。」（《莊子‧至樂》）

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Sat, 25 Oct 2008 14:08:10 GMT

Please don't ask the questions that you have already known the answer but I don't. It's meaningless, isn't it?

Sunday, October 12, 2008

Sun, 12 Oct 2008 11:43:08 GMT

I'm so happy Cause today I found my friends
They're in my head
I'm so ugly But that's ok
'Cause so are you
We've broke our mirrors
Sunday morning is everyday
For all I care
And I'm not scared
Light my candles
In a daze cause I've found god.

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

Wed, 08 Oct 2008 13:44:38 GMT

I think I've changed a lot and in a bad way. I thought I could keep reading and having an intellectual mind after graduated from university. I thought I could keep writing pieces of random thoughts or poses from time to time. I thought I could still have the teenage angst about the society. I thought I would still have many ideas prompted thither and hither and would write essays on my studies fields.

But now? I'm comfortably numb. My senses, my mind, my sensitivity towards all of the things around me, my passion in music, literature and films are almost gone. It's not that I have been busy/lazy so I neglected my blog. It's just because I can't think of a single thing to write. Every little thing in my daily life is routine and nothing can be my inspiration to help me write something, not a single thing can be the catalyst in my life. Everything is so boring that I sometimes wonder if I could keep being the little dumb fool who knows nothing but shopping or thinking about getting that tiny necklaces.

I felt that I've completely withdrawn myself from literature students and the like. I sighed every time I read my junior mates learning things and being very enthusiastic in it. I sighed because I missed my study life.I sighed because I don't know when I can reenter the ivory tower. I sighed because I can't even write something beautiful any more. I felt that my words are plain and my messages don't have any meanings. They're just representation of a silly girl keeps bitching about how life sucks and work wears her out but she doesn't do anything to colour her life.

I wish I was Poppy, the character in 'Happy-Go-Lucky'. She teaches children and so do I. She likes her job and so do I. But why do I feel something wrong with me. It is because I'm not the right person to teach or is it because I love to be the students rather than the teachers? Why is she always happy but I am not? Why can be she happy for all the incidental things happened in her life but I haven't felt real happiness? I used to be happy and excited for the whole week if I discovered a new band or a new film or know a literally and cultural studies theory that I have never learnt. I want to taste those feelings again and again but my senses are blocked (I guess it would be better than having sex or orgasm). I missed those days where I had full of hope and full of plans. I've planned to study further and stay for a period of time in London or in Berlin or in Paris. Now I'm stuck in Hong Kong and I seem to be content. What is wrong with me? Where is my passion? Where is my mind? I keep reading daily but nothing comes into my mind.

'I still missed those rock 'n' roll days, but maybe it's time to wake up. Maybe it's time to give up those dreams' (Nat, The School of Rock). Nope. I would not give up my dreams. I just have to wait until it comes true. It may come true 10 years or 20 years later but I know some day it will.

It will.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 13:34:57 GMT

"...From the moment I met you, your personality had the most extraordinary influence over me. I was dominated, soul, brain, and power by you. You became to me the visible incarnation of that unseen ideal whose memory haunts us artists like an exquisite dream. I worshipped you. I grew jealous of every one to whom you spoke. I wanted to have you all to myself. I was only happy when I was with you. When you were away from me you were still present in my art..."

The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde (1891)