敏杰的夜奔

这个博客，不太可能会更新了，

谢谢，朋友们的关注。

Say Farewell.

最后引一段Good WillHunting 里, Robin Williams 对 Matt Damon说的话作为告别词。

” So, if I asked you about art you could give me the skinny on every art book ever written…Michelangelo? You now a lot about him I bet. Life’s work, political aspirations, the Pope, sexual orientation, the whole works, right? But you can’t tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel. You’ve never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling. I’ve seen that.

If I asked you about women, you’ll probably give me a syllabus of your personal favorites, and you’ve been laid a few times. But you can’t tell me how it feels to wake up next to a woman and feel truly happy.

You’re a tough kid. If I asked you about war, you’d probably throw a sonnet right at me, right? Once more, until the bridge, dear friends. But you’ve never been near one. You’ve never held your best friend’s head in your lap and watched him gasp his last breath, looking to you for help. And if I asked you about love you’d quote me a sonnet, but you’ve never looked at a woman and be totally vulnerable. Known that someone can level you with her eyes. Feeling that God had put an angel on earth just for you. And you wouldn’t know how it felt to be her angel. To have that love for her to be there for her forever. Through anything, through cancer. You wouldn’t know about sleeping sitting up in a hospital room for two months holding her hand, because the doctors could see in your eyes that the term visiting hours didn’t apply to you. You don’t know about real loss, because that only occurs when you lose something you love more than yourself. I doubt you’ve ever dared to love anybody that much.

I look at you and I don’t see an intelligent, confident man: I see a cheeky, scared, shitless kid. But you’re a genius, noone denies that. Noone could possibly understand the depths of you. But you presume to know everything about me because you saw a painting of mine. You ripped my fucking life apart. You’re an orphan, right? Do you think I know the first thing about how hard your life has been, how you feel, who your are, because I read Oliver Twist? Does that incapsulate you?

Personally, I don’t give a shit about all that, because, you know what: I can’t learn anything from you I can’t read in some fucking book. Unless you wanna talk about you, who you are. Then I’m fascinated. I’m in. But you don’t wanna do that, do you sport? You’re terrified about what you might say. Your move, Chief.”

“所以问你艺术，你可能会提出艺术书籍中的粗浅论调，有关米开朗基罗，你知道很多，他的事业，政治抱负，他和教皇，性向和他所有的作品，对吗？但我打赌你不知道西斯汀教堂的气味，你从没站在那儿观赏过天花板。

如果我问你关于女人的事，你八成会说出个人偏好的谬论，你可能上过几次床，但你说不出在女人身旁醒来很幸福的滋味。问战争，你会说莎士比亚的话“共赴战场，亲爱的朋友”，对不对？但你从没有接近过战争，从没有把你好友的头抱在膝盖上，看着他吐出最后一口气。问爱情，你会引述十四行诗，但你从来没有用你全部的温柔注视过一个女人，而她又能以双眼迷倒你，让你觉得上帝让天使为你下凡，她能从地狱救出你，你不会理解当她天使的滋味，拥有对她的爱，直到永远，经历这一切，经历癌症。你无法体会在医院睡两个月，只是抓住她的手，因为医生一看到你就知道，会客时间的规定对你绝对无效。你不了解真正的失去，这唯有爱别人胜过自己时才能体会。

我怀疑你曾经敢那样地爱人，看着你，我没看到聪明自信，我看到的是一个被吓坏的狂妄的孩子，但你是一个天才，没人能否认这点，但没人能了解你的深处。而你看我的画就认定了解我，你否定了我的整个人生。你是个孤儿，对吧？你以为我知道你的过去有多苦，知道你的感受，知道你是谁，只是因为我看过孤星血泪吧？那能让你好受一些？我不在乎。你知道为什么？我不能靠任何书籍认识你，除非你想谈自己，谈你是谁，那我就着迷了，我愿意加入。但你不想那么做，不是吗？你怕你会被你自己说出来的话吓到。”