心在跳動，淚水還未在眼簾滾動我不太明白此刻心在跳得這麼厲害是為了甚麼我心臟病發嗎可是連我的良心都忍不住要喝我放過王旅旅啦我就知道我究竟有多麼激動不錯，我連哭的能力都沒有鄰座的女孩為新世界中心 food mall 後面男廁第一格那餅呼喚愛的錄音帶而哭，我沒有韓尚宮為長今失去味覺好淒涼而哭，我沒有梁太為 8 歲女兒給殘酷一叮叮走後玩失縱而哭，我沒有Stephy 的 fans 為阿嬌的 fans 而哭，我沒有中大同學為母校將改名為英文大學而哭，我沒有煲呔為何博士 7 年前給姓董的 100 分而大前日只給他 90 分而哭，我沒有李永達為民建聯只收購港進聯而還未收購民主黨而哭，我沒有 所以我更沒有能力為即將考 A Level 的王旅旅而哭要哭就要有淚水我的淚腺早給這殘酷世界堵塞了，憑甚麼哭？王旅旅你暫時把一雙會打字的手，寄放在印著孫中山和馬致遠的頭像的那一頁課文裡好了很7，港燦就只懂用這麼 7 的文筆寫文章我說不緊要只要妳有一天說繼續用華康少女體打出我恨你我當埋條底底借把電鑽給淚腺鑿開都不要緊......我在等著為考完 A Level 的王旅旅復出而哭
不用哭呀, 要不然我這冷血老頭也會哭.....不過想哭便哭吧.......大家都陪住您這是積極的決定, 努力, 灌。清楚的目標，簡單的生活，事便成.所有人都等著您回來呀!!!!!!!!保重保重, 努力努力, 各 x 1,000,000,000
七月迪士尼開左未? 九月? 好快, 快過迪士尼!
"這是積極的決定" <--真好!不過, 讀書還讀書, blog還blog, 寫blog呢家o野, 可以有好多種寫法, 努努力力花好多時間寫一篇文又得, 馬馬虎虎係咁意寫o下呢刻心情又得, 得o左! ^o^同讀書一樣~"努力"讀書+"唔認真地"blog, 其實可以並存, 用呢度成為你讀書時o既抖氣位, 都可以是美事一宗! 當你見到大家為你留言打氣, 讀都讀得開心d 啦! 係咪!! 我o地係"王旅旅後援隊"! yeah~~~~ ^o^
除?千千闕歌,我想送你一首梁詠琪既Today==在最好時刻分離 不要流眼� 就承諾在某年 某一天某地點 再見==放輕鬆 便能做好你想做的事 Today:離開 這一刻感覺不會忘記朋友 抱擁告別明天各自遠飛難得 並沒傷感依依不捨顧慮重拾昨天 樂趣一堆曾經 每一天相約找美麗去陶醉 美的故事互相勉勵去追曾經 望著天空一起哭泣至睡臨別說起 亦笑相對#別了依然相信 以後有緣再聚 未曾重遇以前 要珍惜愛自己 在最好時刻分離不要流眼� 就承諾在某年 某一天某地點 再見TODAY WHILE THE BLOSSOMSSTILL CLING TO THE VINE I’LL TASTE YOUR STRAWBERRIESI’LL DRINK YOUR SWEET WINEA MILLION TOMORROWSSHALL ALL PASS AWAYARE WE FORGET ALL THE JOYTHAT IS OURS TODAYRepeat # #
The other day I ran into a most uncharacteristic painting by Turner. Entitled "The Gareteer's Petition", it shows a desperate-looking devotee of the muse seeking inspiration in his attic room, complete with unmade bed, a barrel-full of dog-eared folios and scraps of discarded paper. It's unusual in many ways: the scene is urban, indoor and unromanticised. The tone of the painting is hard to gauge; you might think (from the skew-whiff print of Mont Parnassus) it was satirical, in the tradition of Hogarth (and looking ahead to Daumier), but while Turner catches the obsessed quality of the poet, he doesn't seem entirely to be making fun of him.A clue might be offered by the revelation (it was news to me) that Turner was himself a poet. The striking quality of truthfulness in the painting quite likely derives from Turner's own experience as an eager but not very successful versifier. Perhaps the best word for the tone of the painting is rueful. The obsession, the pain and the yearning are all real; so is the delusion, at least in that hopes of fame and glory are destined to be dashed. Turner spent many years writing a grandiose long poem entitled "The Fallacies of Hope", but he never finished or published it. All the same, he used quotations from the poem as prompts and titles for some of his most ambitious paintings.Turner's experience as a poet made me think of the wider matter of artists who do not stick to their specialisms. We allow men of the Renaissance to be Renaissance men. It is accepted that Michelangelo wrote sonnets; that Leonardo da Vinci invented flying machines on-off days from painting virgins and last suppers; even that Henry VIII was a fair musician as well as an epoch-making monarch. But at some point between the 16th and 19th centuries, being a Renaissance figure stopped being something for a serious artist to crow about. The facts that Blake drew, etched and painted as well as wrote, that Saint-Saens was a gifted amateur mathematician, astronomer, poet and playwright, and that Borodin was a distinguished doctor, are considered signs of eccentricity and possibly waywardness (if they had concentrated more on the matter in hand, they might have made it to the top table).You could say that modern civilisation is a history of intensifying specialisation; as knowledge increases, any single person's hope of grasping more than a tiny section of the ballooning sphere diminishes. That may be true of science, and is certainly true of factory labour, but I am not at all sure it applies to art, or indeed life lived artfully.I remember feeling greatly cheered when I read that the English painter Stanley Spencer devoted up to one third of his waking hours to playing Bach on the organ. This makes no sense according to contemporary ideas of time management, and maybe his wife felt he should concentrate a bit more on work that would support the family, but Spencer stuck to his guns, or his preludes and fugues.The point, I assume, was not that Spencer was a brilliant organist or musician, but that playing Bach was an essential part of what made him tick, as an artist and as a human being. Bach's theological polyphony, his chromaticism, his unerring architecture, in some mysterious way, fed into Spencer's ecstatically textured vision of Cookham, its men and women, animals, birds, trees and river.Spencer might seem eccentric (anyone who can discern earthly paradise in a Berkshire village must have a special kind of sight), but I don't think his Bach-playing habits are really so unusual. Recently I discovered that Samuel Butler (a splendidly bitter, bracing author I have only just got round to investigating) co-wrote an oratorio called "Narcissus". Anthony Burgess is a more recent example of a writer who spent time composing music.I believe that Renaissance man or woman is not a peculiarity of that era, but is much more complete and representative - and in a way more normal version - of humanity than modern-day "compartmentalised man". Joseph Beuys gets a lot of stick these days for saying "everyone is an artist". Not everyone is a great artist, to be sure; great artists are few in number; but every human being is born a singer, a dreamer, and at certain moments and in certain states a poet. Language was originally poetry. The Iliad and the Odyssey come before the Peloponnesian war and the dialogues of Plato; whole darkening aeons before Frederick Winslow Taylor's Principles of Scientific Management.We should all encourage and develop as much breadth and multi-facetedness as we find within ourselves, and others. This may involve spending time on things that we are not especially good at, whether it be singing, poetry or painting, but which extend our range of thought and feeling and deeply enrich us. Turner would not have been Turner without "The Fallacies of Hope"; writing that poem surely taught him something he could not otherwise have learned about being human.
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