There are two kinds of novelists, one is sun type and the other is moon type.

The former such as,, Dostoevsky, the latter such as, Borges.

Of course, it’s hard to say which of them is calmer or warmer – the sun and the moon are not just warm and cold.

It should be said that it is the difference between sensibility and rationality, even if the so-called sensibility and rationality are only reflected by a certain smell.

The works bred by the sun also have the nature of Hongzhong and Dalu.

The planter harvests rows of sunflowers – looking up at his golden face wishfully on the roadside of the busy village.

It makes a welcoming gesture, but it is also easy to be welcomed – emotional charm can also infect each other.

The works derived from the moon are shrouded in the clear brightness of reason and are completely a Lonely carnival, such as ice, salt, crystal, folk porcelain or mirrors nailed to the wall, as if they were the result of having to make peace with the world.

Its visit to outsiders, if not rejected, can only be half pushed at most.

You must overcome its initial resistance to squeeze sideways into the saturated space.

Even if you participate in it, it still maintains a certain state of self entertainment.

Of course, it can also be considered: one of these two novels is not fortified, the other is fortified.

In other words, one is expectation, the other is euphemistic rejection.

He is either a lover or a narcissist in the corner.

You also have to make a choice: are you looking forward to a smooth journey, or risk a difficult reading? The former will expose you to all kinds of characters, so that you ignore the existence of the creator, as if this is a book without an author.

Everything is superfluous except the content.

The latter makes you realize that the author’s shadow does not linger like a ghost all the time, and you will have to look at the cold and arrogant bat hanging upside down on the door frame.

A Chinese female scholar commented on Jane Austen’s pride and Prejudice: “the answers she provided may not be our answers, but the problems she found are still our problems.

” Perhaps human beings live for questions and die for answers.

The arrogance and prejudice of that era were actually forged with money, blood and tears, but it was more stubborn than any masonry building.

So it can’t be broken? No, the key is that we lack enough courage: we are afraid to subvert the interpersonal relationships and even all kinds of unequal agreements that have been established in distortion.

This is an era of rapid development: novels are no longer a magic cube loved by everyone and can be played with indefinitely, while Balzac, Gogol and Tolstoy are becoming antiques.

Their great works seem to be extremely heavy, and only a few people with excess energy can open them.

I can’t believe it: a few years ago, I worshipped them as popular gods.

And the temple of God has gradually fallen into dust.

I don’t know what Parisians think of Balzac today.

Do they still appreciate him? Balzac’s huge “human comedy” displays another Paris.

An outdated city is like a retired warship moored in a secret port.

All the sailors on the deck had disappeared, but their noise could still be heard.

Anyway, in my eyes on the other side of the ocean, Balzac, Hugo, Flaubert, Zola and will always be the patron saint of Paris.

They provided a free telescope with rust stains, which helped me get to know a foreign city without leaving home.

They can be said to be an indispensable part of the emblem of Paris.

Ou Ni Ge Lang Tai, Gao Lao tou, aunt Bai, Nana, camellia, Jean Valjean and Cosette, Quasimodo and Ace Mela DA are never registered permanent permanent residents in Paris’s registered residence management system.

“I love the South and hate it.

There are some things I don’t like at all, but I was born here.

This is my home.

So I am willing to continue to maintain it, even with hatred.

” Faulkner also expressed this feeling of love and hate, just for his hometown.

He grew up in Lafayette County in northwestern Mississippi, the yorknapatafa county he invented in a series of works – a place the size of a stamp.

The word “yorknapatafa” comes from Indian and means “collapsed land”.

It is also the name of a stream near Oxford, Faulkner’s hometown.

A virtual York napatafa County became famous with Faulkner.

What a writer shows is actually his relationship with the world – whether it’s the big world or the small world.

There is no writer who is purely subjective or objective.

The change of his mood is undoubtedly the result of the interference of external things.

The world he describes is also a reflection of his mood.

Pure love or pure hate are too transparent.

What is too transparent lacks authenticity, which is too much like industrialized glass.

The emotion of love and hate is reasonable, because it is turbid and contains all kinds of impurities.

A drop of muddy tears fell down and finally solidified, but the small insects in its collection were not.

This is amber.

For the writer, his own shadow has also formed the core of amber, and the silent victim is actually his own double.

This is the real concept of hometown, at least for Faulkner.

He is searching for the past time and things.

Faulkner, Joyce and Proust are all pyramid makers.

“Noise and commotion”, “Ulysses” and “recalling the past years” are their written buildings left on the earth.

What is the purpose of their construction? In order to flaunt the great achievements of the literary Empire, or just show off your personal strength in front of the world? But this can not avoid the traces of labor.

For example, the construction of Ulysses broke ground in 1914 and did not cut the ribbon until 1921.

This is an eight year project.

What is dramatic is that the time span in the novel is less than 19 hours, that is, from 8 a.m. to 2:40 p.m. on June 16, 1904.

In any case, the day the buildings are completed is when they become giants.

This is a building block that giants can build.

Compared with the dazzling pyramids, their other works have the nature of sketches.

But I actually appreciate some “little moves” played by giants.

Take Joyce as an example.

His self portrait of a young artist is better than《Herr’s “novel theorem” (the main idea is as follows): the only reason for the existence of a novel is that it can discover what can only be discovered by a novel.

As a novel, it is immoral not to discover the unknown part of existence, Cognition is the only morality of the novel.

But Kundera also found signs of death in the novel: “About half a century ago, in the Russian Empire, the history of novels stopped.

This is a serious event.

The greatness of Russian Novels from Gogol to bere is well known in the world.

It can be seen that the death of novels is not just fantasy.

It has happened.

We now know how novels die: it is not disappearing, it is divorced from its own history.

It is silent It didn’t arouse anyone’s indignation to die quietly and unnoticed.

” He also stressed: “if the novel is really going to die, it is not because it has exhausted its strength, but because it lives in a world that is no longer compatible with it.

” A large number of novels that have not found meaning and are outside history, that is, the emergence and mainstream status of novels that fall behind the history of novels, are the reasons for the demise of real novels.

Milan Kundera, a novelist who published the death obituary of the novel.

I hope he is not the last real novelist, if Cervantes is the first real novelist in Europe, as he said.

He opposed writing for the future like the avant-garde, but humbly admitted his inheritance of the European literary tradition: “I am attached to nothing but the belittled legacy of Cervantes.

” “As a novelist, I went back to the ancient Neolithic age and imitated the man who told stories around the fire in the cave.

I had stories to tell, and I regarded them as fun.

In my opinion, the story itself was enough to become a goal at that time, but now for quite a long time, intellectuals despise storytelling, so I was unlucky.

” The guy who calls himself unlucky is Maugham.

He faced a group of readers and critics in the great industrial age, and storytelling has been listed as the most primitive hunting method of the novel.

Maugham’s understanding of novels can be called the most simple view of novels, that is, he believes that storytelling is the vitality of novels.

“The writer’s dice are always loaded with lead, but they must not be seen by the readers.

He just relies on the plot to catch the readers, so that he can’t see the writer’s trap.

” Novelists are like people who play tricks – with sweet and delicious bait.

Maugham himself did the same.

In the process of exaggerating the life experience of the painter Gauguin, he completed the moon and sixpence.

He insists on the “materialism” of the novel, that is, the specific story is the most important material.

No matter how the style of the novel evolves, this skill of storytelling should not be lost.

For novelists, it is at least equivalent to basic training.

No matter how natural and unrestrained an oil painter is, he has to go through the stage of sketching.

Of course, in another crowd, I also heard the opposite voice.

What they advocate is “idealistic” Novels: they pay attention to psychological depiction, but the story becomes dispensable, and even deliberately put the plot into the meat grinder to grind it into pieces, making it a meat stuffing without shape and texture.

For example, Ruyi intellectual flow novels, such as “new novels” novels.

Rigardu’s slogan is exactly the opposite of Maugham’s: fiction is not the writing of thrillers, but the writing of thrillers.

This seems to show that writing itself is an adventure, and the plot and characters are irrelevant.

If the concept of “trap” still exists, it is not set for readers, but only to trap the author himself.

Natalia salotte, a veteran of the “new novel” school, pointed out in the Manifesto “the era of doubt”: “we have entered the era of doubt”, “psychological elements should be separated from their stored objects”, “tend to exist independently and get rid of the support of characters as much as possible.

All the exploration of contemporary novelists focuses on this point.

” This is why Maugham is unlucky: the history of novels is no longer an endless story meeting.

The storyteller lost his job.

So he misses the Neolithic age, which was warmed by stories.