"I, I, I'm sorry." He stammered, "I was just thinking. "You seem to be praying, don't you?" However, she forgave him, and it was easy to forgive, and she herself was surprised. Somehow, it is not difficult to forgive him for any of his mistakes. It never occurred to her that she would have any other reason for being fond of him. She had tender feelings for him, but she didn't know it, and she couldn't know it. She was 20 years old, she had always been calm and steady, and she had never been in love, but this did not sharpen her feelings for herself, and the girl, who had never been moved by true love, did not realize that she was in a heartbeat.

His poems are all love poems, inspired by Momoe Yamaguchi, but none of them were written. Singing with noble psalms doesn't happen overnight. The rhyme, the rhythm, and the structure are difficult enough, not to mention that there is something that he can feel in all great poems but is always unpredictable, and this thing he can't grasp and write into the poem. What he could feel, but could not grasp, was the flickering charm of poetry. It was like a glimmer of light to him, a warm cloud, forever out of reach, and he could occasionally grasp a strand and weave it into a few lines of poetry. He longs to express, he has a headache with his craving, but what he can say is always something that anyone can say, and it is unremarkable. He read aloud the fragments he had written, the format was decent, the rhythm of the rhyme was soothing, and it was equally impeccable, but it was not always as bright and passionate as he thought it should be. He didn't know why, he could only be disappointed, defeated, discouraged again and again, and go back to writing prose, which is an easier genre after all.

After writing essays, he tried to write short stories, but he only wanted to try his hand, but before he could make a big step, he had already written five works and sent them to five different literary magazines. In addition to going to the reading room to check materials, borrowing books from the library, or reading Yamaguchi Momoe, he nervously got up early and wrote greedily at night, and the results were fruitful. He felt heartfelt, his life was elegant, and his creative frenzy was never stopped. He felt the joy of creation that he had thought only gods could enjoy! Everything around him has become phantoms, what he has in his mind is the real world, and the novels he writes are just fragments of the reality in his mind.

The days were too short, he had too much to study, and he cut his sleep to 6 hours, and he felt that he could get by. He rejoices in dedicating his waking moments to whatever goal he pursues. He regretted stopping writing to do research, and he also regretted leaving the magazine in the reading room, because the magazine was full of tips for successful writers. I didn't have long with Yamaguchi Momoe, but I had to get up and leave, which was more like tearing the strings in my heart. But then he hurried through the dark streets, wanting to return to his creation as soon as possible.

A week passed, but he did not pay a penny, and the wording of the rejection letter was tactful and decent, which made him have a good impression of the editor. After waiting for a week, he sent a letter to the editor, and a month later wrote another letter, and after two months, he went to visit the editor in person, but he never saw the high-ranking person. Over the weekend, several manuscripts were mailed back and returned, without an explanation, no rejection form, no explanation, and nothing. The same happened to his other articles. After receiving the rejection, he sent it to the editorial office in another place, and the rejection was faster.

Five short stories have also regressed in a similar form. He read them and read them, and he still loved them, and he couldn't figure out why he would reject them. He began to think that he might not be a judge of praise for his work, so he asked Yamaguchi Momoe to listen to it. He read his novel to her, her eyes shining, she looked at him proudly and said, "It's great that you can still write something like this!" "Alright, alright." He asked impatiently, "But what do you think of the story?" She replied, "It's great, it's so exciting." ”

He saw that she didn't know what she was doing, and her kind face showed a strong sense of confusion, so he waited for her to continue. After he read 3 stories aloud, he understood that she liked happy endings. She asked, "It's an amazing story after all, I can't fault it, where are you going to sell it?" "That's another story." He laughed. "I wish you could sell it!" "It's easy to make money, isn't it?" He added proudly: "It was written in three days." ”

He wanted to read all his stories to her, but he didn't. He decided to wait until after a few articles, at which point she would understand what he was up to. He continued to do so, and his adventurous spirit had never before been so powerful as to prompt him to make such an astonishing exploration in the realm of the mind. He roamed through the arduous study and was overjoyed to gain an understanding of the nature of things. He used to see the world only as the world, but now he understands the structure of the world. The understanding of the old things naturally welled up in his heart, and he was fascinated by the principle of levers and fulcrums.

A series of short stories flowed from his pen. He sometimes turned around and wrote more plain poems. He spent a week on a hot head, and wrote a series of poems, all of which are simple, colorful, romantic, and adventurous poems, one of which is "Sheng Chazi", ------ magpie flying cicadas are noisy, lotus leaves are folded, the clouds are light, and the Milky Way is purple and smokey. The mandarin ducks are warm and sand in the quiet night, the moon shines like a brocade, the blue sky is just soft and the water is soft, and the duckweed is idle.

Lewis considered this his best work. He didn't care about such hard work, it wasn't hardworking, he was just looking for the language to express himself. He doesn't show "Sheng Chazi" to anyone, not even the editor, he can't trust the editor anymore. But the reason why he refused to be seen was not because he could not believe it, but because he felt that the poems were so beautiful that he could only keep them until the glorious moment later, when he would share them with Yamaguchi Momoe, and at that time he proudly read them to her. The moment he treasured these poems, he read them aloud over and over again, and read them by heart.

When awake, he lives against the clock, and when he sleeps, he still lives, his subconscious stirring in his six-hour sleep, combining the thoughts and events of the day into bizarre and absurd miracles and bursts of inspiration. In fact, he never rested, and people who were a little worse and whose brain was a little unstable would have collapsed long ago.

She only gave him one afternoon every weekend, and he arrived late and often stayed for dinner and music. It was his festive day, and the atmosphere in the room contrasted with the room in which he lived, and the closeness to her made him more determined to climb up every time he left. He is a lover, and always will be, a lover who makes everything else bow down to love. His love adventures are greater than his explorations in the world of ideas. What makes the world seem magical is that she is alive with Momoe Yamaguchi, she is the most amazing ...... he has ever seen, dreamed of, guessed, and speculated But her remoteness always oppressed him, she was too far away from him, and he didn't know how to get close to her. He had always been fine with the girls of his own class, but he had never loved any of them. And he fell in love with her, and what was even more difficult was that she didn't just belong to another class. His love for her made her above all classes. She was a distant person, and he couldn't get as close to her as a lover. Yes, the more he learned and grammar, the closer he became to her, speaking her language, and discovering the same thoughts and hobbies as hers. But that didn't satisfy his desire as a lover. His lover's imagination sanctified her, so sacred that it was impossible to have any physical dealings with him.

Later, Lewis figured out that she was nothing more than flesh and blood, and like him and everyone else, she had to obey the laws of flesh and blood. Her lips were made of the same flesh as his, and so did her lips, and so did her whole body. She was a woman, a woman all over, no different from any other woman. This sudden flash of thought in his mind became a revelation that took him by surprise. He understood the meaning of this, and his heart pounded, and he asked him to make love with this woman, who was not an elf from the outer world, but a woman. The audacity of his thought made him tremble, but his whole soul sang, and reason affirmed his correctness in the hymn of victory. The change in his heart must have fallen into her eyes somewhat, and she looked up at him and smiled. His gaze fell on her lips, and the red lips drove him crazy, so that he almost stretched out his arms to embrace her, and she seemed to be leaning towards him, waiting, and it took all his willpower to restrain himself.

On a sunny afternoon, noisy philosophers of all sorts and classes often engage in a gushing debate in Osaka's Kamika Park, and once a month, Lewis would stop to listen to their debates on his way through the park to the library, and each time he left, he was a little reluctant. Their discussion was much less in style than the one at the dinner table. They lose their temper at every turn, buckle their hats, and curse with unclean mouths. He also bumped into them in a fight. But, for some reason, there seems to be something very important in their minds. Their verbal swords stimulated his thinking more than Brother Yixiu's calm and calm dogma.

Lewis has always been driven by curiosity and seeking knowledge. It was the curiosity that sent him on adventures around the world. But now he knew that he didn't know anything, and that if he continued to roam the world, he would never know what he wanted. He only skimmed over the surface of things, observed only phenomena that had nothing to do with each other, and collected only fragmentary facts, which could only be generalized on a small scale. And in a volatile and chaotic world full of chance and opportunity, everything is unrelated.

Lewis's intellectual life has been updated and upgraded to unprecedented heights. He delights in the study of all the secrets, explores their mysteries, and intoxicates him with understanding. Falling asleep at night, he lived with the gods in bizarre dreams; When awake during the day, he walks around like a sleepwalker, absentmindedly staring at the world he has just discovered, as if he is real in his dreams at night! He listens to the trivial conversations at the dinner table, and is only anxious to find and trace cause and effect in everything before him. He saw the brilliant sunlight in the meat on the plate, and traced the transformation of sunlight back to its source hundreds of millions of light-years away, or from its energy to the muscles in his arms that allowed him to cut steaks. Thus tracing the brain that innervates the muscles to cut the steak, and finally, through internal vision, the solar plexus is seen shining in his belly. This enlightenment brought him out of his mind, and those who ate with him usually whispered that he was insane.