In short stories, the eye is sometimes a detail.
The fake necklace in Maupassant's Necklace, the vine leaf painted on the wall in O Henry's The Last Leaf, and the missing and indispensable rib in Jack London's A Piece of Rib are all good examples. For example, in Chekhov's "Sorrow", the old man used a sleigh to send his wife and children to the county hospital for treatment, and in the snow, he told himself with guilt about how sorry he was sorry for his poor old partner, and vowed to truly love the only partner in his life after she was cured. However, he found that the snowflakes that fell on his wife's face no longer melted - the wife was dead! What a chilling detail! As a result, his guilt, repentance, and vows along the way have all become empty with this detail.
I once found the eye of a novel, and that was the umbrella in The Tall Woman and Her Short Husband.
I met a couple on a train to Beijing who were snickered by people on the bus because women were taller than men. But this couple seemed to have a warm and harmonious atmosphere, which made me suddenly moved and had a desire to create. In the following year, I kept seeing the strange image of the tall couple due to their violation of customary cognition, and intermittently associated with many plot fragments for them, some of which also moved me myself. But I haven't written, I haven't found an eye that can condense the whole thought and emotion.
Later, I came across it by chance – it was a rainy day and my wife and I were out. I'm tall, so naturally I'm going to get an umbrella. In the drenched spring rain, under the umbrella that enveloped both of us, I suddenly became excited. I found it, umbrella! An umbrella that protects two people tightly! With this umbrella, I thought through the whole story almost instantaneously. I was so happy that I tucked my umbrella into my wife and ran back to write it immediately.
I wrote this: When short and tall couples are together, it is always more convenient for tall women to play umbrellas. After the tall woman had a child, in the sun and rain, the errand of playing umbrellas belonged to the short husband. But he had to raise his umbrella halfway up to shade the tall woman from the rain. After a series of poignant tragic processes, the tall woman died, the short husband went out to get an umbrella or habitually half-held, people found that there was a long space under the umbrella, empty, and nothing in the world could make up for it... For this umbrella, what is more important is the space under the umbrella.
How much bitterness, bitterness and sweetness are hidden in the space under this umbrella? It allows people around to discover the most precious things in the world – purity and sincerity are here. This lonely umbrella in the sloping wind and drizzle calls to the unfortunate tall woman, and also calls to people to fill the space below it with beautiful emotions. The eyes of fiction are like the eyes of man.
It flickers and flashes, and its expression is rich. It may be to tell you something clearly, or it may have to be guessed, thought, and realized by yourself. It is deep, multi-layered, attracting you layer by layer, and it will never make you clear at once.
This is the most fascinating thing about the eyes of the novel.
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