I was an eccentric girl who had been seen as a genius since childhood and had no goal to survive except to develop my genius. However, as the fantasies of my childhood faded, I found that I had nothing but the dreams of genius—all that was the perverse shortcomings of genius. The world forgives Vagne's madness, but they will not forgive me.
Add a little American propaganda, and maybe I'll be hailed as a child prodigy. When I was three years old, I was able to recite Tang poems. I still remember standing wobbly in front of a Manchu qing old wicker chair and chanting "The merchant girl does not know the hatred of the country, and the river still sings the backyard flowers", watching his tears roll down. At the age of seven I wrote my first novel, a family tragedy. When I encounter words with complicated strokes, I often run to ask the cook how to write them. The second novel is about a girl who commits suicide in love. My mother criticized herself: If she were to commit suicide, she would never take a train from Shanghai to the West Lake to drown herself. But I'm because of the poetic background of West Lake. Finally stubbornly preserved this.
My only extracurricular readings are Journey to the West and a handful of fairy tales, but my mind is not bound by them. When I was eight years old, I tried a utopian-like novel titled Happy Village. The Happy Villagers were a warlike highland people who were granted permission by the Chinese Emperor to be exempt from taxes and granted autonomy for their meritorious efforts in overcoming the Miao. Therefore, Happy Village is a big family isolated from the outside world, self-cultivating and self-weaving, preserving the lively culture of the tribal era.
I had sewn half a dozen exercise books together in anticipation of a masterpiece, but soon I lost interest in the subject of this greatness. Today I still keep the illustrations I painted in multiple frames, introducing the services of this ideal society, architecture, interior decoration, including the library, the "martial arts hall", the chocolate shop, the roof garden. The common dining room is a gazebo in a lotus pond. I don't remember if there were cinemas and socialism – and though they lacked the products of these two civilizations, they seemed to be doing well.
At the age of nine, I hesitated to choose music or art as my lifelong career. After watching a film about a poor painter, I cried and decided to be a pianist and play in a palatial concert hall. I am extremely sensitive to color, notes, words. When I played the piano, I imagined that those eight notes had different personalities, wearing brightly colored clothes and hats and dancing hand in hand. I learned to write articles, and I loved to use words with strong colors and sonorous rhymes, such as "pearl gray", "dusk", "gentle", "splendour" (brilliant, magnificent), "melancholy" (melancholy), so I often made the mistake of piling up. To this day, I still love to read "Chatting with Zhiyi" and the cheesy Paris fashion reports, just for this attractive word.
In school I was free to develop. My self-confidence grew stronger until I was sixteen years old, when my mother returned from France and studied her daughter, whom she had been absent for many years.
"I regret that I used to take care of your typhoid fever," she told me, "and I would rather see you die than watch you live and cause you to suffer everywhere." "I found that I couldn't cut apples, and it took me a lot of hard work to learn to mend my socks. I was afraid to go to the barbershop, afraid to meet customers, afraid to try on clothes for tailors. Many people have tried to teach me to weave velvet thread, but none of them have succeeded. After living in a room for two years, I was still dazed when I was asked where the bell was. I took a rickshaw to the hospital every day to get injections, and for three months in a row, I still didn't know the road. All in all, in a real society, I am equal to a piece of crap.
My mother gave me two years to learn to adapt to the environment. She taught me to cook; Laundry with soap powder; Practice walking postures; Look at people's eyes; Remember to close the curtains after lighting the lamp; Look in the mirror to study facial expressions; If there is no humorous genius, don't tell jokes.
In terms of common sense in dealing with people and things, I showed amazing stupidity. My two-year plan was a failed experiment. Aside from throwing my mind off balance, my mother's poignant warning didn't affect me in any way.
There is a part of the art of living that I can't appreciate. I know how to watch "The Clouds of July", listen to the Scottish soldiers play bagpipes (bagpipes), enjoy the rattan chairs in the breeze, eat saltwater peanuts, admire the neon lights of rainy nights, and reach out from the double-decker bus to pluck the green leaves from the top of the trees. On occasions when there is no one to hand over, I am filled with the joy of life. But I could not overcome this little annoyance of biting nature in a day, and life was a gorgeous robe, crawling with fleas.