發現好書：《縫身》韓麗珠。

發現好書，像流落荒島之時，四處遊蕩，無事可做，無思可想，但覺生無可戀之際，在樹上採摘野果之時，發現一本書。若為可讀之物，打開書本猶如打開自己，有限之身上通往無限的世界。縱一人，卻不感孤獨。

難為身體髮膚

很焗促的晚上。在房間裡，儘管開了窗，我額上還是不住冒汗。

方才寫了一篇短短的日誌，關於書事，因網路問題霎眼間化為烏有。沒心機再寫一遍。有些思想只出現一次，沒了便沒了，再寫也不一樣。而有些東西可以一時間化為烏有，所謂牢固堅定，不過如此。看破了，也便無礙。

無無明，亦無無明盡。乃至無老死，亦無老死盡。

不知從何開始，時常提醒自己，保持心境平和冷靜，不憂慮，不恐懼，不執著。一切感情，也不過身外物。容祖兒某首陳年舊歌有這麼一句詞：何苦？難為身體髮膚。有時候想起，覺得，竟有如金科玉律。

無始無終。

「佛教認為，世間萬法都是依因緣而生，依因緣而存在。世上沒有不依靠其他事物而獨立存在的東西，任何事物都是因緣合和而成；沒有什麼東西能夠不受其他事物的影響，也沒有什麼東西能夠不影響任何其他事物；任何事物都有前因，也有後果，而這種因果關係構成了一個無始無終的鏈條。

且依因緣而生之一切，也隨着現象的生起，而損耗其賴之生起的因緣，是故世間一切皆無法恆常。」

wikipedia.

曾聽說過，尋覓愛情。

曾聽說過，尋覓愛情，就像天與地別離和團聚過程

而我跟妳，平靜旅程，並沒有驚心也沒動魄的情景

昨晚，在張學友的二分一世紀演唱會上，聽到這歌平靜的前段子，竟哭了起來。我想起甚麼呢，才讓眼淚如狂潮。不過幾句歌詞，幾句我從來沒有留意過的文字。我跟誰別離又團聚過，團聚又別離過。

寫小說。

一個人待在房間，沉寂在夏風的晚上，把故事寫成小說，有一句沒一句。記得的，不記得的，想像的，真實的，在變成在文字以後，真實成了虛構，想像也頓成憶記。真的假的，是那麼重要嗎，當成故事就好了。別忘了，文字寫成以後，即獨立於人世。它的生也好死亦好，而真而假，都與作者無關了。作者已死，要將一切連接於作者，不過為讀者思想的局限，想像的貧乏。有人讀也好沒人讀也好，小說的生命，不在於其讀者的多寡。寫小說是為了寫的過程，而非結果有沒有人閱讀。是故，儘管讀者全無，我還是要寫。

一顆遙遠的星星

「看著你，有時候會覺得像在看一顆遙遠的星星似的。」我說。「看起來非常明亮，不過那光卻是幾萬年之前發出來的，那或許是現在已經不存在的天體之光也說不定。不過有時候，那看起來卻比任何東西都真實。」


《國境之南，太陽之西》

我彷似跟你熱戀過

緬梔。

學校有一棵雞蛋花，長在樓梯旁。直至它開出花來，我才驚覺它的存在。

雞蛋花又名緬梔。想起童年，悠長的夏季，便立時想起那一塵不染的白花黃心，還有那怡人的清芳。

星期五，下雨，五時許，天色陰晦。離開學校之際，步下樓梯，我又不禁愈走愈慢，多瞥那花兒幾眼。雨後，花瓣上儲了水珠晶瑩，稀釋了芬芳；含苞待放的，安靜的隱蔽自身。我心怦然，多美麗。一朵落花，整全道上，霎眼一看，彷彿地上也生出花來。

此際，聞梯下嬉笑聲，一女孩手拈落花，湊近鼻孔，欣然笑說，好香呵，一眾友人圍繞左右，便紛紛擁前聞嗅之。她望見我，腼腆一笑，對我揮手再見。花前雨後，女兒衣袖，笑語盈盈，處處暗香。我心一動，雖在校園之內，一時之間，竟錯覺身在大觀園。

豆蔻年華，二八年華，花樣年華，之後是甚麼？

Movie Sunday: A Room with a View

Sunday morning with A Room with a View (1985), a film I didn't manage to finish some three years ago before I embarked on my Grand Tour in Italy. How I've missed Florence, and the touch of romance in the unbearable heat of its air. 

The music of the film is marvellous, and the actresses too. I've always liked Helena Bonham Carter, who, despite being so English, carries an inexplicable sense of rebellion and mystery in her self. Even without the work of make-up she looks positively Gothic. And in case you don't know, her partner is Tim Burton, which is probably one of the coolest couples in human history.

Chloe Moretz

I like her.

Friends' time.

Johnny Depp in Dark Shadows.

Movie time alone

Movie home.

我是個懶惰的人。我覺得人是不應太努力工作的。

I can't go on spoiling your life any longer.

"Dearest, I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that – everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V."

Virginia Woolf's last note to her husband, before she put on her overcoat, filled its pocket with stones, walked into the river and drowned herself.

i love my life.

I was dying of boredom.

"My marriage didn't make me sad, but it didn't make me happy either. My husband and I hardly spoke to each other. This wasn't because we were angry. We had nothing to say. I was dying of boredom."

Marilyn Monroe

Sunday breakfast.

self.

“For now she need not think of anybody. She coud be herself, by herself. And that was what now she often felt the need of - to think; well not even to think. To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others... and this self having shed its attachments was free for the strangest adventures. When life sank down for a moment, the range of experience seemed limitless.” 

To the lighthouse. Virginia Woolf.

夢還沒有完。

你掌心的痣，我總記得在那裡。

也許

全世界我也可以忘記 

就是不願意

失去你的消息 

你掌心的痣 

我總記得在那裡

據說，詞是林夕給黃耀明寫的。你掌心的痣，就是黃耀明掌心的黑痣。被問到，黃耀明對他的抑鬱症有甚麼影響，林夕說，他就是我抑鬱症的起源。有些緣起，緣滅；有些緣起，不滅。

逐想起朱天文的《荒人手記》，一個男人，與另一個男人的愛情。

想起李碧華的《霸王別姬》，程蝶衣與段小樓。

張國榮，還有王爾德。

其實，這世界存在很多可能的可能。不可能，不過因為人的眼睛太小，很多事情，看不進眼內，或視而不見。這個年頭，很多故事的軸心，都不只於兩性之間。單性別的關係，或情，或愛，或淺，或濃，乃人之常情，不必大驚小怪。

忙亂的一天，整天魂不附體，神志不清。回來吧，回來吧。

文學院的木長椅。

某天晚上，心血來潮，乘自動電梯，到堅道，坐小巴回文學院一行。

在東閘下車，沿斜道，走上祿祐堂門前石階梯，左轉。無人的走廊，緊閉的木門。黑夜之中仍能看見門上深裂經年的木紋。園子裡，三四月的春花早逝，當下只剩綠葉，在九時的夜晚，隱成一叢面目模糊的影。

水聲。圓環水池。裡邊還住著龜兒嗎？我記得，好多年前了，某夏夜，我跟她並坐水池邊，她訴說，我便傾聽。是個涼夜。我倆因此而解開一個愛情的糾結，明白愛人如己，也必先愛己。池邊有石級，級上有長椅，在龐大的樹蔭下，曾是我流連，讀書，躲懶，哭泣的棲息地。

經過音樂室，長廊盡處，一室燈火通明，美樂悠揚。此時此刻，總有音樂。我想起生命中不能承受的輕，他們的相遇，也是樂韻之時。人在當時必定無知。往後回想，方會明白，其時一剎如電影佈景，目前燈光，陰影，走廊的明暗，門虛掩的角度，莫名其妙的音樂，都經過精心的佈置，安排。

我繼續走，沿長廊繞了一圈，除了保安員，人煙全無。另一邊，我還記得上 Romanticism 的課室，記得有一課，跟教授爭持不下，二人臉紅耳赤。那是我最喜歡的教授之一，她年輕，金髮，聲線柔美，是個美人。而今回看，那些上課的時光，研究 Mary Shelley 的日子，短暫得如驟雨一樣，一打傘，它已經過去了。

走上二樓，聞嬉笑聲。美術系那邊，露台之上，彩燈張結。二樓平臺的木長椅東歪西斜，我放下袋子，脫了皮鞋，橫躺在椅上，雙腳擱在椅欄。夜空泛紅，是下雨的先兆。風不息。薄扶林的空氣。心想，不如這裡睡一夜至天明，餐風飲露也不錯，反正沒有試過。我想起梁同學，也想起鄒同學。我們常常坐在這兒的長椅，在冬天的暖陽下，或在夏至的黃昏之境，舒服得快要睡著，每每直到天黑才離開。

我想起很多事情。好的，壞的，挖心掏肺的，無關痛癢的，久遠的，近切的。想起上月比較文學系告別會上，J 說到，關於文學樓大樓，種種的私密情事。往時，覺得 Main Building 等同文學院，好像拜倫與詩一樣。兩者從此要分開來想像，是不可能，是絕不可能。

不知過了多久，下起雨來。我提起袋子離開，下樓梯，在祿祐堂門前，坐在梯上，靜看門外，四月的雨。

故事何樣美，終極是分離。

從夢裡伊甸　來到我枕邊

夢與真之間　就只差一吋
要是留著你　真實地糾纏
怕沒權利　以後留戀

情愫與相思　如最愛的書
未了那一章　沒翻開的勇氣

故事何樣美　

終極是分離

不敢好奇　

沾污結尾

猶如　無人敢碰
秘密　現在被揭曉

明日想起　我們    其實承受不了

歡樂今宵　虛無飄渺
再沒餘地　繼續纏繞

談情一世　發現    願望極渺小

留下一點　距離    回味猶自心跳

歡樂今宵　虛無飄渺

那樣動搖　不如罷了

Perhaps we should all learn to be hopeless at times. Try to stay out of any hope, clear your expectations away, so that disappointment won't hurt you too much when yearnings turn out to be in vain.

First of May - the song for today.

The apple tree that grew for you and me

I watched the apples falling one by one

And I recall the moment of them all

The day I kissed your cheek and you were gone

憂鬱的星期二。

something is immune from change

"...there is a coherence in things, a stability; something, she meant, is immune from change, and shines out (she glanced at the window with its ripple of reflected lights) in the face of the flowing, the fleeting, the spectral, like a ruby; so that again tonight she had the feeling she had had once today, already, of peace, of rest. Of such moments, she thought, the thing is made that endures."

To the lighthouse. Virginia Woolf.