The Chinese Room将于2017.9.21推出新游戏 So Let Us Melt.
恰巧在读I Am a Strange Loop时发现了Everybody's Gone to the Rapture片尾已被破解的密码彩蛋
"In the wake of a human being's death, what survives is a set of afterglows, some brighter and some dimmer, in the collective brains of... those... dearest to them. ...there is, in those who remain... a collective corona that still glows. Douglas Hofstadter"
When in the springtime of the year
When the trees are crowned with leaves
When the ash and oak, and the birch and yew
Are dressed in ribbons fair
When owls call the breathless moon
In the blue veil of the night
The shadows of the trees appear
Amidst the lantern light
Who will go down to those shady groves
And summon the shadows there
And tie a ribbon on those sheltering arms
In the springtime of the year
A garland gay we bring you here
And at your door we stand
It is a sprout well budded out
The work of our Lords hand
We've been rambling all the night
And some time of this day
Now returning back again
We bring a garland gay
For me a tragedy's most important act is the sixth:
the resurrecting from the stage's battlegrounds,
the adjusting of wigs, of robes,
the wrenching of knife from breast,
the removing of noose from neck,
the lining up among the living
to face the audience.
Bows solo and ensemble:
the white hand on the heart's wound,
the curtsey of the lady suicide,
the nodding of the lopped-off head.
Bows in pairs:
fury extends an arm to meekness,
the victim looks blissfully into the hangman's eyes,
the rebel bears no grudge as he walks beside the tyrant.
The trampling of eternity with the tip of a golden slipper.
The sweeping of morals away with the brim of a hat.
The incorrigible readiness to start afresh tomorrow.
The entry in single file of those who died much earlier,
in the third, the fourth, or between the acts.
The miraculous return of those lost without a trace.
The thought that they've been waiting patiently backstage,
not taking off costumes,
not washing off makeup,
moves me more than the tragedy's tirades.
But truly elevating is the lowering of the curtain,
and that which can still be glimpsed beneath it:
here one hand hastily reaches for a flower,
there a second snatches up a dropped sword.
Only then does a third, invisible,
perform its duty:
it clutches at my throat.
- Wislawa Szymborska (trans. by Krynski & Maguire)
Leonard means "brave lion", derived from the Germanic elements levon "lion" and hard "brave, hardy". This was the name of a 5th-century Frankish saint from Noblac who is the patron of prisoners and horses. The Normans brought this name to England, though it did not become common there until the 19th century.
Reviewer 2 (Comments to the Author):
1. The paper needs to be rewritten to improve the English and logical expression.
We thank the reviewer for the great suggestion. We have been in accordance with the comments to modify the article to a more proper expression which had been revised by a native speaker.
谷歌搜图时惊现谜之叔本华。追过去一看，竟然来自Pottermore Ilvermony Sorting Ceremony；也不知道是谁编的，可能内部有阿图尔的间谍...
Darkness at Noon by Arthur Koestler
Revolutionaries should not think through other people's minds.
Or, perhaps they should? Or even ought to?
How can one change the world if one identifies oneself with everybody?
How else can one change it?
He who understands and forgives--where would he find a motive to act?
Where would he not?
各个角色说的每一句话都很通顺，但我就是不知道他们为什么要说这些，台词上段跟下段究竟有何关系。有人突然大笑，有人畏惧别人，有人下跪，有人露出谜之神色，而我根本不明白他们在干啥。之前读卡拉马佐夫兄弟前几百页时也有同样的感觉：What the hell is going on? 直到读大篇独白时才开始理解人物、情节与主旨。如果群魔没有独白，我觉得我就要彻底跪了。
Writers are necessarily ambivalent about any kind of recognition—honors, prizes, simple praise—because they are ambivalent about their relationship to the present. The first audience that a writer wants to please is the past—the dead writers who led him to want to write in the first place. Forced to admit that this is impossible, he displaces his hope onto the future, the posterity whose judgment he will never know. That leaves the present as the only audible judge of his work; but the present is made up of precisely the people whom the writer cannot live among, which is why he subtracts himself from the actual world in order to deposit a version of himself in his writing. The approbation of the living is thus meaningful to a writer only insofar as he can convince himself that it is a proxy for the approbation of the past or the future—insofar as it becomes metaphorical.