the poor will always be a set of heavy chains

h8ip0597

Township is remote, the information is isolated, nostalgia is innocent.
his hometown, the Earth is about to be forgotten in a corner. The total spring of civilization would not patronize this primitive land. Villagers ancestors inherit the kind of This land is law-abiding, it is silent. Many years, are so over. People from generation to generation reproduction, from generation to generation lived the life that fits.
his exceptional life issues not resolved at the same time,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], but the dream into the Garden of Eden of literature, intended to fly in that dream of his rainbow.
many people,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], this is a can not match the dream, just a dream.
Indeed, the weight of the burden of life that people breathe,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], so what's the spirit of the pursuit of high-it? Even if life does not allow you to do it! The vast western region, the poor will always be a set of heavy chains,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], people are living in fetters, fetters ... ...
in the West, life is a burden, but people talked about a long time away from the cup of wine. Months and each new year, he was chewing the astringency of life, he quietly gathering strength, his ideal of literary tower Yibubuxiang slowly crawling. Sad reality that can not always put his heart sinking, hanging star; Despite facing a bleak future and never go finish the road.
he embarked on a dream journey.
his hands empty, with a full rich flavor of the dream of rural life came to the north, or west. This is just another one of his hometown. Him in the head, his hometown in that one. Here, he is typical of the western temperament to realize his dream. Stir the soul of his numerous literary dream by which all sorts of suffering,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], hardship beyond description. But he believed in his dream journey will open another new world.
face the hustle and bustle of the world, his struggle is negligible, he may be the annihilation of the world. His chances of success is how the small it! Even so, he still unremitting efforts, he believes: in his path, in the patch of desert, he would pour out with really beautiful flowers of the soul.
the world is too big,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], but he was so small. No one noticed he was just a meteor, fleeting. His dream is to rise with its sincere and faithful and a mass of raging fire; with its persistent and aggressive and his own into the choppy sea, the waves turned to magnificent! Previous: The Song of Silence (Suiyueruge) Next: Mountain wild small mind

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

The driver clambered into his seat, clicked his tongue, and we went downhill. The brake squeaked horribly from time to time. At the foot he eased off the noisy mechanism and said, turning half round on his box--
"We shall see some more of them by-and-by."
"More idiots? How many of them are there, then?" I asked.
"There's four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The parents are dead now," he added, after a while. "The grandmother lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It's a good farm."
We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and cracked like a mechanical imitation of old people's voices; and suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane.
I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts.