昨天下午1點43分，南投發生規模6.3地震，有如1.4顆原子彈爆炸的威力，由於深度僅10公里，全台 都感受到搖晃；內政部消防署昨晚統計全台災情，計有2人死亡、1人失蹤、3人重傷、18人輕傷。圖為地震發生後一座新中橫山頭發生山崩，塵土飛揚。（南投 信義鄉玉山消防隊員張楷名提供）
近7點起 昨天沒睡好是熱和風扇問題 很慘
- Stanley Karnow (1925-2013): "Paris in the Fifties...
- 宮前町九十番地 台湾をもっと知ってほしい日本の友へ / 張超英 ， 陳柔縉
- Everyman's Library 和 Everyman Classics
對象是基督徒企業主和教牧人員}想不到需求如此之大，邀請來自各方，大有招架不住之勢。事實上，我這個禮拜天(6/9)又得出門， 行程將包括溫州寧波廈門泉州和大連要到6/30才能回來。到了大陸，忙碌加上通訊不方便， 我就得準備過接近與世隔絕的日子了。三呆
a quotation from the medieval play Everyman in which the character of Knowledge says to Everyman:
- Everyman, I will go with thee
- and be thy guide,
- In thy most need to go
- by thy side.
下午3趟三總醫院 1230 掛號 睡1418去約1500才看診.
抽寫. 繳費 領藥時單雙號之誤會.
謝謝王金秋先生的玉荷包牌荔枝 (我的一位朋友五粒一串之後說: "超好吃"的......).
The year 1821, in which Dostoevsky,Baudelaire, Flaubert, and Amiel were born, was ob-
viously a crucial moment in the spiritual history of the nineteenth century; and these four men, animated by a similar spirit of disillusion, are best understood inrelation to one another.
Year 1821 (MDCCCXXI)
April 9 – Charles Baudelaire, French poet and writer (d. 1867)
Henri Frédéric Amiel (27 September 1821 – 11 May 1881) was a Swiss philosopher, poet and critic. 阿米爾《日記 http://goo.gl/GqFo5》
November 11 – Fyodor Dostoevsky, Russian writer (d. 1881)
"…If personality is the sum total of all one's experiences, all one's thoughts and emotions, inhibitions and liberations, acquisitions and inheritances, then it may be truthfully said "Ulysses" comes nearer to being the perfect revelation of a personality than any book in existence. Rousseau's "Confessions," Amiel's "Diary," Bashkirtseff's vaporings and Cassanova's "Memoirs" are first readers compared with it. "作者大膽剖白，誠實的程度令人咋舌。盧騷的《懺悔錄》、阿米爾《日記 http://goo.gl/GqFo5》(gutenberg.org)、瑪麗‧巴什克采夫的自我吹噓、《花花公子 Cassanova回憶錄》）根本瞠乎其後。"
(我跟梁永安先生說過 ，我曾讀過梁宗岱先生的 Amiel 翻譯，雖只百來字的 ，多少可知道 Amiel的文風與思想深度......)
Source: Walter Horatio Pater: « The Guardian » Chapter 2. Amiel's "Journal Intime"
Taken for what it is worth, the expression of this mood--the culture of ennui for its own sake--is certainly carried to its ideal of negation by Amiel.
March 16, 1881.—A wretched night. A melancholy morning.... The two stand-bys of the doctor, digitalis and bromide, seem to have lost their power over me. Wearily and painfully I watch the tedious progress of my own decay. What efforts to keep one's self from dying! I am worn out with the struggle.
Useless and incessant struggle is a humiliation to one's manhood. The lion finds the gnat the most intolerable of his foes. The natural man feels the same. But the spiritual man must learn the lesson of gentleness and long-suffering. The inevitable is the will of God. We might have preferred something else, but it is our business to accept the lot assigned us.... One thing only is necessary—
"Garde en mon coeur la foi dans ta volont� sainte, Et de moi fais, � Dieu, tout ce que tu voudras."Later.—One of my students has just brought me a sympathetic message from my class. My sister sends me a pot of azaleas, rich in flowers and buds;——sends roses and violets: every one spoils me, which proves that I am ill.
March 19, 1881.—Distaste—discouragement. My heart is growing cold. And yet what affectionate care, what tenderness, surrounds me!... But without health, what can one do with all the rest? What is the good of it all to me? What was the good of Job's trials? They ripened his patience; they exercised his submission.
Come, let me forget myself, let me shake off this melancholy, this weariness. Let me think, not of all that is lost, but of all that I might still lose. I will reckon up my privileges; I will try to be worthy of my blessings.
March 21, 1881.—This invalid life is too Epicurean. For five or six weeks now I have done nothing else but wait, nurse myself, and amuse myself, and how weary one gets of it! What I want is work. It is work which gives flavor to life. Mere existence without object and without effort is a poor thing. Idleness leads to languor, and languor to disgust. Besides, here is the spring again, the season of vague desires, of dull discomforts, of dim aspirations, of sighs without a cause. We dream wide-awake. We search darkly for we know not what; invoking the while something which has no name, unless it be happiness or death.
March 28, 1881.—I cannot work; I find it difficult to exist. One may be glad to let one's friends spoil one for a few months; it is an experience which is good for us all; but afterward? How much better to make room for the living, the active, the productive.
"Tircis, voici le temps de prendre sa retraite."“斑點，現在是時候退休。”Is it that I care so much to go on living? I think not. It is health that I long for—freedom from suffering.
And this desire being vain, I can find no savor in anything else. Satiety. Lassitude. Renunciation. Abdication. "In your patience possess ye your souls."
April 10, 1881. (Sunday).—Visit to ——. She read over to me letters of 1844 to 1845—letters of mine. So much promise to end in so meager a result! What creatures we are! I shall end like the Rhine, lost among the sands, and the hour is close by when my thread of water will have disappeared.
Afterward I had a little walk in the sunset. There was an effect of scattered rays and stormy clouds; a green haze envelops all the trees—
"Et tout rena�t, et d�j� l'aub�pine A vu l'abeille accourir � ses fleurs," —but to me it all seems strange already.Later.—What dupes we are of our own desires!... Destiny has two ways of crushing us—by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling them. But he who only wills what God wills escapes both catastrophes. "All things work together for his good."
April 14, 1881.—Frightful night; the fourteenth running, in which I have been consumed by sleeplessness....
April 15, 1881.—To-morrow is Good Friday, the festival of pain. I know what it is to spend days of anguish and nights of agony. Let me bear my cross humbly.... I have no more future. My duty is to satisfy the claims of the present, and to leave everything in order. Let me try to end well, seeing that to undertake and even to continue, are closed to me.
April 19, 1881.—A terrible sense of oppression. My flesh and my heart fail me.
"Que vivre est difficile, � mon coeur fatigu�!"
Nine months after his mother’s death, Roland Barthes made a brief entry to his diary of mourning: “Each of us has his own rhythm of suffering.” In the notes that make up his Mourning Diary, Barthes reflected on the particularity of an individual’s experience of loss, lamenting at once the “egoism” separating the mourner from others and the absence of social rituals that could lift the mourner out of his solitude and make his suffering more comprehensible. Even in his frustration with French society for its failure to externalize mourning, as “all judicious societies” have done, Barthes was able to endure his sorrow by putting it into words:
“My suffering is inexpressible but all the same utterable, speakable.”
Suffering at one’s own rhythm does not mean suffering silently.