瘋狂簡史

「啊!一半有理，一半不正經!瘋狂中有理性!」 --莎士比亞，《李爾王》

那天去金石堂，本只想隨性逛逛，看到特價標籤就隨手翻到這本書。
那時心中瞬閃過的念頭是：「洛基恐怖秀」。沒辦法，這種近乎變態
的大紅唇，實在令人印象深刻 :)

瘋狂簡史，正好呼應那本前陣子因為我資質孥鈍看不下去，而被我束之高閣
《瘋癲與文明》。基本上這本書鉅細靡遺地講述了瘋狂/癲(與白癡不同)在人
類歷史發展脈絡中，其定義與整體概念展現，在哲學與醫學多方影響下的流
變。從希臘柏拉圖理性主義，到中古歐洲在基督教原罪、救贖等非理性角度
對待瘋狂，到近代佛洛依德學說興起後，逐漸將瘋狂納入病理學的過程。

裡面旁徵博引很多例子，尤其是李爾王跟哈姆雷的段落，讓外文系的學生很
比較容易抓到裡面的脈絡。看完這本書後在回去看傅柯的著作，一方面思路
清晰很多，二來也可以去想想，也許傅科的論述有其不足之處，推薦大家去
找這本書看 :)

p.s. 此書譯者是在讀清大歷史碩班的醫生,故在醫學與史學方面的闡述都很清
       晰，唸起來較無窒礙之感，大推!

轉山─流浪者之歌

「被青藏高原靈性大山擁抱的西藏人相信，只要環繞神山一圈，就能洗淨過去罪惡，讓身心得到淨化。」

        前陣子在台北時就有稍稍翻過「轉山」這書，那時初聞雲門的流浪者計畫，
看著書封面上的藏漢閉目瞑想，高舉合十雙手在紛飛白雪中踽踽前行，背
後還有幾位同在朝聖之路上的旅伴趴伏地上。
        這樣的構圖蘊釀出特別的氛圍，彷彿有種力量會昇華人的靈魂，直破雲宵之上。
但是我卻遲遲沒有繼續翻閱這本書，就像規劃許久的海外之旅、年輕時畫下的退休
後蓋間民宿的藍圖─一擱至就成了晚年對人傳唸，在年少時未竟的夢想。這兩天特
地到書局花了三小時，咀嚼、玩味、共體，在字裡行間陪著作者走完此趟為期60天
的川滇藏之行。

盛夏果實

帶不走的，
就埋藏在過往深處。
覆蓋用三鏟醉夢的泥土，
時以淚滴灌溉 時以笑聲滋潤，
虔心祈禱：永不回頭。


靜默，等著那天
匆匆千年自菩提葉隙灑落
用近乎慵懶的腳步
走往下次輪迴
回憶，破殼、抽芽
勃發嫩葉至茁壯成長。
延長，再延長
底下的根早已失去方向。


纍纍的沉甸鮮黃，
垂掛我倆的足跡旁，
渲染上整個盛夏熱情，
點綴以幾許初秋惆悵。


靜，默許無聲
咬了口多汁的果實，
讓蜜膩的果肉與唾液混合，
在舌尖被嚼碎拌攪，
迸發的香甜中參些苦韻─
是呀，
是呀!
正如同兩瓣羞澀的唇，
妳的吻。

That Day

That Day 
                            Anne Sexton

This is the desk I sit at
and this is the desk where I love you too much
and this is the typewriter that sits before me
where yesterday only your body sat before me
with its shoulders gathered in like a Greek chorus,
with its tongue like a king making up rules as he goes,
with its tongue quite openly like a cat lapping milk,
with its tongue -- both of us coiled in its slippery life.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your tongue,
your tongue that came from your lips,
two openers, half animals, half birds
caught in the doorway of your heart.
That was the day I followed the king's rules,
passing by your red veins and your blue veins,
my hands down the backbone, down quick like a firepole,
hands between legs where you display your inner knowledge,
where diamond mines are buried and come forth to bury,
come forth more sudden than some reconstructed city.
It is complete within seconds, that monument.
The blood runs underground yet brings forth a tower.
A multitude should gather for such an edifice.
For a miracle one stands in line and throws confetti.
Surely The Press is here looking for headlines.
Surely someone should carry a banner on the sidewalk.
If a bridge is constructed doesn't the mayor cut a ribbon?
If a phenomenon arrives shouldn't the Magi come bearing gifts?
Yesterday was the day I bore gifts for your gift
and came from the valley to meet you on the pavement.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your face,
your face after love, close to the pillow, a lullaby.
Half asleep beside me letting the old fashioned rocker stop,
our breath became one, became a child-breath together,
while my fingers drew little o's on your shut eyes,
while my fingers drew little smiles on your mouth,
while I drew I LOVE YOU on your chest and its drummer
and whispered, "Wake up!" and you mumbled in your sleep,
"Sh. We're driving to Cape Cod. We're heading for the Bourne
Bridge. We're circling the Bourne Circle." Bourne!
Then I knew you in your dream and prayed of our time
that I would be pierced and you would take root in me
and that I might bring forth your born, might bear
the you or the ghost of you in my little household.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed
but this is the typewriter that sits before me
and love is where yesterday is at.

Twelve Ways of Looking at a Sun

I.
Among millions of dunes creeping,
The only still thing
Is the sun in chariot running.

II.
O blind man of waste land,
Why are you satisfied with murky night?
Do you not see how the sun
Has trimmed the horizon with a grayish belt?

III.
A man and a woman and a sun
Are one.

IV.
Shieved by grasses, branches and soaring birds.
In a bright-dotted dawn,
The round sun rises.

V.
When the sun crashes into the sea,
It burnishes the coconuts
With pomegranate lusciousness.

VI.
The Dark I grows thin and tall
When the sun has almost gone.
As it becomes fat and whole,
Then I know,
In the black circle where I stand,
The sun shines and regards me again.

VII.
Spiders weave cobwebs to ensnare the golden beams.
Entangled in silky lustre,
The sun dances a bit.

VIII.
Stranded in desert, I see the
Sun-steamed mirage spring high.
I row across shimmering grains,
Yet find no drop to drink.

IX.
The sun and I are
The still point of the spinning world
When things around are enameled with colors.

X.
Dried palm leaf in water
combs the sun, patting it with care.

XI.
My blood is burnning,
The sun must be shining.

XII.
It was the deepest of night.
It didn't rain.
It wouldn't rain.
The sun leaned
Against it's own shadow.

往天涯盡頭單飛

旅行的意義

你看過了許多美景 你看過了許多美女
你迷失在地圖上　每一道短暫的光陰
你品嚐了夜的巴黎 你踏過下雪的北京
你熟記書本裡　每一句你最愛的真理

卻說不出你愛我的原因 卻說不出你欣賞我哪一種表情
卻說不出在什麼場合我曾讓你動心 說不出離開的原因

你累計了許多飛行 你用心挑選紀念品
你搜集了地圖上　每一次的風和日麗
你擁抱熱情的島嶼 你埋葬記憶的土耳其
你流連電影裡美麗的不真實的場景

卻說不出你愛我的原因 卻說不出你欣賞我哪一種表情
卻說不出在什麼場合我曾讓你分心 說不出旅行的意義

勉強說出你為我寄出的每一封信 都是你離開的原因　　你離開我
就是旅行的意義

********************************************************************************************

昨天去藝中聽了場講座，主題是：「往天涯盡頭單飛」。

「天涯盡頭」其實就是無限的邊緣，是種永恆無盡的追尋。
「單飛」有著些許孤寂、漂泊，還帶點不羈的豪氣。



我承認我是被「往天涯盡頭單飛」的標題所吸引。我對主講人並不熟悉，對於他個人豐富的經歷也興趣缺缺。


最近很想單飛，不對，對登山者而言，應該是「獨行」
不喜歡飛的感覺，只因太過無拘無束，這樣的自由帶給我伊克拉斯般的狂放。
相較之下，我喜歡踏上濕軟泥土，或是粗石糙礪的踏實感。

旅行的意義在於?
在於找尋：尋家、尋鄉、尋曾經人事已非
在於接觸：接觸文化、接觸衝擊、接觸人生的必要之惡
在於離開：離家、離鄉、離塵、離開傷心過往、離開不忍再睹

但是，無論雙腳走到哪裡，腳下的土地總是相連，
某曾次上而言，我們從生至死都未曾離開過。


真正變動的是氛圍、環境。離開了所熟悉的場域，我們才能逃離平日不斷麻痺我們生活的感官經驗：閃爍的霓虹燈、添加在食物裡的辛香料、潮來潮往的人群與車流。
眼、耳、鼻、口、舌，五感無一不覺厭惡，而最最被麻痺的便是蓋上矇眼布的心靈。

如果能拋開一切累贅，振翅往天涯盡頭單飛，多好?


旅途上沒有隨行的伙伴，偶爾在海岬巧遇海鷗與信天翁，
也許碰巧遇見幾隻落單的候鳥，在簡單的寒喧後，又忙忙飛往返鄉的方向。也許有時慘逢海上風暴，在電光閃動中，冷雨如鉛片般不斷壓上雙翼，找不到陸地歇息，也只得咬牙硬撐。翅膀上的羽毛被雨水割得凌亂；方向早已迷航在眼前一片茫茫的鉛色汪洋中。好冷、好冷，但為了找尋朦朧浮起地平線上的陸塊，飛越千萬里是必然，飛越白浪濤濤是必然，飛越獵槍與像天地間般狹隘的鳥網是必然。

南湖隨筆

初訪南湖大山
在睡眠不足的情況下，帶著滿臉迷濛睡意上了山

710林道一路走來不陡不緩，對遠離山林已久的我而言，
正是最佳的暖身操。想不到，接上稜線後，真正的磨難才開始。
稜線上遍地鋪展的柔軟松針以及兩側挺立高聳的二葉松林
這樣的景像，迂迂迴迴的引領我走進回憶的甬道：

先前也約莫是桐花盛開的季節，上次連走大劍佳陽的記憶卻已
被擺到望似遙不可及的兩年前。永遠記得，那股松針在烈陽燻曬
後蒸騰而出的松脂濃香。馥郁松香迷漫空中，伴著蒼蠅在午後
醉人的嗡嗡叫聲─回想起來，這段經歷仍像是夢境一般，在真實
中帶點虛幻色彩。

第一晚在雲稜山屋巧遇人數眾多的大隊伍，面對傳唱整晚的歌曲
與高聲吆喝，加上熱湯翻騰的霧氣，我選擇靜默以對。隔日往審馬陣
的路上，只有我與安蘭兩人在默聲中前進。每跨出一步，總是掀起些
塵土泥砂，人生若想清清淨淨走一遭，自空無中來也回歸空無，似乎
不太可能。「揮揮衣袖不帶走一片雲彩」是詩人充滿浪漫情懷的灑脫
，在現實裡，當我離開塵世時，身上必沾染不少污泥。往審馬陣山的
路上有條瘦稜，稜上錯亂矗立著高大挺拔的雲杉。我喜歡雲杉的莊嚴
肅穆，粗糙樹皮上被隨手寫滿了歲月的呢喃，以及山濤蕩漾過去留下
的波紋陣陣。找個角落，窩靠、背對著粗壯的雲杉，摒氣聆聽心靈深
處對自然發出的真情讚頌；臨近松濤如海湧，連輕叩著蒙塵漸多、許
久未開的心房。松濤方退，雲浪便接著翻攪，湧上前頭，層層拍打，
順著風勢，無聲無息地在瞬間將連綿的山峰沖刷去，只留下大片矇矓
的白。那茫茫白中又透著幾絲專屬於二葉松的蒼綠；泛著些冬雪初融
，高山箭竹未萌新芽前的蕭索，偶爾還滲出數抹蔚藍天色。原來，白
也能白得如此純淨自然。

走出雲杉林，路徑爬上了審馬陣草坡，往南湖北山蜿蜒而去。北山頂
上有塊石頭，上面刻著「蘭陽溪源頭」。旅行的意義在於追本溯源，
找尋己身存在的原因、意義。鮭魚畢生的終極旅行，不正是在單趟返
鄉旅途中，趁著竭力而死之前，將積蓄長久的生命力做最完美的迸發
?旅行為了找尋、探索生命之源。所以雲遊四方，只為了返鄉尋根，
找出血脈自何處汨流、骨肉於何方增長。比利時來的安蘭也許不會懂
，但「蘭陽溪源頭」這五個字卻令我莫名感動。生命起源於水，而江
河海洋皆源於足下所踏的廣袤土地。北山頂前還有小徑，似乎是南湖
北稜線。走往前方一座展望無阻的山頭，向東遠眺，在混沌繚繞的雲
霧之間，我瞥見澄透的藍，是藍天與碧海交融揉合的產物。在我死後
，我的血也會順著滔滔江河奔騰而走，匯注入這片寶藍色的無垠。海
天相連，接成高拱於宇宙星塵間的蒼穹，相連其間所有生命。這一刻
，我感到心中無限開明，彷彿真能用一雙水晶般剔透的眼睛重新審視
世間萬物。我觀物觀我，無我無物。

走過五岩峰後，在北峰圈谷頂端向南望去，我心神嚮往已久的南湖大
山便靜默端坐眼前。

也許盛夏的南湖是如同小四形容，像是塊鬆軟可口的蛋糕，甜滋滋的
卡士達醬從四周邊緣緩緩流下，每一道乳白色的甜蜜都令人忍不住
想大咬。但是，暮春的南湖還沒有蜂蝶飛舞，也尚未等到繁花盛開，
冬日冰雪籠罩的記憶卻來不及消散。眼前的南湖大山，在疾風中看起
來更顯嚴竣，道道碎石屑溝都像北方凍雪劃過留下的傷痕。一旁的南
湖溪也未曾自睡夢中甦醒，只有丁點水流，四季不止地繼續流淌著。

在這之前，我心中的「大山」只有一座：遠鎮天南的卑南主─那裡屬
於布農的祖靈，是巨偉自然的秘境。這樣的絕美世界不屬於塵世，
只見它飄浮在雲朵之上，人間天堂就座落在這伊甸園的入口，當上主
闔上天堂的大門，卻也不忘留給凡人希望。

南湖便是深刻在我腦海的第二座山。他是世俗的，但卻氣派非凡，尊
爵無匹。

山之王者，南湖大山。

Elergy Writtern in a Country Church-Yard

Elergy Writtern in a Country Church-Yard


The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.


Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high.
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

 

The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melacholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.

By Tomas Gray (1716-71).

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夜晚，Nananao溪邊

        來到溪床邊一塊平整的沙地，在此起彼落的巨石陣間難得能找到這樣適合過夜的地點。

        下午四點，天色逐漸黯淡下來，尤其是身處兩旁山稜圍繞的溪流邊，更能快速感受到夜晚的體溫正急驟下降。

        在岩縫中隨手就地撿了些柴枝、漂流木，生起火來。就在火苗還在柴堆下蠕動時，夜風朝著濃橘色火苗吹了口深冬的寒，暗沉的火光搖曳了幾下，捲起一陣濃煙。在火光閃動的瞬間，燄勢高漲，晚宴開始了。鮮黃的火舌不斷地舔舐著四周，更擺弄出婀娜姿態向賓客邀舞。這是深冬密林中縱情享樂的時刻，環繞巨石在火光的照印下，被刻上了幾道人影，他們或擁抱、或跳舞、或抬頭高歌，在光與影間便是人生走走停停的紊亂舞步。
    
        遠方巨石頂端坐著個模糊人影，黑黝的背影浮出陰藍夜色之上─今晚不是滿月，更沒有月光，濃濃雲層掩蓋了仰天長嘯的瘋狂。那暗沉的人影伏貼石上，靜靜聽著在石隙間清冽的溪水刮過岩層、劃過石上青苔、沖刷著耳蝸。漸漸地，連心跳聲都是嘩啦嘩啦，偶爾夾雜幾聲碎木滾過河床，空─空─洞靈的撞擊聲迴響在三小聽骨與排列緊密的齒間，彷彿連身體也被洗得冰冷，流淌體內的豔紅血液被注入夜的迷惘，於是，在慘白如象牙的肢體上，紫藍血液蔓出一株冬日枯樹，在四散枯枝的維管束裡，片片載送著靈魂的血小板和著溪水，凝滯、凍結，滴滴匯流入死亡的陰谷裡，奔流至鴉色天際隱沒入海處，與萬古神靈聚合。

        不遠處的火堆在添加了夜的寂寥後，燒得越是旺盛。在高潮中對著沉睡的上帝，一次又一次噴射出濃稠的亮橘火星，熾熱生命在空中炸裂後，由黃轉紅沉黑，化為一股餘溫，沿著宇宙緊閉的嘴角緩緩流下，拉成長條狀的喘息後跟著捲入滑動翻攪時間渦流裡。

    遠方傳來清亮獸吼，震盪山林也震懾時間，震撼任何有無生命的形體，待餘音消散，又是安祥寧靜。

Ut pictura poesis

 Ars Poetica
             Archibald MacLeish                                   

A poem should be palpable and mute

As a globed fruit,

Dumb

As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone

Of casement ledges where the moss has grown--

A poem should be wordless

As the flight of birds.

A poem should be motionless in time

As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases

Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves.

Memory by memory the mind--

A poem should be motionless in time

As the moon climbs.

A poem should be equal to:

Not true.

For all the history of grief

An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love

The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea--

A poem should not mean

But be.

Line	Latin	English translation
15-16	purpureus pannus	purple patch
23	simplex dumtaxet et unum	simple and single
25-26	Brevis esse laboro, / obscurus fio	I try to be brief and become obscure.
73	Res gestae regumque ducumque et tristia bella	Histories of kings and generals and the sorrows of war
102	Si vis me flere, dolendum est / primum ipsi tibi	If you want me to weep, you must feel sorrow first.
139	Parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus	The mountains labor and bring forth a ridiculous mouse.
147-48	ab ovo . . . in medias res	from the beginning . . . into the middle of the action
268-69	Vos exemplaria Graeca / noctuma versate manu, versate diuma	Review the Greek models night and day.
309-10	Scribendi recte sapere est principium et fons. / Rem tibi Socraticae poterunt ostendere cartae.	Knowing is the first principle and fountainhead of writing well;/ The writings of Socrates can teach the matter to you.
333	aut prodesse volunt aut delectare poetae	Poets strive to either profit or delight.
343	miscuit utili dulci	He [the poet] mixes the useful with the sweet.
359	bonus dormitat Homerus	Even Homer nods.
361	Ut pictura poesis	A poem is like a picture.
372-73	mediocris esse poetis / non homines, non di, non concessere colmnae.	Not men nor gods nor the booksellers allow poets to be mediocre.
471	minxerit in patrios cineres	He urinated on his father's ashes.

Source:  http://people.brandeis.edu/~rind/eng171/Horace_tags.html

I weep like a child for the past

Piano
D.H. Lawrence

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
to the old Sunday evenings at home, with the winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato.  The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.

Recently, I stay at in the library for graduate school, reading literature and writing.
When I was doning exercises for literary terms today, something happened.

I was reading the entry: simile and metaphore, and there's an exercise for categorizing the examples.
I turned the page, and this sentence came to me immenently:

"I weep like a child for the past"

This sentence, like a heavy hammer, ruthlessly smote my heart again and again.
I didn't know what's wrong with me. I was petrified, like paralyzed by Medusa. I felt a great claw clipped me by the throat, strangling my soul out of my nostrils. Terrofied and breathless, it's a rare case that I, all of a sudden, am seized and overrun by sentiment.

I weep like a child for the past. It's obvious this is a simile in which the tenor is I, a child the vehicle.
What really matters is: can any groun-up, expecially a man, cry like a child?

When I cried my heart out last time?
I don't know. Maybe I've cried before, but the memory about tears cannot be saved in my memory.
It's like a lost files in the hard disc, hard to find it out. I did cried loudly, I think, and I also think it's gone with my vaguely-rememered childhood.

There are reasons for weeping, sobbing, crying, or even mourning.
It's weird the first one came to my mind was 大喧.
I really want to ask her: Did you cried loud out  without any restraint and confinement?
I hope I can cuz I want to shout, yell, and roar toward my life and pathetic, lost past.

I noticed that Lawrence uese "weep" instead of cry. So the poor child's tears come down with suffer from holding it.
It's even more heart-breaking to sob, crying without making any sound or being noticed.

Has the weep let go some negative feelings? Or it'll fortifies it, makes it ten times stronger
and harder to sustain?

Anyway, I did weep like a child then.
Mariane was setting next to me so I dared not let go the tears.

For the past? Maybe, but no use, I think.

So, I just wept silently with tears running over my wretched heart.