Camus: The most important thing in life is truth

Some people think that waking up every day with something to do is to live; Some people believe that from the body to the mind can truly experience life is alive; Still others believe that to set a goal and achieve something is to live. The opposite of expression, it seems to me, is to be alive, and to be alive, according to the Tuscan masters, is to expend three times as much energy proving stillness and fire in silence.

In the streets of Florence or Pisa, people often come across people in paintings, but it takes a lot of time to be sure. But we never see the true nature of the people around us. As for the people living in the same age with us, we are no longer pay attention to, and what we desire from them to get what we want, such as the specification of our behavior or anything that is for our service, compared to their face, I prefer or they are the most popular poetry. A person's sensitivity is not worth noting, and neither Giotto nor Piero Della Francesca knew this very well. Everyone has a heart, but those love hate sorrow feelings, those love life, eternal and simple feelings, but not everyone has. The process of shaping one's destiny is painful, and the pain increases slowly as the memory deepens. I saw in the great ICONS of the Tuscan church a group of angels, silent or passionate, but I could see the loneliness hidden in every face.

There are many things involved, such as stories, paintings, colors and so on. I think the most important thing in all of this is authenticity, something that makes everything go on. I want to get a wonderful teaching, and only the painter can make me no longer "hungry". Painters can work with ephemeral materials, transforming themselves into physical novelists. What they want to express is a movement, a powerful face, not a smile or helplessness. At the expense of hope, they banish forever the curse of the spirit from the faces fixed here eternally by lines, eternally because of its indifference, but the body knows only the impulse of blood, not hope. Just like in the Flogging of Jesus, the suffering Christ and the murderous executioner both have the same relaxed attitude, the lesson brought by this painting cannot be out of the frame of this painting, and the pain in this painting is fruitless. So, what reason can let the person who has no tomorrow be moved? No hope for the future, indifferent to everything, theologians say hell is probably like this. But even in hell, it is only the body that suffers. There is no such thing as a painting that contains prophecy, and the reason for hope that people seek, does not exist in the gallery.

Yes, the spirit is immortal, the soul is immortal, many wise people are troubled by this, because they are about to die, they reject their body, this is their only truth, but they know in their hearts that this truth must rot, and the body has noble and bitter they dare not face. Poetry is spiritual, and those who are wise prefer it. People may think I'm just playing a word game, but I actually only under the guidance of the real, to contribute to the highest level of poetry, I think they can think good reason: it is a sober, is the painter will present to the suffering of the people in front of a reaction, is we the grandeur of the earth and light of a goddess. There are times when a face reveals a sublimity, like a mineral that looks like a landscape, because of indifference and indifference. The Spanish peasants, for example, resembled the olive trees that grew in the same soil with them. The only thing Tuscany taught us was passion, sacrifice, asceticism and pleasure. Man and the land are inextricably linked, and the characteristics of both are established in love and pain. There are not many true hearts that we can be sure of, but at least I can confirm that when night falls and darkness descends on Florence, there is a great sadness that emerges from the vines and olive trees hidden in the shadows. But it was all the more beautiful for its sadness. As I sit on the train, traveling through the night, something about me quietly loosens, can I call a look of sadness happiness?

Yes, the Italian landscape also describes this teaching, but its elegance is not direct, because happiness is so undeserved that it is easy to miss it. But Italy, better than any other place, hides its truth, chooses to forget, and a certain experience is offered in its entirety, and it deepens it. But it's not really elegant because it's still superficial, so why don't we go along with a sensual beauty at some point? Having arrived and stayed on a discount ticket, I didn't feel compelled to stay, though deprived of the pleasures of being a traveler, perhaps because I was patient enough to enjoy and understand my first night here. When I arrived in Pisa that night, hungry and exhausted, standing on station Street, where dozens of loudspeakers were blaring lyrical songs to the young people, I suddenly understood what I was waiting for. I think there will be a strange moment in the flow of life.

It was late at night and the lights of the noisy cafes were out. The city was suddenly quiet, and I made my way through dark, narrow alleys to the heart of the city. Arnault was golden in the dark and empty, and the pizza seemed to have become a strange, silent set of water and stone. "It was a night like this, Jessica! The voices of Shakespeare's lovers appear on this unique stage. I think we should listen to our dreams because they listen to us. On this silent Italian night, I have felt deeply the inner song that people come here to seek. I walked briskly over to Jessica, my love in my heart, my voice overlapping lorenzo's. In fact, the impulse of love had already surpassed Jessica, and she was just an excuse. Here, the lovers immersed in misfortune and sadness do not exist, you know, love is the most useless death, people must live, do not care about his rose, alive Lorenzo naturally will not lose to Romeo. So how do you avoid dancing during such a vivid festival of love? It is possible to take a nap on the lawn of Domo Park in the afternoon, drinking the lukewarm but still flowing water from the city fountain, and to see the smiling woman again, with her long nose and her proud mouth raised, which, I think, can be interpreted as a sign that she is ready to embrace that higher perception. The people's happiness reached its climax as their bodies became conscious, flowing with black blood, and became able to communicate with the sacred mystic messengers. I lost myself in the great passion of Italy and forgot myself. All I wanted was to realize this lesson, this lesson that would help us to get rid of history. We appreciate beauty, both physical and instantaneous, and how can we not seize the long-awaited happiness? Even if it leads us to ecstasy, it leads us to death.

The materialism that people believe in is not the most objectionable, it is the dead view as the living reality. We have a strong attachment and attention to things that are doomed to death, and this kind of materialism wants to use the myth of poverty to get us out of it. When I was in a Florence convent, in the falling rain, reading the words on the tombstone, there was a gentle and faithful man; One was a shrewd businessman; A young woman who is a moral paragon; And a young girl who was given hope by her loved ones. But I was not moved. All the people here accepted their duty and resigned themselves to death. The cloister was now full of children, happily playing with jumping goats on the flagstones. As I sat on the ground with my back to the colonnair, a passing priest saw me and smiled and nodded to me. The church organ gave a low, drawling sound, and the warm colors painted in the church sometimes followed the cries of children. I leaned against the colonnade alone, as if someone had grabbed me by the throat and shouted out his faith as if it were the last word. Everything in me rebelled against this similar submission, "must." The inscription said. But no, MY resistance was justified. This absorbed but indifferent joy was like a pilgrim on earth, and I thought PERHAPS I should follow it closely; for the rest I would refuse with all my strength, but the SLATE told me it was in vain, for life was "the joy of the pilgrim on this earth". But today, I can feel the uselessness putting something on me, but I can't see it, and it's ripping away from me what I'm fighting against.

That's not what I wanted to say, but what I wanted to do was to paint a picture of the reality that I felt in my revolt, and it was just an extension, of the reality that came from the blooming roses of the Priory of Nova Santa Maria, and the women of the comfortable weekend mornings of Florence.

On that weekend, as the flowers bloomed in the corner of the church, willowy, their petals hung with morning dew, looking ever more delicate, I saw in them the truth and the compensation they offered, as generous as those women were with their generous fullness. The difference between wanting one kind of fullness and coveting another kind of fullness is not obvious, as long as the same pure heart is enough.

People don't often feel pure heart, but at this point, his duty to tell him, that could be called the real pure things, even in the eyes of others so real like a profane, as if in the day I think of: my morning in a monastery for esso, there is filled with the odor of laurel. There is a small yard, the yard full of red flowers, many black and yellow small bees hard work, I stay here to bathe in the gentle sunshine, did not leave for a long time. In one corner of the yard stood a small green watering can. Before arriving at the compound I had visited the monks' rooms, their small tables decorated with skeletons. Today, this small garden is a testament to their inspiration.