One day, American boy Jim held Coke and potato chips and sat in front of the TV to watch the basketball game. Suddenly, he was attracted by an advertisement with a strong oriental flavor. The boy in the picture is as young as Jim. He has a huge travel bag, walking in the Taj Mahal, India Gate, Agra Fort, and in the sound of Indian music, he happened to catch up with the Indian tradition. In the red festival, I saw people splashing each other with colored powder, and the joy filled the streets. This western youth was sprayed colorful by the passionate Indians. Full of “hanging color”, he tasted the unique holiday blessings, and his face showed a happy look. Looking up, a long path leads to the distant scenery, and a post is just standing by the road. The boy suddenly remembered something, immediately unloaded his bag, found a postcard, wrote “Inconceivable India”, then put the card into the mailbox and sent it to the home on the other side of the globe… Sitting on the sofa watching TV Jim had forgotten to eat potato chips for a while, and his heart rose for the first time in the heart of India.
Years ago, India’s advertisement on CNN (CNN) quietly changed some people’s views on India: India is not a poor and backward country, but a surprise and full of color. The magical land.
A little mirri in the middle, all three motionless in their own thoughts, watching the flames. The fire that was extinct threw soft reflections on the lady’s beautiful faces, which now blushed her rare inner vitality. He wondered himself that he had opened his heart. He had never spoken so much about himself. And he would never talk again.
Finally he put his hand on Christophe’s hand and said:
– What are you doing to the child?
And just like Penelope she waited for her husband. Mr. Arnaud stayed all day away from home. He had a schoolmate in the mornings and evenings. Usually he came home for dinner, even though his legs were tired and the lyseo was at the other end of Paris. He forced himself to travel this long journey, not so much of a pity to his wife or thrift as he had already become a habit for him. But on certain days he was arrested for dinner at dinner; or he was not afraid not to take advantage of the fact that the lyseo was in the same district as the library, but stayed in the middle of that library. Lucile Arnaud was alone for days. Except for the cleaners who came between eight and ten to make rough work, and the food-supplying people who asked to ask what they wanted, and brought the ordered items, no one called his doorbell. He didn’t know anyone in the house. Christophe had moved away and there were new inhabitants on the side of the lime garden. Céline Chabran was married to August Elsberger. Élie Elsberger had left with her family in Spain, where she had been given a job in a mine. The old Weill had a wife dead, and she didn’t live in her Parisian apartment. Only Christophe and his friend Cécile had maintained their relationship with Lucile Arnaud, but they lived very far away, and when the tiring work plagued them all the days, it took weeks, when they didn’t visit Lucile. He had nothing else to follow than himself.
That was where the new quarter started to grow, – the poor huts, the newly opened roads, the high chimneys of the factories. Christophe thought of the acacia forest he had seen in the evening, and wondered:
– There’s even running running there…
The old city, sleeping in the shade, with all that was there, its living people and the dead people became more and more loved by him: for he felt something threatening that city…
Hostis habet Muros …
And they were in France too. The nationalists of the music magazines – most of them foreigners – blew him against his face with some kind of fury in his nationality. Christophe’s success was much higher; And now the fashion got mixed up, causing the evil that because it wasted him too much incense, he teased people who didn’t belong to a certain party, and for the more reason more. At Christophe’s concerts nowadays, not only fine and young magazine pencilists regularly visited, but also their enthusiasts of art, and they got into their halls; there was no music before him. Some of them began to explain his works and invent philosophical intentions, which he himself was stunned to hear. Others saw a revolution in composition art, an attack on traditions that Christophe respected more than anyone else. He wouldn’t have helped argue. He would have been proven not to understand what he had written himself. Those admirers admired him while admiring himself. – So Christophe’s professional brothers were very happy about this war against him; they were furious about the “humbuugelel” he held on his behalf, even though he was absolutely innocent. They didn’t need any reason to keep their compositions out: most of them knew for him the naturally understandable irritability of artists who have no idea and who express it in a non-existent manner, according to the learned patterns, while a man whose head is full of ideas may interpret them somewhat clumsily, creating his imagination in accordance with the demands of seeming disorder. How many times were all kinds of wastefulers, which consisted of a style to follow the recipes of a corner or school, to pour themselves into their pancake, to blame him for not having a style!