After 1885, the masterpieces describing the sufferings, the highest evaluation of people, is another version of Les Miserables. I visited Hugo’s former residence in Paris and found that he was a person standing and writing. Because of the spine, he always stood in front of the desk – in fact, a bit like a dressing table. Imagine this picture: in the face of the world, Hugo holds the pen and stands; like a soldier standing with a gun, or a photographer standing and holding a machine.
Some writers have said to me that it is a tragic thing to ask Aya for that matter. I said, the difference is here, do you know that Hugo is standing and writing? He also wrote Jean Valjean, and we are His Majesty. Because suffering can only make people soft and can’t stand.
Hugo has three descriptions of his world. “Men are indulged by poverty, women are degraded by hunger, children are stupid because of darkness.” But this is not the ultimate misery; the tragic world is that Hugo is not awe, not Pray, do not believe, do not repent, and reject the world of grace. The world is like grass, harvested by time. The world is like the wind, we are all men who catch the wind, and they are all empty pockets. Or, we are the film of Iranian director Shamir Makbaf, a cruel world of children. In Afghanistan, the soul lost to the devil, we lost to suffering, what is more tragic than this ending?
The ruins after the war, a faceless orphan, lived in the sewer, looking up from the hole every day. Even if there is no such thing, how can he believe in his honor while looking at the geese? A rich family, his legs were blown up by mines. The housekeeper came to the ruins to look for the husband, shouting, “One dollar a day.” Countless children climbed out of the sewer and drove into the courtyard with him.
How can you not miss Father Bianwini in Hugo’s pen? The world is changing with each passing day, but in his view, the world is just a wide range of diseases. Don’t be afraid, because after Adam, human beings are a kind of terminal cancer. Don’t be afraid, because the real ideal is to kill. The true ideal will not fall through hunger, or be empty because of death. The real ideal is touchable, breathable, and dietable. The true ideal is not about the imagination of freedom, but about the experience of freedom. Only a true ideal, as if there is a voice, sounds when humans have nothing. “Eat, this is my flesh; drink it, this is my blood.”
This is a voice that allows the king on the ground to stand and listen. This voice, over the ruins of Afghanistan in the film, was never heard. The child who repeatedly drilled out from the sewer and got into it became a horse without a leg. The similarities between the two children are far more different than their differences. Just a little rich and abject poverty, between their souls, caused a vast area of no man. It is like between a king and a servant, a country and a citizen, an employer and an employee, a husband and wife, a in-laws and a wife.
The legless rich child, his wailing at the mother’s grave, his hands flying on the ground, his heart is getting colder and colder, until he imitated his butler, using money to attract the girl who was begging, and throwing his servant into the stable. The two protagonists are disabled children found on the street. The expression of a teenager, every twitch, touches the ideal of touching and breathing in my heart. Because of college, I also suffered from facial paralysis, and later acupuncture was good.
Without legs, you can’t go where you want to go; without expression, you can’t even reveal sadness. The film used a long shot to record him on the street and saw the girl from afar. The strange and repetitive face, you can’t see his “like”, can’t identify the woman he met, or the wolf. Until the camera moves to the girl who is in the line. She turned her eyes and I realized the lens of the genius and touched a soul imprisoned behind the face.
He is very moving, he can only replace the expression with an action. For example, the servant is on the ground and expresses despair. However, the little master snatched the girl he liked, and the mind of the teenager who had drilled out of the hole and looked up at the geese was exhausted. His heart is ashamed, and he is at his mercy. The only rationality to live is to truly regard yourself as a horse from the heart. When the saddle was on his back and the horseshoe was nailed into his foot, he had learned to bark like a horse instead of protesting like a human.
But the film is not about poverty. Human beings live in a rich garden, not because of poverty. Because of the fall, mankind has endured the curse of sorrow and sweat. Therefore, people’s dependence on affirmation in life is better than dependence on bread. The tragic loss of a teenager is not that he lost the last piece of bread, because he lost his last affirmation of himself as a person.
This is not about war. It is often said that war distorts human nature. Why not reverse it, is humanity distorting the war? The world has been distorted by us, and what can distort us? Water cannot ignite and diamonds do not corrode. Despite this cruelty, Augustine insisted that the greatest virtue of a child is not the lack of willingness to do evil, but the lack of ability to do evil.
This is not about human rights. In Les Misérables, Hugo said, “In the vicinity of human rights, at least alongside, there is the right to the soul.” Before the loss of human rights, we have not heard a nearly sacred childishness, we can’t have a Nearly holy, intimate lover, can’t see the vision of a world near the paradise.
Behind the cruel story must be the absurdity of faith and the failure of the soul. Otherwise, cruelty will not be established, and there will be a turning point in cruelty. The so-called belief is to believe that we have not seen it; the truth of the so-called faith is to see what we believe.
People or say, above the ruins, talk about what beliefs. The true faith begins with ruins or waste. Life is given in vain, not from the ruins. In the faith, anything, even if it is reduced to the lowest level of suffering, “is more magnificent than nothingness.”
This is what C. S. Louis’s spiritual teacher, the British writer Chesterton said. He had a public debate with Shaw, using near-black joy and humor, and deep inspections to justify the life value of physically disabled people. At the time, The London Times invited a group of authors to write about the problems of the world. Chesterton wrote the shortest essay in human history for our tragic world. He said:
”Mr. Dear editor, it is me.”