The wall of a small Chapel evokes my deja vu of the graveyard in "We Are Seven".


The story of Peter Pan

"There was no possibility of taking a walk that day".




Omnibus!!!!The Daughter of Mrs. Dalloway. That scene is typical of Virginia Woolf

The London Scenes

I don’t intend to wear my readers out as well as frustrate myself in taking a stand on a critical perspective in such a small piece of writing as Virginia Woolf did under the same title. I know for sure it is foolish or even dangerous to scratch a few redundant lines on London. Just utter these canonized names that have set their pen on this city: William Wordsworth, Henry James, and T.S Eliot etc. That’s enough! I have held my breath and become tongue-tied. As people who once experienced life here, they were deeply in touch with Londoners from every walk of the society; as writers and critics, they were capable of doing nuance to the mood above Thames River, House of Commons and Oxford Street. As for me however, I am only a tourist and a strange guest to London, but has the same momentum as these distinguished minds to record something about this great city.

Oxford Street

“The moralists point the finger of scorn” Virginia Woolf remarked on this famous thoroughfare in her essay. Truly, the hustle and bustle, the haves and have-nots, the levity of the settings of shop windows, and the softness of light music flowing out of the café, nearly everything you find here can be symbolized as the necessities of a vanity fair. A day’s racket of the street begins with cheap-jacks displaying all sorts of goods on the stands; and only after a while turn up swarms of bargainers, who turn a sharp eye on cheap stuff and if necessary, show off their consummate skill of negotiating price. Their opponents, on the other side, leaning on the wall, toil at yelling for sale and lick the boots of potential buyers. As a return, however, they might be rewarded with some extra jobs to do at night of counting the pennies he earns.

In terms of the big stores along the flickering street, there is nothing fresh to me; Boots, Dixon, Marks & Spencer, Lewis and HMS, most of them here can be found in other cities like York, Brighton, Leeds, Newcastle and elsewhere in UK. The only difference might be that in Oxford Street, the scale of the stores doubles, the category of products triples, and the number of people multiplies. Yes, it seems as if people from every corner of the city all came here and gathered in the narrow long pavement with diversified goals. Among them, some perhaps living on a tight budget have to go around those off-the-price stores, but more, I guess, just dawdle away their time in front of shop windows with the purpose of capturing some unexpected amusements to their insipid life.

It seems to me that there is nothing more to say about it. Facts are usually that plain if you do not exaggerate it any a bit, but Oxford Street has its fascination behind the tasteless fact. Please slow down your step and take notice of the vulgar fashion of shop windows, the tumult of the market and the dullness of bus bell’s ding-dong-ding. If we scrutinize all of those things with our compassion, Oxford Street, we can find, rolls out in front of us a panorama of our authentic urban life and tells every one at the same time what is the nature of existence.

Westminster

Unlike Oxford Street, everything here gets serious, neat and regular. Big Ben strikes accurately at the beginning of every hour; different administrative organizations in Whitehall steadily operates, dealing with both home and foreign affairs; House of Commons opens punctually in the morning with MPs dressed uniformly in black suit with a tie of dark color walking into the symbolic building of London, and Prime Minister’s car goes out of Downing Street, heads about two hundred meters and turns right into the same destination as MPs’. Here serves as the heart of this country, Houses of Parliament, which, if you view it in the opposite bank of Thames River, twinkling with golden rays of light in the afternoon’s sunshine, lord over the architectures around. Solemn as it looks outside, Houses of Parliament, however, cannot cover the true nature inside: laughter, dispute and rage. The common scene inside follows the pattern as follows:

     “Mr. Speaker, do you agree with me….”

     “Yech, yech, yech!” rises the hiss.

“That…a lie. Nasty! Opportunism! …etc. etc.”

     “Your honesty…naivety?”

     “Yech! Yech!! Yech!!!” the hiss reaches a crescendo.

     “Order…Order…”

If politicians call that as the symbol of democracy, an indispensable component of modern political life, I would rather say that it only provides a battlefield for Labor and Tory, or more accurately, a place for political bargain. If we say the disparity between here and Oxford Street is distinct, on this point however, they are quite similar because human nature is similar after all.

Buckingham Palace

The location of Buckingham Palace belongs to the city of Westminster, not far from Houses of Parliament, but the style changes entirely. Queen’s residence permeates the air of tranquility, dignity and mystery; and her majesty’s gracious strain can be felt by the erect fence, the great gate that bears the golden emblem of royalty and the Gothic monument right in front of the gate. Three beautiful parks and two huge monuments sprinkle over her place. On the north of the palace flanks a leaf-paved boulevard leading to the vast green of Hyde Park. Located off the palace, St James’s Park is an ideal place for tourists to nap a while in the sun. The main road stretches through the woods of the park and extends into a small alley that bears a legendary name: Diana, Princess of Wales Mem. Walk.

When I Strolled around the Buckingham Palace, a sense of delicacy and grace haunted my heart and touched me deeply. Nevertheless the sentiment appeared so remote and short-lived that it just flashed upon my mind. It was until I saw the notice board on the wall that I had not been aware of the reason. It said, “This is royal place. Unauthorized visit is not permitted.” Oh, it was not the house of “commons” after all.

Underground

“Mind the gap between the doors.”

The door is closed. People on board pale, dull and weary lean towards the seat, reading a newspaper, taking a nap or simply engaging themselves idly into thinking nothing. Underground in London usually is a desirable place for us to observe the hectic life of people in this cosmopolis. Yet the story here is just in reverse. Men and women on the train in general come from the class of grass roots. They might work as a petty clerk in a company or a civil servant for the government. In other words, they only earn a small sum of salary every month, but have children to raise and mortgage to pay for. Now off their work on way home, they can take a breath and be at ease for a while. Two Chinese women dressed in shabby clothes are talking about a day’s toil and eyeing each other with encouragement. Those are more miserable people. The following situation they are very likely to face is that they have to seek the shelter for themselves to spend the night. The carriage is getting sucked into a gloomy air at the moment as though the providence inflicted numerous trials and tribulations upon everybody’s destiny here. London’s alarm for terrorist’s attack has been upgraded into the upper-conventional level and underground becomes the most vulnerable target of attack. I always think that those terrorists will be more odious if they choose here as their aim, for people in the underground have not in the least the interest and the ambition of joining the intervention of other nations’ affairs and their concern is only how to struggle with the life.

Taking all those into considerations, I can only say to them, “C’est la vie et bon voyage!”

posted on 2007-07-14 20:45 陈豪 阅读(1025) 评论(13)  编辑  收藏 网摘收藏