One day thirty years ago Marseilles lay in the burning sun. A blazing sun upon a fierce August day was no greater rarity in southern France than at any other time before or since.
Everything in Marseilles and about Marseilles had stared at the fervid sun, and had been stared at in return, until a staring habit had become universal there. Strangers were stared out of countenance by staring white houses, staring white streets, staring tracts of arid road, staring hills from which verdure was burnt away. The only things to be seen not fixedly staring and glaring were the vines drooping under their loads of grapes. These did occasionally wink a little, as the hot air barely moved their faint leaves. The universal stare made the eyes ache.
Towards the distant blue of the Italian coast, indeed, it was a little relieved by light clouds of mist slowly rising from the evaporation of the sea, but it softened nowhere else. Far away the dusty vines overhanging wayside cottages, and the monotonous wayside avenues of parched trees without shade, dropped beneath the stare of earth and sky. So did the horses with drowsy bells, in long files of carts, creeping slowly towards the interior; so did their recumbent drivers, when they were awake, which rarely happened; so did the exhausted laborers in the fields. Everything that lived or grew was oppressed by the glare; except the lizard, passing swiftly over rough stone walls, and cicada, chirping its dry hot chirp, like a rattle. The very dust was scorched brown, and something quivered in the atmosphere as if the air itself were panting. Blinds, shutters, curtains, awnings, were all closed and drawn to deep out the stare.
Grant it but a chink or a keyhole, and it shot in like a white-hot arrow.
Each spring brings a new blossom of wildflowers in the ditches along the highway I travel daily to work. There is one particular blue flower that has always caught my eyes.
Ive noticed that it blooms only in the morning hours, the afternoon sun is too warm for it. Every day for approximately two weeks, I see those beautiful flowers. This spring, I started a wildflower garden in our yard. I can look out of the kitchen window while doing the dishes and see the flowers. Ive often thought that those lovely blue flowers from the ditches would look great in that bed alongside other wildflowers. Everyday I drove past the flowers thinking, “Ill stop on my way home and dig them.” “Gee, I dont want to get my good clothes dirty...” Whatever the reason, I never stopped to dig them. My husband even gave me a folding shovel one year for my trunk to be used for that expressed purpose. One day on my way home from work, I was saddened to see that the highway department had mowed the ditches and the pretty blue flowers were gone. I thought to myself, “Way to go, you waited too long. You should have done it when you first saw them blooming this spring.”
A week ago we were shocked and saddened to learn that my oldest sister-in-law has a terminal brain tumor. She is 20 years older than my husband and unfortunately, because of age and distance, we haven’t been as close as we all would have liked. I can not help but see the connection between the pretty blue flowers and the relationship between my husbands sister and us. I do believe that God has given us some time left to plant some wonderful memories that will bloom every year for us. And yes, if I see the blue flowers again, you can bet Ill stop and transplant them to my wildflower garden.
I have known very few writers, but those I have known, and whom I respect, confess at once that they have little idea where they are going when they first set pen to paper.
They have a character, perhaps two; they are in that condition of eager discomfort which passes for inspiration; all admit radical changes of destination once the journey has begun; one, to my certain knowledge,spent nine months on a novel about Kashmir, then reset the whole thing in the Scottish Highland. I never heard of anyone making an “outline”, as we were taught at school. In the breaking and remaking,in the timing, interweaving,beginning again, the writer comes to discern things in his material which were not consciously in his mind when he began. This organic process, often leading to moments of extraordinary self-discovery, is of an indescribable fascination. A blurred image appears; he adds a brushstroke and another, and it is gone; but something was there, and he will not rest till he has captured it.
Sometimes the passion within a writer outlives a book he has written. I have heard of writers who read nothing but their own books; like adolescents they stand before the mirror, and still cannot understand the exact outline of the vision before them. For the same reason, writers talk endlessly about their own books, digging up hidden meanings, super-imposing new ones, begging response from those around them. Of course a writer doing this is misunderstood: he might as well try to explain a crime or a love affair. He is also, incidentally, an unforgivable bore. This temptation to cover the distance between himself and the reader, to study his image in the sight of those who do not know him, can be his undoing:he has begun to write to please.
A young English writer made the pertinent observation a year or two back that the talent goes into the first draft, and the art into the drafts that follow. For this reason also the writer, like any other artist,has no resting place, no crowd or movement in which he may take comfort, no judgment from outside which can replace the judgment from within. A writer makes order out of the anarchy of his heart; he submits himself to a more ruthless discipline than any critic dreamed of, and when he flirts with fame, he is taking time off from living with himself, from the search for what his world contains at its inmost point.本文来源：http://www.diffuseuk.com/meiwendaquan/22225.html