范姜朝麟 908万字 596869人读过 连载
the woman gave a bitter laugh. "little more than a boy!" she sneered. "why, man, its nigh on eighteen years since prince charming made me what i am."
where he went to he hardly knew. he remembered wandering through dimly lit streets, past gaunt, black-shadowed archways and evil-looking houses. women with hoarse voices and harsh laughter had called after him. drunkards had reeled by, cursing and chattering to themselves like monstrous apes. he had seen grotesque children huddled upon door-steps, and heard shrieks and oaths from gloomy courts.
"always! that is a dreadful word. it makes me shudder when i hear it. women are so fond of using it. they spoil every romance by trying to make it last for ever. it is a meaningless word, too. the only difference between a caprice and a lifelong passion is that the caprice lasts a little longer."
and, certainly, to him life itself was the first, the greatest, of the arts, and for it all the other arts seemed to be but a preparation. fashion, by which what is really fantastic becomes for a moment universal, and dandyism, which, in its own way, is an attempt to assert the absolute modernity of beauty, had, of course, their fascination for him. his mode of dressing, and the particular styles that from time to time he affected, had their marked influence on the young exquisites of the mayfair balls and pall mall club windows, who copied him in everything that he did, and tried to reproduce the accidental charm of his graceful, though to him only half-serious fopperies.
"i give the truths of to-morrow."