I am not Ximen Qing.

Finally, even he himself began to doubt when he had become like this; the resurrection of the great Russian Tolstoy was truly an irony for him.

Song Yu's mother had read many books since he was little, but his favorite was still Balzac's *Human Comedy*. Let's not mention Balzac anymore. Lately, Zhang Sheng and Song Yu's love and romance have been nothing but Balzacian clichés. In fact, they haven't read as much Balzac as that old rogue Henry Miller. He's read *Old Goriot*, *The Decline of a Courtesan*, and still idolizes the miserly Grandet. But this isn't Hugo, nor Balzac, nor Tolstoy, Márquez, or Goethe, nor Bob Dylan, the Nobel laureate who's obsessed with hippopotamus epics.

Zhang Sheng and Song Yu fantasize about the gates of Eden for love and romance, a gate of love and romance limited to human sensibilities. A contradiction arises: they genuinely doubt whether the gates of love and romance are the other side of the gates of hell—why does desire emanate from there, and why does it end there? Song Yu admires the Beat Generation touted in America in the 1970s; it turns out the gates of Eden are just a book, with Dionysus and the sun god manifested as rock singers singing songs of overflowing love and romance. The Beatles of England sparked the "Imagine" movement in America, with their Lennon songs.

I can't forget the pagoda in the distance by Weiming Lake, the most pleasant golden age of Zhongguancun. I used to walk under the pagoda every day, and stroll among the strange rocks and mountains beside Weiming Lake. I can't tell if it was a dream or reality. What was I thinking back then? Imagine, imagine, an era full of imagination, fantasy, and dreams. I'm back to Song Yu's great rock and roll songs of the Beat Generation. How he wished he could be a rock singer transformed by Dionysus.

There's Nietzsche's exaggerated praise of Wagner; Nietzsche grasped the aesthetic soul of ancient Greece. Dionysus and the sun god represent the spirit of masculine beauty, a power not consumed by the desires of women and romantic love. The birth of aesthetics is due to the imagination and vitality of the sun god and Dionysus. Rock and roll isn't wrong; the Beat Generation were all followers of the sun god and Dionysus, worshipping the culture of ancient Greek aesthetics. The Beat Generation may have appeared decadent, but their inner thoughts and spirit didn't collapse. What about America's Beat Generation? Americans aren't as open as the erotic men and women in *Jin Ping Mei* imagine, and neither is Japan. In fact, conservative values ​​are more prevalent in their culture of love and romance.

When Song Yu pleaded with Tang Yingying for love, Tang Yingying's eyes instantly filled with tears. This was a skill she had learned from Lin Daiyu—a perfect way to reject love. The woman's tears extinguished any remaining interest in Song Yu's affections.

His wild performance at the Dallas nightclub was actually a backlash against love. He thought a lot, spent over a week in America pondering what love was. Finally, he understood one thing: love and affection are all bullshit! Tang Yingying's tears were just a smokescreen.

Zhang Sheng waited in his car for a full half hour. Tang Yingying finally saw Song Yu out. Tang Yingying lived in an upscale neighborhood near Chaoyang Park. She exchanged a few pleasantries with Song Yu downstairs. Judging from Tang Yingying's expression, Song Yu would always be her Brother Song. Even if Song Yu went to a Dallas nightclub and made a scene, it wouldn't matter; deep down, he was still a Gadfly, not Don Juan. Of course, Song Yu was still all smiles as before. Zhang Sheng knew he was just putting on a brave face; love and romance were completely over.

"So? Not continuing?"

Let's stop for now.

Song Yu finally faced reality, casting a few gold coins at such a great beauty like a drop of rain in the ocean.

"To be friends?"

"What kind of friends? What kind of friends are there between men and women?"

"Is love and romance really over like this? What a pity."

"Love and romance are money-devouring monsters, you can't afford to waste time, you know? You can't afford to waste your energy and time."

Zhang Sheng knew that he couldn't afford the time or energy, but rather the money. This was the first time he'd ever invested tens of thousands of yuan in a comedy, and the script was so poorly written that it didn't even evoke a ripple of love or romance. Song Yu being slapped by Tang Yingying was a true insult to a man's dignity and love; it was a huge slap in the face.

Zhang Sheng still didn't understand why the first thing Song Yu did upon returning to China was to give her a brooch. Zhang Sheng knew that Song Yu imagined himself as Mr. Rochester, and Tang Yingying as Jane Eyre. This was the most perfect love story for all men.

The song of Rochester, amidst the fragrance of lilies at Tang's birthday party, wafted with the scent of love and desire, surrounding the screenwriter, the relatively unknown actors, and the director. She reminded us of La Dame aux Camélias, like a butterfly fluttering among flowers, a stunning beauty in a Nissan raincoat, embodying the elegance and allure of a fashionable socialite. As if in a dream, we were effortlessly placed in a private box—a huge, open-plan box with a spiral wooden staircase reminiscent of DNA, connected to an open bar on the same floor; it was more like a stage than a bar.

She recalled the performance at the Datun Road Old Times Bar, but there was no piano, no band, and you could sit high up and overlook everything—it was clearly a high-society salon gathering. Now, her identity was no longer Dr. Henry's secretary, but a socialite in this high-society salon.

In real life, she's a good actress, and she's been searching for that kind of older man. She dreams of being a leading lady on stage, just like Jiali, and she's full of fantasies about the future. Ah! A real-life version of the Chinese beauty. She's disappointed, extremely disappointed, because Song Yu isn't the older man of her dreams.

All of this is just a small part of Miss Tang's lifestyle. Her ambitions and dreams are as vast as the Milky Way. Amidst laughter and chatter, she would sometimes chatter with a few young women, the noise of music and singing swallowing everything else, making it impossible to hear what she was saying or talking about. However, she moved gracefully among her friends, her expression and demeanor rather serious.

The open-plan booths were filled with drunkards—so-called freeloaders, romantic poets, and philosophers. The actors probed each other, eager to find common ground and spark artistic inspiration. Alcohol was the perfect fuel; each had a powerful engine burning it inside, fueling their passion, igniting a raging fire, and exhaling the exhaust fumes of their breath.

Nietzsche's Superman and Shakespearean plays are all making an appearance, it's laughable. Who reads Nietzsche or Shakespearean plays these days? We're all out of touch. Why not listen to Dr. Henry's AI Goddesses Descending Here? Without goddesses, there is no romance, no love, no romance.

"When you want to be Superman, what comes to mind..."

"superman film, american film."

"No, I thought of Superman, but what if we run out of wine? Bring us more wine..."

Miss Tang's understanding of wine was unrestrained and generous. Zhang Sheng knew her wine was expensive, but it was indeed delicious, because the fine wine contained the love and sentiments of a beautiful woman. She truly respected the two new guests, immediately ordering a large barrel of foreign liquor and pouring a large glass with a splash. It had been a long time since he had tasted such a potent and good wine. Believe it or not, everyone sitting here was there to drink the beauty's wine.

Thankfully, Miss Tang lived in her ideal castle. Although it was a love trap set by Plato for her, she abandoned the last veil of humanity. The allure of beauty's wine was so powerful; it burned away the thin veil of pretense. How could the gentlemen's previous composure, sophistication, and worldliness resist the temptation of her wine? Masks and veils were all gone. Miss Tang's wine was too delicious; all that remained of their ugly existence was, "Where's the wine?"

"Empty, empty, empty..."

"How to do?"

"If you don't mind the mess, drink what's left in my glass."

"what would you do?"

"I'm not drinking anymore. Listening to you talk about Superman, you really are a great philosopher, a successor to Nietzsche. Can a great philosopher write screenplays?"

"I am currently creating!"

Mr. Rochester quickly came over and immediately stopped them, saying, "This place is full of lunatics. Don't mention Nietzsche, let alone Shakespeare, and definitely don't talk about writing plays."

In a hazy state, Song Yu heard Mr. Rochester's earnest advice. She dared not do anything to Mr. Zhang Sheng, because he had done many things that frightened her. But then she saw Miss Tang—oh, Jane Eyre from *The Metamorphosis*—holding Zhang Sheng in her arms. Such sudden love! Was it real or just a dream?

Whether Song Yu is Rochester or Rochester is Song Yu is no longer important. Whether Miss Tang is a goddess or a goddess is Miss Tang, Song Yu is Rochester in the reality show "Transformation," and in the moment of understanding eternity in a daze, Zhang Sheng's portrait enters Tang Yingying's portrait.

Then I thought of Oscar Wilde's portrait of Dorian Gray. Zhang Sheng had captured the beauty's soul. Zhang Sheng wasn't Henry; he wanted the beauty's soul, Tang Yingying's soul, to never grow old. He had to paint an oil painting of her, forever as she looked now. Beautiful angel, was it a love story between a human and a ghost? The distinction between soul and ghost was blurred. When did he leave? He didn't know. The screenwriter, unable to hold his liquor, had completely slumped against the table, snoring loudly.

Mr. Rochester lost a beautiful lily, the epitome of Jane Eyre's future, exuding a strong fragrance of lust. However, her circle of friends wasn't high society, but rather a group of petty thugs, freeloaders. Rochester looked down on Tang's so-called high society with disdain. Tang was mysterious; who was the man behind her? Mr. Rochester had spoken with Tang before; in any case, Tang had a passionate love affair. What was the price of that love? It was her current luxurious lifestyle. She could spend tens of thousands of dollars on a single date, asking them to cater to her so-called face and vanity. The scene of Jane Eyre abandoning Rochester didn't repeat itself. Rochester's self-accompanied, deeply affectionate love song, because Rochester portrayed his love for Jane, was ultimately betrayed by Cupid. Let's use a loud fart to describe love and romance.

Zhang Sheng was reminded of Rochester's passionate love song. Rochester cried out with endless sorrow and lamentation, but alas, he wasn't Lu Xun—how ironic, how ironic. From Zhang Sheng's perspective, Miss Tang was like a socialite, bidding farewell to one boyfriend or girlfriend after another who was about to leave. Saying goodbye to Rochester's song was undoubtedly the most dignified way for our goddess to bid farewell to Tess of the Bird family. When a woman loses her purity, her fate changes. No wonder our love is sinful; thinking about it, she's still a beauty from the sea, a fisherman among men.

He was filled with desire, and possessed a human soul; she was a mermaid, and their love could only end in separation—that human soul created by humans. She loved him as a walking corpse, a soulless walking corpse.

Don Juan and Byron's poems... Tang, the young lady, always longed for Song Yu to become a romantic Don Juan. It's said that the Spanish libertine had over ten thousand women in his lifetime, married or unmarried, with friends or no friends, all living in a vortex of infidelity, love, and romance. In the romantic night, there are women, drunkards, and the reeking of alcohol—Socrates and Plato—along with King Lear's Lament for the Waste Land. King Lear's daughters were unfaithful to him; it's a pity he should have learned from Socrates' wisdom. What is there to search in this wasteland? There is moss, there is grass. A year later, what is there in the wasteland? No moss, no wild grass, only golden ears of wheat.

Superman famously said that Zarathustra, the wild and untamed caveman, came down from a cave on the Tibetan Plateau. Then consider Themon of ancient Greece, and his family and friends—none of them passed Themon's test of humanity; human nature is greedy.

Let's call Tang Yingying the Witch Beauty. Good luck, Miss Tang. It's better than being moss, like the devil Satan, sucking men dry of their flesh and soul. Men are all bewitched by love and romance; if you don't drain their flesh and soul, they'll be filled with the desire for love and romance.

Zhang Sheng explained to Miss Tang that the desire for aesthetics was the creative source of the twelve Muses of ancient Greece, capturing beauty, the beauty of the woman's body. On the surface of that sacred, elastic flesh, there are a pair of sacred peaks, a pair of breasts as described by Victor Hugo in his frivolous writings; the beauty of a woman's buttocks is the beauty of hills; below the navel is the beauty of the birth of life; wild grass is the beauty of the protection of life. Perhaps art begins with the desire bestowed upon men by their Muses, that is the aesthetics of love and romance, and love and romance give birth to the concept of beauty.

The statues of Venus and Wu Dawei, filled with contradictions and desires, in the arms of the witch, represent nothing more than a fleeting dream, not Julie, the Julie of Rousseau's writing. The witch riding a broomstick, the witch's unrestrained behavior in the ancient Greek mountains, and Faust in her sister's study—it evokes the image of Goethe, someone who, having spent too much time in her study, has lost all meaning and interest in life amidst her pedantry.

No, Mephistopheles has to be the devil created by Goethe's ideas. What is Goethe? Great works always withstand the test of human nature and love, and Mephistopheles becomes the angel of love who saves men. Unfortunately, Mr. Rochester was too hypocritical in the Metamorphosis of Love, and lost the allure of Donnie Yen's love.

So souls can be exchanged, "exchange our minds and souls." Is this Poise Night? It's full of clowns. Tang is indeed Helen, from Homer's epic poems. She's adorned with luxurious jewels, gifts from Paris, the playboy of Troy. The only thing missing is a story: Hera, Athena, or perhaps Andersen's tale, Snow White's queen. Women are naturally jealous of beauty, beauty for beauty's sake. Why didn't Paris fall in love with Hera and give her the golden apple? It seems humans are inextricably linked to the golden apple; cutting it open reveals something resembling a woman's ovary.

Helen, with Hector, Paris, and Priam the Elder, the Trojan Song resounded from the queen's lips, while Faust gazed upon Helen's naked body, fading and rising like roses. Rochester, transformed into the handsome Paris, lay with Beauty on the bed of divine love and passion. Zeus, in the black mist, seized Helen's naked body, the body of the witch Galilee.

Indeed, all men are like the fickle Zeus, willing to pay any price to conquer the love and affection of a beautiful woman. This isn't imagination or a fantasy; it's an oil painting Song Yu brought back from America, which he mischievously gave to Miss Tang. I was moved to tears. I truly hope Mr. Balzac changed his creative approach. The rise and fall of courtesans—I wonder if Dumas fils received inspiration from Mr. Balzac, or if Balzac received inspiration from the same work. An apocalypse of love and affection; even crocodiles sometimes shed tears of emotion. The Metamorphosis isn't Kafka's, but Hesla's, and Ovid's too. The modern version is Rochester becoming Lucien.

In the Chinese version, Du Shiniang transforms from a courtesan into a saint, possessing noble qualities akin to La Dame aux Camélias. Lü Xi'an kneels at the hem of Helen's skirt, and Song Yu begs for Tang Yingying's love and affection.

"I'm mermaid you are human beings you have human soul you know i can't have love with you at all fisherman fisherman."

The sea returns to the sea, Rochester holds Jane Eyre's portrait, seagulls flock towards it, in the deep white whirlpools of the sea, love and romance are swept away, let the storm of love and romance rage even more fiercely! Thunderstorm and Romance of the Western Chamber, Rochester will not have an affair, Jane Eyre is already dead.