她是非常年轻的姑娘。她不存在于任何一部电影,不在费里尼的镜头,不在特吕弗的注视中。她是象牙塔里的幻觉,一转身便走进一片喧闹,走进空气中飘荡着蔷薇花香的黄昏,像一张读完的书页被翻了过去,从我们躁动的找寻中溜走了。 She is a very young girl. She does not exist in any movie, not in Fellini’s camera, not in Truffaut’s gaze. She is the illusion of the ivory tower, turned into a noisy, into the air floating in the rose of the dusk, like a finished book page has been turned over from our search in agitation slipped away.