• 黄大仙救世报67期|2019-11-19 13:19:10


  Late one November evening in her Oslo apartment, the Norwegian novelist Linn Ullmann told me a terrific story. We had been speaking for four days — in the apartment; in her writing studio; in restaurants and taxis; on the streets of Oslo — about her life and her art. We had surveyed the 20 years she has spent writing novels — the latest and sixth, “Unquiet,” appears in the United States this week — novels that have made her a household name in Scandinavia and are published in 35 languages; we had traced her winding path from birth in Oslo to a succession of schools in New York City (Juilliard, when she was dancing; Professional Children’s School, when she was modeling; New York University, when she was pursuing undergraduate and graduate degrees in literature), a city where she supposed she would make her life; and we had discussed Ullmann’s return to Oslo, where, now 52, she has lived for 30 years, and raised four children with her husband, the poet, novelist and playwright Niels Fredrik Dahl.

  The terrific story she told me that evening involved her late father and a phone call he made toward the end of his life. Ullmann’s telling of it was occasioned by a question I asked about long marriages, what she thought helped them flourish and endure. She and her husband, married nearly 20 years, have a gentle way with each other: Dahl’s hand would briefly come to rest on Ullmann’s shoulder; Ullmann’s feet would find Dahl’s lap at the end of a dinner party. The terrific story Ullmann told about her father and the phone call spoke sweetly and, I thought, meaningfully to that question. And yet it was also — Ullmann made clear, when she came to its conclusion — as far as she was concerned, not a terrific story: rather, an anecdote, one of many she has accumulated across her long, unusual life. But it was not the sort of story that she tells in public. More important, it was not the sort of story she exploits in her fiction.

  “I can’t stand anecdotes,” Ullmann said, cross-legged on her couch beneath a framed Alexander Calder lithograph, her voice rising at the end of her sentence as if to chase the final word away.

  “How do you define them?”

  “A story,” she said, “that’s good for dinner parties. I have thousands.”

  Such stories can be charming, I offered. That, Ullmann made clear, was the problem.

  “There was an old Danish poet,” Ullmann said, her fluent English inflected with round Norwegian vowels, “whom I interviewed in my early 20s. He and I talked about up-and-coming Danish writers. What about this writer? What about that writer? ‘This one,’ he said, ‘would be good if she wasn’t so charming. A writer ought not to be charming.’ ”

  “He was speaking of the person or their prose?”

  “The prose,” Ullmann said, pausing. “I don’t want my writing to be charming.”

  I asked what that meant, at an aesthetic level.

  “Anecdotes,” Ullmann said, resigning herself to picking the word up again, “elicit a kind of soft response, sweet applause. An anecdote is told many times, honed in a certain way, so that, if it has a rough edge, even that is absolutely palatable. It might elicit tears, a little ‘ah.’ ”

  I suggested that the story about her father and the phone call managed to do more.

  “It was in ‘Unquiet,’ ” she said, as if to half agree, recrossing her legs, smoothing her short blond hair. “It was in an early draft.”

  “You cut it?”

  “I cut it; I knew I had to cut it. Niels told me to cut it. Geir” — Geir Gulliksen, one of Norway’s leading novelists and Ullmann’s editor of 20 years — “told me to cut it. Everyone said: ‘It’s a sweet story. It’s lovely. It’s charming.’ And,” she said, rearranging herself on the couch once again, “you should cut it, too — from the piece,” that is, it was, like many of our conversations, not on the record but a way of illustrating a point, and she would not be giving me permission to print it.

  “Which,” Ullmann went on, “will make the piece better. Everyone will wonder what the anecdote was.”

  Most readers, at least those in Scandinavia, came to Ullmann’s writing 25 years ago knowing full well what the anecdotes were. They couldn’t not. The anecdotes preceded her, followed her, follow her still. As Gulliksen said, when I visited him at the offices of Forlaget Oktober, where he is publisher and where his editorial responsibilities have narrowed through the years mainly to Ullmann, Dahl and Karl Ove Knausgaard: “If you want to be a writer, a serious writer, it’s not a good thing for you to be the daughter of those people Linn is the daughter of. It’s not a good thing.”


  “The moment you try to publish something, people will think of you as. ...”

  Consider the evidence. When Ullmann’s first novel, “Before You Sleep,” was published in the United States in 1999, and she stipulated, in interviews, that she would not respond to questions about her parents — her father, the filmmaker Ingmar Bergman; her mother, the actress Liv Ullmann — the headline of the review, in The New York Times, nonetheless punned on a title of one of her father’s films in which her mother acted; or, consider the headline of the review of her third novel, “Grace,” in The Times in 2005, which was not a pun on a title of one of her father’s films but the actual title of one of her father’s actual films and, as it happens, the very same film the earlier review had already punned on; or consider that, in every review of her novels in The Times — not merely the first, when she was 33, or the second, when she was 37, or the third, when she was 38, or the fourth, when she was 42, or the fifth, when she was 47 — the names of her famous parents were not occasionally but always mentioned, not infrequently in the first paragraphs. She was never not viewed, presented and considered as, fundamentally, their child, which is to say a child. This despite the fact that when she has done interviews throughout her career, she has maintained her ban on their discussion. And, though her six novels differ radically, consider that she is often charged, vaguely, even approvingly, but to my mind lazily, and therefore condescendingly, with being an inheritor of her father’s cinematic themes, tendencies and preoccupations.

  The varied forms of Ullmann’s autonomous novels have performed the struggles of reconciling the self with a family past — how, through a story, those struggles might be shaped into something tangible, if not always beautiful. In her second novel, “Stella Descending,” a woman falls from the top of a building — perhaps slipping; perhaps jumping; perhaps pushed by her husband — the novel tracing her literal path down to death, the narrative built from the monologues of those who witnessed her life’s literal or figurative descent, a novel of voices that leaves the woman in perpetual suspension, a portrait of the way life can seize someone. Or Ullmann’s fourth, “A Blessed Child,” in which an 84-year-old man, a noted gynecologist and researcher, announces to his family that he intends to end his life, the news compelling his three daughters to make the journey to the distant island where he lives alone, the daughters mulling their lives and their losses as they approach, the women never making it to the island, the book enacting in its form how we often try to avoid where we came from.

  Throughout Ullmann’s novels, you encounter dominating and disappearing fathers, distant, heavy-drinking mothers, narcissistic husbands, unfaithful partners, children whose adult lives of disappointment and error are visited by violence — rape, murder, the death of children — events that, metaphorically, reveal the inner violence humans try to navigate. They are not autobiographical in any obvious sense: There are no famous film-director fathers, there are no movie-star mothers and the fates of her characters are inventions, not reports from the field.

  I was aware of Ullmann’s lineage, but in fairness, I was not a devotee of either her father’s four dozen films or of his three novels, nor an aficionado of her famously beautiful mother’s performances in some of her father’s and in many other movies, not to say of her mother’s two memoirs or her own films as a director. Rather, I came to Oslo as an admirer of Ullmann’s novels — their formal variety and daring; their commitment to seeking out the rough edges of the world; their complexity in presenting emotion in duress; their fraught depictions of childhood’s perils; their originality in dramatizing the particular struggles of young women; their unflinching ability to depict moments of violence; the rigor and surprise of their sentences. But I was interested to know how an artistic ego as autonomous and fully realized as Ullmann’s had managed to form despite, as Gulliksen said, her being the daughter of “those people” with those famous names.

  “It was very important,” Gulliksen told me, “that she was a critic before she was a novelist. We haven’t had a critic like her afterward.” Speak to writers in Norway as I did, and a clear consensus forms: Ullmann was the most important literary critic of her generation, a James Wood of Norwegian writing. Unable to read Norwegian, I wanted to know what that meant.

  “You understood that every time she wrote about a book,” Gulliksen explained, “she didn’t only write about the book, but she wrote about how to read, about what it can mean in a broader context. She could write about Roland Barthes in a way that everybody could feel ‘Oh, I have to read this writer.’ So she was providing access to great literature in a very organic and convincing way, and she wrote about young Norwegian writers — important at that time because we needed it. So she did both. And it was very important that she was that kind of critic before she started publishing novels. She convinced the literary community that she was something.”

  When Ullmann began publishing novels, she stopped writing literary criticism. But her books, instant best sellers in Scandinavia, spoke in a deep way with other writers, in translation.

  “I felt a sense of kinship with her generationally,” the novelist Rachel Cusk, born a year after Ullmann, told me by phone. “I also felt a quality I would identify as her permission to express herself, having come from, weirdly, a place that I felt rather familiar with even though, you know, I’m not the child of internationally renowned artists. Looking back,” Cusk continued, “I wonder whether what I identified with in her voice was the feeling of the dominated daughter, a woman under parental authority, which is very much my persona whether consciously or unconsciously as well. I guess what I feel in my own work is that I, too, have, by a very different route, come to a position of authority and got out from under upbringing. And I don’t always hear a note of upbringing or don’t often hear it in the writing of my female contemporaries.”

  Ullmann’s latest book marks a departure. Her precise, lean, cadenced sentences remain. But gone are the metaphorical narrative frameworks that defined her earlier work, gone the furniture-selling or book-editing or gynecology-practicing fathers, gone the devastating instances of externalized violence. Rather, and for the first time, Ullmann has formed a book out of the explicit landmarks of her lived life, her childhood as the daughter of “those people,” looking at them through the prism of what Ullmann can recall of her complicated upbringing. If the backs of her books always hid from view any mention of her family past, the new book foregrounds it. In Norway, the cover of the novel featured a photograph of Ullmann, age 12, sitting next to her father.

  The form of the book, however, isn’t documentary, but, rather, fragmentary, the way memory is, moments rising up, seemingly unbidden, and then sinking, only to rise into view again, to be looked at from another perspective, in time. At the beginning, Ullmann writes:

  If there were such a thing as a telescope that could be trained on the past, I could have said: Look, that’s us, let’s find out what really happened. And every time we began to doubt whether what I remember is true or what you remember is true or whether what happened really happened, or whether we even existed, we could have stood side by side and looked into the telescope together.

  Ullmann’s “you” applies equally to the book’s parents as to its child, three beings lost to time. Within that textual attempt at seeing, remembering and comprehending are a curious set of found artifacts: the transcripts of a series of recordings that Ullmann made of conversations between her and her father very late in his life, conversations during which she and he were to explore the matter of growing old and, once completed, and using the tapes as source material, father and daughter were to have collaborated on a book. But, owing to the father’s decline, they became something else: a reckoning with loss while her father was alive. Ullmann’s other books are filled with voices, with shifts in point of view, but the voice of the father in “Unquiet” feels different, not a creation so much as a kind of visitation. Thus the book became in part about her father’s death, a death that allowed her to write the story of her life, of her parents’ love and of her own for them.

  “It’s a subject,” Gulliksen told me, “she has been avoiding ... denying herself the possibility of even thinking about because she always feels that she has to tell people: ‘I’m a grown-up person and I’m a writer. I’m not the daughter of anyone.’ ”

  In “Unquiet,” the parents have no names; rather, designations — Pappa, or sometimes the father, a filmmaker; Mamma, or sometimes the mother, an actress — Ullmann alternating freely between first person and third, sometimes saying “I” but at other times writing about “the girl,” as here on her father’s home, Hammars, on Faro, an island in the Baltic Sea:

  Lots of things were dangerous. All the usual things, of course, like putting a plastic bag over your head (death by suffocation), walking around in wet underpants, swimsuits, or bikini bottoms (death by bladder infection), twisting a tick the wrong way when detaching it from the skin (death by blood poisoning), going swimming less than an hour after eating (death by cramps), accepting rides from strangers (death by kidnapping, rape, murder), taking candy from strangers (death by poisoning, possibly kidnapping, rape, murder) — but there were also other dangers specific to Hammars: Never touch the flotsam that washed up on the beach below the house, liquor bottles, packs of cigarettes, shampoo bottles, tin cans with labels in foreign languages, foreign lettering, don’t touch, don’t sniff, and for God’s sake don’t drink (death by poisoning), don’t sit in a draft (death by catching a cold), don’t catch a cold (death by expulsion from Hammars), don’t sit in the drying closet (death by suffocation, possibly electrocution), don’t be late (if you showed up late, death would be a consolation, death was, if anything, the only valid excuse for a lack of punctuality). Give this girl a map and she’ll follow it — she doesn’t break a single rule, except the one about not sitting in the closet. Ingrid had told her over and over again, but still the girl sneaked in to be enveloped by the warmth. Until the day she found a sheet of yellow notebook paper taped to the closet-door on which the father had written in big block capitals:



  The 184-word runaway train of a sentence at the heart of this passage tracks the path of parental prohibitions through “the girl’s” mind. Though the threats are grave, the touch is light, and the accumulated effect is one that believably conveys the feeling — dreadful, delightful — of a child’s point of view. The clarity and lack of fetter is characteristic of Ullmann’s way of seeing the world in prose and, in this case, of seeing the self as a third person.

  Though an unusual storytelling strategy, this third-person self is not unprecedented in the annals of autobiographical writing. Henry Adams, the historian and descendant of two American presidents — great-grandson of John Adams and grandson of John Quincy Adams — in his posthumously published autobiography, refers to himself throughout, and only, as “he.”

  And yet, Ullmann makes clear that “Unquiet” isn’t an autobiography; rather, a novel. And so I wondered about Ullmann’s choice to elide these central names. She said it was informed by a moment from Marcel Proust’s 1.5-million-word, first-person, autobiographical novel, “In Search of Lost Time.”

  “Proust wrote about himself,” Ullmann said, “but his narrator only gives his name in one scene.” The sentence appears in the novel’s fifth volume, “The Prisoner,” as the narrator greets Albertine, the woman he’s living with, and translates thus: “Once she was able to speak again she said: ‘My’ or ‘My darling,’ either one followed by my Christian name, which, in giving the narrator the same name as that of the author of this book, made for: ‘My Marcel,’ ‘My darling Marcel.’ ”

  Why did Proust make the choice to have his narrator give his name only then, in all those pages? Ullmann referred me to another moment in Proust’s novel.

  “He has this scene,” she said animatedly, as if she had just put the book down, “when he’s going to one of the parties, and they call his name, and he’s really, really dreading it. ‘The usher asked me my name, I said it mechanically like someone condemned to death putting his neck on the block. Instantly, majestically, he raised his head and, before I could ask him to announce me without fanfare ... he shouted the disquieting syllables with a force that could shake the roof of the hall.’ ”

  “ ‘The disquieting syllables,’ ” Ullmann said, pausing as her words rang out. “That was very meaningful to me. I was going to write about disquieting syllables.”

  This gave her, she said, some freedom — a freedom to be found novelistically. Although she was writing from her life, what she was putting on the page wasn’t reportorial evidence; rather, characters. Even if she was writing a scene based in what she could recall, she allowed herself to inhabit the moment telescopically, to see with the imagination what was no longer there. She gave herself the freedom to imagine what had been forgotten, not in an attempt to establish facts — beyond her conversations with her father during his decline, she did no research — but to find the truth, that quarry the novel has always, in its paradoxical way, sought and seized.

  Even so, many serious writers have complicated feelings about such categorical claims, about what a novel “is.” In a comment in The Times Literary Supplement that accompanied the writer Lydia Davis’s choice of “Unquiet” for her book of the year, Davis, when referring to it, put quotation marks around the word “novel.”

  “The use of the term ‘novel,’ ” Davis told me in an email, “for something very closely autobiographical — the perfect example, of course, being Knausgaard’s six-book ‘My Struggle’ — is further expanding our definition of ‘novel,’ which is all to the good. To me these books, and Linn Ullmann’s ‘Unquiet,’ excellent though they are, do not fit the older, more customary definition of novel, even though that definition encompasses so many kinds of novel. Autobiographical but traditional novels — with conventionally arranged scenes, dialogue, landscape description and more formal, less personal narrative commentary — would be closer to the traditional fictional novel, on the continuum, and these novels of Knausgaard and Ullmann closer to the memoir.”

  I wondered if Davis objected to the word “novel” for Ullmann’s enterprise.

  “I do think Knausgaard and Ullmann have every right to call what they have written ‘novels,’ ” she said, “but I would guess that most of the material in the books, in both cases, is retrieved from memory, no substantial material invented and only the dialogue, perhaps, recreated as a fictional construct. I understand, too, that the fact of labeling it a ‘novel’ does not just give Ullmann permission to recreate with more freedom what she may imperfectly remember but also removes the story to a greater distance that may make it easier to see objectively and shape dramatically.”

  Cusk had her own sense of what made Ullmann’s novelistic practice notable, metaphysically. “I think ‘Unquiet’ is an object lesson in the moral use of material,” Cusk told me. “And because Linn’s material is in the public realm, to a degree she can teach that lesson. It’s impossible for me to explain to people that I don’t, in my work, violate my children’s privacy or do all the things I’m accused of because nobody knows: It’s my private life. Whereas, in Linn’s case, precisely how she uses a moral code in relation to her material can be dissected and examined. If her life was anonymous, if these parents and their child were anonymous, I don’t think one would necessarily know how clever a book it is.”

  When most novelists mine their lived lives, only their unfortunate friends and family are the wiser. When Ullmann does, the reader, in addition to experiencing a novel, also witnesses a public navigation through, or a performance of, the risks inherent in all fiction: that it misuses the real.

  Ullmann was willing to talk to me at some length and with great candor about her life outside the borders she had drawn to contain her novel. But much of what Ullmann said to me was off the record. Part of this was, as I said at the outset, her absolute prohibition on the inclusion of anecdotes, anecdotes she either cut from “Unquiet” or didn’t bother putting in in the first place. It was not that Ullmann was being evasive; rather, frank and principled. These things were hers, for her to keep or for her to use.

  And yet, this lent my attempt to profile her a somewhat surreal and at the very least awkward interior weather. For central to the success that Ullmann achieves in “Unquiet” is a sort of proof that the only way to write meaningfully about another person’s life is to move beyond the borders of the known world to its unimaginable interior, to write fiction.

  Even so, on a Sunday afternoon, I sat down with Ullmann in her writing studio to talk. The room is a little apartment that Ullmann rents on the top floor of the building into which she and Dahl and their teenage daughter and their dog moved in the fall, their eldest three children from each of their first marriages now grown, the family’s need for the larger house where they had been living now past. The studio, I began to say, is spare, the bookshelves not full, albeit with a tidy line of books by Virginia Woolf in arm’s reach of Ullmann’s desk. (“They were the first things I unpacked.”) Windows ring the room, and through them you could appreciate in all its pallor Oslo in November, 1 p.m., and through the long French windows with their view of the terra-cotta rooflines and the ordered rows of ancient trees planted harmoniously in the park below, the gray lid of sky was already beginning to dim.

  Ullmann turned on a light, asked if I was warm enough, if I needed something more to drink, if I was comfortable in the hard chair or would I prefer the ergonomic one? As I began, I told her that I was going to ask her a great many questions I believed I already had answers to. I thought that I had those answers because, to an extent — in the weird way that children of celebrities are — she is a public figure, of whom there are photographs, online, as a child, holding her mother’s hand, on the red carpet, as her date at the Academy Awards, looking as though she wished she could tap her heels three times. And, moreover, I thought that I had those answers because Ullmann has written, in “Unquiet,” that strangest of things, not a novel that feels like fact but one that renders facts, like my questions, moot. Not fake, but illuminatingly frail: weak beside the fiction. Fiction: from a Latin root, fingere, to form.

  What was I going to make of her life that Ullmann hasn’t already fashioned?

  As I posed my questions — “Questions,” a friend of mine once said, “are a great way of avoiding information,” a sentiment I once didn’t understand but that now seems like the most sensible thing anyone has ever said — it began to feel, to me, as though, on the roof of my mind, a large bird were clattering loudly across it, clumsily advancing, claws scraping tiles, flapping its wings, distracting my ability to —

  “It’s a sea gull,” Ullmann said.


  “On the roof.” Ullmann pointed to the ceiling. “It’s a gull. He lives up here. I don’t know why. We’re quite far from the sea. But he’s been here since we moved in. Nothing to be worried about. Are you cold? Shall we go downstairs?”

  The few things I salvaged from those hours that you won’t find better told, felt, formed in “Unquiet”: Ullmann’s maternal grandmother was a bookseller, middle class, hard working. She gave her granddaughter books throughout her childhood. Ullmann’s father, after her parents split up, after her father withdrew to a life of making films and living on Faro, a little Swedish island in the Baltic Sea, would have his daughter spend a month with him, in summers. He read to her patiently, Ullmann says, the great Swedish children’s books.

  “He was in love with Astrid Lindgren,” Ullmann said. “We didn’t read ‘Pippi Longstocking’ but these others, ‘The Brothers Lionheart,’ ‘Mio, My Son.’ Who else? Tove Jansson, Maria Gripe, who is another even darker but beautiful Swedish novelist for young people. But beautiful, dark stuff. He would read, and I just loved it. And once I do remember that I read for him. We were in my little bedroom, and I had just started reading, so I was probably about 5 or 6 or something, and that I was going to read for him. I don’t remember what it was. And that he sat. And I remember — this is how I remember it. I remember that he sat and that I was doing really well and that he was superinterested, and that when I was finished, he said it was wonderful; and then somehow the question of how long we’d been sitting there came up, and he said, ‘Oh, just two hours.’ So this is how I remember it. That he was patient. And that he would actually. ...”



  Of her mother, Ullmann said a good deal. “Magnificent” was the word she used. Later, on another day, Ullmann asked that I not make too much of the fact that, when she did speak about her mother, at moments, she grew moved in a visible way, a way that made us both fall quiet before we proceeded.

  “Not everybody has a magnificent parent,” I said that day.

  “No.” A long pause, before, “Well, she really is.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Ullmann sighed, not delightedly.

  “Sorry,” I said, and Ullmann laughed.

  I’d arranged to meet Ullmann in another part of Oslo, at the house where she and Dahl and their children lived for six years. They sold it the previous winter; the new owners were due to take possession in two weeks. Ullmann and Dahl were completing the process of emptying it. The house was the end unit in a little outpost of long, four-family homes built at the turn of the century, stout, vaguely Scandinavian — for that is how they seemed — townhouses designed for factory workers but absorbed by an upwardly mobile middle class.

  Out front was a garden with rose bushes still in bloom, along with an apple tree hung with colorful frozen fruit, beneath which dozed the family dog, gray muzzle perched on paws. Ullmann had yet to arrive, but her husband was within, trying to conclude the complicated business of dispersal. Dahl was taking to the task with some real pleasure. I have not said that Dahl has published five novels and is now also a household name in Norway. I have not said that Ullmann, when she saw him for the first time, said that she thought he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen.

  Ullmann arrived. She and Dahl discussed the progress that had been made. A bit of domestic theater ensued as they talked about which of the remaining pieces of furniture would be put into storage, which sold. Among the chattels were two desks, one his, one hers, extras from a summer house they let go. Dahl suggested that Ullmann part with hers, given that she had a desk in the studio. “But that was my first desk.” She said she had it in New York. “But you don’t use it.” Ullmann suggested that Dahl part with his. “But it’s beautiful.” They decided to keep both.

  During our conversations before that moment, Ullmann had repeatedly referenced her field. “I went to my field this morning.” “I did not have time to go to my field today; perhaps we should go to my field tomorrow.” So repeatedly had the field come up, it had taken on, for me, a mystical charge. So, Ullmann took me there, replicating the walk she took from this house nearly every day for six years.

  Ullmann walks briskly, even bundled as she was in a bulky parka of such immensity as to make you suppose that, were she to fall, help would be required to right her. We walked briskly through the peak light of the day, past a day care where children played outdoors and arrived at the field, which was a track around a soccer field.

  “It’s nothing special,” Ullmann said. “It’s just my field. Do you want to walk around it?”

  We walked around it, I very aware that this following along in her footsteps was both a true thing and a false thing. Here was where she came to think, to feel herself unwind from the writing and to be wound again to write more. There was nothing for me to see or to feel, rather only to imagine, and the limits of my imagination in that moment were finite. Then, I saw the pigeons. A great flock of them in the middle of the field, rising like a little dark cloud, falling back to earth.

  “Could you walk out there?”

  I said this to Ullmann, who complied. I should mention that I was carrying around a rather large film camera, with which I’d taken pictures of the city and of Ullmann, now and again.

  “Just walk out and, you know. ...”

  Ullmann did. Raised her hands as she approached, a conductor poised for the downbeat. The birds, like one body, rose.

  I sit now looking at the photograph. It’s a nice picture. It shows the gray lid of the sky and the little line of Scandinavian buildings and a soccer goal and the cloud of rising birds and the back of a woman bundled up, arms raised, conducting. You cannot see her face, and in that way I like it. It does nothing to reveal her.



  黄大仙救世报67期【秀】【吃】【完】【饭】【回】【到】【房】【间】【拿】【起】【手】【机】【的】【时】【候】【已】【经】【是】【十】【二】【点】【四】【十】【多】【分】【了】,【看】【到】【信】【息】【后】,【秀】【给】【程】【杰】【回】【复】【了】【一】【句】:“【刚】【才】【在】【吃】【饭】【没】【带】【手】【机】【在】【身】【边】”。 【过】【了】【一】【分】【钟】【都】【没】【有】【收】【到】【程】【杰】【的】【回】【复】,【秀】【已】【经】【猜】【到】【了】【程】【杰】【正】【在】【午】【睡】【了】,【便】【不】【再】【发】【信】【息】【打】【扰】【他】。【不】【得】【不】【说】,【在】【这】【一】【点】【上】,【他】【们】【还】【是】【有】【着】【相】【似】【之】【处】【的】。 【其】【实】,【不】【管】【程】【杰】【有】【没】【有】【回】【复】

  “【感】【谢】【政】【府】【培】【养】【了】【一】【批】【不】【推】【诿】、【不】【计】【较】、【有】【担】【当】、【有】【能】【力】,【真】【正】【为】【百】【姓】【办】【实】【事】【的】【服】【务】【团】【队】,【让】【我】【们】【感】【受】【到】【了】【温】【暖】”【南】【京】【路】301【号】【海】【城】【集】【团】【小】【区】【一】【产】【妇】【颇】【为】【激】【动】【的】【发】【出】【一】【通】【感】【慨】。【近】【日】,【南】【京】【路】301【号】【海】【城】【集】【团】【小】【区】【一】【产】【妇】【在】【家】【属】【的】【陪】【同】【下】【将】【一】【面】【印】【有】“【鱼】【水】【情】【深】 【与】【民】【服】【务】”【字】【样】【的】【锦】【旗】【送】【至】【市】【水】【务】【管】【理】【局】,【感】【谢】【青】【岛】【水】【务】【海】【润】【自】【来】【水】【集】【团】【南】【部】【分】【公】【司】【四】【方】【新】【区】【管】【线】【所】【对】【其】【家】【庭】【的】【帮】【扶】。


  【人】【家】【都】【说】【好】,【男】【人】【会】【把】【自】【己】【的】【妻】【子】【宠】【成】【一】【个】【傻】【子】。【坏】【男】【人】【会】【让】【自】【己】【的】【妻】【子】【成】【为】【一】【个】【百】【毒】【不】【侵】【的】【女】【汉】【子】。 【也】【会】【有】【人】【反】【驳】【说】,【坏】【男】【人】【会】【让】【自】【己】【的】【妻】【子】【成】【为】【寡】【妇】【一】【样】【的】【女】【人】! “【是】【啊】,【有】【你】【真】【好】!”【声】【音】【不】【大】【但】【是】【于】【升】【鹏】【却】【听】【得】【真】【真】【切】【切】【的】,【内】【心】【无】【比】【的】【开】【心】,【这】【是】【程】【清】【雅】【对】【他】【能】【力】【的】【认】【可】【吗】?【还】【是】【对】【他】【的】【人】【的】【认】【可】?

  【路】【临】【川】【在】【慕】【时】【卿】【拿】【下】【舞】【蹈】【大】【赛】【亚】【军】【的】【时】【候】【就】【求】【了】【婚】。 【但】【两】【人】【的】【婚】【礼】【确】【实】【等】【到】【慕】【时】【卿】【毕】【业】【了】【才】【举】【办】。 【当】【穿】【上】【婚】【纱】,【看】【着】【镜】【子】【里】【已】【经】【盛】【装】【打】【扮】【好】【的】【自】【己】,【慕】【时】【卿】【觉】【得】【有】【些】【恍】【惚】。 【原】【本】【她】【应】【该】【是】【在】【这】【时】【候】【离】【开】【帝】【都】,【离】【开】【路】【临】【川】,【离】【开】【慕】【家】,【独】【自】【远】【行】【的】,【结】【果】【现】【在】【却】【已】【经】【穿】【上】【婚】【纱】,【真】【正】【嫁】【给】【那】【个】【当】【初】【她】【没】【有】【办】黄大仙救世报67期“【哈】【哈】【哈】,【付】【玉】【龙】,【你】【口】【气】【倒】【是】【不】【小】,【就】【算】【你】【海】【云】【宫】【再】【大】,【又】【岂】【能】【大】【得】【过】【炼】【药】【师】【联】【盟】,【这】【几】【年】【你】【海】【云】【宫】【的】【所】【作】【所】【为】【可】【是】【被】【南】【域】【的】【其】【他】【势】【力】【看】【得】【一】【清】【二】【楚】,【在】【你】【准】【备】【好】【要】【怎】【么】【对】【付】【我】【之】【前】,【我】【劝】【你】【还】【是】【好】【好】【想】【想】【要】【怎】【么】【自】【保】【吧】,【要】【不】【是】【炼】【药】【师】【联】【盟】【有】【规】【定】,【不】【得】【轻】【易】【介】【入】【州】【域】【势】【力】【之】【间】【的】【事】,【我】【看】【你】【海】【云】【宫】【恐】【怕】【早】【就】【该】【被】【灭】

  【深】【夜】【寂】【静】,【林】【婉】【心】【才】【渐】【渐】【入】【睡】,【门】【外】【的】【索】【亚】【愁】【眉】【耐】【心】【等】【待】【着】,【耳】【闻】【她】【轻】【浅】【均】【匀】【的】【呼】【吸】【声】,【他】【一】【手】【覆】【上】【门】【把】【手】,【一】【到】【白】【光】【从】【掌】【心】【划】【过】。 【微】【光】【透】【过】【门】【缝】,【映】【在】【床】【上】【熟】【睡】【的】【女】【人】【脸】【上】,【静】【溢】【安】【宁】。 【索】【亚】【阖】【上】【门】,【打】【开】【床】【头】【的】【暖】【灯】,【床】【上】【的】【人】【眉】【梢】【微】【微】【一】【动】。 “……”【索】【亚】【抬】【手】,【手】【掌】【覆】【在】【她】【的】【额】【头】【上】,【婉】【心】【这】【才】【完】


  【六】【日】【后】,【鬼】【兰】【山】【倾】【巢】【而】【出】,【赶】【到】【风】【野】【寨】【外】,【潜】【伏】【了】【起】【来】。 【祁】【继】【虽】【然】【与】【风】【野】【寇】【打】【了】【多】【次】【的】【交】【道】,【但】【却】【是】【第】【一】【次】【来】【到】【这】【风】【野】【寨】。【风】【野】【寨】【占】【地】【方】【圆】【十】【里】,【与】【其】【说】【是】【一】【个】【城】【寨】,【还】【不】【如】【说】【是】【一】【座】【城】【池】。【所】【处】【之】【地】【更】【是】【背】【山】【面】【水】,【依】【山】【水】【之】【势】【而】【建】,【有】【卧】【虎】【之】【相】。【风】【野】【寨】【则】【是】【城】【建】【壁】【厚】,【装】【备】【精】【炼】,【城】【墙】【上】【镌】【刻】【着】【繁】【复】【的】【花】【纹】,

  【方】【颜】【启】【指】【一】【点】,【小】【玉】【虚】【镇】【邪】【镜】【瞬】【间】【化】【作】【脸】【盆】【般】【大】【小】,【从】【中】**【出】【一】【道】【大】【腿】【般】【粗】【细】【的】【金】【色】【光】【柱】,【向】【着】【快】【要】【靠】【近】【方】【颜】【的】【那】【只】【狸】【猫】【虚】【影】,**【而】【去】。 【金】【色】【光】【柱】【如】【同】【出】【鞘】【利】【剑】【一】【般】,【直】【直】【向】【着】【那】【道】【快】【要】【靠】【近】【方】【颜】【的】【狸】【猫】【虚】【影】【而】【来】,【瞬】【间】【便】**【到】【了】【它】【的】【身】【躯】【之】【上】。 【顿】【时】,【那】【狸】【猫】【虚】【影】【便】【止】【住】【了】【攻】【势】,【被】【小】【玉】【虚】【镇】【邪】【镜】【上】【所】