还是原来的正宫

龙贩子不卖崽:

2016年里约当地时间8月11日,马龙里约奥运会乒乓球男单夺冠,成为集世界杯、世锦赛、奥运会、亚洲杯、国际乒联总决赛、亚锦赛、亚运会、中国全运会等国内外所有重大赛事冠军于一体的全满贯。

北京时间是8月12日


龙贩子不卖崽:

我想要更好更圆的月亮

想要未知的疯狂

想要生涩的张扬

我想要你


雪曝:

别他妈扯,你只是失去了身体,而你哥哥失去了他的人生,这一套。
半藏,活该,他就是那种性格的人,钻牛角尖,成天愁眉苦脸的,他活该。他想逃吗?不,他不想逃,他根本不想脱离岛田家,他以自己是岛田家的人为荣,不但不想逃,他还想复兴自己的岛田家族,他还想家族的荣光能够长存。
源氏带他走?他渴望自由?开什么玩笑,去听听游戏语音会死吗?他很自由,岛田家、花村就是他的自由,但这两者不是源氏的,源氏想要自己选择的权力,所以他俩打起来了。最后半藏杀了源氏,这是两种理念的碰撞,一个基础就是,兄弟俩,源氏十分想走,但半藏一点都不想离开,他是个享受控制与权力的男人。
导致麦藏源藏看上去很傻逼的一个毛病:他们想让麦源带半藏逃跑。
大佬藏看到就笑了。
天哪,是不是有什么误会?
岛田家对源氏来说是罪无可恕的枷锁,对半藏却是持之以恒的信仰。说夸张一点,半藏爱岛田家,爱父亲,爱世代相承的黑道生意,爱那种生活状态,爱掌控全局,我最强,对吧?他喜欢,他怀念,他想要复兴却苦于寻找不到一条道路。
这是中年男人半藏,一个心怀大志的浪客。
他不需要别人带他走,因为他能找到自己的路,并且哪怕即使找不到路,他也绝对不会寄希望于外界的帮助,尤其是那些过于明显的帮助。
艹过别人,或者被人艹过之后,半藏会因为那个人改变吗?不会。他在床上怎么一展雄风或者淫乱娇喘,下了床他还是半藏,他还是要继续寻路的家伙,固执己见坚持不懈而且,耐力惊人。
没人能带他走,没人能改变他,为弟弟懊悔是他自己的选择,但不承认他弟弟活着也是他的选择,他太独立了,连作恶都那么义正言辞,因为他有自己的信条在。


那些什么个源氏麦克雷救赎了半藏,带走了半藏的都别他妈在我眼前晃悠,圣母个屁,救什么啊?救你?什么叫救赎?不复兴帝国的半藏还是半藏吗?


人家半藏过的好好的。一个人?那就一个人。


Parallel Universe:

打了竞技之后就不太想去玩快速了,都瞎玩

菜的抠脚但是也能体会到一丝丝的乐趣哈哈哈

【这里最喜欢自己画的美,感觉很不一样哈哈哈哈哈

【基:好好学习】The Red Necklace -1,2

诸葛福媛:

【写在前面的废话】之前在电脑上建了个文件夹叫《做个花痴好学习》,专门收集各种男神的有声书、广播剧,以备跑步时自high。现在听的七七八八了,决定把其中一部分整理一下,就叫【好好学习】系列_(:з」∠)_ ,意在巩固复习,顺便回报社会。


这些书大部分网上都可以下到原著小说和音频,我只是按照audiobook编辑修正了一下,欢迎挑错,但未经允许请勿转载。初步计划是先整理抖森、一美、法鲨和卷福的,如果有时间会继续做李建军同志的。另外,海总大人,求你读本有声书吧,你的澳洲口音小的很愿意听啊!


奉上第一本:


The Red Necklace


By  Sally Gardner


Summary: In the late eighteenth century, Sido, the twelve-year-old daughter of a self-indulgent marquis, and Yann, a fourteen-year-old Gypsy orphan raised to perform in a magic show, face a common enemy at the start of the French Revolution.


正文前的几句废话:抖森用软软的声音念出男主角Yann的台词实在是让人联想起雷1里的小基妹儿,然后用阴沉的声音模仿大反派Count Kalliovski时,又是足足的邪神范儿。最好玩的是,俩人都想娶个那有着摄人蓝眼睛(most bewitching blue eyes)的菇凉~(大公主是你吗?~)


总之小说本身没有特别引人入胜,但是为了某人还是很值得一听的哈哈。


附:本更音频:链接: https://pan.baidu.com/s/1bpo2BfD 密码: ykub


正文:


This is Paris; here the winds of change are blowing, whispering their discontent into the very hearts of her citizens. A Paris waiting for the first slow turn of a wheel that will bring with it a revolution the like of which Europe has never known. In the coming year the people will be called upon to play their part in the tearing down of the Bastille, in the destruction of the old regime, in the stopping of the clocks.


This is where the devil goes walking, looking with interest in at the window of Dr. Guillotin【注1】, who works night and day to perfect his humane killing machine, sharpening his angled blade on the innocent necks of sheep. Little does the earnest doctor know that his new design will be center stage, a bloody altarpiece in the drama that is about to unfold.


But wait, not so fast. King Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette, are still outside Paris, at Versailles. This is the winter of 1789, one of the worst in living memory. Jack Frost【注2】 has dug his fingers deep into the heart of this frozen city, so that it looks almost unrecognizable under its thick blanket of snow.


All still appears as it should be. All has yet to break. . .


Chapter one


Here, then, is where our story starts, in a run-down theater on the rue du Temple, with a boy called Yann Margoza, who was born with a gift for knowing what people were thinking, and an uncanny ability to throw his voice.


Yann had a sharp, intelligent face, olive skin, a mop of jet-black hair, and eyes dark as midnight, with two stars shining in them. For the past few months the theater had been home to Yann and his friend and mentor, the dwarf Têtu, and Topolain, the magician. Together they traveled all over France, performing. Without ever appearing on stage, Têtu could move objects at will like a sorcerer, while Topolain fronted the show and did tricks of his own. Yann was fourteen now, and still didn’t understand how Têtu did it, even though he had helped behind the scenes since he was small.


Têtu’s age was anyone’s guess and, as he would say, no one’s business. He compensated for his size and his strange high-pitched voice with a fierce intelligence. He could speak many languages, but would not say where he came from. 


It had been Têtu’s idea to invest their savings in the making of the wooden Pierrot. The result had been a sensation. Monsieur Aulard, manager of the Theater du Temple, had taken them on and for the past four months they had played to full houses. In these dark times, it struck Monsieur Aulard as nothing short of a miracle.


The Pierrot had caught people’s imaginations. Some thought that it was controlled by magic. More practical minds wondered if it was clockwork or automaton, or if there was something hidden inside. This theory was soon dismissed, as every night Topolain would invite a member of the audience on stage to look for himself. All who saw it were agreed that it was made from solid wood. Even if it had been hollow, there was no space inside for anyone to hide.


Yet not only could the Pierrot walk and talk, it could also, as Topolain told the astonished audience every night, see into the heart of every man and woman there, and know their darkest secrets. 


For the grand finale, Topolain would perform the trick he was best known for—the magic bullet. He would ask a member of the audience to come up on stage and fire a pistol at him. To much rolling of drums, he would catch the bullet in his hand, proclaiming that he had drunk from the cup of everlasting life. After seeing what he could do with the automaton, the audience did not doubt him. Maybe such a great magician as this could indeed trick the Grim Reaper【aka死神大人】.


Every evening after the final curtain had fallen and the applause had died away, Yann would remove the small table on which had been placed the pistol and the bullet. Tonight the stage felt bitterly cold. Yann peered out into the darkened auditorium. He could sworn he heard someone whispering in the shadows.


“Hello?” he called.


“You all right?” asked Didier the caretaker, walking onto the stage. He was a giant of a man with a vacant moonlike face. 


“I thought I heard someone in the stalls,” said Yann.


Didier stood by the proscenium arch and glared menacingly into the gloom. 


“There’s no one there. More than likely it’s a rat. Don’t worry, I’ll get the blighter.”


He disappeared into the wings, humming as he went. Yann felt strangely uneasy. The sooner he was gone from here the better, he thought to himself.


There! The whispering was louder this time.


“Who’s there?” shouted Yann. 


Then he heard a woman’s soft voice, whispering to him in Romany, the language he and Têtu spoke privately together. He nearly jumped out of his skin, for it felt as if she were standing right next to him. 


She was saying, “The devil’s own is on your trail. Run like the wind.”


Topolain’s dressing room was what Monsieur Aulard grandly called a dressing room for superior actors. It was as shabby as all the other dressing rooms, but it was a little larger and had the decided privilege of having a fireplace. The log basket was all but empty and the fire near defeated by the cold. 


Topolain was sitting looking at his painted face in a mirror. He was a stout man with doughy features. 


“How did you know the shoemaker had a snuffbox in his pocket, Yann?” 


Yann shrugged. “I could hear his thoughts loud and clear,” he said.


Têtu, who was carefully packing away the wooden Pierrot, listened and smiled, knowing that Yann’s abilities were still unpredictable. Sometimes, without being aware of it, he could read people’s minds; sometimes he could even see into the future.


There was a rap at the door. Topolain jumped up in surprise, spilling his wine onto the calico cloth on the dressing table so that it turned dark red.


A huge man stood imposingly in the doorway, his smart black tailored coat emphasizing his bulk. Yet it was his face, not his garments, that caught Yann’s attention. It was covered in scars like the map of a city you would never wish to visit. His left eye was the color of rancid milk. The pupil, dead and black, could be seen beneath its curdled surface. 


He was a terrifying apparition.


The man handed Topolain a card. The magician took it, careful to wipe the sweat from his hands before he did so. As he read the name Count Kalliovski, he felt a quiver of excitement. He knew that Count was one of the wealthiest men in Paris.


“This is an honor indeed,” said Topolain.


“I am steward to Count Kalliovski. I am known as Milkeye,” said the man. He held out a leather purse before him as one might hold a bone out to a dog.


“My master wants you to entertain his friends tonight at the château of the Marquis de Villeduval. If Count Kalliovski is pleased with your performance”—he jangled the purse—“this will be your reward. The carriage is waiting. We would ask for haste.” 


Yann knew exactly what Topolain was going to say.


“I shall be delighted. I shall be with you just as fast as I can get myself and my assistants together.” 


“Haste,” Milkeye repeated sharply. “I don’t want our horses freezing to death out there. They are valuable.”


The door closed behind him with a thud, so that the thin walls shook.


As soon as they were alone, Topolain lifted Têtu off his feet and danced him around the room.


“This is what we have been dreaming of! With this invitation the doors of grand society will be open to us.”


He looked at his reflection in the mirror, added a touch of rouge to his cheeks, and picked up his hat and the box that contained the pistol.“Are we ready to amaze, astound, and bewilder?”


“Wait, wait!” pleaded Yann. He pulled Têtu aside and said quietly, “When I went to clear up this evening I heard a voice speaking Romany, saying, ‘The devil’s own is on your trail. Run like the wind.’” 


“What are you whispering about?” asked Topolain.


“Come on, we’ll be late.” 


Yann said desperately, “Please, let’s not go. I have a bad feeling.”


 “The boy may be right.”said Têtu. 


“Come on, the two of you!” said Topolain. “This is our destiny calling. Greatness lies ahead of us! Ha! I’ve waited a lifetime for this. Stop worrying. Tonight we will be princes.” 


Yann and Têtu knew that it was useless to say more. They carried the long box with the Pierrot in it down the steep stairs, Yann trying to chase away the image of a coffin from his mind. 


All Topolain was thinking was that maybe the king and queen would be there. The thought was like a fur coat against the cold, which wrapped itself around him as he walked out into the bitter night, Yann’s and Têtu’s anxieties forgotten.


Chapter two


The Marquis de Villeduval’s debts were alarming. He took no notice of his financial advisers, who told him that he was on the verge of bankruptcy. What matter if funds were low? He would simply raise the rents on his estate. In the meantime he would just have to borrow more from Count Kalliovski, who never blinked an eye at the outrageous sums the marquis requested.


This was how he had financed the building of his newest property, a small château halfway between Paris and Versailles, which allowed him easy access to the court and the capital. His taste was superb, the bills always shocking.


That evening the marquis was holding a supper party to thank Count Kalliovski for his continuing generosity. The guest list included the great and the good of French society—dukes, princes, counts, cardinals, and bishops. Like the marquis, they all had


good reason to be grateful to the count.


In return for his constant generosity, Kalliovski simply asked for those tiny little secrets, the kind of thing you wouldn’t even say in the confessional box. All you had to do was whisper them to him and absolution was guaranteed, the money given. He kept his friends like pampered lapdogs. They never suspected that the hand that fed them had also bought their souls.


Many rumors circulated about Kalliovski, which he encouraged. When asked his age he would say he was as old as Charlemagne. When asked about his great black wolfhound, Balthazar, he would say that he had never been without the dog. One thing, though, was certain: Many were his mistresses and no one was his wife.


The secret of his success lay in the absence of emotion. Over the years he had learned how to empty himself of sentiment, to keep himself free of passion.


Love he considered to be a blind spot on the map of the soul. He had an iron-clad heart. His motto was one that should have warned all who knew him of his true nature: Have no mercy, show no mercy.


For the marquis’s part, he was in awe of the count. If he was honest with himself,


something he avoided at all costs, he was more than a little jealous of him. Tonight, though, he wanted to impress the count. Nothing had been spared to make the celebration a success. 


He had even gone to the trouble of having his daughter brought home from her convent to satisfy a whim of the count, who had asked to see her. Why, he could not imagine.


For he considered her to be a mark of imperfection upon his otherwise perfect existence. The marquis’s splendid new château stood testament to his secretive nature and his sophisticated taste. Each of its many salons was different. Some were painted with scenes of the Elysian Fields, in others, there were gilded rococo mirrors that reflected the many crystal chandeliers. On the first floor all the salons opened up into one another through double doors with marble columns. The effect was a giddy vista of rooms, each one more opulent than the last. But behind the grand façade lay what no eye saw, the narrow, dark, poky corridors that formed the unseen and unsightly varicose veins of the house. They were for the servants’ use only. The marquis liked to fancy that an invisible hand served him. And so his army of footmen and maids performed their tasks quietly in felted slippers, like mice behind the skirting boards.


On the day of the party, the Mother Superior told Sido that she was wanted at her father’s new château. It had been two years since she had last seen him, and for a moment she wondered if he had been taken ill. Her memory of her father was of a cold, unloving man who had little time for his daughter. Sido had grown into a shy, awkward-looking girl who walked with a limp, an unforgivable impediment that reflected badly on the great name of Villeduval. She had lost her mother when she was only three, and for most of her twelve years she had been brought up at the convent. The marquis had handed her over to the Mother Superior at the tender age of five, with instructions to teach the girl to be less clumsy and to walk without limping, if she was going to the château just for a supper party filled her with excitement and trepidation. As the convent doors closed behind her, she hoped passionately that she would never have to see the place again, that this might be the start of a new life where her father would love her at last.


Her happiness soon vanished as the coach made its way along the country roads. In the thin, blue, watery light, figures seemed to rise out of the snow like ghosts, given shape only by the rags they were wearing. They trudged silently along the side of the road with grim determination. Old men, young men, women carrying babies, grandmothers, small weary children, all were ill-equipped for the bitter winter weather as they slowly and painfully made their way toward Paris.


Sido knocked on the roof of the carriage, “We should stop and help,” she called to Bernard, the coachman.


The coach kept on moving.


“Please,” Sido called again. “We must help them.”


“The whole of France needs help,” came the answer. “Best not to look, mademoiselle.”


But how was it possible to turn your eyes away from such a sea of sadness?


Sido’s father’s new château looked like a fairy-tale castle, complete with towers and turrets, floating free of the formal gardens that surrounded it.


The marquis’s valet came out to greet her.


”How are you, Luc?” she asked, pleased to see a face she recognized.


“Well, mademoiselle. I have been instructed to take you up the back way to your


chamber. The marquis does not wish to be disturbed.”


Sido followed him through a plain wooden door into a long dark corridor. Luc lit a candle which shone a shy light down what seemed a never-ending passageway.


“Where are we going?” she asked.


The valet turned around with a finger to his lips. 


Sido followed in silence. Every now and again cat’s cradles of light shone through peepholes, from one wall to the other. Luc opened a door.


“This will be your bedchamber. The marquis will call you when he is ready,” and with that he closed the door behind him. It disappeared perfectly into the painted panels so that if you didn’t know it was there, it would be impossible to tell.


This was a plain room, paneled in powder blue. The four-poster bed had thick dark blue velvet drapes, a fabric screen stood near a dressing table, and above the fireplace hung a painting of an Italian masked ball.


There were no flowers to welcome her, no bowls of fruits, no sweetmeats, though these were given to all the other guests.


For her part, Sido was just grateful to be away from the convent. 


Hours passed, so that she was wondering if she had been forgotten, when the valet reappeared. “The marquis wants to see you now, mademoiselle.”


Sido straightened her skirt, took a deep breath, and concentrated with all her might on not limping as she was taken downstairs. 


The marquis was waiting in his study. He had a large, needy, greedy face that gathered itself into a weak, undefined chin and had about it the promise of perpetual disappointment. He stared down his aristocratic nose at his daughter.


“I see, Sidonie, that you are not much changed since last we met. A little taller, maybe? Unfortunate. Tallness is unattractive in a girl.”


The abruptness of the criticism and the use of her full name made all Sido’s skills of navigation abandon her. She stepped back, narrowly avoiding a table displaying the marquis’s latest acquisition, a collection of scientific instruments.


“Look where you’re going! In heaven’s name, are you as stupid as you appear? And I see you still have that unpleasant limp. It seems not to have improved in the slightest,” said the marquis irritably.


Sido stood there wishing with all her heart that the floor would open and swallow her up. At that moment Count Kalliovski was shown into the chamber. At his heels was a large black wolfhound, his famous dog, Balthazar.


Sido’s first impression was that she would not like to be left alone with either the man or his dog. She dropped her gaze and curtsied as she felt his sharp inquisitive eyes upon her. Glancing up for a discreet look, she saw a tall thin man, elegantly dressed, his skin smooth and ageless , as if it had been preserved in aspic. He had the


perfume of wealth about him.


“That,” said the marquis abruptly, “is my daughter. Why I went to the expense and inconvenience of bringing her back here, I cannot imagine.”


“To humor me, I do believe,” said Count Kalliovski, he sat himself in a chair and stretched his long legs out before him, placing his hands together to form a steeple in front of his mouth. They were large, ugly hands that somehow didn’t seem to go with the rest of him. The dog settled near his master. Sido saw that the pattern on the count’s embroidered silk waistcoat was of little black skulls intertwined with ivy leaves.


“Eh.. Charming,” said the count, studying Sido with an expert eye. “But is there no food at your convent?”


“Not much, sir,” Sido replied.


The count smiled. “Tell me then, are the nuns all as pale and thin as you?”


“No, sir.”


“I thought not. And which convent is this?” When Sido told him, the count laughed out loud.


“Hahaha…I know the cardinal. I have lent him money in the past to settle his gambling debts.” The marquis looked most uncomfortable.


“My dear friend, your daughter has the most bewitching blue eyes. Give her a few


more years and you will find her to be ravishing.” The marquis looked like a spoiled overgrown child who is being asked to play nicely. “With respect, my dear count, plain she is and plain she will remain. I fear you have been taken in by the beauty of my study and the afternoon light.”


“Not in the slightest. I am just concerned to hear that your daughter has been sent to such an indifferent school. I suggest that from now on she should be educated at home.”


Sido stood there, surprised to find that she had an ally in the count.


The marquis rang for his valet.“The girl is to be bathed and the dressmaker summoned, mademoiselle Sidonie will be dining with us this evening.”


It took Sido a moment to realize what her father had just said. She wondered if just for once fate was smiling kindly on her.




注1:Joseph-Ignace Guillotin,法国医生、政客、共济会员,1789年提议使用一种新的器械,即断头台Guillotine,来执行死刑以减少死刑犯痛苦,在法国大革命中N多人命丧断头台使得这个东西名留青史。事实上,那个杀人机器并不是Dr. Guillotin发明的,他本人还反对死刑,但是很悲催的,这个断头台还是以他的名字命名了……


Dr. Guillotin:mmp,叔叔我明明是该作为第一批在法国推广牛痘接种术的医生留名的!!搞个杀人机器用我的名字是什!!么!!鬼!!





注2:Jack Frost,杰克冻人~~安格鲁撒克逊民间传说中冰/雪/冬天等的拟人化角色,可以理解为雪精灵?或者冰霜人(基妹:what?!),据说杰克冻人会把天气变得严寒,把大家的脚趾头和鼻子冻僵掉,把秋天的叶子染霜,还在窗户上留下树叶脉络样的霜花……哎呦这也太可爱了吧,基妹真的不是你吗?!



《是谁杀死了原创者?》——致抄袭者与冷漠者

脸盆鸟:

《是谁杀死了原创者?》——by脸盆鸟


谁杀了原创者?


是我,抄袭者说,


用我的复制和粘贴,


我杀了原创者。


谁看见他死去?


是我,冷漠者说,


用我的冷漠,


我看着他死去。


谁取走他的血?


是我,商人说,


用我的金币,


我取走他的血。


谁为他做寿衣?


是我,法律说,


用我的法规和条文,


我会来做寿衣。


谁来为他掘墓?


是我,评判者说,


用我的嘴巴和键盘,


我将会来掘墓。


谁会来做牧师?


是我们,导演和“编剧”说,


用我们的镜头和“剧本”,


我们会来做牧师。


谁来为他记史?


是我,“成年人”说,


若我不是“心智成熟”,


我将来为他记史。


谁会来持火把?


是我,反抄袭者说,


我立刻拿来它。


我将会持火把。


谁会来当主祭?


是我,文化说,


我要哀悼挚爱,


我将会当主祭。


谁将会来抬棺?


是我,律师说,


如果愿意付款,


我就会来抬棺。


谁来为他加冕?


是我们,道德和底线说,


我们将用道德和底线铸就王冠,


我们会为他加冕。


谁来唱赞美诗?


是我,良知说,


站在良心的位置上,


我将唱赞美诗。


谁来敲丧钟?


是我,政府说,


因为我足够有力,


我来鸣响丧钟。


所以,再会了,原创者。


所有善良的人,


全都叹息哭泣,


当他们听见丧钟,


为可怜的原创者响起。


启事


告所在有关者,


这则启事通知,


下回人性法庭,


抄袭者将受审判。


————————————————————
《是谁杀死了知更鸟?》原文
谁杀了知更鸟?
是我,麻雀说,
用我的弓和箭,
我杀了知更鸟。
谁看见他死去?
是我,苍蝇说,
用我的小眼睛,
我看见他死去。
谁取走他的血?
是我,鱼说,
用我的小碟子,
我取走他的血。
谁为他做寿衣?
是我,甲虫说,
用我的针和线,
我会来做寿衣。
谁来为他掘墓?
是我,猫头鹰说,
用我的凿和铲,
我将会来掘墓。
谁会来做牧师?
是我,乌鸦说,
用我的小本子,
我会来做牧师。
谁会来当执事?(又译: 谁来为他记史?)
是我,云雀说,
若不在黑暗中,
我将会当执事。(又译:我来为他记史。)
谁会来持火把?
是我,红雀说,
我立刻拿来它。
我将会持火把。
谁会来当主祭?
是我,鸽子说,
我要哀悼挚爱,
我将会当主祭。
谁将会来抬棺?
是我,鸢说,
如果不走夜路,
我就会来抬棺。
谁来扶棺? (又译:谁来提供柩布?or谁来负责棺罩? )
是我们,鹪鹩说,
我们夫妇一起,
我们会来扶棺。(又译:我们提供柩布。or我们来负责棺罩。 )
谁来唱赞美诗?
是我,画眉说,
站在灌木丛上,
我将唱赞美诗。
谁来敲丧钟?
是我,牛说,
因为我能拉牦,
我来鸣响丧钟。
所以,再会了,知更鸟。
空中所有的鸟,
全都叹息哭泣,
当他们听见丧钟,
为可怜的知更鸟响起。
启事
告所在有关者,
这则启事通知,
下回鸟儿法庭,(又译:麻雀将受审判, )
麻雀将受审判。(又译:在下回的鸟儿法庭。)



所以记住了,是你们抄袭者啃干净了原创者的血肉来为自己织就锦绣。


所以记住了,是你们冷漠者敲断了原创者剩的骨头吸允着里面的骨髓。


所以记住了,是你们,你们自己放弃了更好的未来。

个人对画风一点见解

索拉回旋踢:

anyoha:



_nus_:







太有感触了。基本功与风格啊。。我一直在处理这之间的平衡。。想做到在基本功很扎实的前提下又能变化风格去尝试各种好玩的画法。。也只有在这个前提下才能发挥出最好的效果吧。。虽然我还差的好远好远。。我的话如果画不出即合理又很爽【不
的动态的话是没法往下继续的ojz。。人体透视什么的也是一样。。相当重要ojz。。同时也很羡慕有灵气的画师嗷QAQQQ。。超赞同太太们的看法。。








一叶知落秋木苏:















万物皆空:































画风其实我觉得因人而异吧 分不出绝对的好与坏 感觉就是和混的圈子有关……例如欧美画风就不适合跑日漫同人圈画…… 所以出于这点就感觉一个圈子总是那么些画风 【好像是个挺纠结的问题  当然有些画风如果能受到大众欢迎那就挺好啦
















虽说画画只是出于一种热爱 但是总觉得如果有空有心情的话还是学下基础比较好  虽说我画画大多数是用厨力去画同人 但是基本上每张都有让自己尝试一点新的方法 可能大家感觉画的都是那些东西吧 但是我觉得为了更好的表达自己的内心想表达的东西 手上功夫真的很重要啊 不然只能想出来画不出来我也觉得挺难受的……
















另外有些基本功都很棒但是画风比较老的 那我也觉得可惜啊 就是那种画会让人觉得厉害但不会怎么喜欢的 比起让人觉得自己画画很屌我更希望的是别人能体会出自己画中的情感和氛围 从而喜欢上这幅画 这种感觉挺好的 
















最后想说说 其实千人一面的不能说是画风 真正能称上形成画风的是能用这个画风画出各种各样不同年龄不同长相高矮胖瘦的人或奇形怪状的物 这只能算是个人对于形体的一种总结 就算画两个完全不同的人也能总结在一个画风中那才算是一种成熟的风格?
















以上纯属个人见解与吐槽 请勿对号入座 反正自己也画的很烂所以感觉还要不断领悟这些啊……
















日了哦:































我挺看重风格的,觉得一个作者画得好多半是风格吸引我!但是更深的还是基础,一个好的画手是可以通过画风来展现他的基础的,他的基础为他的风格服务,所以每一张画都是经得起推敲和耐人寻味的。当然也不乏充满灵气的画手,他们可能带给看客的更多的是一种享受和启发吧?
















ps.好些大大的风格和基础实在令人捉急……
















邮局:































怎么说呢,我是觉得能够吸引我的图,大多是基础扎实的类型,或者是理念比较抓人。
















举例来说就是我喜欢美漫那种厚实感,也喜欢水墨写意_(:з」∠)_(不太会表达)
















风格是个挺不好说的东西,画风、用色、构图、设计等等等等我觉得都算是风格的一部分,但是我个人觉得想要形成风格,基础是最重要的,如果拿过来一张图看起来华丽的不得了,但是人体比例跟个鬼似的那我肯定会不喜欢,然而现在受到喜爱的作品中却有不少都是这种情况。不少作品用大场面构图、上色来掩盖了他们基本功的不扎实。
















有时候看到作者非常努力、非常勤奋,每天练习的量真的能让我给他们下跪,可是我总忍不住觉得他们这样练习的方向是不是有点偏掉。如果你基础就是错的,再画一百遍、一千遍错的,那还是错的,持续看不到自己的问题在哪里,别人的意见也听不进去,确实够勤奋可这种练习根本就是在浪费时间。
















当然基本功这个问题我这个渣也没啥资格来评价啦……我不是说所有受欢迎的作品都是这样,事实上很多作者的图,每一个细节都体现了他们的功底,我是喜欢这种的。
















我说得可能也有很多不对的地方,主要还是能有更多的人一起来讨论。
















还有就是我特别赞同farewell桑的观点↓推荐大家看一看。
















Farewell:































我就从一个跟艺术不沾边儿的业余爱好者的角度来说说自己的看法吧。
















个人觉得从目前这个圈子的情况来看,基础不好的画手中真正有个人风格的其实也并不多。一些画手习惯用时下比较流行的画风来掩盖自己基础的不足:一张帅脸、酷帅狂拽或柔和清新的上色、繁复的构图或元素堆积等,这些都能够很方便地转移看客注意力以弥补绘者基本功的不足。他们的人气来源于看客对这一类风格的喜爱,而不是对他们自身的欣赏。如果是要博人气,那么这大概是一种比较方便的方法。但如果真的是想发展属于自己的绘画道路,这是不太可行的,因为通过这种方式积累了知名度之后,不仅进取心可能会被慢慢消磨掉,即便以后想改变路线也很难了。而就算是确实有能被一眼辨识出来的画风,如果基础不好,那么创作的题材和内容也就随之被限定了,看客会产生审美疲劳也是很自然的。
















一个基本功扎实的画手,他的个人风格通过他特有的思考能够融入其每一笔线条、每一块颜色之中,这样的人即便想换个画风,他的神儿还在,看客也能够辨认出是他的作品。从我个人来说,比起一眼看起来好像很高端大气上档次的作品,我更喜欢经得起细看和推敲的作品。良好的人体结构和透视等能够传达出一种认真的态度,即便某个地方以现在的水平还画不好,但有时候能看出作者是在努力改进,这样的画手就比那些整体看似很厉害,但总是对不擅长的部分遮遮掩掩的画手更令我欣赏。
















总体来说,我还是比较倾向于在纠结个人风格之前多注重基本功这条路。当然,如果总是抱着“这个人明明基础很差,就因为画风和题材才有那么多人追捧,那我抠基础有什么用”这样的想法的话,可能还是先调整一下心态比较好吧。
















(码完这么多字自己也被戳成筛子了,我回去反省一下……)
































时之巷:































今天好像突然想通一件事情。
















大大们之所以是大大,因为他们都创造了一种自己的风格。这种风格越是标新立异未被人所开发(而且好看!),就越能吸引大家的目光。
















所以大大之中有人体结构还不够过关的,有完成度不高的,有画不来背景的(或者只会画背景的)等等各种问题,但不影响他们所创造的风格被人所喜爱。
















自己画画也好多年了,但一直觉得没有自己创造出一种风格。跟自己按部就班,浅尝辄止,不会创新等等性格都有关吧……
















虽然很想反省这种种问题,但每每看到各种风格的图又忍不住也想锻炼一下能画出这种图的能力,而且有时自己关注的大大风格一直一成不变,自己就会厌倦,慢慢变得不是很关注了(特别是基础方面长滞不前的类型)。这时候又会想,不能在一种风格上死磕。一直按照同一种风格和规矩来画图不会很无聊吗?结果这事儿循环下去又走回了老路。
















也许是自己的水平、能力和领悟力还是没到一定境界吧……
















很好奇大家是怎么看这问题的。























































































问米:

马龙到底是个什么样的人?




我一直都想不通他是一个什么样的人,他似乎一直都在让我惊讶。




球场上的他几近完美,每一个动作都应该被刻在壁画上供后人膜拜,看着对手的眼神称得上冷酷,胜利时的怒吼恣意纵情。


你说他霸气,当他洗去发胶,垂下的青丝立刻柔软了脸庞,丢了球的时候挫败的一仰头活像个小孩子。


你说他乖巧,但也总能看到他和前辈们打闹一团,斜睨着眼睛调戏后辈,吭吭笑着嘲笑发小,“你们为什么觉得马龙乖,看脸吗?”


你说他温柔,他在场外对队员的指导也严厉的毫不留情,对看台上的山呼海啸置若罔闻。




他总是笑的时候最好看,似乎特别容易被逗乐,尤其是跟熟人在一起时,眼眸含星的看着别人,弯弯的带着笑意。




见过人间千百景,依然觉得他这一笑有日月之辉,能荡平忐忑。






我到底到底爱不爱他?




八年前我爱王皓爱到不行,那时候也没有b站,就定着点的看电视转播,猜测他新染的发色到底是偏紫还是偏黄。喜欢到报了个乒乓球的班,前前后后的打了一年。


到伦敦奥运的时候,张继科已经帅出点样子了,可是我依然眼神都不带转的盯着王皓看,更别提角落里小孩儿似的马龙了。


但是时间长了什么都有个淡字,里约奥运的时候我看着马龙气宇轩昂,驰骋战场的样子,突然转头懵懵的问我老公,王皓呢?王皓是不是退役了。


老公像看傻子似的看着我。




我爱上马龙了,我站在电视前叉着腰宣布。




我不知道说这话的时候我的底气够不够足,我太记得第一次看到马龙和王皓的单打的时候,心里还在想那个小土娃娃谁啊,那几年马龙总输给王皓,我也没把他放在心上。




这一年他长得这么好看了,我实在是没想到,仿佛参加了一场荒诞的同学聚会,你班上的胖丫头突然变成一个绝世美人,极具视觉冲击力,令人垂涎。


垂涎这个词太能形容我这俩月的状态了,他手臂上的青筋,他额头上的汗,他的小腿他的唇线,他无辜的表情他冷漠的神色,他的一切都让我心驰神往。




在以他为风暴中心的浪漫喜剧中,我成了那个有眼无珠的反派角色,还是个群众演员,只有看着美人目瞪口呆的份儿。




夜里一两点钟了我还在抱着板儿刷b站,视频看了一遍又一遍,每场球都不想错过。


老公腻味半天未果,负气躺倒,从他的嘴型可以判断,他又在骂我痴汉了。






我应该爱他吗?




我把他的海报贴在冰箱上,elle的两张海报我都喜欢,上午贴这张,下午贴那张。


老公很认真的问我,如果马龙不是世界冠军,只是一个出现在你生活里的人,你会不会这么喜欢他。


我没想到他是那样有所忧虑的样子,我爱连姆尼森,我爱唐尼,我的客厅不挂结婚照而挂了辛德勒名单的剧照,架子上又放了铁人的兵人,老公一直乐在其中,连兵人都是他给买的生日礼物。


可是他认真的问我会不会喜欢马龙这样的男孩子。




我有点被逗乐了,我跟他说男人的魅力不在于外表,马龙再好看在人堆里也未必能引起注意,完整的性格才是吸引人的关键,然而谁会在意别人的性格到底是什么样的呢,说到底还是他的成绩成了宣泄口,他的平和、冷静、坚忍、不屈被他的成绩具象化,才让人注意到马龙的为人,造就他的魅力。


老公将信将疑。






其实一切都没有答案




一万个人爱他可能有一万个理由。




马龙跟每一个我喜爱过的艺人都不一样,我想了无数次马龙到底是什么性格之后忽然有点想通,他谁也不像,他像你,普通的你,你和相熟的朋友聚会时的轻松愉快,拿下新项目时的意气风发,等红灯时思绪万千面色呆滞,偶尔不明原因的暴躁和冷漠,你有多少面,他就有多少面。


他从来也不是表演型人格,他的每一个动作每一个表情随心而至,无法抓住他的人设是因为他没有被设定。


他是他自己,他是马龙。


他是我见过最真实的男孩子。




我知道有一天我不会再为他着迷,而我可以平静的接受那一天的到来。




他的精神世界是一所花园,“被爱着”这件事并不是他的养分,只不过是吹落的花蕊,枝头的燕雀。




他能照顾好自己,像那些曾经沉寂的岁月一样,他能像个战士一样面对他的未来。




这让我无比安心。



两颗轴种

最多二两啤的:

世界上有很多种子。


有的栽下去能抽出条 。有的栽下去能开出花。有的出娘胎受了伤没有可能再发芽。


还有一类种下去能生出『轴』来。不是『小东大东,杼柚其空』的那个。既不当量词也不做名词用的『轴』啊。



是招人讨厌的形容词。


轴地闷声,负少年盛名踯躅而行,崩山溃海不走还留。


轴地惊天,着红衫过市招摇如旌,逆天而行始立山头。


两个轴种。




是令人恐惧的动词。


轴在得意时能演蓝色台上绝地反杀的drama,落魄后显露不畏强权勇敢发声的脊梁。


轴在平静中把对手包得水泄不通恨不得自戕当场,盛怒后不卑不亢一人偏抵住万人嘲骂。


两个轴种。




当两颗这样的种子被埋在一起。黑暗中,他们肯定曾试图互相审视对方,但泥土把他们隔得有银河那么远呀。干脆两个就都不说话,默默酝酿。


春天听风吟,夏天忍蝉聒,秋天时总有个先后罢。先破土而出地没有犹豫,另一个听见理直气壮地喊了句: 我迟早会跟你一起的。


风雪里,他们战栗着发现他们原来是很近的。



你和我一样。
你和我一样。


两颗破土的种子一齐讲。



如果你能熬过这个冬天,我肯定也可以的。
如果你能熬过这个冬天,我肯定也可以的。


两颗颤抖的种子一齐讲。



别怕。
别怕。


两颗微笑的种子一齐讲。




我是一颗轴种哦。
我也是的。


【獒龙】通吃 1

哎呀可爱极了

叶绿素:



老爷子把帮会交给张继科以后,没过多久就撒手人寰了。


他交代的不多,连银行卡密码都没来得及说。


张继科心里骂了一句艹,回头看肖战和陈玘齐刷刷站在他身后,陈玘怀里还抱着一只猫。


猫长得挺凶,一点都不乖,不怎么爱搭理人,还有一个特霸气的名字叫tiger。


张继科操着一口青岛味十足的英文喊它“泰哥儿”,猫咪一爪子过去,差点挠破他自封为保三争一的好皮相。


肖战不怎么喜欢猫。


泰哥第一次见肖战,喵呜一声,脚一蹬,从陈玘怀里往前一跳,直直扑到肖战光滑的头顶,端着两只爪子卧好不动。


肖战目瞪口呆,拧了下眉头,一句mmp噎在喉咙。


“师傅,你这顶猫帽挺时尚的。”张继科对他竖起拇指。


“……是啊,冬天来了,暖和。”


肖战头顶泰哥,小心翼翼地找了把椅子坐下来。


“老头子挂了,我们现在怎么办?”张继科问。


“还能怎么办,继续撸猫呗。”陈玘说。


“玘子你快把你这猫拿开,我脑阔疼。”肖战轮刮眼眶做起了眼保健操。


陈玘一边把猫抱回来一边说:“现在是法治社会,搞什么黑/社会,打打杀杀不如回家撸猫。”


撸猫撸猫,一天到晚就知道撸猫!


张继科翻个白眼,这帮会吃枣药丸。




张继科刚入帮的时候斥四位数的巨资晒了一身黑皮,他抽烟纹身打架一刀下去剁掉五个指头,桌子一拍身后百来号小弟纷纷躁起来,肩膀抖一抖,地上摇三摇,一看就知道是个很坏很坏的社会哥,唯一的弱点是喝酒不行,一喝就上脸,一醉就尬诗。


结果到最后,梦想成真的只有最后三句话,其他都是不存在的。




肖战每周末去青少年培训班教小姑娘打乒乓球,不用成天对着手下一群死小孩,笑得那叫一个春风得意喜气洋洋,发展事业和感情的第二春,心情有多愉悦脑袋就有多秃亮。


陈玘开了个账号直播撸猫,不时发发猫片,竟也成了人气不俗的up主。


这世道真是不好了,对着镜头抽抽烟撸撸猫都能赚钱。张继科生无可恋。


陈玘说,也不全是,主要还是猫主人长得帅,对小姑娘口味。


张继科心想,他哥这身形发福的“金陵美少年”都能变网红,以他这保三争一的颜值,买条狗回来搞个直播唱唱歌,说不定也能做个当红宠物博主和唱见up。


张继科出门前,陈玘在房间里扯着嗓子嚷嚷,叫他顺便买两袋猫粮回来。


张继科问他:“哥,买回来给报销嘛?”


陈玘抱着泰哥走出房间盯着他看:“你说啥?”


张继科摇头:“没啥没啥,我去去就回。”


他不害怕,他不怂。






小区出门左转两个十字路口有一家宠物店。


张继科走到一半被人拦了下来,是个生面口的jing察小哥,人长得挺高大,眼角略微下垂,抬眼看人的时候像是要翻白眼。


小哥看看他裤兜。


“裤子里鼓鼓的是什么玩意?”


张继科眉毛一挑:“小兄弟长得霸气,天生的我也没办法哇。”


小哥朝他翻了个白眼。


“你兄弟挺别致啊,长裤兜里呢?给我掏出来瞧瞧!”


张继科只好伸手插兜里往外翻,掏出来一个爱疯7一个充电宝,还有一把伸缩小刀。


“阿sir,我出门买猫粮而已,这也犯法哦?”


小哥一把夺过那把小刀握在手里掂了掂。


“你给我说说这什么玩意!”


张继科有些无奈:“阿sir,你按一下手柄底部那个按钮。”


小哥半信半疑,把小刀翻了个面,照着那个红色凸起的小按钮按下去,手柄里瞬间弹出来一块细长的薄胶片,上面还有一只假蟑螂。


小哥手一松,玩具小刀掉到了地上。


“我靠!你神经病啊!”


张继科咧开嘴角笑了一会,然后耷拉着眼皮站在路边听他骂了五分钟的娘。


小哥骂骂咧咧的往外走,嘴里还念着妈的我从没见过比我师兄还要恶趣味的人!






张继科走进宠物店,店里只有他一个顾客。


林高远正蹲在笼子前给狗崽们喂食。


“科哥,买猫粮呢?”


张继科点点头,又说:“还想买条狗。”


林高远领他到笼子边上挑选。


张继科想要养只大的,一来是可以帮忙看家,二来是带出去遛弯比较威风。


张继科在店里看了一圈,犯起了选择困难症。


他对林高远说:“你给我推荐几个呗。”


林高远指了指趴在笼子边喝水的德牧。


“科哥,不如就这只吧,聪明又听话,还不会乱叫!”林高远杨开嘴角笑,露出一口洁白的牙,像只狡黠的兔子。“而且它也叫科科!”


“……谁起的名字啊,如果是我就叫它道哥算了。”


张继科想,跟条狗重名好像哪儿不太对。




林高远把“科科”从笼子里放出来。


那条德牧皮毛黑亮黑亮的,站起来有半个成年男人那么高,大耳朵竖起来,看上去很是机灵敏锐。


张继科拿着个塑料球逗它,它猛地往上一扑,张大嘴巴一口把那塑料球叼走了。


“害怕。”张继科情不自禁吐出俩字。“不行不行,好吓人这个!”


林高远看他一米八的汉子缩着肩膀抱着手臂,摇头晃脑颤抖着低音炮说害怕的样子,瞬间觉得黑/社会大哥的人设正一点点崩塌,碎成渣渣,秒成灰。


张继科挠挠后脑勺,定了定神:“诶你们这里有没有那种……白白的圆圆的小小的……”




他话没说完,背着双肩包的青年抱着一只小白狗从外面走进来。


林高远喊一声:“龙哥你回来啦!”


张继科扭过头去看,见来人一张白白净净的脸,可能是刚运动完,脸蛋儿红扑扑的,鼻尖挂着一滴汗,脖子上一个硕大的蚊子包,在白皙的皮肤上红得发亮。


张继科又开始情不自禁。


他指了指来人,说:“就像他那样,白白圆圆的。”


“……昂?”白面青年歪歪头,满脸疑惑。他怀里的小白狗也跟着晃晃脑袋。


林高远有些为难地看着他,并小声提醒:“科哥,那是我们店长,不卖。”