I
\nComplacencies of the peignoir, and late
\nCoffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
\nAnd the green freedom of a cockatoo
\nUpon a rug mingle to dissipate
\nThe holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
\nShe dreams a little, and she feels the dark
\nEncroachment of that old catastrophe,
\nAs a calm darkens among water-lights.
\nThe pungent oranges and bright, green wings
\nSeem things in some procession of the dead,
\nWinding across wide water, without sound.
\nThe day is like wide water, without sound,
\nStilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
\nOver the seas, to silent Palestine,
\nDominion of the blood and sepulchre.
II
\nWhy should she give her bounty to the dead?
\nWhat is divinity if it can come
\nOnly in silent shadows and in dreams?
\nShall she not find in comforts of the sun,
\nIn pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
\nIn any balm or beauty of the earth,
\nThings to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
\nDivinity must live within herself:
\nPassions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
\nGrievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
\nElations when the forest blooms; gusty
\nEmotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
\nAll pleasures and all pains, remembering
\nThe bough of summer and the winter branch.
\nThese are the measures destined for her soul.
III
\nJove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
\nNo mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
\nLarge-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
\nHe moved among us, as a muttering king,
\nMagnificent, would move among his hinds,
\nUntil our blood, commingling, virginal,
\nWith heaven, brought such requital to desire
\nThe very hinds discerned it, in a star.
\nShall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
\nThe blood of paradise? And shall the earth
\nSeem all of paradise that we shall know?
\nThe sky will be much friendlier then than now,
\nA part of labor and a part of pain,
\nAnd next in glory to enduring love,
\nNot this dividing and indifferent blue.
IV
\nShe says, “I am content when wakened birds,
\nBefore they fly, test the reality
\nOf misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
\nBut when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
\nReturn no more, where, then, is paradise?”
\nThere is not any haunt of prophecy,
\nNor any old chimera of the grave,
\nNeither the golden underground, nor isle
\nMelodious, where spirits gat them home,
\nNor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
\nRemote on heaven’s hill, that has endured
\nAs April’s green endures; or will endure
\nLike her remembrance of awakened birds,
\nOr her desire for June and evening, tipped
\nBy the consummation of the swallow’s wings.
V
\nShe says, “But in contentment I still feel
\nThe need of some imperishable bliss.”
\nDeath is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
\nAlone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
\nAnd our desires. Although she strews the leaves
\nOf sure obliteration on our paths,
\nThe path sick sorrow took, the many paths
\nWhere triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
\nWhispered a little out of tenderness,
\nShe makes the willow shiver in the sun
\nFor maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
\nUpon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
\nShe causes boys to pile new plums and pears
\nOn disregarded plate. The maidens taste
\nAnd stray impassioned in the littering leaves.
VI
\nIs there no change of death in paradise?
\nDoes ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
\nHang always heavy in that perfect sky,
\nUnchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
\nWith rivers like our own that seek for seas
\nThey never find, the same receding shores
\nThat never touch with inarticulate pang?
\nWhy set the pear upon those river-banks
\nOr spice the shores with odors of the plum?
\nAlas, that they should wear our colors there,
\nThe silken weavings of our afternoons,
\nAnd pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
\nDeath is the mother of beauty, mystical,
\nWithin whose burning bosom we devise
\nOur earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.
VII
\nSupple and turbulent, a ring of men
\nShall chant in orgy on a summer morn
\nTheir boisterous devotion to the sun,
\nNot as a god, but as a god might be,
\nNaked among them, like a savage source.
\nTheir chant shall be a chant of paradise,
\nOut of their blood, returning to the sky;
\nAnd in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
\nThe windy lake wherein their lord delights,
\nThe trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
\nThat choir among themselves long afterward.
\nThey shall know well the heavenly fellowship
\nOf men that perish and of summer morn.
\nAnd whence they came and whither they shall go
\nThe dew upon their feet shall manifest.
VIII
\nShe hears, upon that water without sound,
\nA voice that cries, “The tomb in Palestine
\nIs not the porch of spirits lingering.
\nIt is the grave of Jesus, where he lay.”
\nWe live in an old chaos of the sun,
\nOr old dependency of day and night,
\nOr island solitude, unsponsored, free,
\nOf that wide water, inescapable.
\nDeer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
\nWhistle about us their spontaneous cries;
\nSweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
\nAnd, in the isolation of the sky,
\nAt evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
\nAmbiguous undulations as they sink,
\nDownward to darkness, on extended wings.
我太大了，大得离谱。可怜可怜我。
\n我眼睛鼓得生疼。不过它们仍是我唯一的美丽。它们看到的太多，上面，下面，虽然并没有什么可看的。雨已经停了。雾气一滴滴聚集在我皮肤上。水珠沿着我后背流过，从我下垂的嘴角流下，流过我两侧并从腹部滴落。或许在我斑驳皮肤上的小水滴也很美丽，像露珠在腐烂的叶子上闪着银色？它们给我彻头彻尾的寒冷。我感觉我的颜色正在改变，我的色素缓慢地震颤并转变。
\n现在我要去那个悬空的岩架下面。慢慢地。跳。再来两三次，不要出声。真是太远了。我要站起来。地衣是灰色的，在前脚下很是粗糙。低头。转过来朝着外面，这样更安全。屏住呼吸直到蜗牛过来。不过我们在同样的天气下旅行。
\n吞下空气与好几口冷雾。发出声音，一次就好。噢，从岩石传来了怎样的回声！我鸣响了多么深邃的，天使般的铃声！
\n我生活，呼吸，都靠吞咽。有一次，一些调皮的孩子把我拿起，与我的两个兄弟一起。他们又把我们在别处放下，并在我们嘴里放进点燃的烟。我们忍不住去抽，直到抽完。我以为我的死期到了，但当我被烟雾充满，当我张开的嘴在燃烧，当我五脏六腑又热又干，他们放我们走了。不过我病了好几天。
\n我肩膀宽大，像个拳击手。然而，它们并不是肌肉，并且颜色深沉。它们是我的毒囊，我所背负的罕用的毒素，我的负担与重大责任。硕大有毒的翅膀，折在我背上。当心，我是伪装了的天使；我的翅膀邪恶，但并不致命。如果我想，毒素会喷出，蓝黑色，威胁到所有人。蓝黑色的毒雾将在空中升起。当心，你这轻浮的螃蟹。
\n这里不是我的家。我怎么离水这么远？它一定在那边某个地方。
\n我有葡萄酒的颜色，廷塔酒。我强力的右钳内侧是藏红花的黄。看，我现在能看见它了；我挥舞它如一面旗。我精悍而优雅；我移动极精确，巧妙地驾驭我所有的小黄钳。我信奉那倾斜的，间接的方式，我把我的感情留给自己。
\n但在这奇怪的光滑表面上我正制造太多噪音。我不适合这里。如果我谨慎地移动并保持警惕，我会再次找到我的水塘。小心我的右钳，所有的过路人！这地方太过坚硬。雨已经停了，有些潮湿，但还没有湿润到让我开心。
\n我眼睛很好，虽然小；我的壳坚固而紧密。在我的池子里有很多小灰鱼。我能一下看透它们。只有它们的大眼睛是不透明的，还对着我抽搐。它们很难抓，但我，我一下就把它们抓到怀里并吃掉。
\n这柔软的大怪兽是什么，像一片黄云，令人窒息却也温暖。它在做什么？它拍我的背。伸出来，钳子。好了，我把它吓走了。它正坐下，仿佛什么也没有发生。我要绕开它。它还假装没看到我。别挡我的路，怪物！我拥有一个水池，里面游的所有小鱼，以及所有闻着像烂苹果的蹦跳的水虫。
\n开心点吧，伤心的蜗牛！我轻拍你的壳，为鼓励你，虽然你永远不会知道。
\n我也不想和你有任何关系，闷闷不乐的蛤蟆。想象一下，体型是我至少四倍却如此脆弱。我可以用钳子打开你的肚子。你瞪眼又鼓起肚子，是我水池边的看门狗；你发出大而空洞的声音。我可不屑于这样的蠢事。我钦佩紧密，轻盈与敏捷，在这松散的世界中都很难得。
\n雨已经停了。瀑布将这样咆哮一整晚。我出来散步并找点吃的。我的身子——脚，准确地说——又湿又冷，上面满覆尖利的碎石。它是白色的，餐盘大小。我给自己设下目标，某块岩石，不过可能在我到达前天就亮了。虽然我像鬼魂般移动，漂浮的边缘几乎不擦过地面，但我沉重，沉重，沉重。我白色的肌肉已经疲惫。我显出一种神秘的从容，然而只有尽意志的最大努力，我才能越过最小的石块与枝条。而且我决不能因这些粗糙的草茅分心。别碰它们。后退。撤退总是最好的。
\n雨已经停了。瀑布的声音真大！（而万一我掉下去？）黑色岩石的山峦上升起了怎样的云雾！闪亮的彩带从它们两侧垂下。遇到这情况，我们有种说法，是蜗牛神们急匆匆地下降了。我永远无法降下这陡峭的悬崖，更别想攀登它们了。
\n那只蟾蜍也太大了，也像我一样。它的眼睛恳求我的爱。我们的体态吓坏了邻居们。
\n休息一分钟，放松。平摊在地面上，我的身子像一片苍白、分解着的树叶。是什么在拍打我的壳？什么也没有。让我们继续。
\n我的侧面在有节奏的波浪中运动，比地面稍高，从前到后，是船的尾流，蜡白的水面，或是缓慢融化的浮冰。我冷，冷，冷得像冰。我失明的白色公牛头曾在克里特岛上令人恐惧；但我四只无法攻击的角已经退化。我的嘴角现在是我的手。它们贴紧地面并用力吮吸。啊，但我知道我的壳美丽，高耸，闪着釉光。我知道得很清楚，虽然我没有看见过它。它蜷曲的白色唇部是最精美的瓷釉。在内部，它光滑如丝绸，而我，我完美地充满它。
\n我宽阔的尾流闪烁，正变得黯淡。我留下一条可爱的乳白色丝带：我知道这一点。
\n但是啊！我太大了。我感觉得到。可怜可怜我。
\n如果我抵达那岩石，我会进入某一缝隙过夜。其下瀑布的振动将彻夜穿过我的壳与身体。在那稳定的脉搏中我可以休息。一整夜，我会像一只入眠的耳朵。
\nI am too big, too big by far. Pity me.
\nMy eyes bulge and hurt. They are my one great beauty, even so. They see too much, above, below, and yet there is not much to see. The rain has stopped. The mist is gathering on my skin in drops. The drops run down my back, run from the corners of my downturned mouth, run down my sides and drip beneath my belly. Perhaps the droplets on my mottled hide are pretty, like dewdrops, silver on a moldering leaf? They chill me through and through. I feel my colors changing now, my pigments gradually shudder and shift over.
\nNow I shall get beneath that overhanging ledge. Slowly. Hop. Two or three times more, silently. That was too far. I’m standing up. The lichen’s gray, and rough to my front feet. Get down. Turn facing out, it’s safer. Don’t breathe until the snail gets by. But we go travelling the same weathers.
\nSwallow the air and mouthfuls of cold mist. Give voice, just once. O how it echoed from the rock! What a profound, angelic bell I rang!
\nI live, I breathe, by swallowing. Once, some naughty children picked me up, me and two brothers. They set us down again somewhere and in our mouths they put lit cigarettes. We could not help but smoke them, to the end. I thought it was the death of me, but when I was entirely filled with smoke, when my slack mouth was burning, and all my tripes were hot and dry, they let us go. But I was sick for days.
\nI have big shoulders, like a boxer. They are not muscle, however, and their color is dark. They are my sacs of poison, the almost unused poison that I bear, my burden and my great responsibility. Big wings of poison, folded on my back. Beware, I am an angel in disguise; my wings are evil, but not deadly. If I will it, the poison could break through, blue-black, and dangerous to all. Blue-black fumes would rise upon the air. Beware, you frivolous crab.
\nThis is not my home. How did I get so far from water? It must be over that way somewhere.
\nI am the color of wine, of tinta. The inside of my powerful right claw is saffron-yellow. See, I see it now; I wave it like a flag. I am dapper and elegant; I move with great precision, cleverly managing all my smaller yellow claws. I believe in the oblique, the indirect approach, and I keep my feelings to myself.
\nBut on this strange, smooth surface I am making too much noise. I wasn’t meant for this. If I maneuver a bit and keep a sharp lookout, I shall find my pool again. Watch out for my right claw, all passersby! This place is too hard. The rain has stopped, and it is damp, but still not wet enough to please me.
\nMy eyes are good, though small; my shell is tough and tight. In my own pool are many small gray fish. I see right through them. Only their large eyes are opaque, and twitch at me. They are hard to catch, but I, I catch them quickly in my arms and eat them up.
\nWhat is that big soft monster, like a yellow cloud, stifling and warm? What is it doing? It pats my back. Out, claw. There, I have frightened it away. It’s sitting down, pretending nothing’s happened. I’ll skirt it. It’s still pretending not to see me. Out of my way, O monster. I own a pool, all the little fish that swim in it, and all the skittering waterbugs that smell like rotten apples.
\nCheer up, O grievous snail. I tap your shell, encouragingly, not that you will ever know about it.
\nAnd I want nothing to do with you, either, sulking toad. Imagine, at least four times my size and yet so vulnerable … I could open your belly with my claw. You glare and bulge, a watchdog near my pool; you make a loud and hollow noise. I do not care for such stupidity. I admire compression, lightness, and agility, all rare in this loose world.
\nThe rain has stopped. The waterfall will roar like that all night. I have come out to take a walk and feed. My body—foot, that is—is wet and cold and covered with sharp gravel. It is white, the size of a dinner plate. I have set myself a goal, a certain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there. Although I move ghostlike and my floating edges barely graze the ground, I am heavy, heavy, heavy. My white muscles are already tired. I give the impression of mysterious ease, but it is only with the greatest effort of my will that I can rise above the smallest stones and sticks. And I must not let myself be distracted by those rough spears of grass. Don’t touch them. Draw back. Withdrawal is always best.
\nThe rain has stopped. The waterfall makes such a noise! (And what if I fall over it?) The mountains of black rock give off such clouds of steam! Shiny streamers are hanging down their sides. When this occurs, we have a saying that the Snail Gods have come down in haste. I could never descend such steep escarpments, much less dream of climbing them.
\nThat toad was too big, too, like me. His eyes beseeched my love. Our proportions horrify our neighbors.
\nRest a minute; relax. Flattened to the ground, my body is like a pallid, decomposing leaf. What’s that tapping on my shell? Nothing. Let’s go on.
\nMy sides move in rhythmic waves, just off the ground, from front to back, the wake of a ship, wax-white water, or a slowly melting floe. I am cold, cold, cold as ice. My blind, white bull’s head was a Cretan scare-head; degenerate, my four horns that can’t attack. The sides of my mouth are now my hands. They press the earth and suck it hard. Ah, but I know my shell is beautiful, and high, and glazed, and shining. I know it well, although I have not seen it. Its curled white lip is of the finest enamel. Inside, it is as smooth as silk, and I, I fill it to perfection.
\nMy wide wake shines, now it is growing dark. I leave a lovely opalescent ribbon: I know this.
\nBut O! I am too big. I feel it. Pity me.
\nIf and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack there for the night. The waterfall below will vibrate through my shell and body all night long. In that steady pulsing I can rest. All night I shall be like a sleeping ear.
","excerpt":"雨季；亚热带 巨蟾蜍 我太大了，大得离谱。可怜可怜我。 我眼睛鼓得生疼。不过它们仍是我唯一的美丽。它们看到的太多，上面，下面，虽然并没有什么可看的。雨已经停了。雾气一滴滴聚集在我皮肤上。水珠沿着我后背流过，从我下垂的嘴角流下，流过我两侧并从腹部滴落。或许在我斑驳皮肤上的小水滴也很美丽，像露珠在腐烂的叶子上闪着银色？它们给我彻头彻尾的寒冷。我感觉我的颜色正在改变，我的色素缓慢地震颤并转变。 现在我…"}}}},{"node":{"title":"“Large Red Man Reading”, Wallace Stevens","id":"2108a9e7-3e7c-5b87-8cde-ad40f7da4fb6","slug":"large-red-man-reading-wallace-stevens","publishDate":"August 25, 2020","heroImage":null,"body":{"childMarkdownRemark":{"timeToRead":1,"html":"There were ghosts that returned to earth to hear his phrases,
\nAs he sat there reading, aloud, the great blue tabulae.
\nThey were those from the wilderness of stars that had expected more.
There were those that returned to hear him read from the poem of life,
\nOf the pans above the stove, the pots on the table, the tulips among them.
\nThey were those that would have wept to step barefoot into reality,
That would have wept and been happy, have shivered in the frost
\nAnd cried out to feel it again, have run fingers over leaves
\nAnd against the most coiled thorn, have seized on what was ugly
And laughed, as he sat there reading, from out of the purple tabulae,
\nThe outlines of being and its expressings, the syllables of its law:
\nPoesis, poesis, the literal characters, the vatic lines,
Which in those ears and in those thin, those spended hearts,
\nTook on color, took on shape and the size of things as they are
\nAnd spoke the feeling for them, which was what they had lacked.
The first movement is singing,
\nA free voice, filling mountains and valleys.
\nThe first movement is joy,
\nBut it is taken away.
And now that the years have transformed my blood
\nAnd thousands of planetary systems have been born and died in my flesh.
\nI sit, a sly and angry poet
\nWith malevolently squinted eyes,
\nAnd, weighing a pen in my hand,
\nI plot revenge.
I poise the pen and it puts forth twigs and leaves, it is covered with blossoms.
\nAnd the scent of that tree is impudent, for there, on the real earth,
\nSuch trees do not grow, and like an insult
\nTo suffering humanity is the scent of that tree.
Some take refuge in despair, which is sweet
\nLike strong tobacco, like a glass of vodka drunk in the hour of annihilation.
\nOthers have the hope of fools, rosy as erotic dreams.
Still others find peace in the idolatry of country,
\nWhich can last for a long time,
\nAlthough little longer than the nineteenth century lasts.
But to me a cynical hope is given,
\nFor since I opened my eyes I have seen only the glow of fires, massacres,
\nOnly injustice, humiliation, and the laughable shame of braggarts.
\nTo me is given the hope of revenge on others and on myself,
\nFor I was he who knew
\nAnd took from it no profit for myself.
I love roads:
\nThe goddesses that dwell
\nFar along invisible
\nAre my favorite gods.
Roads go on
\nWhile we forget, and are
\nForgotten like a star
\nThat shoots and is gone.
On this earth 'tis sure
\nWe men have not made
\nAnything that doth fade
\nSo soon, so long endure:
The hill road wet with rain
\nIn the sun would not gleam
\nLike a winding stream
\nIf we trod it not again.
They are lonely
\nWhile we sleep, lonelier
\nFor lack of the traveller
\nWho is now a dream only.
\n
\nFrom dawn's twilight
\nAnd all the clouds like sheep
\nOn the mountains of sleep
\nThey wind into the night.
The next turn may reveal
\nHeaven: upon the crest
\nThe close pine clump, at rest
\nAnd black, may Hell conceal.
Often footsore, never
\nYet of the road I weary,
\nThough long and steep and dreary,
\nAs it winds on for ever.
Helen of the roads,
\nThe mountain ways of Wales
\nAnd the Mabinogion tales,
\nIs one of the true gods,
Abiding in the trees,
\nThe threes and fours so wise,
\nThe larger companies,
\nThat by the roadside be,
And beneath the rafter
\nElse uninhabited
\nExcepting by the dead;
\nAnd it is her laughter
At morn and night I hear
\nWhen the thrush cock sings
\nBright irrelevant things,
\nAnd when the chanticleer
Calls back to their own night
\nTroops that make loneliness
\nWith their light footsteps’ press,
\nAs Helen’s own are light.
Now all roads lead to France
\nAnd heavy is the tread
\nOf the living; but the dead
\nReturning lightly dance:
Whatever the road bring
\nTo me or take from me,
\nThey keep me company
\nWith their pattering,
Crowding the solitude
\nOf the loops over the downs,
\nHushing the roar of towns
\nand their brief multitude.
最近确实地体会到，人生不是一场赛跑。并不需要追求最快到达终点。做一些事的时候对短期结果不应那么看重，也不需急着达成某种目标。如果一天里状态极佳，可以全神贯注地努力，那自然很好。然而即使在状态不好的时候，也不需要急躁，强迫自己非要完成；相反，平和地接受现状，在可能的范围内坚持去做，如果实在无法集中那也没有关系：只要明天重新开始就好。这些是最近写 iOS 程序时想到的事……
\n\n重要的是坚持，在每一天里。并不是出于一种义务或是被强迫，而是来源于内心的动力。之前读到羽生善治：「才能とは、同じ情熱、気力、モチベーションを持続することである」（才能是将同样的热情，气力与动力维持下去的事）。确实，将热情与动力维持下去并非那么容易。「仅仅去做」并不足够，如果这意味着每天以同样的方式行进，在失败后也仅是单纯地重复，希望「这一次结果或许会不同」。重要的是不断探索与尝试，发现新的路径与方向；或许会做出一些失败的尝试，然而它们并非人们认为无谓的「弯路」，而是自己必须的道路：决定每个人人生中所见风景的道路。
\n急躁与懒惰或许是同一种阻力的两种形式：前者企图更早达到目标，即使会因此失败（虽然稳步前进的话或许会成功）也无所谓。之前读到 Leopardi 这样说：
\n\n\nMa osservate che spessissime volte questa impazienza pregiudica al fine. Perchè tu, volendo veder l’esito in qualunque modo, per liberarti dal timore di non ottenere il tuo fine, perdi quello che avresti conseguito se non avessi temuto, e se quindi ti fossi diportato più quietamente, con meno confusione ec. insomma avessi sostenuto di aspettare che la cosa andava come doveva, e nel tempo conveniente ec.
\n
\n\nBut I observe that very often this impatience is detrimental to the end. Because you, wanting to see the outcome in any way, in order to free yourself from the fear of not achieving your goal, you lose what you would have achieved if you had not feared, if you had deported more quietly, with less confusion ec. in short, had you waited for the thing to go as it should, and in the convenient time ec.
\n
后者则希望无限推迟目标的到来，如果一直什么也不做，那自然不会有什么结果，也可以一直想象：「如果我去做的的话…」
\n或许急躁与懒惰共同的源头是一种恐惧：恐惧自己即使做到最好，尽了全部努力也依然失败。仿佛这是对自身最大的否定。然而只要清楚地考虑这一情形，便发现它不仅不可怕，甚至是一种理想的状况：在某一时刻竭尽全力触及了自己的极限，或许也是一件值得欣喜的事。
\n此外，也发现自己不断踏上一些路，像是被一个未知的声音指引朝某个方向前进。最近几年里断断续续地在学意大利语和日语，虽然经常因为忙于其它一些事而无暇顾及（在长达几个月的时间里？），却一直没有完全停止。今年年初疫情开始之后的隔离期间里，不知不觉也花了一些时间：意大利语从最开始读新闻听广播，到后来读完了第二本 Primo Levi, 到最近准备开始读神曲（当然是借助法语对照译本）。日语在看完《3月的狮子》之后，也决定更加认真的学习，再次开始读书，看动画时也有意识地去辨认一些词……像这样在一段时间后回头看，发现不经意间积累的努力有了成果：令人十分满足。
","excerpt":"最近确实地体会到，人生不是一场赛跑。并不需要追求最快到达终点。做一些事的时候对短期结果不应那么看重，也不需急着达成某种目标。如果一天里状态极佳，可以全神贯注地努力，那自然很好。然而即使在状态不好的时候，也不需要急躁，强迫自己非要完成；相反，平和地接受现状，在可能的范围内坚持去做，如果实在无法集中那也没有关系：只要明天重新开始就好。这些是最近写 iOS 程序时想到的事……"}}}}]}},"pageContext":{"basePath":"","paginationPath":"","pageNumber":12,"humanPageNumber":13,"skip":73,"limit":6,"numberOfPages":21,"previousPagePath":"/12","nextPagePath":"/14"}}, "staticQueryHashes": ["1946181227","2744905544","3732430097"]}