A topful nasty bag of dumped bottles in herhands, here in the playground slowly and steadily walked away an old woman-arubbish picker, relaxed and breezily, even with the allover wrinkles on herface unfolding-for her, to be sure, those empty, of grotesque shapes andseemingly catchpenny bottles, which often were "luckily" used forothers' "footballs", mean hard-won economic "happiness".
Nevertheless, as you can imagine, shewasn't like a cork on her first arrival at the heating stove. After all, it wasa sultry summer afternoon. What she wore was nothing so extraordinary, whicheven couldn't be called "common", and what she did was seeminglynothing so creditable, as a result of which, both contributed to heratmosphere-unfriendliness and pushed us "audience" to feel somehowuncomfortable.
This kind of scene in mind, the terms,"the sitter" "the thrower" and "the picker"strike my mind, in which "the sitter" means such people as BMW'sowners who don't necessarily bother to step out of the car to throw the half fullbottle, "the sitter" anyone who throws the "rubbish" fromtheir seats, while "the picker" someone who picks up "thetreasure" and "the fortune" in their views. That is thesharp-cut contrast, the chilling paradox and the key point, which voicelesslyclaims us to pay more attention to the fallacious contribution system, to keepa watchful eye on the laborious life of those at the bottom of society anduniformly respect them-respecting their life, respecting their personalitiesand respecting their right choices.
The old lady has walked away, disappearingin the crowd, whereas, she has virtually walked into my deep heart, alwaysreminding me of their tough life and of their deserved equal esteem.
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