Silent, just silently, as if the human eye could perceive the tranquility that rippled through the classroom, tracing similar paths deep within each heart.
Henry slowly opened his gaze. His deep eyes were focused on a point on the floor, and his clear, bright pupils seemed lost in deep contemplation. However, upon closer inspection, that focal point was gradually dispersing, as if, deep within his eyes, a skyscraper was slowly crumbling, turning into rubble. The entire process was slowed down a hundredfold, and even the trajectory of a speck of dust in flight was clearly visible. The grandeur, the magnificence, the destruction—there was an irrational beauty to it all.
Then, he lifted his head, and the scattered focal point gradually converged once again, as if time were flowing backward. The crumbling skyscraper returned to its original form. The gazes of the students, which had been dispersed, now began to gather one by one, falling deep into his pupils. The hazy sense of vagueness returned to clarity, but hidden within that clarity was an indissoluble sadness, not sharp, but profound.
"When you're walking down the hallway, or in your classroom..." Henry unexpectedly began to speak, but then he unexpectedly stopped. It was as if, in that split second, he was lost in his own thoughts. His steady voice was unhurried, with short, hoarse pauses between words. The corners of his mouth even curled up slightly, but that smile couldn't erase the sorrow that had seeped into his blood. It was somewhat mocking, somewhat sarcastic, somewhat helpless. "How many of you... have ever felt the weight pressing down on you?"
Henry raised his left hand, gesturing toward his chest without actually pressing down. There was a small gap, yet that tiny interval felt as heavy as a mountain, pressing down on his chest, making it hard to breathe. His tense fingertips trembled slightly, and his long, slender fingers and broad hand back had an almost translucent paleness. You could even see the grotesque but feeble veins meandering beneath.
A simple sentence that somehow made one's nose inexplicably tingle.
Half a second, one second. After a brief pause, Henry lifted his left hand further. "I have."
These brief words held the power of thunder, like a giant rock sinking into the seabed. It seemed to create little splashes, but it accumulated pressure bit by bit, pushing downward relentlessly.
Someone raised their right hand. The first one, the second one... the fifth one, the sixth one... Gradually, more and more arms were raised until everyone had completed the gesture.
The corners of his mouth, which had slightly curled up, further accentuated the shape of his smile. His lowered eyelids revealed a hint of mockery as he emitted a light breath. It seemed self-deprecating, even mocking. "Everyone?" Then the smile reached his eyes, rapidly fading away and turning into profound sorrow. Loneliness and desolation spread, like a deep blue pool—quiet, serene, but unfathomable.
One word, two words, collided between Henry's lips, possessing an indescribable charm. Abundant emotions lingered, slowly dissipating after the trailing notes.
"Poe wrote about these things over a hundred years ago." Henry set down his left hand, returning to the main topic at hand—the theme of today's class. He leaned back as if his body could no longer bear the weight, sitting on the lectern, relying on the almost overwhelming heaviness on his shoulders. Then, he picked up the poetry collection from the lectern and casually waved it toward the students, as if to say, "This is Edgar Allan Poe's poetry collection."
Then he lowered his head, using the fingertips of his left hand to delicately touch the cover of the poetry collection, earnestly tracing the texture of the book. It was as if by following this texture, one could trace the thoughts of the poet. He spoke softly, "So, as we read we can see that "The House of Usher" is not merely an old decrapped castle... It is also a state of being."
The lingering echoes held profound meaning.
He raised his head again, his gaze falling on the young faces before him. The numb and rigid coldness had gradually faded, revealing confusion and bewilderment beneath. As they stared blankly, they fell into contemplation. Their eyes began to lose focus, but the turmoil and fear hidden deep within their eyes still couldn't trigger any change in expression. It was as if they were shrouded in a hazy halo, immersed in an endless sea of sorrow.
His gaze finally landed on the empty seat to the right. It belonged to Meredith, the red plastic chair back. She always raised her head with anticipation and focus during his class, actively participating in every question and then flashing a shy and brilliant smile.
Suddenly, he remembered the day she had sought his help. "I can't last," she had said. So, she gave up.
His pupils shimmered slightly, and Henry lowered his gaze. His calm expression resembled an expansive valley, desolate and lonely, with sparse sunlight streaming in, the wind howling by, and a rainbow forming in the sky after the rain, serene and distant, yet inexplicably causing the corners of his eyes to redden, beyond words.
"During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens..." Henry began to recite softly. The enchanting syllables danced to a captivating rhythm, like musical notes swirling between the staff lines, composing a melodious flute tune that spiraled and twirled in the silence. Every word was so clear, every word so profound, lightly and deeply tapping beneath the eardrums, thump, thump, creating faint ripples in the heart.
"I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher."
His clear voice carried no sadness or heaviness, as if wisps of blue smoke were lingering and drifting within his heart. An imposing scroll unfurled within Henry's voice, and involuntarily, images of the desolate and dilapidated scene surfaced in his mind. It was as if he were riding through the damp marshes, and the desolate outline of Esher Manor gradually emerged from behind the thin mist.
His gaze couldn't help but land on Henry. His right hand held Edgar Allan Poe's poetry collection, but he didn't open it. His left hand supported him on the lectern, and the clarity between his brows was tainted with the wildness and sorrow of a poet, like mist in the mountains. The vicissitudes of life, the trials of the elements, the solitude of a lone figure, the desolation of a solitary existence, the overwhelming despair, all these emotions were like poetry, like a painting, like a song. They made people involuntarily quiet down, observing the world's destruction with still, serious, devout, and focused eyes.
"I know not how it was, but, with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit."
The beauty and emotional resonance of poetry are often beyond comprehension for most people. The use of those words, the cultivation of those images, the groundwork of those deeper meanings – the choice of words and sentences can often be so ornate and beautiful, rich with philosophical contemplation and artistic embellishment, leaving people in a haze. However, as the poetry collided and resonated between Henry's lips, it was vivid and tangible. It allowed people to truly feel the cold and melancholy hidden deep within the words of the poetry. It was as if, through Edgar Allan Poe's eyes, they saw the collapse of the House of Usher.
"I looked upon the simple landscape features of the domain, upon the bleak walls, upon a few white trunks of decayed trees. With an utter depression of soul, there wasn't an iciness, a sinking, sickening of the heart. Detachment."
Henry's voice had a slight pause, silently gazing at the classroom before him, allowing the lingering echoes to gently diffuse through the air. His deep-set eyes remained calm, as if permeated with the dampness and chill of a London winter. Layers of gloom and sorrow settled slowly. Then, his elegantly arched eyebrows stretched out, and the slender eyes emanated a faint glimmer. His expression remained unchanged, but his emotions gradually found their footing, growing firmer.
Sorrow persisted, and hope sprouted.
That faint glimmer seemed as if it could be engulfed by darkness at any moment, struggling to break free. The surrounding darkness from all directions was grim and distorted, yet it couldn't completely extinguish the presence of the glimmer. His profound gaze resembled an endless ocean, like the vast sky, the light of hope, faint yet resolute.
The focal point of his gaze gradually receded, becoming more and more distant, until, in a daze, the entire classroom seemed to grow larger and larger, ultimately covering the entire world.
"Cut!"
Tony's voice shattered the silence and tranquility of the set, but this time, it couldn't break the seal of the filming location. The audience, including Tony himself, watched Renly carefully, slowly savoring their own contemplations. The gentle yet tenacious performance possessed immense power, like calm waves, seemingly soft but capable of destroying everything. There were no dramatic ups and downs, no tumultuous waves, not even a trace of acting, yet it conveyed the intricate and profound emotions in a vivid and complete manner, bursting forth in a dazzling chemical reaction.
A stanza of poetry from Edgar Allan Poe's Gothic poetry collection, cryptic and profound, cast a heavy weight upon everyone's minds, setting off wave after wave of emotional surges, making it impossible for anyone to extricate themselves. The power of poetry, the energy of art, at this moment, directly and clearly penetrated deep into the souls of every audience member.
Relying solely on lines, expressions, and rhythm, it brought the profound meaning behind the story to its pinnacle, subtly portraying the tremendous changes in the world in a steadfast and astonishing manner, revealing infinite possibilities and profound meanings, leaving behind an unknown future for the audience to contemplate.
This scene was even more challenging than the initial bus scene, with more complex emotions and a more concise performance. But the impact brought by Renly was more powerful, the reflection deeper, and the resonance more distant.
This, indeed, was true acting. This was the pinnacle of performance. This was what it meant to be in this state.