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My right hand complex
Last autumn I wrote "Right hand does many things", my essay taking the longest to write, because I got confused as I wrote, about what the later stories should be and what was going to occur ?got confused myself. But this is just the fun the story brings, so the days of writing it were pleasant and unforgettable. I am more and more fascinated by stories.
What I meant to discuss is complexes. As I see it, everyone has obvious or hidden complexes. The more serious kinds are the (male or female) Oedipus complexes, but being obsessed with a city, with an object, with a feeling, are in my eyes all various kinds of complexes, and complexes can be fascinating. I say this because when a person falls into a state of all-immersing, nonstop pursuit, he/she always displays a resolute front, with an amazing strength. So I have decided to write about complexes, with the complex about the right hand as the starting point.
I think because of an event that took place in my childhood, which is unsuited to disclose here, I have had this complex about the right hand. Of course I am not like the story's character Li Yu; my attitude towards the right hand is an appreciative one; not too intimate, not too distant, quite sensible, but writing it into a story I would prefer an over-reaching posture. Stubborn, senseless, going in any direction in a rush, this is so wonderful. So I gave my protagonist Li Yu a keynote, getting him entangled in the right hand complex since childhood, so that his life story will be tightly wound around this complex of his, and through this I also forward the other theme I am specially concerned with, about the childhood's impact on our whole life. Undoubtedly this impact is deep, and authors of many stories, old and new, Chinese and foreign, reveal this influence.
I remember reading a number of times expressions like "the event change his life". This is a forlorn statement, very forlorn, with that inescapable, fatalistic presentment that makes one despairing and helpless. So in my stories I also showed concern for this subject, with the difference that, perhaps because I am still very young, the impact of childhood on one's whole life is not something I can clearly see in its whole. So this is more like an exploration. On this question, my views at the age of 20 are surely not going to last, but fortunately with the story recording my views at this moment, I would be able to revisit it at any future point in time.
Also, the idea of reincarnation often appears in my stories. For sure, I believe it to occur. This reincarnation may not be a very exact reward for good and punishment for bad. More often, I would prefer to see it as an imprecise echo, like you shouting at a broad high wall, but you will not be able to tell where on the wall it bounces back from. Exactly when it would arrive, we also cannot know, but we all know that this kind of echo occurs, right? So this is my understanding of reincarnation. Sometimes I find it wonderfully obscure, sometimes I feel it is actually simple like an ordinary natural phenomenon, completely within reason. Adopting an easy to understand, almost tautological sentence like "Right hand does many things" as title, I give my compliments to the right handI favored and loved for many years.

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Alone and clean
The world in her eyes is two dimensional. A desert hermit for many years, her field of view was always full of glorious colours, but as a woman, she always dressed plainly. Exiling herself into a corner of the world, she took with her just the resolute spirit unchanged since her youth. Painter Georgia OKeefe is the kind of woman I can easily like, with man-like angular facial features and wearing flared long boiler suits. She never spoilt herself and was not dependent on men. Crossing the desert she was away from home for many years.
Perhaps because of her casual inattention to herself, the flowers on her canvases were able to bloom so gloriously, the ambitions about the future thrust at the bottom of her heart. Perhaps the destination was unreachable, but after she passed by, the wayside bloomed with colourful wild flowers, the trail she left behind, also all the love her heart was able to give.
OKeefe lived in the desert for scores of years, and had a ranch called Ghost. Besides some down to earth manual work, she painted. This dark-dressed woman was always so quiet, immersed and unworldly.
Contrary to expectation, she was then married, and her husband was a well known photographer, with her as the favorite model. Perhaps her beauty was known only to him, with tightly closed lips and the world in her eyes on fire, hot, glowing and uncontrolled, freely ranging to the distance. When her husband died, OKeefe was alone in the desert on the US border - how many times did she leave home, left him? Nobody knows, but to be sure this was the last time; by the time she returned, he had already been buried and all had returned to silence, the closing in of the evening colours creating a lingering scene. Now she had no ties, no one calling her back. She was an incomprehensible woman, and when I heard about her, I said she loved her husband, but just could not live with him, so she had to leave.
A friend of the opposite sex once said to me, any man who falls for you would only be the third party, because you have long been married to literature. When you hear this at age 14, one does not take it seriously, just an outrageous proposition. I continued to grow up after that, and turned into an independent, firm woman. I did not go to the desert, but to a small tropical island where my solitude grew abundantly, matching the plants in the tropical rain forest. Writing was my shell, and I am like the mollusk living inside it; if I leave it, I will be so vulnerable and panicky, as if anyone would injure me. In one autumn, I hid inside the 19th floor apartment not going out at all - a long and unmentionable period of time. I cannot explain why I locked myself from the world. I simply felt, I could be cleaner, yes, even cleaner, to give myself a total cleaning, make myself a dirtless person. The crudest method was just to close myself in, every morning waking up with bird calls, making a coffee and a meal for myself, writing the novel till the afternoon. There was an electronic music disc which I played, God knows how many times, till it, like me, lost its voice. When I went to bed at night, I could not remember what I did during the day. As the time passes on it wears and fades, and all the unforgotten remembrances would be inserted into the novel.
I often felt a threat, of being tempted and stained by this glowing and charming world, causing one to lose one's good nature and innocence, no longer resolute. Once a writer loses these, he/she would only be a drainage pipe, and what passes through would just be the dirty water of the world. Whenever I felt this danger closing in, I thought of running away. This was when I understood OKeefe. Yes, escaping was to maintain one's own purity. As for the solitude that comes after, that's the price one has to pay. Solitude is a holocaust, we hold out with difficulty, getting burnt but refusing to leave, because some moment in the future, glorious blessings might descend.
When I was small I most feared getting lost, crying deep in the forest with mud splashed on my face and body; today's myself no longer have the same fears. Because OKeefe and women like her chose to be daring, they were the clear spring water that I could see as I traced my own path.

1929

alone

My room
In 1929 Virginia Woolf wrote "My own room". The idea of women wanting their own rooms is something essential for many of my female friends even today. In their own rooms they can sing, read, admire themselves in front of the mirror, get lovely presents to please themselves. They shed tears on the floor of their own rooms, quietly lose themselves, without being seen by the world. Like the hair they shed on the pillow, their years left them and disappeared without trace while no one is looking. Not requiring sympathy, not requiring dependency, the homes have plentiful of oxygen, and as the sun rises and falls, after clouds disperse thick sunlight would fill the rooms, drying every corner. What do the ladies, aristocratic and refined like swans, have to fear?
In the past I actually never carefully thought about the word "single". It seemed the natural state of things to me, like the badge pinned in front of our chest from childhood onwards. Wearing it, we skip and hop, passing through summer and winter, and suddenly discover one day that it was no longer there, having fallen off some earlier time. Dazed, till a friend of about the same age got married, when I realized that the badge was not for life, and its disappearing was a common, even necessary, occurrence. Till a few days before her wedding, I thought she was only joking, like the "playing house" we used to do as kids, no matter how happily into it we were, when the time came to go home, everything was abandoned, but could be resumed next time. But in fact she signed the marriage certificate and so effortlessly became a bride, and the marriage was concrete like the dazzling white gold ring on her finger.
Most of the people around me are single - not only because myself and most friends are still very young, but even among those already past their prime eligibility, many are still alone. Some say they have long broken into the exterior, candy like a sugar coating, and saw through the nature of marriage, hence remained single; others struggled free of the entanglement of marriage like penetrating thick dark clouds, to take a deep breadth in a mood of unrestrained openness. Their situations could not but have had an influence on me; it's like someone who lived long in the north, believing that the climate there was just the norm; if he/she suddenly moves to the south, there would be a feeling of puzzlement, that this is the territory of a different kind of humans altogether.
Later I wrote fiction and published books of my own, and received letters from many kids similar in age or slightly younger than myself. I find that on the growth path of a girl, there is often a period when she loves the colour white. They find white pure, find it refined, and it symbolizes, implies the moment of greatest joy and happiness.
This is actually just a subconscious desire to leave the state of being alone. However, few girls remain in favour of white all lifetime. Gradually girls give up on their loveliest, purest anticipation of marriage and began not devoutly praying every minute and second.
They began to be able to let it go, so that when they enter marriage subsequently, they were placid like leaves that have already shed to the ground. Although reality is the cold and hard ground, yet, ground is the most secure receptacle that ends the process of shimmering and drifting. From this point of view, my early marrying friend was very fortunate: she walked into marriage when she still favored white, when her thought towards love was still energetically explorative like someone who just went into the forest. Whether she will be happy in the future or not, at this moment she and her love are on the same side; together they look powerful and strong-voiced, enviously so.
During my vacation home visit, I dined out with my mother one day, and started talking about marriage again. I said, on this I had no expectations too. Mom suddenly turned melancholic; she said in some pain, you were not like that before; what made you so depressed about marriage? I raised my head and looked at her in some mystification. Only a few years ago she was strenuously persuading me to leave that boyfriend, telling me that boys must not be trusted. I was in high school then. But as I rose to a higher vantage point like riding on the sky wheel, the man next to me at last gave me reason to understand and endorse this idea; yet she felt broken hearted for me.
But I could not turn back nor change things again. As a girl that firmly supports the idea of "your own room", I needed to understand that its existence is the ultimate security; it would not turn into wildness while you are in your night's dazed slumber. Bright sunlight is shining into my room, reflecting on the glass to make a sheet of dazzle. I do not lack luminance. Dancing in a room like this, to me it is something I would often do in good weather, so
I danced in big steps. Originally I thought my dance will be abandoned and freeflowing, but I found that I already have too much constraint and caution. She kept glancing down: her badge, is it about to leave her too?

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Suzanne Vegamy name is Lukaliving in the second floor

Sisley

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Chenhe
Chenhe is the name I chose for the main male character of my next novel. I used a 0.9mm thick blue pen to write the words on my notebook, and find they look nice. I also often read it in my mind in moments of mental quietness. Also find it to be a good adjective, describing a frame of mind, of secretly adding up little pleasures in one's own mind, that even when one accidentally enters forbidden territories of the past, there would be white icicles forming on the edges like on a snowy winter day. Whether in joy or in anger, it is naturally revealing and unconstrained, when one is sure of neither drowning nor high tide, all just small waves bouncing up and down a thin line. This frame of mind is like a docked ship, riding towards the me of the current season.
Chinese New Year was in February, and in Singapore it kept raining heavily. The storm continued for over 48 hours, and some large trees fell down as I heard during the night. At last came sunny weather one day. I went to the little park next to the apartment where I lived, and it was filled with the abundance of the tropic rain forest. Lizards and turtles stayed there, not fearful of pedestrians. I saw squirrels coming out to sun themselves, jumping along the long park benches with bushy tails up in the air, obviously liking the particularly cool stony material. There is a little slope, covered by wild flowers. The flowers of this island have long forgotten about something calls seasons, so their blooming somewhat lacks energy, like some absent minded girl, mechanically woken every day by the hot bright light of the noonday sun, expressionlessly looking on the pedestrians, animals and insects, not even giving very warm embraces to their lively butterfly lovers. On top of the slope there is a suspension bridge leading to the west coast, where one can see colourful cargo ships and the placid water of the Pacific, all of which I quite like. Walking by myself, odd drops of water were still slipping down from the leaves of tropical trees, falling on my skirt tail, hitting my ear; are these invitations to me from nature? Inviting me to go in, inviting me to engage in communication, inviting me to open myself up. But I always fall into a state of speechlessness. In one season last year, I was particularly inclined to write poetry. I would write a poem after seeing a lone bird or passing a lonely holiday. I would show them to my poet friend Nude, and the crude little poems would make her laugh. But increasingly I have become a girl of few words; I observe a great deal, but feel weak in the body and unable to write it down. Indeed, it has been long since I wrote letters to anyone, other than some urgent email that must be answered. I sent no birthday cards, greeting cards, and when sending gifts to friends I wrote nothing other than my return address. I did not even write any diary or notes. Like a person who lost voice, I numbly engaged in body languages, maybe waiting for the next season, to suddenly become boundlessly joyful as if waking up from a longlasting hibernation, to start chattering endlessly.
In February the island's heat waves have not yet invaded, and at night one could sleep under a thin wrap, and after bath one could wear a long sleeve flower embroided robe. It is coolest when one first wakes in the morning, followed by bathing in hot water and making coffee with warm milk. Coffee is still a necessity of my life. There was a time when I keenly selected different types and brands of coffee beans, using a tiny one cup machine to brew a drink. Thefragrance of coffee lingers in the room, and listening to Suzanne Vega's slightly mocking, narcissistic sounds "My name is Luka, living on the second floor ..", it was the times when I liked to beautify myself at the large makeup mirror. Using pastel colored rag cloth to tie myself a slanted pigtail, or putting on a pair of large earrings with patina colour, plus putting light rouge on the face using a nicely colored brush. But after a few months it lost its effect. Fortunately I was able to buy David Duff instant coffee, just right in its slightly sour taste, the only instant coffee I could stand; adding to it some foam filled milk, I began my days by numbly facing those pure bubbles.
I was wearing a long sleeved coat with black high collars and an old Sisley moss green long skirt. The skirt was my favorite, with two very big pockets in front, hanging down, made of soft cotton, a kindly piece of clothing that makes the body wanting to be close to it. I specifically matched this favorite skirt with a hat of checked rustic and fawn. Tying up my hair, wearing earrings made of burgandy colored oval pearls, black doll shoes with crisscrossed laces, binding them to my feet like ribbon-covered dance shoes. I also had a bright peach red pleated skirt, worn outside old jeans, sockless wearing sandals with three peach-colored straps. These are all my favorite outfits, and they were sprayed with different perfumes to tell them apart, as each outfit, with different perfumes, brought a different mood when worn. They say I am not in the least like a Singapore girl, with the melancholy of a loner, or just one that could not be classified.
I bought myself a simple jewelry box and started to put away the rings, earrings and bracelets after wearing them. Before then, I would wear each piece of jewelry continuously after buying it, so that a deep feeling was attached to each, staying there till it falls apart; only then would I replace it. But these days I accumulated jewelry as gifts were received from people, too many for my fingers and ears, so I wanted to tuck them away properly. My favorite was the bright red, heart shaped ring released for Valentine's Day by Swatch, given to me by Xiaowu. It could be folded into something like a flying butterfly. As I watch the box filling, I would suddenly have a feeling of deep release, feeling that I have grown up, that I am now an adult maiden, gradually accumulating wealth, the treasure following me around all the time, still bright like before when I take them out in my old age. I began to appreciate that collecting is a particularly nice thing, needing patience, not forced effort, getting fulfilment without being conscious of it. I have a friend who collects chopstick holders, little things that could be made of porcelain, wood, painted pottery. I did not go to his home to view the collection, but it stayed in my mind. One rainy day I went to the largest shopping centre here and bought all the chopstick holders I could find. I simply felt it was an enjoyable thing to do, something to help him do.
In the evenings I often went to the west coast along the suspension bridge. This is the harbour, an international port with an amazingly large turnover. It is lit up even in the deepest nights, with ships continuously at work, and the steel arms carrying multiple colours collecting and distributing as they moved up and down. This is not the sea I like, a sea without warmth and affection, just a worksite built on top of the ocean. Still I went there without anyone paying attention, just to hear the sound of the tide, the sound not processed and changed by manufacturing, still rushing up every evening, like an agitated, depressed girl breathing in big gulps with an open mouth. A few European girls, who have been ice skating, passed by me indifferently, they have no particular feelings towards the sea, towards this place. This is a safe but dull island. Hot and simple life has dulled one's wariness towards hidden dangers and menaces. Like all the other passers by here, I eventually developed a lazy eye, sleepy all day and all night, nothing exciting me any more.
Downstairs a cat named Chilly was going about. Grey, narrow bodied, tail short like a rabbit's. Cats with tails cut short like this were feral. Because the island's cats were breeding too fast, this crude policy was adopted. But Chilly was fortunate to have been taken in by an old Indian couple, who took care of many feral cats that have lost their tails, black, grey, brown, all rather cheerless fellows. The place where I live is an uppity condominium, with many dog owners owning big and aristocratic dogs. Each evening they would be walked on the green lawn. But there are few people who take in cats like this Indian couple. Every time I passed by the Indian woman relaxedly walking Chilly, I felt a warmth. The woman would allow Chilly to nicely greet me, but Chilly was rather proud; she might be a feral cat, but had a offputting classy air, not paying much attention to strangers. I once had a cat for five years, a large cat called Oldipussy that liked cooked tomato skins and potato; bunny toffee dissolved in milk was its favorite too. It was a cat with serious temperamental faults, often getting into dispute with my young self, always reconciling. It slept in my bed, ate my candy, chewed up my toy dog, pissed on my workbooks... But I could not help loving it, giving it the heated love of my teenage. After it grew up it began to go out at night often, quarreling with wild cats, fighting over mates, and beginning to distant itself from the home we gave it. After so many events and all the hurts it brought me, I wrote it into my story "Black cats do not sleep". I hope the cat I loved in my youth is known to everyone. By then it had completely left my life. Since Oldiepussy's departure, I have not kept any pets, except for a wounded parrot that happen to rush into our home's balcony. I gave it some cooked rice and cooked fish, but it was never willing to accept me, just shrinking into a corner with eyes closed healing its wound and gulping down the food I left it when I was not there. One evening it managed to take to the air and flew away, without expressing anything to me. At that moment I was standing inside the screen door quietly watching it and saw it flew up without even a look back. I felt distant, not making a call to it, till it turned into a black round dot in the sky like a plane in the high clouds.
I think I had no intercourse with it to the end.
I have not kept any animals since.
I do not know why I like Chilly so much, that grey, alert cat, ears stuck up like two rice dumplings. On my birthday my friend Nude suddenly had the idea of bringing Chilly home. She said the Indian woman told her, if I like, I could bring it back during the weekends now and then. I looked at it; it had a grey cage, with a thin blanket inside, and its toy - the clover dragon of the story of Mulan, already quite filthy and suited to be carried in its mouth. I was very happy, and sat down to play with it, giving it a piece of birthday cake, but it was not interested, and for all my attention it just stayed in its cage.
Only after I took away its toy did it jump out to fight over it, trying to scratch me with no mercy. I was smiling throughout my playing with it, and both Nude and Xiaowu said I loved cats so much. But in actual fact I was out of patience. In other words, I would need a great deal of time and desire to establish a relationship with an animal, but I could no longer come up with these. I have taken too many sentimental loans in my past experiences, and could no longer love any animal in the same way.
During its fierce attack, when it was about to scratch me, I gripped its neck. This gave me a start, to discover that my own actions were also fierce and unyielding. In the end I indifferently put it on the floor, giving back its little toy, and letting it be.
In the telephone my dear cousin told me, sister I will become an animal defender, living in the mountains with the beasts. I did not answer with enthusiasm. She asked further, hasnt this always been your dream? I then remembered that a few years ago I said something like this to her. I suddenly felt lost, since I discovered that could no longer be a universal animal defender, I am so selfish, first of all demanding love to me from them, and myself too worn out to give sufficient love to them. I did not forget to bless my cousin, wishing her to forever retain such pure enthusiasm, wishing her an inexhaustible supply of love to give out.
In fact I realized that my relationship with this city is so shallow, whether with people, animals or sceneries. I still often go walking about taking photos, but the scenes in the viewfinder are so dead, that I dont think they and I have successfully established communication and exchange. So they were locked out of my viewings, I have no way of taking them with me, carrying them off.
That was the start of this spring, a speechless and deadpan me calmly confronting solitude.
Wandering about the city's busiest Orchard Road on Chinese New
Year Eve, I was walking on, through the crowds, and suddenly felt that they all knew each other, knew well enough to call out the name of anyone they met, while I was the only stranger from a distant place. I felt them rushing towards me, like layers and layers of whirling candy floss wrapping me inside. They left me with less and less space. I was almost suffocating, and wanted to cry out, but seemed to have lost my voice, unable to make a sound. I saw my own wide open mouth, but did not know where it projected the sounds. Suddenly next to me Xiaowu said:
My dear I am next to you all the time; why do you call me so loudly?

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Some true words
Tomorrow is my 21 year birthday. Originally I did not plan to write anything in the period before and after. Because what my friend Nude said was correct, that I was a hypocritical authoress, that the stories I told were neither here nor there, that I wanted to move other people without first moving myself. I have always done things like this, and curiously, I have never blushed over this. I generally do not write personal notes, even in this age when blogs run wild with all my close friends having their own heart opening blogs, I lived inexpressively, not recording a word about my daily life. Because I am afraid of exposing myself, as life does not satisfy me, as I am forgetful, I can only choose to be inexpressive.
I should have continued to maintain this inexpressiveness; in fact
I quietly take pleasure in this stage of silence; about my life, No Comment; now this sounds cool. But just this morning I fell sick, vomiting non stop. It was very painful during vomiting, I almost thought my life was ending; at that moment I felt grieved, regretting that I did not leave behind a note about the whole of my life, so that even if my readers wanted to bless my soul they have nothing to mourn me with. So I promised myself, if I manage to survive the sickness, I will sit down and make a real effort to write a personal essay; it so happens I started to get better by noon time, and was able to sit down. After making a hot tea and looking at the web browser, hoping to find something that touches me during this moment of unbearable sorrow, the hope was fulfilled; I saw in Nude's blog entry a recent article from USA by Zhou Jieru, about the poet Ritchie and odds bits of her life in America, which recalled all my memories of her, including, I guess, what I remember of the good times at age 16-17. So I feel grateful for such a morning and have no excuse not to sit down and write some true words.
But what is truth, you teach me, tell me. I usually omit this core issue; I only like to tell my parents and friends, oh I am suffering, really. My words end there, and thereafter I expect to receive their comfort, without cooperatively telling them why I was suffering.
I could not reveal the content to them, because I am a little person who need secrecy, always needed it, must have it, otherwise I would feel like a cooked whelk whose flesh has been sucked out and the world would just casually flings its hand and dumps the shell into the morning garbage bin as it releases black smoke. In other words, my value to the world is negligible, assuming there is any at all, it depends on my tightly holding onto the little secret in my bosom; it might be beyond the world's expectation, so that the world would ponder, well this girl still has something, and so the world would retain me, and not throw me into the thickly smoking rubbish bin - the rubbish bin I refer to here was the type I used to see in my childhood, dark green, about 1.5 metre high, cylindrical, with a lid, and garbage poking through the lid, spewing thick black smoke.
Back to Zhou Jieru and my time as a young girl. Why did I like her so much, even though I knew many authoresses that were superior to her? Indeed I know these authors and like their writings, but they themselves touch no nerves in me, they are distant people, superior or what not, not quite a part of me. That was the state I was in at 17, till Zhou Jieru, like a girl with her cotton quilt and hair on fire, charged over on a cold winter morning from the other end of the street, right through me and the winter morning garbage bin that inspired so much fear in me. I could feel, even the garbage bins paid compliments to this exquisite and burnt maiden. She said some very tough words; she was so small so how could she say such things? Those words lit herself up like a little cannonball, but it was not self immolation, no need to worry; it was a long and large scale rehearsal, to which she invited all these restless-like-fleas kids as audience. I happened to see it, at 17 maybe 18, and remember it since then; it was my favorite show. Not everyone could light oneself up and break into a run, running so fast, so stylishly. Further, from what I know, many kids went into a run too, but who would give them a second close look? No one, no one gave them a ray of light; they did not receive attention at the time they needed it; they lit themselves up for nothing, went into a run for nothing. I insist that every child requires looks; they can only grow up to shape under looks, or else they will be deformed, but then being deformed might not be a bad thing; you know that a deformed child would in late days receive more looks.
In her days of virginity Zhou Jieru wrote material like "Did it hurt?" also "Turn on lights and talk" "Flowers"; those writings were collected into "Let's do something", of a woman with flickering peach red spectacles; in the same book series was Wei Hui's "Crazy like Wei Hui". Wei Hui was also peach red, but I do not remember which of the two was more peach red. In any case when I was only 16 17, still wearing spectacles (not yet into contact lenses), still attending the grand flag raising ceremony every monday wearing school uniforms (not daring to try on colourful underwear, as bright colours would show through the thin uniform), still longing to become a female PhD (maybe marrying a male PhD - dont remember), anyhow it was during that period that I bought Wei Hui and Zhou Jieru's peach red books from the shops, but of course I also bought books like "Problem sets for plane analytical geometry" and "Senior High 2 Mathematical Problems Collection", just that those books were later resold or passed down to my poor cousin who entered the high school I once went to, and only those two peach red books were kept. In Zhou Jieru's book, I remember her quoting Fitzgerald "Everyone's youth is a dream, a chemical type of madness". At the time I had just come to know about Fitzgerald, with the limited knowledge that he was Haruju Muraue's favorite writer; in fact it was also the time when I began to like Muraue. I bought his "Norwegian Forests" from Lijiang Publishing Co., and feel that ...ko was a lovely girl like ....... (and that was the time when Japanese drama was in fashion.) At the time I did not know that one day Muraue would be such a celebrity in China. If every personality could be made into a stock listing, then I would be pleased, since up to now I have picked many stocks correctly. I bought them when they were new listings, with similar examples like Wei Hui, Karen Mok. At this point in time, the tail end of my 20th year, I maintained this hope, that the kids today could buy me like a newly listed stock, and I would surely expand. Yet my nasty thought: but Zhou Jieru was not a good stock; her rise was not significant, and because of this, I did not sell her out, I held onto her, liking to read, from Muraue to Fitzgerald, from Zhou Jieru to Fitzgerald, which is how knowledge goes, through the understanding of one author, enlarging to new ones, more and more, with favorite authors that keep changing, till you forget the ones you liked at the start - this is like your first love too; when I got to know a guy called Xiaobai, I recalled that the boy of my first puppy love was also called Xiaobai.Xiaobai, Xiaobai, how many Xiaobais would we know in our whole life? They are male or female, they live separate lives, getting married and having children.
I know many outstanding girls are around me, and I know they are all tired to death. Just today, the last day of my age 20, I looked through the photo book Xiaowu made for me; in front was the picture she drew herself, lovely enough to drive me to shed tears.
Just yesterday, we two irritable girls had a quarrel over who loved whom more. She is now asleep from exhaustion, and I took a sneak at the photobook she hid away to give me tomorrow. She had carefully set in each photo, my 20 year old face glowing against the background she drew. I do not a bit doubt that this girl, expert in drawing and Photoshop, will one day become a great female designer, but right now she is so tired, she like me have been doing programming tasks in Java, cursing in our minds the world that made us so miserable and despairing. I also saw the birthday poem Nude wrote for me; in it I am as lovely as a fairy, so moving. She is an excellent poet, and will be more and more excellent, but poet is such a sorrowful word; I do worry that she would starve before she becomes a great poet, so I hope she would do some other things. She herself thinks so too, so she did some other things, so she too is tired to death. Then there is the Ms B tired to death making a living, Ms S tired to death trying for graduate school, girls who are tired to death trying for a good job, marrying a good guy... There has not been a moment when I felt so much concern for my dear girls, I almost was shedding tears for them; I know they are all resolutely doing their work, teeth clenched tired to the death. They are all great girls, grand and fateful like the great Bill Gates.
I know that a frigid winter was over the city in northern China that is unreachable for me, and I suddenly recall the winter when I was 17, recalling myself wearing orange pants and layers of socks, hair done into 17 pleats, wearing the black lipstick in fashion that season, crossing the deserted northern winter street. I bought two red bean pies newly promoted by McDonald that season and a new volume of "Raighley", standing outside the post office next to the school waiting for a very handsome but small boy. At the time we were both agitated, I wanting to help him to devise a strategem to get away from his petite girlfriend, he helping me to be released from the binding cords of my well built boyfriend. We arranged to meet in front of the post office, to discuss our grand plans. We did meet, and went to the soya milk shop next to the post office to do our plotting, with grave expressions on our faces, so grave, as if we were two snowmen on a severe frosty day. This time our plans were completely successful and we both became free bodies thereafter, though that plan rather muddled the relationship between the two of us. Who knows that a few years later he, as if going bad, loved his little girlfriend all over again. We went back to that street, but the soya milk place had already closed, and we went to the bubble tea shop next to the soya milk shop to discuss plans, this time in failure. His lovely little girl went off with someone else. He felt it was because of his lack of height, and went to Amercan Anli Co to order two barrels of foul tasting protein powder, and to the gym every day to lift weights. During the last winter when I returned to my former city and saw him again, I was amazed to see he had grown 4 centimetres taller. But the events were long past, the winter of muddled and entangled relationships was years ago, my even more surprising discovery.
My 20th year is about to be extinguished; I do not want to mention candles, but of course I would buy them to blow out, because I need to make a wish, a serious wish, I need very much. Looking back at my 20th year, 20 is a good number, and my year 20 had not disappointed me. In the year I published my first book, and finished writing my first long novel, with plentiful love and friendship, and relationships that grew from being in a distant place. But I am tired, as tired as the girls I mentioned before. I wrote three thousand odd true words, but I still cannot tell you exactly, dear reader, why I am so tired. You can condemn this complaining girl, and she would sincerely apologize, and continue to write her fictional stories, till she goes past her 21st year, still being a silent woman.
This is a precious piece of writing that may be considered as my only diary in four years. I would treasure it, just like Zhou Jieru said, some writings we can never produce again because we can never return to the time. They are so precious, like our first love, the difference being our first love ended long ago, but the words recalling the past still exist, while the us of the past are still walking along the path of the past. If I look into my past life, I can see the old self still going about, singing, reading, loving. I love her, as if she was my child. I want to advise her not to be so sad.
In the quiet afternoon, in the seat near the window of the south west classroom, she hid Zhou Jieru's book under "Essential mathematics" and was silently reading it during the self study class; inside, that agitated sister was worrying about matters of growing up, hair cinged, running and running. She knew these were matters she would later face; she expected she would later have waxing and waning love affairs and friendships, have sorrows and labours that would grow like mushrooms from wet soil after rain. She saw future hardships; looking and looking, she shed silent tears.

,

Nico

20

Dark hair, green eyes, and a particular smile
Sagan and Duras, two French authoresses with legendary histories and standout personalities, are not only taken as role models by many young girls, but both had good luck with men. Perhaps this is due to their novels maiden images that were taken off themselves.
They were stubborn and capricious, charging about, using up their energy in the few years of youth. Men not only admire their hautiness, but also like to, in their waning sunset years, approach them in a gentlemanly way, expressing seemingly sincere compliments "Comparing with your looks then, I much prefer your current, devastated face" as an at peace Duras self-mockingly wrote down in her book, later turning into a heart warming lover's talk. But I do not know how many twilight year beauties would be pleased to hear this; at least to me, these are such sorrowful words. I would even guess somewhat maliciously that probably in the minds of the man saying this, the woman's looks as a girl were long forgotten - beauties were generally dark haired and blue eyed, with a kind of impenetrable smile in the lips.
I often feel a vague worry in me as I see those girls in full bloom. This worry arises from my identification and admiration of them, but having seen too many such examples, seeing again such splendid, near perfect objects makes me uncomfortable. I remember Xiao Fuxing writing in his musical jottings about female singer Nico: if a woman possesses one of talent or beauty, that is a happy thing, but if she has both, it would be a misfortune. This is not hard to understand: beautiful things attract attention, attract people to come closer, which raises many possibilities, most probably making it harder to control one's fate. Plus having received too much attention, the inner self gets disturbed, and facing complex choices, choosing wrongly is almost inevitable. This is why we see that, most beautiful outstanding girls were like the rainbow, the full moon, appearing for a moment, earning countless wonderments, only to shortly vanish. Indeed, women's destinies always go through such large swings, unlike the stability of the men; when men have only added a few thoughtful wrinkles, women have already been "devastated by age"
The 20 odd Sargon actually said "I have the right to destroy myself", while Duras sadly discovered "as early as somewhere between 18 to 25, my looks were developing in an unexpected direction; at 18 I was already aged" They did not mind the consequences, and their heads were filled with the desire of making a great leap, their ears filled with non-stop cheering. People were rushing as if going to watch a great fireworks show, with no one advising them of the final state of firework wrappings and gunpowder mixes...Men express love for them in their wishful thinking way - be careful what you wish for; you might get it - and the dying out of the love only takes the time of a powder burn. The women who had the momentary brilliance, after everything died down, were left with their own, maybe for scores of years, loneliness and pain. When they have shrunk into a glob, their once dazzling talent could no longer spread out, perhaps only fit for an early donation to the museum or literary history book...So in her final years Duras rewrote Lover, spending her lifetime telling the same story, while Sagan received fame and fortune at 20, and used her remaining years to squander away the fortune.
Some other women, initially not so eye catching, often considered to be mediocre in talent, and getting a very quiet environment for growth in consequence, where they could progress in an orderly and gradual way, in light and calm steps. They learn to get along with people, to know perspectives and priorities. Their lives are not as exciting and do not receive as many praises; hence they learn to take care of themselves and not letting themselves fall into loneliness, at suitable moments rewarding themselves, constantly indulging themselves. Their lives have no miracles, no moments of truth on which everything turns, so they are content with ordinariness, as how things should be; they measure their own paces daily, now and then turning around to see how far they have come. A woman like this would turn beautiful and outstanding while you are not looking, and by the time people discover this, she has already developed wisdom and strength, not to be easily broken by anything. She would unhurriedly step forward according to the pace of life she has set for herself... Neither of capricious or restrained people are necessarily wrong, and the choice may not be in your own hands. But in any case, girls should perhaps be easier on themselves. If you already are a commonplace women, then just calmly go forward, waiting for the clouds to part when you can see the moonlight. If God has chosen you to play on the stage of history an unprecedented wonder woman, that is of course nice, but do remember to clear your head and pace your steps. At least the journey forward and back will be filled with enough love and sweet memories.
Many of my friends of other sex say out loud that they like talented girls, indeed like very much, but they stand immobile, looking at the girls like watching stars that cross the night sky, sigh their praises, and quietly leave. Year after year, are talented girls to be like Songlian in Su Tong's novel "Wives and concubines", with the people using their very interested and very expectant looks forming a dark, spooky high walled compound? Maybe their sidelining was not the issue; their liking for the girls is genuine enough, but they did not know how to love the girls. The girls' desires are always so complex and confusing, maybe they themselves cannot specify what they want. Their footsteps have already died out, but fortunately they have left behind words, strings of them, like in the poem
The faces have gone to I know not where, but
The peach blossoms still smile at the spring breeze
But are not the peach blossoms the mirrors of agelessness? What they reflect are always the story of youth, the beauty that does not grow old. The look that is always, dark hair, green eyes, an unfathomable smile hanging beside the lips.

1.
15childish

2.
15

3.

4.
.

60

Hair tying boy's age of innocence
In old times a boy's 15th year is called hair tying - as he reached 15, he would have his two side pigtails unbound and all his hair tied into one bundle behind. This indicates adulthood. Stories about this year must be specially interesting. Today I finished reading he man in search of pine dew?and oving Zina?in the same series. The male protagonist Mike is a 15 year old American boy. Afterwards I find it necessary to bring out 15 year old boys in a number of literary works and talk about them
1. Muraue's afka at seaside?published last year
The character is 15years old, described as the most determined 15 year old youth. I remember it was mentioned in many rather petty bougeouse discussions of Muraue that Muraue is a boy that does not grow old, and the male characters in his books are all child like, having rather similarly childish life styles, and their world views are both hopeless and hopeful. Therefore, Kafka at seaside is Muraue going all the way, putting the image of his male character on a boy. Comparing with Norwegian forest he wrote many years ago, this book, though taking the child's point of view, has deeper meaning than before. Concerning the marvelous and special meanings with "dreams" inside, concerning the idea of loneliness and alienation connotated by the word Kafka, about a youth's Greek myth like spiritual growth, these are the parts I like in the book. What has not changed is the same two-thread narrative, one concrete and one abstract.
2. Goethe's "The sorrows of youth Werthe"
Werthe was 15, an impression I always had in my mind, though when just now I tried to confirm it, I was unable to find it. When I read the book I was a little older than 15, and was quite surprised, since that kind of feelings seems to be not something occurring at our age; too powerful. Undoubtedly the book gave the me at the time a serious lesson about love. For a while it made me believe that love filled the space of one's whole life. I sat out my 16th year waiting for such a grand love. In any case, this kind of extreme, over the edge love is still something hoped for and dreamed about by numerous youths.
3. Dream of Red Chamber
About Jia Baoyu's age I am even less certain. I can only say that in my impression he was 15 years old. However, according to numerous analytical studies, the 15 year old Baoyu would have almost reached the end of the story of Red Chamber. As 15 year old boys go, Baoyu was well endowed; he had a high level of enlightenment, was against the eight-legged examination essays, against dominance of males over females, well learnt, romantic, and knew how to treat women nicely. When I read Red Chamber for the first time, I actually thought it too good to be true, the most perfect 15 year boy.
4. Loving Zina (Salt Water)
Now I want to talk about the book Loving Zina (Salt Water) by Charles Simmons. Loving Zina may have a few more words than The sorrows of youth Werthe, also written in first person, also a love story. It was a story about two families at a holiday seaside. The boy Mike fell in love with the family's tenant Zina. The story was moved forward by Mike's deepening love for Zina, gradually approaching the situation of Zina's secret affair with Mike's father. The story is not complex, but its characters including Mike, Zina, Mike's father, Mike's mother, Zina's mother, Mike's girlfriend Melisa, and Mike's friend Hilia, are all lively. The youth in the book enthusiastic pursuit of love ending in final disappointment and loss, is probably something that happened in the growth paths of numerous youths. The book has a nice beginning
"In the summer of 1963, I fell in love with someone; in the same year, my father drowned."
Loving Zina has rich dialogs between characters, displaying in a lively way American family life in the 60s. The conversations were free flowing, full of character, and moved the plot forward in a most apt manner.
Though these four books were widely apart in time and location, in all four the 15 year old youth went through some unusual life experiences. The world they see was stained and dusty. The age 15 was a turning point of their life, when their feeble ideals and love dropped into the time scale of reality. As it is written on the cover of Loving Zina
"The summer of age 15, the last season of innocence."

PAGE 2

The Person in Amber
This year, days seem to slow down towards year end, like the almost used up tube of toothpaste, every squeeze becoming harder. At times like this, it so happens the books I read were depressing and claustrophobic,
In the novel The child of time by McEwan, I felt even more that time had stopped. Few of McEwan's novels have been translated into Chinese, and this was the only one I could get, other than those long stories serialized in "World Literature", such a regret to my thinking. McEwan's novels always have a cold feeling of low depression, as if you were enveloped in a cold drizzle while you read them. His stories do not have winding story lines, no suspense, and just a few characters. The child of time is typical, the whole book describing the gloomy and lonely days of a children's writer after his daughter went missing. Kate, the daughter of the protagonist Steven, got accidentally lost without trace, and in the subsequent two years, Steven became more distant from his wife Julie, and also lost the joy of creativity; he felt as if time had stopped. Towards the end of the story, Julie was pregnant again. After a lone mental struggle, she decided to keep the child. When she telephoned Steven, he rushed over to her in haste, and they, with many feelings, planned for the arrival of the new child together. The story revolved around Steven, putting in many details. For example, on the day that should have been Kate's five year birthday, Steven went alone to a toyshop to buy a toy for Kate, fully confident that he knew what Kate liked. On another occasion, he went into a school by mistake, saw a girl, and was sure she was his missing daughter. He insisted on having the school principal to verify the identity of the girl, leaving very reluctantly.
I remember a story about missing child from a Chinese writer. In the story, after the child went missing the heroine went on a long and hardship-filled path. In the story's unfolding, the heroine received many degradations, was herself kidnapped, and was a prostitute for a time, but she at no time abandoned her search. The story was written with dramatic ups and downs, very touching; one could say, written to suit the reading interest of Chinese people. But in here there is no changing pace of time; in other words, as you follow the heroine around in the story, you do not have the feeling of days going very slowly as she experienced sufferings. Events occur one after another, like in an adventure story, but they diluted the damage to the heroine done by the child going missing itself. Though each life history is different, more real lives would be like Steven's: after a catastrophic event, there will be a very quiet period of healing. This period of time would pass specially slowly, almost at a stop.
And it would be very lonely, no matter whether there are people to comfort you, with a feeling of being fenced off, as if in your heart there was a block of ice no amount of heat could melt. Just on the count of The child of time letting people appreciate in minute detail the different paces of time, it is to be treasured.
The child of time is replete with little things of ordinary human life, minute changes of angles in the mind. I always believe only details like this can move today's indifferent urban crowds. Recently I found in Huang Biyun's new book ilence, hoarseness, tininess?a change in her placid and delicate style. Huang Biyun's novels always had a flat tone while tracing the cruelest storyline. Bloodshed, massarce, the little people without hope in a turbulent or ancient age. But in the new books with three long stories, the story contents are simple, without the classicism, without the intangible mystery; on the contrary, Huang Biyun took the standpoint of modern Hongkong life, starting to pay attention to the directionless senior white collars, attention to the lower classes in poverty, attention to the old women who pass their days playing mahjong... The deeply placed cruelty is still there, and inserted into very detailed happenings, as if by osmosis, making it hard to block off, to reject.
Hongkong and Taiwan female writers like Huang Biyun have always been thought of as being influenced by Zhang Ailing. Zhu Tianwen is one of these too, and recently I read her "Witch's words". This is part one of her unfinished long novel, revealing from her measured paces that the work is long and time consuming, with Zhu Tianwen constantly keeping her own work at a distance, very calmly. I saw a recent interview on Zhu Tianwen; she has been quiet for long, no longer having the competitiveness and confidence "I write story so I am" of her youth, gradually getting used to, and liking, such a silent life. It can be said that "Witch's words" is filled with the author's catechisms, truly possessing the tone of a hermit and guru, in this aspect rather different from the Zhu Tianwen of "Tragic city" and "Wildness Notes". But since the novel is not finished, it might be too early to judge it, but I kept feeling, if we try too hard in our writing, with every penstroke having been contemplated, we would miss the freeflowing, relaxed writings. I always envied the long and understanding collaborations between Zhu Tianwen and Hou Xiaoxian the director; to have such a fellow traveller is the lucky strike of a lifetime. Also, with the sisters Zhu Tianwen and Zhu Tianxin, one gentle and one lively, from the same scholarly family, reading books and writing, growing together; this is such a happy thought.
In the book magazines I saw Zhu Tianwen's recent photo. She wore black and had her hair in a bun, with a placid expression, but the little melancholy she has since teenage was still there, unchanged. Zhu Tianwen has lived long with just her eccentric black cat, needing it seems a decreasing amount of living space. I do not know whether even time has stopped before her. I have seen many people wrapped in their sticky paste, gradually blocking all movements, no longer wanting to put up a struggle, just content to be at immobile peace.
There will always be people like this who, as they slow down, turn into a piece of amber, with its shiny and colourful exterior.

--------

The piano coffin
....if you follow it up, in that distant town is my man, and the agile finger of mine he chopped down
if you follow it up, in the calm ocean is my piano, and a shoe of mine tied to it by a rope
I always want to know, in my time of solitude, whether my finger would quietly go into the ocean to look for its beloved piano and have a dance....
The woman was in the style of Jane Eire, small, grey, wearing a wide rimmed sky blue hat, holding the hand of a daughter another size smaller than she, appearing in the opening scenes of "The piano". I watched this cold faced woman crossing the oceans with her coffin shaped piano, shivering before each rolling wave. I do not know how turbulent her love is. I thought she should have a casual light affair, and with lingering regret abandons her lover; I thought.
The woman came to a small town, married a man. She had not seen the man before, but made the long, long journey with her child and her piano to get married. The man knew already that she could not speak, but was still disappointed upon seeing her, because she was so small, she did not smile. The man did not let her take her piano home, and after some lonely nights on the beach it was sold to farmer Park. Park was a native with green tattoo on his nose. He had thick hair, strong limbs, and he said to the woman, you come to teach me piano playing; then you and your piano can get together.
The woman sat on the piano stool; she could feel the man Park slowly approaching her. The man took hold of her white neck and began to kiss her. As she struggled free, the man suppressed his lust with effort and said, you can have one piano key for every time I touch you; then, the piano will be yours. The woman can see the burning desire of the man in the shadow filled room, but she sees even more the piano behind him glowing like a palace.
Park says to the woman, lift up your skirt. Under the woman's skirt there are layers of petticoats, cosset and blue body wrapping stockings. Park crawls under the piano, touching her through the stockings with the sound of the woman's playing around him. In the stocking he found a hole about the size of the small finger nail.He slowly, slowly put his hand on it touching the woman's skin.Like clouds her fear formed and then dispersed.
The woman got back her piano, but the bad thing is, our classy genteel heroine fell in love with farmer Park. She went to him; she missed the time when she was dominated by him like a whore.
The goings on of illicit pleasure were first discovered by her little daughter, who did not quite understand. She was doing a crude imitation, humping a tree in the forest and was seen by her stepfather. The moment arrives; the man was angry; the man imprisoned her. The woman quietly removed a piece of piano timber to write a moving message for the daughter to take to Park. She wanted to run away with this coarse man, to play the piano and make love.
The little girl still did not understand; she gave the token of love to her stepfather.
It was a rainy day; the man went to the woman in uproar. She was beaten; he took up an axe to break her finger. Her daughter, carrying a toy angel on her back in the rain, screamed with fear. The woman's cold white face was covered by muddy water. She lost her finger; she could never again enter the only sound she loved; her piano could never again be one body with her. The woman sat like a puppet swaying next to the forest post.
The ending is not quite to my liking, but let me finish the story; the man eventually let the woman and Park go. Park left with the woman, her daughter and her piano. Another storm, the piano was heavy like a coffin and the boat was almost unable to sail. The woman said in sign language, throw the piano overboard; it is no longer useful, but Park was unwilling. The woman insisted and pushed the piano down.
The woman's foot was tangled in the rope tying down piano. She tumbled out too. She and the beautiful piano together, sinking to the bottom of the ocean. Dying; vanishing. But what about love, her love? Love is waiting for her up there; love made her to write the message on the piano timber; love struggled with the man to death for her poetic nature. Love, love is up there. This is how the woman, struggling free of the rope, fought her way up to the surface, to live, to live near to love.
When the woman was saved, the piano was fixing itself on the bottom of the sea; on it, waving like flag, was a shoe.
It was from a New Zealand woman director; the woman was played by a girl called Holly Hunt; I may have seen her again, like, still hopping about on some piano with unfinished longings; hopping about, still the same white face, white like a tombstone.

Somber Biyun Sky
(Translator's note: Biyun, name of writer Huang Biyun, also means blue clouds)
A few days ago I bought Huang Biyun's "Silence, hoarseness, tininess". Before going to bed that day I clearly recalled her sentence "I only have the feeling of tiredness; thought sleeping would be make it better". Reading it a few times, I thought they were provoking words, heavy, cold.
In the past I always had, for whatever reason, some prejudice against Hongkong and Taiwan literature, maybe because of the Chinese versions of "Chicken soup for the soul" by Liu Yong and Lin Qinxuan, I felt that the HK and TW writing styles are deficient in strength, neither hot nor cold, without harsh angles. Of course such an assessment lacked impartiality. Recently I took more interest in the female writers of HK-TW, and kept buying novels of the Zhu Tianwen - Zhu Tianxin sisters, reading them casually; next came those of Wang Biyun.
Some of my friends are Wang Biyun fans. They tell me the early works of Wang are better than todays, so I got some to read too; read "Lost city" "Twelve Beauties" etc,. But in my view, the latest one is to be preferred. I think the early Wang Biyun was more to the liking of girls into the classics and unable to forget the Zhang Ailing tradition. The characters in her stories are old styled and resolute, within a harsh atmosphere, a little like Li Bihua, and have some traces of Gongfu novels. These are fine, but after reading a few of them one gets weary, not longer getting a feeling of freshness and resilience. Reading more, one feels that those whom she writes about are all mindless, energetic lunatics; bloody, rather distant from us; you have a feeling of the charge, that the embedded meaning therein is the charging towards you of sharp bayonets.
But to my liking, the best stories are like needles wrapped in cotton. When they first prick you, it was just a jap of pain, not drawing much response, but somehow it does not go away, the pain growing on you, getting deeper and deeper into you. Huang Biyun's new novel is like that. In this volume "Silence, hoarseness, tininess", she wrote about events in the mildest lives. The characters are no longer artistic maidens, but old women, boys and so on. She wrote about the life of a deaf old woman after an operation. The old woman continued to play mahjong, take phone calls, carrying her deaf ears about with her. And there is a weird boy, who suddenly felt asleep in the location where his whole family was murdered. After waking up he was as if he knew nothing about the events. He went to a psychiatrist by weekly appointment to receive therapy, but remained asleep. When he talked about the murder case again, it was in an indifferent way, as if nothing had happened. These events in the story, while not as forceful and exciting as in the books before, were actually the cotton wrapped needles that make you recall bit by bit after reading, feeling pain repeatedly. Like the old woman was saying "I only have the feeling of tiredness; thought sleeping would make it better"; about the boy who lost his family, the psychiatrist said "Maybe he really felt sleepy; just 16 years old, it is hard for him". These words may give a feeling of flatness, but the forcefulness of Huang Biyun is still in there, unchanged.
Huang Biyun has a genteel, classical name, but her stories are not in that style. The new book "Silence, hoarseness, tininess" has a ponderous black cover, with the back silhouette of a woman next to a rail holding her skirt, attentively, as if making a meticulous last bow on stage. While her stories, and the young maidens, old women, youth, whose bones all have the Wang Biyun wickedness, they spread like clouds under the gloomy sky, not yet taking their bows.