廖康：独具个性的音乐感想：评介马慧元《北方人的巴赫》

我很喜欢廖康的文章，几乎到了狂搜的地步。好文章得抄，免得散失，再也没的看。

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　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　·廖　康·

音乐本身没有字面的意义，如何言说？通常，中文的音乐介绍或欣赏文章无非简介作曲家的生涯，讲讲作品的曲式结构，堆砌一些夸赞的词语，重复几句前人的概述，引用一段名人的定论，最后再不疼不痒地评说两句。虽然也能够让读者得到有关作品大致不差的概念，却罕见感人至深的体会、引人共鸣的感受、或发人深省的想法。这也许是因为文人真正懂得音乐者太少；懂音乐的人中还能够演奏或演唱者更少；能够演出者却因长期苦练，无暇读书写作，满腹乐思很难用文字表达出来。即便有人能够表达，他却未必具有对音乐和人生那么敏感的心灵和深切的体验，因此，难以把音乐这种最抽象的艺术用形象的语言表达出来。终于，我读到马慧元《北方人的巴赫》了。我相信，自从华夏出版社２００５年让这本音乐感想文集问世以来，很多人都曾像我一样感叹过：我们到底有了一位以上条件俱备的作者兼演奏者！她通晓外文，博览群书，而且熟稔中文诗词。她敏锐的心智对音乐，特别是巴洛克时期的音乐，尤其是巴赫的管风琴曲，自有独特深切的体验。在一篇篇感想中，她用各具特色的文字把我们从“心中有曲道不明”的困境中解救了出来。

本书的“北方人”既不是巴赫本人，也不是德国或中国的北方人，而是最后一章提到的一个普通的公寓设施修理工－－－罗伯特。他常去阿拉斯加猎鹿，“每次开车过山时都听巴赫”。巴赫自己似乎具有北方人坚韧的特性，“好多不朽的作品直到他死后才有人知赏，然而世间的冰冷从不能冻僵他心里温暖的信念。”当代演奏巴赫的钢琴圣手古尔德对加拿大的北部情有独钟，他们都属于“那种执着于自己的生活方式，在海天冰谷里以孤独和坚韧体验着宁静和辽阔的人，那种遥望而非占有世界的人”（页１６８－１６９）。马慧元又何尝不是如此！她在学习、打工的艰苦生活中与音乐殿堂里的圣人们神交心会；拥抚古卷、轻吻风琴之余，她偶触键盘，便指尖流霞，屏上遂绽开朵朵莲花。

虽然题为巴赫，本书对音乐的鉴赏和感想不限于巴洛克，也下及古典派和浪漫派。且容我倒述上来。我们都听过许多大师演奏肖邦的钢琴曲；有些人喜欢鲁宾斯坦的疏朗，有些人喜欢霍洛维茨的美艳，有些人喜欢傅聪的空灵。还有一些人，包括我自己，独爱阿劳的诠释。但我说不清，也没有见到谁曾像马慧元那样将他与众不同的演绎如此生动地表达出来：

听智利人阿劳弹，颇有我们一道含英咀华的感觉。他触键又深又缓，手指一直插到音乐“底部”，层层摇荡起情感的波澜，以恬淡的表情描述了一个并不辽阔，却悠长深远的境界。在钢琴上用过功的人，会从和声里听出深埋的淅沥苦雨。过去听他弹常被人们处理的狂放的谐谑曲，只觉他“牢牢”抓住手指，琴声如绵里藏针。别人炫技的段落，他不动声色地走过，指下细腻的浓淡干湿自能传神写意。他慢的时候，好像在等待眼泪冻成水晶。音乐在雨里明灭着，分不清那是阿劳还是肖邦，甚至分不清那表情是悲是乐，那颜色是鲜亮还是枯黄（页１３０）。

不要以为马慧元如林黛玉一般，只是偏爱落花流水、苦雨凄风；不，她对欢快的乐曲也十分敏感，十二分欣赏；但她还能感到，还能想到更深的层次。在谈论李斯特的第六号匈牙利狂想曲时，她痛快淋漓地写道：

如此的感官愉悦无须经过大脑，只要对光对色稍有知觉，就会在这斑斓之声里醉生梦死。而我的快意，比起现场的听众，或者演奏者自己，还不知要逊色几分呢。狂想曲里，炫技虽然难免，可是每一首都奔涌着萧森之气，实在不能算浅薄之作。寒气扰扰间，又有红烛昏沉。唉，李斯特这个一辈子在荣华和名声里打滚的家伙，骨子里却是如此苍凉，苍凉到脆弱和颤抖，“白头吟望苦低垂”（页１－２）。

而贝多芬《第七交响乐》那“汪洋恣肆的喜悦”则激发马慧元用更加形象的文字描绘出自己的感受：

第一乐章中，浑身古铜色的英雄携着风声，踩着鼓声，迈着坚定的步子路过。音乐在他身后潮水般涌起来，我直视浪尖，情不自禁从心底应一声：“跟他走！”前方就是海洋了，走进去，我不会窒息在他的魔力下，我变成鱼儿，涵泳于色彩浓厚的波澜和漩涡里，尽情张扬着生命的快意。第二乐章则是另一个世界，从海里带回的一颗巨大的水珠正挂在床头。透过圆圆的水珠，可以看到隐约有一座雕像从海面上缓慢而庄严地升起来，卓然兀立于远方，仿佛昭示着一种意味深长的缅怀。那是米开朗琪罗雕刻刀下英雄的身姿么？又清明又和谐，性格里蕴藏着深深的忍从。我回忆着他那昂起的头颅和高贵的表情，听见了他吟唱赞美诗的声音随着波涛荡漾。第三乐章从一开始就充盈着弹性，好像有双妙手把前面的肃穆重新整合打理一遍，它变得英姿勃发，一身“飞扬跋扈为谁雄”的洒脱。到了第四乐章，竟成了一首极乐之歌，酒神狄奥尼索斯在狂舞，我紧贴墙壁站立，惊喜得透不过气。那生动的舞姿背负厚重地欣快旋转着，一直持续到乐曲结束（页３３－３４）。

我曾多次认真听过“贝七”，据说，那是贝多芬九部交响乐中最容易欣赏的入门之作。我也读过一些作品介绍，以期更好地理解大师的杰作。但没有任何人的话如此轻易地带我走入了“贝七”，与之心心相印。如果两百年前有音乐评论家用西文发表过这段文字，“贝七”也许就以《海之歌》而为世人所知了。当然，这只是一种感受，就像德国诗人莱尔什塔勃把贝多芬的升Ｃ小调钢琴奏鸣曲轻柔的第一乐章比作瑞士琉森湖上粼粼波动的月光一样。贝多芬的交响乐和奏鸣曲并不是描绘海和月光，但这形象的语言，无疑，有助于我们表达对音乐的体验，远远胜过干巴巴地谈论技术。

马慧元在音乐界浸润经年，弹钢琴和管风琴，她不是不能谈技术，到非谈不足以说明问题时，她也简约地介绍。比如在谈到十七世纪晚期德国大提琴学派的代表人物亨德里希·柏博时，她说：

从技术角度来看，柏博的特色之一是使用变格定弦（Ｓｃｏｒｄａｔｕｒａ），比如把Ａ弦下调五度，把Ｄ弦上调四度，把Ｅ弦下调一度，等等，造成一种神秘飘渺的韵味，同时也壮大了音量。据说每一首都有自己的调弦方式，以求与曲意相合（页３６）。

然而，我这类非专业人员阅读有关音乐的书籍，并不是要学习演奏，也不是要分解作品，更可能的主要目的是印证自己的感受。马慧元的这本文集不仅满足了我这种需要，而且阅读她优雅的文字本身就是一种美的享受。况且，这种美并不是空泛地表达不着边际的联想，而是具体的、实在的、与音乐作品紧密相关的，得益于中国文字精华的优美表达。在谈论舒伯特的Ｅ大调钢琴三重奏（Ｄ．９２９）和“三首钢琴小曲”（Ｄ．９４６）时，她猜测那也许就是舒伯特最后的作品，这当然不是文献研究，也不是逻辑论证，而是美的直觉，几乎是超验的：

因为这两部作品中的美简直近似子规啼血般的凄艳，让人想起“可堪孤馆避春寒，杜鹃声里斜阳暮”这样的诗句……Ｅ大调钢琴三重奏的第二乐章是我的最爱，尤其是那飘渺的附点音符和双音，简直是从人类想象所能及的最远端降临的。大提琴包裹着钢琴深情地唱出胸腔里的歌，一片“草暖云昏”般的陶然。而那三首钢琴小曲，头一次听布伦德尔弹时，发现他竟以那么刚毅热烈的风格处理这部素来独具冷花寒露之风的晚期作品，先有点意外，继而，却为这位演奏大师全身心为音乐注入的活力感动－－－那大概是要用不带烟火气的美丽直面冰冷尘世的果决。他把八度弹得多么华丽！今晚听来，几乎能感觉到“夜光”闪烁在视觉和听觉之间，亮丽的旋律的底色表面是一片阴郁与哀伤，而深处竟是葡萄美酒的柔波荡漾着和星光相辉映的融融之乐！我想，发光的正是“才华”这种不能被悲哀和绝望遮掩住的东西（页３８－３９）。

不要以为马慧元是随意地表达直觉，她的猜测其实是在核查了乐谱年代之后才写出来的。也不要以为她事后诸葛亮，“知之为知之，不知为不知。”她的坦诚，在谈论巴赫的ｄ小调第二帕蒂塔（ＢＷＶ　１００４）中最后的恰空曲（ｃｈａｃｏｎｎｅ）时表现出来，让我不再为自己常常辨不清主旋而羞愧：

那十七分钟的漫漫坎坷路，一把琴弓简直如哪咤闹海，而其中每处腾挪，姿态依然风流俊赏。不见“呕心沥血”，巴赫处处游刃有余，神乎技也。我听了多年，依然在其中迷茫疲惫，因为追不上他的心思。最后弄到乐谱后才发现，多年来居然把主题的旋律听错了，因为那小提琴断奏和弦的时候，铮错之声竟高低难辩。而且，琴声如猎猎红旗般飘动，原来主要是演奏家的念头，巴赫的谱子上却是一片十六分音符整肃得不堪。跟着谱子好歹看出一二三，那音乐反而更加不能言说，惟有在其中默然啼泣（页４）。

一谈到巴赫，尤其是听古尔德弹奏巴赫，马慧元就露出掩抑不住的兴奋。虽然她总要等到严冬苦寒时才从心底捧出这“最后一把温暖”，那由衷的喜悦却关不住，径直从她的动作里蹦跳出来：“手插在裤带里在屋里溜达着，听到得意处，不禁拔出手，在空中打个清脆的响指。”就像自己写作，才更能体会别人写出的妙语好文一样，自己弹琴，才更加懂得演奏家的匠心和技巧。巴赫的平均律和赋格，我们很多人都听过，但谁曾有过如下的体会，道出过如下的妙语？

古尔德弹得真快，居然连反复都取消掉。我连翻谱都来不及。一股子带点“蛮气”的青春劲道披头盖脑咆哮而来，好像驱使千军万马追赶着远不见踪影的巴赫。“月浪冲天天宇湿，凉蟾落尽疏星入。”主题孤单清冷，空若无物。不过，它的每一个小节都被后面的变奏照耀呼应，间或有卡农幽灵般往来，旋律在其中长成山峰、海浪、田园。那主题一过，第一变奏就显出热烈之相，简直是凶狠的敲击，低声部倒是绕着主题嘈嘈切切，人的注意力却不禁要追着火爆的高音跑……从线条的角度看，三个声部恭让怡然，以从容不迫的句读引导着听觉在山容水意间兜转。常常，由左右手大指铺就的中声部吟啸行止之际，右手四五指轻唱着牧歌，而左手低声部则如管风琴的脚键盘，远远低吟着主题。远远的，远远的。孤独的赤子就这样执拗地拓出一个世界（页９４）。

在谈论被人遗忘的意大利钢琴家、作曲家布索尼改编巴赫的小提琴恰空曲为钢琴曲时，马慧元写出了全书最具特色的文字：

巴赫与布索尼只是轮廓相近而已，布索尼把巴赫当作一个有力的“借口”，而在其中延续着“李斯特风”，更要在其中突出布索尼－－－小提琴上的旋律靠钢琴上快速进行的和声刀刻般凸现，双手要像皮球那样轻松弹跳，当然难得有些可恶。中间有一段乐谱读来简单，却要用琶音奏来，好像巴赫事先预知李斯特、布索尼此等人物，专等他们登场。小提琴上原来单而细的声音此时突然变成立体的雕塑，在钢琴上的刀削斧凿中左右顾盼。此外，巴赫的小提琴恰空尚有悠闲疏淡之时，而布索尼的钢琴却密不透风，像是不能担当“真空”里的孤独；巴赫原本从我的肩上掠过，如同一束轻盈的光线，布索尼却是当胸撞来，无可闪回。要说情绪，巴赫一头钻进音符本身，一片苦心始于声音，终于声音，至于他自己，则衣衫不湿。布索尼倒是无所畏惧，往其中倾倒水火，敞开熬煎着大美大悲哀。从开头的引子起始，他在钢琴上漫卷尘埃，醉醺醺地往复拖曳脚步，漫天的和弦陨石般一下下地砸着地面，砸出水花。我的眼泪在此被水拦住，啼笑无门，只知道这般狂欢饱满得溢出杀机，而当下我手无寸铁，万事皆休。炫技能入此般境界，当然炫的已不是技，起码要包括大容量的胸腔，不仅能跟巴赫共振鸣响，又在城府中另开天地－－－最后索性把巴赫洗干净，或者说，有一种光线或溪水一样的东西，平分着巴赫和布索尼（页５）。

也许是我见孤识浅，但是关于音乐，有谁，请告诉我还有那位中文作家写出过如此精彩，如此精辟的文字！什么叫厚积薄发？这就是。如果不是对巴赫、李斯特、布索尼皆有深入的了解，谁敢做出这等评语？如果没有敏锐的感知和活跃的想象，怎会产生这么丰富的联想和比喻？如果未曾熟练地驾驭中文的用法，广泛地吸收英语的灵活表达，并有诗人般敢于冲破藩篱的自信，又如何能够写出如此鲜活的原生态文字？但马慧元最擅长的、最钟爱的还是管风琴。听管风琴曲，我们大概都有同样的感受：在教堂里听，那声音神圣庄严，似乎直上云霄；那音响波澜壮阔，仿佛从天而降，直叫人匍匐倾倒，魂魄归一。但在家里听管风琴的录音，似乎嘈杂离乱，难以欣赏。我喜见马慧元谈出同样感受，但她更进一步，还说出了我的另一个因听得少而不敢肯定的感受：

好在巴赫有大量管风琴作品是不怕录音的，那清简空灵的声响如笛如箫，在任何录音设备上都可扶摇直上，悠然千古。此外，在这一类音拴配得干净的管风琴音乐上，我才真正看到了理想的巴赫，那个被抛在人群中，神色荒凉的中年男人，孤独地来到管风琴旁坐下，瞬间手脚飞奔。轻柔的琴声里，教堂的歌唱既像狂欢，又像诀别。我喜欢这景象，它分明“任是无情也动人”－－－音乐如同从高处降落的目光，安静而同情（页５７）。

难道不是这样吗？那些轻盈的乐曲犹如空谷足音－－－那一定是天使的脚步，偶然降临尘世，我等凡人，充耳不闻，幸而巴赫听到了，记录下来，用管风琴再现。为什么用管风琴，而不用笛、箫？其中道理，我说不清。恍惚觉得，这就如同观看大象用鼻子拾起绣花针一样；那轻巧，那柔情，以及那后面蕴而未发的无穷力量，怎能和绣花女穿针引线同日而语？

管风琴音域广阔，表现力丰富，但坦率地说，我很难听出同时代一位管风琴作曲家和另一位之间的不同。在谈论亨德尔管风琴作品第七号第一首时，马慧元寥寥数语就道出了亨德尔与巴赫的本质差别：

第一乐章中乐队跟管风琴以三十二分音符造就主题背后的颤抖，好像蒲扇扇出的微风。第二乐章则松弛地铺开一组组八分音符，上上下下地攀爬，轻松地包容进若干装饰音，难得地露出一点时代特征。到第三乐章，抛出长长的旋律，虽然谱子上并无连线，可那音乐听上去，好像喷气式飞机尾部留下的细长白练，让人想起多情的浪漫主义音乐。第四乐章先有两大段即兴演奏，然后以活泼的布列舞曲作结，也引入了落落大方的旋律。其中对程序的大胆变更在当时很有开山之功，不过并不太可能引起我这业余爱好者的兴奋。细细看去，原来亨德尔的魅力在于管风琴与乐队之间的默契应答，那里有一种翩翩的享乐气息，与世间之罪和欲望保持友好关系－－－这般立意，离巴赫的教堂管风琴音乐自然很远（页６８）。

不仅作曲家的风格互不相同，演奏家也各具特点；这本不待言。只是我们对管风琴太不熟悉了，听不出来。且看马慧元是怎样表述她听盲管风琴家瓦尔哈演奏巴赫的《帕萨卡里亚》：

那缓慢的主题像船桨一下下插到水深处，推动音乐前进。当它止住在一个最低音的时候，又像往海里稳稳地抛下一颗锚。据说瓦尔哈的母亲和妻子在钢琴上分别为他奏出各声部，他一点点记忆，组合。这其中有多少别人永远不得而知的劳苦？这样想来，这热烈绚烂的琴声里便添了些凄凉的感觉，超尘的向往和人世里的苦痛融成一片苍凉……主题再次出现，这时双手已经不甘寂寞，以妩媚的附点追随。再后来，它们一起攀升，执着地变得眼花缭乱。你得拨开迷雾，才能跟上依然由脚演奏出的主题。三条声线争抢到白热化的当口，蓦地消散了，只有一个声音用两手连接着奏出。声音换成最稀薄的一种，音色像钟鸣，亮度像焰火。然后它又变得层峦叠嶂、繁华如锦。接下来是主题和赋格，平直处像路，深邃处像大河（页９０）。

我曾纳闷，管风琴那么少，那么不易弹到，那么难于演奏，在音乐会上那么少见，马慧元为什么会那么喜爱管风琴呢？《练琴记》里的一段文字给了我答案：

我知道很多教会都是用钢琴弹赞美诗的，这当然不坏。管风琴的造价比钢琴高１００倍不止呀。可是你知道为什么还有那么多教堂专门雇管风琴师，每次礼拜总共弹３０分钟左右么。那种跟天宇共同振动的和谐声音，还有那管风琴师谦卑地坐于一个几乎不能被看到的位置的景象，这一切一切，怎么可能替代呢（页７７）。

不经意间，马慧元把自己也写出来了。在这嘈杂的人世间，在电子合成器充斥天地，连钢琴都受到冷落的时代，她就像管风琴一样：平日静悄悄地坐落在教堂里，没有绚丽的色彩，没有显着的地位，与古朴的教堂浑然一体，甚至可能还蒙上了灰尘。而一旦奏响，那大音，让黄钟大吕都相形见绌；那轻盈，令竹箫金管也自惭形秽；那天籁之声，流淌在我们的心灵上，让我们清纯一些，高尚一些，仿佛与神明贴近一些……这种独特的音乐感受，在阅读她这本书时，也时时产生。

２００７年７月３日

补记：

这实在不能算是评论，而更像介绍。读《北方人的巴赫》，我几回拍案。马慧元的文字太美了！我几乎无言以对，只得抄引，让大家管中窥豹。读者若能跟着她成为听者，在音乐的海洋中畅游一回，定然能够进一步体会到这天上人间罕见的美妙。

□　寄自美国

友人林红赠启功论书法

喜获精印线装“启功论书法“一册，华宝斋造纸，杭州富阳古籍印刷厂印行。诚可谓精美绝伦，字趣横生，墨香四溢，妙不可言。吾爱不释手。案牍劳形之际，临一首论书绝句，细品启功结字，得以解乏。

Spiderman's standard way of sleeping

Now, we have a little, but very sticky spiderman at home.

一般苦，兩樣愁

張弦難訴相思意，咫尺嘆鴻溝，
花自飄零水自流，腸斷人倚樓，
夜夜明月今何在，不把桂影投，
關關睢鳩恨悠悠，一般苦，兩樣愁.
唉， 我烦的很。

多事之年

今年真是多事，希望赶快过去。

我的岳父

“做人要心胸宽大，与人相处哪有不起冲突？事事计较，日子还过不过？一家人，不容易，是缘分，要珍惜。好了，去吃饭去。“ 在我岳父去世后，每当我想念他时， 这话就在我耳边响起， 仿佛岳父还在世，还在向我说话。 而我常常想起这句话。

那是几年前的事了， 安白刚出生。那天，我为了一些现在也想不起来的事，和我同样脾气鲜明的岳母杠上，我独自正躺在床上生闷气，岳父迈进来，同我说了那些话。

Metaverse

It is quite exciting to surf on the waves of computing revolution. A wave after another wave brought us different ways of exploiting computing technologies. Keeping updates would be a problem, but not mine. I like to learn, anyway.

Virtual collaboration or virtual society is getting real. In early 1990s, there was a sci-fi novel, Snow Crash. In the novel, a metaverse is depicted. Metaverse is not a game, but a society in which people interact one another not physically, but virtually. The point is that everything in the metaverse is represented in 3D as objects in our real world. Now, a system, Second Life, is made based on the concept of metaverse in Snow Crash. Dr. Dobbs, a programming magazine, plans to have a 'hall' or a booth in the Second Life. Like we read the magazine to learn, avatars in the Second Life go there to gain programming knowledge. By the way, avatar is the representation of a user in the Second Life. You, as a user in real, are incarnated as an avatar in the Second Life. Hard to understand? Read Snow Crash or play Second Life.

Focaccia

I made focaccia bread today. The result is shown below in the photo. Unfortunately, I can't record its taste into the photo. However, you shall be able to imagine how tasty it is if a critic, as picky as Wenlei, said "it tastes so good."

艋舺龍山寺 不變台灣情

我好吃，重吃，享受吃， 无日不想吃。记下此篇，以飨自己。来日访台，按图索骥。
艋舺龍山寺 不變台灣情

余秋雨与冯骥才

刚刚看完杨澜访问余秋雨和冯骥才，在二者中，我厌恶余，而欣赏冯。两人高下立判，差距如此大，使我讶异。 我对他们的作品，也是维持冯高余低的印象。（我没有读过余的“文化苦旅”，可能“文化苦旅”
还不错。）

在访问中，余秋雨始终给我一种防卫的态度， 这或许是因为他的脸庞些许上扬的缘故。主持人问他是否快乐，他皱着眉回答"越来越快乐“，也让我为之一乐。访问中，“文化”是出现最频繁的词， 但也是最定义不清。闹半天，我还是没明白，文化到底是啥东西，可能是俺没文化之故。

访问冯骥才时，没问他是否快乐，只听他讲如何冒生命危险， 为文革里的小人物立传；如何藏那些传记纸片； 如何纪录民间艺术； 如何卖画挽救周庄； 如何为天津城立传留纪录； 如何为构思一小说的细节而感到兴奋。我明显感到他乐在其中。虽然不提文化一词，我倒是好像有些明白“文化“了。

余秋雨是个卖“文化”的商人；冯骥才是个行“文化”的文人。

梅雪争春

殷正洋在今天的“殷媛小聚“中演唱一首艺术歌曲”梅雪争春“。曲听着耳熟，词瞧着眼熟。但实在想不起来何故。只从词义中了解这是民初的作品，很像是徐志摩风格。

歌词全文如下：

南方新年裡有一天下大雪
我到靈峰去探春梅的消息
殘落的梅萼　瓣瓣在雪裡掩
我笑說這顏色還欠三分豔

命運說你趕花朝節前回京
我替你備下真鮮豔的春景
白的還是那　冷翩翩的飛雪
淡梅花是十三齡童的熱血

南方新年裡有一天下大雪
我到靈峰去探春梅的消息
殘落的梅萼　瓣瓣在雪裡掩
我笑說這顏色還欠三分豔

命運說你趕花朝節前回京
我替你備下真鮮豔的春景
白的還是那　冷翩翩的飛雪
淡梅花是十三齡童的熱血

我感到整首词主题并非梅花与雪景，而是那字里行间无可奈何的悲愤。 殷正洋在介绍蒋安的花卉工笔之后演唱， 我感到突兀。

我好奇是谁写的词，为何而写。作词者很容易找，正是徐大诗人。Google“梅雪争春”，答案自然浮现。为何而写，可能难找些。十三龄童不是京剧名角吗？“十三龄童的热血”从何而来？ 查找“十三龄童”，也没有头绪，只有他的生平简介--十三龄童生于1933，是绍剧名角。（原来不是京剧) 。可是徐志摩死于1931。可见此十三龄童非彼十三龄童。既有悲愤，就有对象。 民初动荡，惨案连连，莫非与此有关？把”惨案“加入”梅雪争春“一同查找，果然有些头绪--此诗与三一八惨案有关！此诗发表于《诗镌》的“纪念三一八”专号上。再查找“纪念三一八”，一段文字提供了解答--1926年3月18日，段祺瑞枪杀请愿群众，死伤二百余人，连十三岁儿童也惨遭杀戮。诗人悲愤，化而为诗！

我的直觉是对的，这歌的确不适合在花卉工笔的介绍后演唱。

Story telling

What can my sons inherit from me? Perhaps lots of stories.

I am glad to see that Anbo developed a habit of making up stories from the toys he played with. He did not just make up stories, but he would make sense out from his stories. For example, if you ask him why the airplane he assembled has a big belly, he would answer that it is a garbage airplane, which collects garbage. It needs a big space for that purpose. If you keep asking: however, would not that big belly affect how the airplane flies? He answered that the airplane is propelled, so it is OK to have a big belly. He would further point out that the airplane features with night-lights, wheels, wings and guns. It is very interesting to see such a little guy reasons.

Not only does he make up stories, but also he seeks for stories from me anytime, anywhere. Sometime, I am out of materials. Nonetheless, I feel telling stories is the best way to implant anything I wish him to learn. I don't care if he can comprehend or not. As long as the stories are interesting, he would remember them. One day, he would comprehend.

Now, I want to systematically perform this story-telling task. The first thing I would like to implant is the Greek and Rome mythology. The stories will come from Edith Hamilton's classic "Mythology". These stories would give a clear picture of what the people were like from whom comes a major part of our spiritual and intellectual inheritance. Since my sons will be raised up in the western society, this is applied to them, too. I will inject the Chinese part into their blood later.

Amadeus

Finally, I watched Amadeus, the movie I have been waiting for since my high school. Both Wenlei and I enjoyed it. I particularly like Salieri's expressive and slightly exaggerating performance.

It is hard to believe that the movie was made in 1984. After two decades, the charm of the film does not fade at all, and the radiant quality of the movie is still dazzling. This movie marks the apex of film art.

Chinese trains | Bullet time | Economist.com

Chinese trains | Bullet time | Economist.com

Just read the article in the toilet. The last paragraph, albeit telling the truth, does not make me fell good.

练习曲

前阵子，大爱台“殷媛小聚“介绍电影“练习曲”。文蕾对于练习曲中的台湾风光，非常有兴趣， 常常向我提起。直到今天，我才在网上得知“练习曲”的梗概。

练习曲让文蕾好奇台湾风光；它却让我想起在交大骑脚踏车的日子。

在交大四年，一共换了四辆车子。每一次都是始于喜滋滋的从新竹市区车店买了自认为划算的靓旧车， 而终于收假回来，在清大车棚遍寻伊车不着，最后只好自认晦气。但是我与每辆爱车短暂肌肤相亲的日子中，有着我俩一同追逐风，追逐太阳的痛快和豪迈： 我时常骑车去南寮鱼港看海； 我闯荡新竹乡间，山中。竹东，關西，新豐，新埔，寶山，新埔 都有我和铁马的身影。有时和三五好友骑， 更多时候是自己孤独的骑。最远骑到桃园石门水库。可惜，我没有骑回板桥家中，也没有环岛， 深引为憾。

我喜欢在地图上选定目标，或是小瀑布；或是一座桥，然后我和我的马子(铁马)一同征服它。理由是没有的，要的只是一个爽。我喜欢从交清小径一溜而下，穿过清华，一路滑行回到博爱校区， 享受穿梭在风中的感觉。 但我最爱逆游而上，死命踩踏板， 与公车比快。 到达光复校区时，酸胀的双腿是我心中唐吉珂德式的骄傲。

难忘我的马子们和与她们在一起的日子--我的脚踏车岁月。

Subject-Object dualism

Back to some paragraphs in ZAMM I read in toilet. It examines subject-object relationship.

I think the basic fault that underlies the problem of stuckness is traditional rationality's insistence upon "objectivity," a doctrine that there is a divided reality of subject and object. For true science to take place these must be rigidly separate from each other. "You are the mechanic. There is the motorcycle. You are forever apart from one another. You do this to it. You do that to it. These will be the results."

These eternally dualistic subject-object way of approaching the motorcycle sounds right to us because we are used to it. But it is not right. It has always been an artificial interpretation superimposed on reality. It has never been reality itself. When this duality is completely accepted , a certain non-individual relationship between the mechanic and motorcycle, a craftsman-life feeling for the work, is destroyed. When traditional rationality divides the world into subjects and objects it shuts out Quality, and when are you really stuck, it is Quality, not any subjects or objects, that tells you where you ought to go.

Develop a feeling about the work you are working on. Inject emotions upon it if you could. Love it or hate it. Gradually and slowly, a bud of Quality grows out from the work you work on. Lot of examples, PERL is one.

Kaiser Rolls

Today, I made Kaiser Rolls, and the result was successful. Wenlei immediately finished one and gave me a warm kiss afterwards. No word is needed.









Here is the recipe:

• Bread Profile:Enriched, standard dough; indirect method; commercial yeast.
• Days to Make: 2
• Day 1: 1 1/4 hours for pate fermentee
• Day 2: 1 hour to de-chill pate fermentee; 10 to 15 minutes kneading; 3 1/2 to 4 hours fermentation, shaping, and proofing; 15 to 30 minutes baking.
• Commentary: I use knotting roll design, direct dough without malt syrup. It turns out to be just fine. Indirect dough could be more tasty.
  

The distinguishing characteristic of a kaiser roll is the start pattern on the top and a thin, slightly crisp crust that yields to the first bite and crumbles deliciously in the mouth around whatever sandwich filling it holds.

Ingredients : for making 6 large rolls or 9 small rolls

• Pate fermentee: 1 1/2 cups
• Bread flour: 2 1/4 coups
• Salt: 3/4 teaspoon
• Malt syrup: 1 1/2 teaspoons
• Instant yeast: 1 teaspoon
• Egg: 1 large
• Oil: 1 1/2 tablespoon
• Water (lukewarm): 3/4 cup

Steps:

1. Take the pate fermentee out of the refrigerator 1 hour before making the dough. Cut it up into about 10 small pieces. Cover it with a towel or plastic wrap and let sit for 1 hour to take off the chill.
   
2. Stir together the flour, salt, malt, and yeast in a bowl. Add the pate fermentee, egg, oil and water. Stir for 1 minute, or until the ingredient form a ball. Add water if there is still loose flour.
   
3. Lightly dust the counter with flour, transfer the dough to the counter, and begin kneading. Knead for about 10 minute, adding flour, if needed, to make a dough that is soft and supple, tacky but not sticky. The dough should pass the windowpane test. Lightly oil a large bowl and transfer the dough to the bowl, rolling it to coat it with the oil. Cover the bowl with plastic wrap.
   
4. Ferment at room temperature for 2 hours, or until the dough double in size. If the dough double in size before 2 hours have elapsed, remove it, knead it slightly to degas it, and return it to the bowl to continue fermenting until doubled from original size or until 2 hours have elapsed.
   
5. Remove the dough from the bowl and divide it into 6 or 9 rolls. Mist the rounds lightly with spray oil, cover with a towel or plastic wrap, and let the dough relax for 10 minutes.
   
6. Prepare the individual rolls by the knotting technique.
   
7. Proof the rolls for 45 minutes at room temperature, then flip them upside-down. Mist again with spray oil, cover the pan, and continue proof for another 30 to 45 minutes, or until the rolls are double their original size.
   
8. Preheat the oven to 425F with the oven rack on the middle shelf. Uncover the rolls and prepare them for baking. Mist rolls with water and sprinkle sesame seeds over the top.
   
9. Place the pan in the oven, spray the oven walls with water, and close the door. After 10 minutes, rotate the pan for even baking and lower the oven temperature to 400F. Continue baking until the rolls are a medium golden brown. This will take 15 to 30 minutes for large rolls, or less for smaller rolls.
   
10. Remove the rolls from the pan, and cool them down for at least 30 minutes.
    

Steam Injection and Crust

The breads I made are rustic and their crust is thick. I think it is due to the baking time.
The longer I baked, the thicker the crust became. However, if I paint the dough with water just before baking it, the water may form a coat of steam around the dough. The steam may help lower down the temperature, therefore the crust could be thin even though the baking time is the same.

I learned that professional ovens come with mist injection devices in order to make good quality crust. I think it is based on the same principle. Home-oven does not have the luxury of steam injection. I hope water painting skill I imagine could do the same effect. I will try it out next time I make breads.

Dullness and Quality

I am now re-reading Robert Pirsig's ZAMM without any specific order whenever I am in toilet. Here are some paragraphs I read this morning. ( Very strange, I read best when I am in toilet. This is a habit since my youth. )

"Or if he take whatever dull jobs he is stuck with--and they are all, sooner or later, dull--and, just to keep himself amused, starts to look for options of Quality, and secretly pursues these options, just for their own sake, thus making an art out of what he is doing, he is likely to discover that he becomes a much more interesting person and much less of an object to the people around him because his Quality decisions change him too. And not only the job and him, but others too because Quality tends to fan out like waves. The Quality job he did not think anyone was going to see is seen, and the person who sees it feels a little better because of it, and is likely to pass that feeling on to others, and in that way the Quality tends to keep on going."

Indeed, from my personal experience, Quality usually grows out from Dullness. Dullness frees up our minds, hence our brains could think of Quality when they are free from forms. That is why meditation is done in such a way. I particularly like the phrase ".. and they are all, sooner or later..", which is very true in this world. The question is that when it becomes dull, what can you do about it? The way you handle it determines your Quality.

What is good; what is bad? Hard to tell !

The title concludes my thoughts regarding the film, Quills. It also represents my attitude towards this world.

The movie, Quills, was inspired by the stories of Marquis de Sade, who was an atheist, an extreme freedom philosopher and a very controversial erotic writer. The English word, sadism, is derived from his name.

The brief plot of the movie goes on like this:

Marquis was prisoned in a madmen asylum overseen by a liberal Abbe. To cure Marquis, the Abbe encouraged him to write. With helps from a chambermaid, Madeleine, Marquis's stories leaked out and got published. His erotic stories became popular among people and the infamous popularity soon called for misfortunes. Emperor Napolean banned Marquis's stories and dispatched Dr. Royer Collard to tighten the administration of the asylum. That is where the movie begins its own story. With each of Marquis's fightings to write, the policy was further tightened and more misfortunes happened. The movie ends with the death of Madeleine, Simone's turn into a prostitute from an innocent angel, the Abbe's self-destruction into madness and Marquis's final relief.

In the story, there are several contrast characters -- Dr. Royer Collard and Marquis; Madeleine and Dr's young, superficially virginal wife, Simone. The Abbe himself also contrasts to Marquis, who does not believe in God.

Dr. Collad and Marquis stand on the two ends of spectrum in moral, at least, on the surface. Marquis never pretends to be a Saint. He is not shamed of being a libertine and an atheist. He is whom he claims to be. Dr. Collad, on the contrary, is a beast with a human-being's form, an evil with moral's outfit. He is a cruel old man who has no pity with other people. It was he that cruelly locked the cell's door while he knew that Madeleine was in danger inside. Marquis , in another cell, bursted in tears for being unable to save her. Who is moral in front of God, if there is one?

Madeleine assisted Marquis to spread his stories. She helped other patients in the asylum. She secretly loves the Abbe. She likes marquis's erotic stories. She said that "I imagined to play a part in those dirty stories so I could be a good girl in this real world". And, she died as a virgin. Madeleine is like a virginal lotus out from a dirty pond.

Unlike Madeleine, Simone was raised up in a church and received good education. She did not know of any earthly thing before marrying to Dr. Collad. She reads Marquis's stories, and before long, she seduced other man and indulged in lust.

Both Madeleine and Simone read same stories and why did they behave so differently? Who should be blamed, the reader Simone or the author Marquis? Why does looking-good thing turn bad and looking-bad thing good? After all, Marquis said that he only 'records' what truly happened. Why are people so weak in oppose to the truth? Otherwise, how can we explain the Abbe's final madness? Perhaps that is why Marquis chose to be an atheist since he has seen the hell.

Indeed, it is so difficult to tell what is good and what is bad in this world.

Example of Economic Hit Man

This is a contemporary example of Economic Hit Man.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=9642196

--
--peter
http://lishihwei.googlepages.com/home

Slaughterhouse-Five

Kurt Vonnegut passed away last night. This was the news being broadcasted on NPR when the radio alarm waked me at 7:30 AM. I knew Vonnegut, but I thought he was dead long time ago. I did not realize he was a living icon until he now is surely dead.

To be precise, I don't know Vonnegut himself, but his masterpiece, Slaughterhouse-Five. To be more precise, I forget about the content of the novel, but keep all memories associated with it. They happened in that hot and humid summer in 1992; they happened when I liked one girl very much. In 1992, during the summer, I stayed at school and took Japanese 101 in the neighboring QingHua U. since that girl also took the class. To see her is my only motivation to take the course. I thought that I may have a chance to chat with her after the class on the way back to Chiao-Tung U.

Days in and days out. My Japanese and other things (I took other classes, too) improved a lot except my relationship with her. She was still like a dove which always kept a safe distance from me, and I was just too shy to say anything beyond "Hello. It is so hot today." A dumb conversation easily choked a budding love affair. I was troubled by this situation very much, but just did not know how to fix it.

To attend Japanese 101, I had to pass by a big white building in Qing-Hua U., and I was very curious about that building. One day, in order to expel my sorrow, I decided to visit it. It was the main library. Comparing to the one in Chiao-Tung, this library contains much more novels--the fine, contemporary but classical ones. Slaughterhouse-Five is among them. For the rest of the vacation, I constantly visited the library during weekends. I picked up a looking-good novel, took a table close to the window, dived into the novel and forgot about the girl.

I now can't fully recall what Slaughterhouse-Five is about, but all memories associated with the book in that hot summer in 1992 come back to me as vivid as they just happened yesterday.

秋游波城

秋游波城 2001文蕾作

深秋枫正红，携家波城游。
久闻哈佛名，直奔剑桥头。
红叶映新骄，旧舍叙史悠。
踊摸铜像足，愿得子孙优。
又行查理河，垂柳拂岸秀。
两校依水立，严谨数麻工。
漫步自由道，细述自由说。
兴尽披霞归，友人烧烤候。
美酒伴佳肴，喜极展歌喉。
畅谈陈年趣，不知夜已旧。
当即许好友，它日再来游。

Homemade Bread

Recently, I developed my own philosophy of craftsmanship and I decided to apply it. Artisan bread is one of things I can contribute to.

The result is quite successful. The bread tastes great under the cherry blossoms. Here is my secret for its quality:

• 3 1/3 cups of flour, 1 1/2+ cup of warm water, 2 teaspoon of salt and 1/4 teaspoon of instant active yeast.
• Mix all of them together, roughly kneading into a shaggy ball.
• Rest the ball for 10-15 minutes.
• Kneading the ball for another 10-15 minutes until it becomes smooth.
• Pre-heat the oven to 'warm' level. Put the mass into a big mix bowl covered with a wet sheet of paper-tower. Put the bowl in the oven for rising.
  
• Leave it in the oven for 8 hours.
• On a well-floured surface, roll the flour mass and cut it into four balls. Each of balls can be stuffed with minced garlic.
  
• Pre-heat the oven for 420 F.
• Put the balls into the oven for 40 minutes.
  

The reason why resting the mass for 10-15 minutes is to let the fabric of flour reorganize themselves. This is what I learned from the book. It speeds up the whole process, then reduces the number of kneading, then reduces the exposed surface to oxygen, and therefore, increases the flavor of the bread. Raising in the oven is my idea. Oven is a perfect place for raising since it is a closed environment with controllable temperature setting. The ideal temperature is 70-80F and that is why I preheat the oven with 'warm' setting. Holes in bread is a key to a successful bread. The more holes the bread has; the softer the bread is. The number of holes depends on the degree of raising. That is why I chose to use instant yeast and 8-hour duration for raising. Moisture also directly contributes to the softness of bread. More water during the mixing stage makes softer bread. Bake the bread in high temperature first, and the hardened surface of the bread encapsulates water inside.

Xiao Tian tossed on the bed and could not sleep, so he got up and wandered along the beach. It was a clear night. Moonlight sprinkled down from the sky. Xiao Tian just enjoyed the romantic atmosphere around the lake.

Suddenly, the moonlight disappeared. Before Xiao Tian understood what happened, he first realized that he was in the air! It turned out that a big Eagle can't sleep either, so he flew out and seek his prey. (If Xiao Tian remained on the bed, he could avoid this disaster. However, he also missed the chance of adventures if he have done so! Of course, I won't tell Anbo the last part.)

The Eagle brought Xiao Tian back to his nest. There are several hungry baby eagles. They pecked Xiao Tian. Poor Xiao Tian was thrilled. He backed up and up, eventually he dropped out of the nest and fell into a very deep valley. It is so deep that the bottom can't be seen.

Before reaching the bottom, Xiao Tian fainted due to scary. Before long, Xiao Tian was awakened by a small read wild horse. The little horse soon befriended with Xiao Tian. He took Xiao Tian back to his tribe -- a herd of 40 or so wild horses.

Xiao Tian was hungry and wanted to do fishing, so he made a leave-boat. He sailed out and the little horse swam beside him. The lake was so clean that the beautiful under-water scene attracted Xiao Tian. Therefore, under the little horse's encouragement, Xiao Tian overcame his fear and learned how to swim. And Xiao Tian succeeded ! While enjoying being surrounded by cool water, Xiao Tian saw two mermaids swam toward hims. They invited Xiao Tian to their palace. Riding on the back of the little horse, Xiao Tian swam behind the two mermaids for the palace.

Confessions of an Economic Hit Man

I am quite happy that I can now read faster and faster in English. I finished John Perkins' Confessions of an Economic Hit Man in two days. There are two reasons why I could finish the book fast: the book itself is easy to read and I consciously practice the principles of "How to read a book".

Recently, Chinatimes translated and published a book titled "经济杀手的告白“。Chinatimes put the first chapter on line. After skimming the chapter, I assessed the book would help me understanding better what is going on in this world. So, I borrowed the book from our local library and started reading it. I was not disappointed. The book answered many questions. However many more questions are not answered. I hope Arnold J. Toynbee can help me finding them.

What is the common part between writing software, baking bread, and making furnitures? Crafting would be my answer and quality would be the goal of these activities.

After seeking for so many years, I finally realize what I was pursuing, why I was not satisfied, and what I want to be. A craftsman.

Next day, the Elephant felt much better when he waked. It must be due to Xiao Tian's medicine. The elephant thanked Xiao Tian. The elephant lead all of them to a cool spring water nearby. After drinking delicious spring water, everyone felt refreshed.

The elephant invited Xiao Tian and his father to ride on him. They wandered on the savanna. On the elephant's back, they saw lots of animals on the grass field. There are lions, zebras and horses. Suddenly, animals looked scared and ran away. Before long, the sun disappeared, too. A huge shadow fall upon them. Xiao Tian and his father did not have faintest idea what was going on. The elephant urged them to hold tight since he is going to run away from the flying fire-dragon, Dilon.

The fire balls, from Dilon, almost hit them. Finally, the elephant successfully escaped from Dilon and hide in a narrow cave. Dilon waited outside of the cave and looked angry. In the cave, the elephant told Xiao Tian about Dilon's story -- why and how Dilon turned into an ugly fire dragon from a naughty and bad-tempered boy.

Outside of the cave, Dilon outcried. After the story, Xiao Tian paid his sympathy to Dilon. Both the elephant and Xiao Tian's father thought it is a stupid idea to feel sorry for Dilon. After all, Dilon suffered from what he deserved. Xiao Tian is a good boy and he thought everyone can be changed. He decided to give it a try tomorrow.

At night, Xiao Tian, his father and the elephant slept in the cave while Dilon still waited outside.

Xiao Tian, accompanied by Pink Pig and Grandpa Grasshopper, finally found his father. His father and mother were just back from sailing. On the boat, the father introduced Xiao Tian every level including the deck. In the refrigerator, there were a huge octopus and a big shark. The father told Xiao Tian how he caught these two monsters.

On the deck, the father invited Xiao Tian to fly with him in a small airplane. In the air, both of them saw a poor elephant fainting on a small island. Xiao Tian wants to save the poor one, but his father feared to death and did not want to go. Xiao Tian educated his father that all poor ones are worthy to be saved no matter how they look.

Reluctantly, Xiao Tian's father landed the plane and Xiao Tian rushed to the fainted elephant. The poor one was crying. Xiao Tian checked the elephant, found the problem, and cured him. At night, they camped by the elephant.

Our family had a long trip to Centreville, MD yesterday. We visited there to see the model house and Wenlei liked the model house.

On the way to the Centreville, we went through the Bay Bridge. The blue sky, the sunshine and the reflections of the ocean waves made me feel I was driving in San Francisco, California. Therefore, I had a good mood and driving was enjoyable. It would be better if there are few vineyards there, too. There might have, but I have to find out.

There is one thing special about this trip -- everyone got what he or she likes. Wenlei saw the house, I enjoyed the beautiful scene, and Anbo found his dreamy horses in the farms in Centreville.

It was certainly a nice trip. After all, if a trip, in which everyone got what he or she likes, can't be a nice trip, what else trip can be?

We had our dinner in Prena Bread in Germantown, MD. The pizza there was excellent. I would exclaim it was the best one I've ever had. The nice dinner concluded our nice trip.

Having a peaceful mind seems the only way to realize quality in our work -- no matter the work is to maintain a motorcycle, to design a software system, or to draw a picture.

In the latest episode of "殷媛小聚"，蒋勋 introduced a water-ink landscape drawing, 秋江渔父图，by 许道宁 in Song dynasty. He explains that the drawing is excellent because it merges the outside scene with the inward mood. Depending on viewer's mood, the picture unveils different details. A peaceful mind is needed by the drawer as well as by the viewer. An absent-minded viewer sees nothing but mountains and waters; however, a careful one sees that the painting is not about waters and lands, but about secrets of life and death.


--
--peter
http://lishihwei.googlepages.com/home

I finished last chapters of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" on the flight back to U.S. This is a deep book -- you can read it many times and still learn new things each time.

To me, the most important chapters are 24, 25 and 26. The most important message I got is "Quality is a result of the peace of a mind".

2007 春联

海棠红，玉兰香，怀先父悉心照料。
千山路，万里归，携子孙旺业兴家。

文蕾 作

林红与友

重庆解放碑有一抄手达人，食客林红偕友夜访于不期。店未开，人未至。闻达人居陋巷， 巷深窄而黑无灯。为抄手，二人摸至达人居所。达人在寝。二人央求抄手于达人不依不饶。达人无奈，起而作抄手。食罢，二人归。吾闻之，但觉快意，二女子所为任性痛快而率真，颇具我辈之风， 可入吾食客列传。

就是开阿

What will you think, when you see the four Chinese words---"就是开阿"? Will you associate them with someone's name? Perhaps not, if you know Chinese. The direct translation of the four words is "Just open it!".

But, it indeed is someone's Chinese name. 就是开阿 looks like an Africa-American, about 45-year old, around 5-feet and 3-inch tall, a little bit overweighted, and is probably crazy about Chinese culture. 就是开阿's English name is Joseph Tahar. I knew all of these because my dear fellow, Joseph, was standing in front of me in the lobby of National Aqurarium at Baltimore. Joseph preciously hold a painting and the four Chinese words, in Chinese calligraphy, dominated the major part of the painting. Two nicely-drawn Chinese golden dragons surrounded the four Chinese words, and Joseph Tahar, written in smaller and artistic calligraphy, floats above 就是开阿. Overall, the painting looks very nice if you forgo the meaning of those four chinese words.

Joseph bought the painting for that four little chinese words. He must know that those four little words represent his Chinese name. I guess that the artist painted Joseph's Chinese name after Joseph told the artist his English name because the pronunciations of Joseph Tahar and 就是开阿 sound alike. Joseph hold the painting so preciously that he probably will hang the painting in the best spot in his house. I sincerely hope he has no Chinese friends, otherwise, I worry his love towards Chinese culture will be blown away by his Chinese friends' laughs.

The author of the painting played a cruel naming joke on my poor fellow, Joseph. However, I have to admit that the artist did it excellently since I can't forget 就是开阿's English name!

Took Anbo to National Zoo

We took Anbo to National Zoo last Sunday (Dec/31/06). That was the third time Anbo visited the zoo. In the previous visits, Anbo was not very interested in animals. Most of time, he sucked
his thumb and stared at animals blankly. It was different this time. Anbo watched animals with great interests---his face flushed and he shouted excitingly when he saw cute ones, such as otters, giant panda and apes.

Anbo liked apes most. We visited the apes hall in the last minute. By the time we entered the hall, most of apes already finished their dinner. They just lay down; none of them were playing.
Those apes seemed like to lie close to windows, through which we watched them. There was a black Chimpanzee, who lay down by the window and lazily scratch his armpit. Anbo watched the chimpanzee scratching, giggled and said, "He is so cute !" At that moment, I felt my son is the cutest animal in the world.
--
--peter
http://lishihwei.googlepages.com/home

My Father's Suitcase


The following article from New Yorker is another good article about one's father. I read it and like it a lot.


MY FATHER’S SUITCASE
by ORHAN PAMUK
The Nobel Lecture, 2006.
Issue of 2006-12-25 and 2007-01-01
Posted 2006-12-18

Two years before my father died, he gave me a small suitcase filled with his manuscripts and notebooks. Assuming his usual jocular, mocking air, he told me that he wanted me to read them after he was gone, by which he meant after his death.

“Just take a look,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “See if there’s anything in there that you can use. Maybe after I’m gone you can make a selection and publish it.”

We were in my study, surrounded by books. My father was searching for a place to set down the suitcase, wandering around like a man who wished to rid himself of a painful burden. In the end, he deposited it quietly, unobtrusively, in a corner. It was a shaming moment that neither of us ever quite forgot, but once it had passed and we had gone back to our usual roles, taking life lightly, we relaxed. We talked as we always did—about trivial, everyday things, and Turkey’s never-ending political troubles, and my father’s mostly failed business ventures—without feeling too much sorrow.

For several days after that, I walked back and forth past the suitcase without ever actually touching it. I was already familiar with this small black leather case, with a lock and rounded corners. When I was a child, my father had taken it with him on short trips and had sometimes used it to carry documents to work. Whenever he came home from a trip, I’d rush to open this little suitcase and rummage through his things, savoring the scent of cologne and foreign countries. The suitcase was a friend, a powerful reminder of my past, but now I couldn’t even touch it. Why? No doubt because of the mysterious weight of its contents.

I am now going to speak of the meaning of that weight: that weight is what a person creates when he shuts himself up in a room and sits down at a table or retires to a corner to express his thoughts—that is, the weight of literature.

When I did finally touch my father’s suitcase, I still could not bring myself to open it. But I knew what was inside some of the notebooks it held. I had seen my father writing in them. My father had a large library. In his youth, in the late nineteen-forties, he had wanted to be an Istanbul poet, and had translated Valéry into Turkish, but he had not wanted to live the sort of life that came with writing poetry in a poor country where there were few readers. My father’s father—my grandfather—was a wealthy businessman, and my father had led a comfortable life as a child and a young man; he had no wish to endure hardship for the sake of literature, for writing. He loved life with all its beauties: this I understood.

The first thing that kept me away from my father’s suitcase was, of course, a fear that I might not like what I read. Because my father understood this, too, he had taken the precaution of acting as if he did not take the contents of the case seriously. By this time, I had been working as a writer for twenty-five years, and his failure to take literature seriously pained me. But that was not what worried me most: my real fear—the crucial thing that I did not wish to discover—was that my father might be a good writer. If true and great literature emerged from my father’s suitcase, I would have to acknowledge that inside my father there existed a man who was entirely different from the one I knew. This was a frightening possibility. Even at my advanced age, I wanted my father to be my father and my father only—not a writer.

A writer is someone who spends years patiently trying to discover the second being inside him, and the world that makes him who he is. When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man—or this woman—may use a typewriter, or profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I do. As he writes, he may drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time, he may rise from his table to look out the window at the children playing in the street, or, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or even at a black wall. He may write poems, or plays, or novels, as I do. But all these differences arise only after the crucial task is complete—after he has sat down at the table and patiently turned inward. To write is to transform that inward gaze into words, to study the worlds into which we pass when we retire into ourselves, and to do so with patience, obstinacy, and joy.

As I sit at my table, for days, months, years, slowly adding words to empty pages, I feel as if I were bringing into being that other person inside me, in the same way that one might build a bridge or a dome, stone by stone. As we hold words in our hands, like stones, sensing the ways in which each is connected to the others, looking at them sometimes from afar, sometimes from very close, caressing them with our fingers and the tips of our pens, weighing them, moving them around, year in and year out, patiently and hopefully, we create new worlds.

The writer’s secret is not inspiration—for it is never clear where that comes from—but stubbornness, endurance. The lovely Turkish expression “to dig a well with a needle” seems to me to have been invented with writers in mind. In the old stories, I love the patience of Ferhat, who digs through mountains for his love—and I understand it, too. When I wrote, in my novel “My Name Is Red,” about the old Persian miniaturists who drew the same horse with the same passion for years and years, memorizing each stroke, until they could re-create that beautiful horse even with their eyes closed, I knew that I was talking about the writing profession, and about my own life. If a writer is to tell his own story—to tell it slowly, and as if it were a story about other people—if he is to feel the power of the story rise up inside him, if he is to sit down at a table and give himself over to this art, this craft, he must first be given some hope. The angel of inspiration (who pays regular visits to some and rarely calls on others) favors the hopeful and the confident, and it is when a writer feels most lonely, when he feels most doubtful about his efforts, his dreams, and the value of his writing, when he thinks that his story is only his story—it is at such moments that the angel chooses to reveal to him the images and dreams that will draw out the world he wishes to build. If I think back on the books to which I have devoted my life, I am most surprised by those moments when I felt as if the sentences and pages that made me ecstatically happy came not from my own imagination but from another power, which had found them and generously presented them to me.

I was afraid of opening my father’s suitcase and reading his notebooks because I knew that he would never have tolerated the difficulties that I had tolerated, that it was not solitude he loved but mixing with friends, crowds, company. Still, later my thoughts took a different turn. These dreams of renunciation and patience, it occurred to me, were prejudices that I had derived from my own life and my own experience as a writer. There were plenty of brilliant writers who wrote amid crowds and family, in the glow of company and happy chatter. In addition, even my father had, at some point, tired of the monotony of family life and left for Paris, where—like so many writers—he had sat in a hotel room filling notebooks. I knew that some of those very notebooks were in the suitcase, because, during the years before he brought me the case, he had finally begun to talk about that period in his life. He had spoken about those years when I was a child, but he had never discussed his vulnerabilities, his dreams of becoming a writer, or the questions of identity that had plagued him in his Paris hotel room. He’d spoken instead of the times he’d seen Sartre on the sidewalks of Paris, of the books he’d read and the films he’d gone to, all with the elated sincerity of someone imparting important news.

When I became a writer, I knew that it was partly thanks to the fact that I had a father who spoke of world writers much more than he ever spoke of pashas or great religious leaders. So perhaps, I told myself, I would have to read my father’s notebooks with my gratitude in mind, remembering, too, how indebted I was to his large library. I would have to remember that, when he was living with us, my father, like me, enjoyed being alone with his books and his thoughts—and not pay too much attention to the literary quality of his writing. But as I gazed so anxiously at the suitcase he had bequeathed to me I also felt that this was the very thing I would not be able to do.

Sometimes my father would stretch out on a divan, abandon the book or the magazine in his hand, and drift off into a dream, losing himself for the longest time. When I saw this expression on his face, which was so different from the one he wore for the joking, teasing, and bickering of family life, when I saw the first signs of an inward gaze, I would understand, with trepidation, that he was discontented. Now, many years later, I understand that this discontent is the basic trait that turns a person into a writer. Patience and toil are not enough: first, we must feel compelled to escape crowds, company, the stuff of ordinary life, and shut ourselves up in a room. The precursor of this sort of independent writer—one who reads to his heart’s content, who, by listening only to the voice of his own conscience, disputes others’ words, and who, by entering into conversation with his books, develops his own thoughts and his own world—was surely Montaigne, in the earliest days of modern literature. Montaigne was a writer to whom my father returned often, a writer he recommended to me. I would like to see myself as belonging to the tradition of writers who—wherever they are in the world, East or West—cut themselves off from society and shut themselves up in their rooms with their books; this is the starting point of true literature.

But once we have shut ourselves away we soon discover that we are not as alone as we thought. We are in the company of the words of those who came before us, of other people’s stories, other people’s books—the thing we call tradition. I believe literature to be the most valuable tool that humanity has found in its quest to understand itself. Societies, tribes, and peoples grow more intelligent, richer, and more advanced as they pay attention to the troubled words of their authors—and, as we all know, the burning of books and the denigration of writers are both signs that dark and improvident times are upon us. But literature is never just a national concern. The writer who shuts himself up in a room and goes on a journey inside himself will, over the years, discover literature’s eternal rule: he must have the artistry to tell his own stories as if they were other people’s stories, and to tell other people’s stories as if they were his own, for that is what literature is.

My father had a good library, fifteen hundred volumes in all—more than enough for a writer. By the age of twenty-two, I had perhaps not read them all, but I was familiar with each book. I knew which were important, which were light and easy reading, which were classics, which an essential part of any education, which forgettable but amusing accounts of local history, and which French authors my father rated highly. Sometimes I would look at this library from a distance and imagine that one day, in a different house, I would build my own library, an even better library—build myself a world. When I looked at my father’s library from afar, it seemed to me to be a small picture of the real world. But this was a world seen from our own corner, from Istanbul. My father had built his library mostly on his trips abroad, with books from Paris and America, but he had also stocked it with books bought at Istanbul’s foreign-language bookshops in the forties and fifties.

In the seventies, I did begin, somewhat ambitiously, to build my own library. I had not quite decided to become a writer; as I related in my book “Istanbul,” I had come to suspect that I would not be a painter, as I had hoped, but I was not yet sure what path my life would take. There was inside me a relentless curiosity, a hope-driven desire to read and learn, but at the same time I felt that my life was in some way lacking, that I would not be able to live like others. Part of this feeling was connected to what I felt when I gazed at my father’s library: that I was living in the provinces, far from the center of things. This was a feeling I shared with everyone in Istanbul in those days. There was another reason for my anxiety: I knew only too well that I lived in a country that showed little interest in its artists—whether painters or writers—and offered them no hope. In the seventies, when I took the money my father gave me and greedily bought faded, dusty, dog-eared books from Istanbul’s old booksellers, I was as affected by the pitiable state of these secondhand bookstores—and by the despairing dishevelment of the poor, bedraggled booksellers, who laid out their wares at roadsides, in mosque courtyards, and in the niches of crumbling walls—as I was by their books.

As for my place in the world: in life, as in literature, I felt, fundamentally, that I was not “at the center.” At the center of the world, there was a life that was richer and more exciting than our own, and, like all of Istanbul, all of Turkey, I was outside it. In the same way, there was world literature, and its center was far away from me. Actually, what I had in mind then was Western, not world, literature, and we Turks were certainly outside it. My father’s library was evidence of this. At one end of the room, there were Istanbul’s books—our literature, our local world, in all its beloved detail—and at the other end were the books from this other, Western world, which bore no resemblance to ours, a lack of resemblance that caused us both pain and hope. To write, to read, was like leaving one world to find consolation in the otherness of another, in the strange and the wondrous. I felt that my father had read novels in order to escape his life and flee to the West—just as I did later.

Books in general, it seemed to me in those days, were what we picked up to escape our own culture, which we found wanting. And it wasn’t only by reading that we could leave our Istanbul lives and travel West; it was by writing, too. To fill those notebooks of his, my father had gone to Paris and shut himself up in a room, and then he had carried the notebooks back to Turkey. As I gazed at my father’s suitcase, it seemed to me that this was part of what was causing me disquiet: after working in a room, trying to survive as a writer in Turkey for twenty-five years, I was galled to see my father hide his deep thoughts in this suitcase, to see him act as if writing were work that had to be done in secret, far from the eyes of society, the state, the people. Perhaps this was the main reason that I felt angry at my father for not taking literature as seriously as I did.

In fact, I was angry at my father because he had not led a life like mine—because he had never quarrelled with his life, and had spent it happily laughing with his friends and his loved ones. But part of me also knew that I was not so much “angry” as “jealous,” that the second word was more accurate, and this, too, made me uneasy. I’d ask myself in a scornful, angry voice: What is happiness? Is happiness believing that you live a deep life in your lonely room? Or is happiness leading a comfortable life in society, believing in the same things as everyone else, or, at least, acting as if you did? Is it happiness or unhappiness to go through life writing in secret, while seeming to be in harmony with all that surrounds you?

But these were ill-tempered questions. Wherever had I got the idea that the most important measure of a good life was happiness? People, papers—everyone acted as if it were. Did this alone not suggest that it might be worth trying to find out if the opposite was true? After all, my father had run away from his family many times—how well did I know him, and how well could I say that I understood his disquiet?

So this was what was driving me when I first opened my father’s suitcase: Did my father have a secret, an unhappiness in his life that I knew nothing about, something that he could endure only by pouring it into his writing? As soon as I opened the suitcase, I recalled its scent of travel and recognized several notebooks that my father had shown me years earlier, though without dwelling on them for long. Most of the notebooks I now took in my hands he had filled when he was in Paris as a young man. Although, like so many writers I admired—writers whose biographies I had read—I wished to know what my father had written, and what he had thought, when he was the age I was now, it did not take me long to realize that I would find nothing like that here. What disturbed me most was when, now and again, in my father’s notebooks, I came upon a writerly voice. This was not my father’s voice, I told myself; it wasn’t authentic, or, at least, it didn’t belong to the man I’d known as my father. Beneath my fear that my father might not have been my father when he wrote was a more profound fear: the fear that, deep inside, I was not authentic. If I found nothing good in my father’s writing, if I found him to have been overly influenced by other writers, I would be plunged into the despair that had afflicted me so strongly when I was young, casting my life, my very being, my desire to write, and my work into question. During my first ten years as a writer, I had felt these anxieties keenly, and, even as I battled them, I had feared that one day I would have to admit defeat—just as I had done with painting—and give up writing as well.

So these were the two things I felt as I closed my father’s suitcase and put it away: a sense of being marooned in the provinces, and a fear that I lacked authenticity. For years, I had, in my reading and my writing, been discovering, studying, and deepening these emotions, in all their variety and their unintended consequences, their nerve endings, their triggers, and their many colors. Certainly my spirits had been jarred by the confusions, the sensitivities, and the fleeting pains that life and books had sprung on me, especially as a young man. But it was only by writing books that I came to a fuller understanding of the problems of authenticity (in “My Name Is Red” and “The Black Book”) and the problems of life on the periphery (in “Snow” and “Istanbul”). For me, to be a writer is to acknowledge the secret wounds that we carry inside us, wounds so secret that we ourselves are barely aware of them, and to patiently explore them, know them, illuminate them, own them, and make them a conscious part of our spirit and our writing.

A writer talks of things that we all know but do not know that we know. To explore this knowledge, and to watch it grow, is a pleasurable thing; the reader visits a world that is at once familiar and miraculous. When a writer uses his secret wounds as his starting point, he is, whether he is aware of it or not, putting great faith in humanity. My confidence comes from the belief that all human beings resemble one another, that others carry wounds like mine—and that they will therefore understand. All true literature rises from this childish, hopeful certainty that we resemble one another. When a writer shuts himself up in a room for years on end, with this gesture he suggests a single humanity, a world without a center.

But, as can be seen from my father’s suitcase and the pale colors of our lives in Istanbul, the world did have a center, and it was far away from us. I know from experience that the great majority of people on this earth live with the same feeling of inauthenticity and Chekhovian provinciality, and that many suffer from an even deeper sense of insufficiency, insecurity, and degradation than I do. Yes, the greatest dilemmas facing humanity are still landlessness, homelessness, and hunger . . . but today our televisions and newspapers tell us about these fundamental problems more quickly and more simply than literature ever could. What literature most needs to tell and to investigate now is humanity’s basic fears: the fear of being left outside, the fear of counting for nothing, and the feeling of worthlessness that comes with such fears—the collective humiliations, vulnerabilities, slights, grievances, sensitivities, and imagined insults, and the nationalist boasts and inflations that are their next of kin. . . . Whenever I am confronted by such sentiments, and by the irrational, overstated language in which they are usually expressed, I know that they touch on a darkness inside me. We have often witnessed peoples, societies, and nations outside the Western world—and I can identify with them easily—succumbing to fears that lead them to commit stupid acts. I also know that in the West—a world with which I can identify just as easily—nations and peoples that take an excessive pride in their wealth, and in their glory at having brought us the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and modernism, have, from time to time, succumbed to a self-satisfaction that is almost as stupid.

So my father was not the only one: we all give too much importance to the idea of a world with a center. Whereas the impulse that compels us to shut ourselves up in our rooms to write for years on end is a faith in the opposite, the belief that one day our writings will be read and understood, because people the world over resemble one another. This, as I know from my own and my father’s writing, is a troubled optimism, scarred by the anger of being consigned to the margins. The love and hate that Dostoyevsky felt toward the West all his life—I have felt this, too, on many occasions. But if I have grasped an essential truth, if I have cause for optimism, it is because I have travelled with this great writer through his love-hate relationship with the West and I have beheld the world that he built on the other side.

All writers who have devoted their lives to their work know this reality: whatever our original purpose, the world that we create after years and years of hopeful writing will, in the end, take us to other, very different places. It will take us far from the table at which we have worked in sadness or in anger; it will take us to the other side of that sadness and anger, into another world. Could my father not have reached such a world himself? Like the land that slowly begins to take shape, rising from the mist in its many colors like an island spied after a long sea journey, this other world enchants us. We are as beguiled as the Western travellers who voyaged from the south to behold Istanbul rising from the mist. At the end of a journey begun in hope and curiosity, there lies before us a city of mosques and minarets, a medley of houses, streets, hills, bridges, and slopes—an entire world. Seeing this world, we wish to enter it and lose ourselves in it, just as we might in a book. After sitting down to write because we felt provincial, excluded, marginalized, angry, or deeply melancholic, we have found an entire world beyond these sentiments.

What I feel now is the opposite of what I felt as a child and a young man: for me, the center of the world is Istanbul. This is not just because I have lived there all my life but because, for the past thirty-three years, I have been narrating its streets, its bridges, its people, its dogs, its houses, its mosques, its fountains, its strange heroes, its shops, its famous characters, its dark spots, its days, and its nights, making them a part of me, embracing them all. A point arrived when this world that I had made with my own hands, this world that existed only in my head, was more real to me than the city in which I actually lived. That was when all these people and streets, objects and buildings seemed to begin to talk among themselves, interacting in ways that I had not anticipated, as if they lived not just in my imagination or my books but for themselves. This world that I had created, like a man digging a well with a needle, then seemed truer than anything else.

As I gazed at my father’s suitcase, it occurred to me that he might also have discovered this kind of happiness in the years he spent writing. I should not prejudge him. I was so grateful to him, after all. He had never been a commanding, forbidding, overpowering, punishing, ordinary father. He had always left me free, always showed me the utmost respect. I had often thought that if I had, from time to time, been able to draw on my imagination, whether in freedom or in childishness, it was because, unlike so many of my friends from childhood and youth, I had no fear of my father. On some deeper level, I was able to become a writer because my father, in his youth, had also wished to be one. I would have to read him with tolerance—to seek to understand what he had written in those hotel rooms.

It was with these hopeful thoughts that I walked over to the suitcase, which was still sitting where my father had left it. Using all my will power, I read through a few manuscripts and notebooks. What had my father written about? I recall a few views from the windows of Paris hotels, a few poems, paradoxes, analyses. . . . As I write, I feel like someone who has just been in a traffic accident and is struggling to remember how it happened, while at the same time dreading the prospect of remembering too much. When I was a child, and my father and mother were on the brink of a quarrel—when they fell into one of their deadly silences—my father would turn on the radio, to change the mood, and the music would help us forget it all faster.

So let me change the mood with a few sweet words that will, I hope, serve as well as that music. The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is: Why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can’t do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but—as in a dream—can’t quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy.

A week after he came to my office and left me his suitcase, my father paid me another visit; as always, he brought me a bar of chocolate (he had forgotten that I was forty-eight years old). As always, we chatted and laughed about life, politics, and family gossip. A moment arrived when my father’s gaze drifted to the corner where he had left his suitcase, and he saw that I had moved it. We looked each other in the eye. There followed a pressing silence. I did not tell him that I had opened the suitcase and tried to read its contents; instead, I looked away. But he understood. Just as I understood that he had understood. Just as he understood that I had understood that he had understood. But all this understanding went only as far as it could go in a few seconds. Because my father was a happy, easygoing man who had faith in himself, he smiled at me the way he always did. And, as he left the house, he repeated all the lovely and encouraging things he always said to me, like a father.

As always, I watched him leave, envying his happiness, his carefree and unflappable temperament. But I remember that on that day there was also a flash of joy inside me that made me ashamed. It was prompted by the thought that maybe I wasn’t as comfortable in life as he was, maybe I had not led as happy or footloose a life as he had, but at least I had devoted mine to writing. You understand . . . I was ashamed to be thinking such things at my father’s expense—of all people, my father, who had never been a source of pain to me, who had left me free. All this should remind us that writing and literature are intimately linked to a void at the center of our lives, to our feelings of happiness and guilt.

But my story has a symmetry that immediately reminded me of something else that day, bringing with it an even deeper sense of guilt. Twenty-three years before my father left me his suitcase, and four years after I had decided, at the age of twenty-two, to become a novelist, and, abandoning all else, shut myself up in a room, I finished my first novel, “Cevdet Bey and His Sons.” With trembling hands, I gave my father a typescript of the still unpublished novel, so that he could read it and tell me what he thought. I did this not only because I had confidence in his taste and his intellect; his opinion was very important to me because, unlike my mother, he had not opposed my wish to become a writer. At that point, my father was not with us, but far away. I waited impatiently for his return. When he arrived, two weeks later, I ran to open the door. My father said nothing, but he immediately threw his arms around me in a way that told me he had liked the book very much. For a while, we were plunged into the sort of awkward silence that often accompanies moments of great emotion. Then, when we had calmed down and begun to talk, my father resorted to highly charged and exaggerated language to express his confidence in me and in my first novel: he told me that one day I would win the prize that I have now received with such great happiness. He said this not because he was trying to convince me of his good opinion or to set the prize as a goal; he said it like a Turkish father, supporting his son, encouraging him by saying, “One day you’ll be a pasha!” For years, whenever he saw me, he would encourage me with the same words.

My father died in December, 2002.

(© The Nobel Foundation, 2006. Translated, from the Turkish, by Maureen Freely.)

Good books list

I believe that reading good books opens one's eyes and deepens one's mind.

"How to read a book" says that good books are normally verreadable since authors wrote those books for ordinary people. I realized it is true when I read Milton Friendman's "Capticalism and Freedom".

I eager to digest more good books. Here are a list of good books people recommended:

• 100 best books from National Review


• The Hundred Most Influential Books Since the War (TLS)

I envy the ones who can thnk well, and always want to be one of them. Reading lots of books may not transform me into a good thinker, but at least, I can peek how other thinkers think and benefit from watching them.

--peter
http://lishihwei.googlepages.com/home

Economist

I finally subscribed to Economist magazine, the one I really enjoy reading.

Through out reading lots of good articles together with writing regularly, I hope that my English writing would be better in the coming 2007.
--
--peter
http://lishihwei.googlepages.com/home

Piano

Costco is promoting pianos. There are ten or so pianos and an old saleswoman. The saleswoman looked ordinary, nothing special. I never really paid attention to that saleswoman.

Last night, I went to Costco and there were not many people there. The old saleswoman was playing piano herself. Oh, piano sounded so great especially when the sounds come from that old lady's ordinary-looking fingers. The sounds seem from the heaven. I stopped by the pianos, closed my eyes, listened and wondered whether I could play piano as well as she does---I almost believe that I could, if I ever knew how.

How lucky she is to be able to play piano, so when she is angry, she can play angrily; when happy, play happily; when sad, play sadly. I padded away from those pianos with envies and griefs.


--
--peter
http://lishihwei.googlepages.com/home

Last night, I told Anbo "Crabs and the Monkey", a Japanese folk story. I found the story on-line. I read the story aloud to Anbo when Anbo looked at the story on screen. In this way, I hope that Anbo could pick up Chinese words quickly.

I am like a professional storyteller, who can mimic all kinds of voices in the story. Listening to my story, one can easily depict the scenes of the story in his mind, so Anbo was very into the story. After my story, Wenlei told Anbo a story about elephants. Her dull and flat voice simply can't attract Anbo. Anbo ran away from her after 30 seconds.

I am very proud of myself. Apparently, Wenlei needs more practices and I shall give her more opportunities.

Practice makes perfect

Indeed, practice makes perfect. Let me tell you why I say so.

Somehow, Anbo's favorite story is "Three little pigs". He often 'begs' me to tell him this story. Well, actually, I already told him
this story more than one hundred times. To be honest, I myself is very bored to death by this story already -- after repeatingthe same story
one hundred times, I no longer need the story book---like a recorder, I can forward, rewind, stop, pause and play the story at anytime.

I decided to have fun with myself, too. I grow the story a little bit everytime when I repeat the story to Anbo. First, I added lots of details to the story.
For example, I explained why building a brick house needs sand, water, concrete and bicks, and how to build a brick house from these raw material. Second, I will ask for Ambo's opinions.
So, there are some interactions bewteen me and my son. Third, when I told the story, I tried to use different words to describe.

Yesterday, I found that my story attracts not only Ambo, but aso his mother. Wenlei was angry at me as usual, but I saw her burst into laughes when I told Anbo how the big wolf was trying to
touch the pigs' trembling curly tails.

Well, the success of 'three little pigs' indicates that I hardly get away from these pigs in the near future.

I am very depressed

I am truly depressed.

In these months, my lives changed dramatically---I work from home and I no longer access to
lots of convenient facilities, like fax machines, copy machines, .. etc.
The problem is that people around me did not think so.

For example, I am asked to mail a package attached with a photocopy of my green card. Gods knows
how difficult it becomes -- First, there is no copy machine at home, nor at post office. Then when I get to the
local library and get a copy of my green card there, the quality of the result is not acceptable for the machine
there is a piece of junk.

To get a copy of my green card, I spent more than one hour and I still can't get it done. I used to finish
all of these in a second. I was happy to manage to collect all the data, fill out all forms and what other people need
to do is just to sign their signatures, which I can't do for them. A concrete example is when I tried to apply
for green cards.

Last night, I asked a simple question: "Why don't you have make a copy of my green card for me?" I was blasted
off by a very rude shout -- "You hold your own green card a treasury and no body else can touch it ! "
No, the answer is off the topic and is an attack. I would give out my card if I was asked "Can you give me
your card for I want to make a copy of it when I make my own."; however, that never happened.

To be fair and to have a good balance, it is true that almost all of the forms are done and what I need to is to sign my signature except that I spend 20-minute to search out the form, re-fill out the page 7, print the page, and replace the wrong page for
an error I pointed out days ago. That is OK and I thank for all of efforts for putting all of these together. I just feel very very
depressed when I spent two hours outside and can't get my copy of green card. Not even to mention mailing out the package.




--
--peter
http://lishihwei.googlepages.com/home

"How to Read a Book"

I must say that my reading skill in English is in the elementary level by the standard in "How to Read a Book", by M. J. Adler. But, I am
in the way to improve it. Just finish skimming the very inspiring book in an environment full of obstacles. Come to know the book through reading "Code Complete", by Steve McConnell, that I stopped in the middle. I will resume reading "Code Complete" next week.

Hope to find and digest more valuable books that lift up my knowledge, improve every aspect of my live and complete me.

One day, I hope that I can answer who I am and why I am. That would be the goal why I read -- read to find myself.

Early morning walks

For three days in a row, I have had pleasant early-morning walks. In these fifty-minute walks, I listened
to Harry Potter from my iPod. I listened to Harry Potter, so I can make up Anbo some stories at night.

Through telling Anbo stories, I realized that I myself am not very creative. Vary sad, but very true. I am
a very good imitator, but a lousy creator. Well, that is fine, as long as one can truly recognize and accept
what one really is, one can still make great achievements out from one's limited talents.

Anbo is developing his own appreciation on beauty. Recently, he often criticised my drawings.
Eve rytime, when I took short steps and came up lousy drawings, he noticed and demanded redrawing.
It is really interesting to observe a child's growing.

I was searching for 24-style Tai Chi Quan online, but ran into this article. The article uses Tai Chi Quan as medium to describe the author's relationship to his father.

太極拳 文/張輝誠

張輝誠爸爸說：「這拳法是咱門張家老祖宗一路傳下來的，傳到你大陸上的爺爺，你爺爺再又傳給我，你要學不會，怎對得住張家列祖列宗？」於是，每天黃昏，我爸一回到家，便領著我迎著餘暉走出庄外，到田間的農路上打拳。

我打小就跟著父親學太極拳，這其實沒什麼好說嘴的，像這種慢吞吞的動作，只適合我外公學而已，我小時的那群玩伴，哪一個不是風靡九月十五大拜拜在我們蔥仔 寮古安宮前請來的露天電影裡頭的成龍，成龍和裡頭白頭老翁使得虎虎生風的不是蛇形刁手、螳螂拳，就是鷹爪、醉拳，動作又快又狠，肌肉厚健剛強，舉手投足充 滿英氣，那像太極拳溫溫吞吞，小家子器得很，所以我們這群小毛頭老是在三合院前的空地比劃著電影裡的身段、手勢 －當然，這得瞞著我父親才行。

「那些都是個不入流的外家功。」我爸經常在早晨教我打拳時，聽我說成龍怎樣怎樣的時候，就這樣訓斥著。練太極拳不是一件多樂的差事，我爸要求極嚴，開拳前 的暖身動作一點都不得馬虎，光是躬拳轉體、彎腰觸地、大甩手、前踢、前蹬、外翻圈踢、內翻圈踢，就足足折騰了半個小時，一回下來早就大汗淋漓、氣喘吁吁。 這還只是開場白而已，接下來就得蹲弓形、紮馬步，表面上看起來是練基本功，實際上和上課竊竊私語被老師罰到教室後半蹲沒什麼兩樣，唯一不同的是，半蹲可以 亂蹲，馬步可不許亂紮，我爸要求馬步要如樁入地，穩如磐石，但又要靜裡寓動，如蓄滿的水庫可隨時一瀉千里，奔騰發勁，說得自然比較簡單，一旦我雙腳與肩同 寬紮馬下去後，我爸就靠過來，要我仔細著收進小腹，把重心放在大腿上而不是落在膝蓋，然後叫我再蹲下去一點，這種姿勢只要過了一分鐘，大腿上的肌肉便開始 自行亂竄舞動起來，我臉上表情也隨之猙獰，身子不由得歪七扭八，我爸這時候就會在一旁氣定神閒地說：「馬步紮不好，學什麼都是空的！」然後就看他好整以暇 的蹲完十五分鐘的馬步，臉不紅，氣不喘。

爸爸又要我練拳了

後來，我爸從軍中退下來，回來和我們一起住在蔥仔寮的外公家，白天就在附近鄉鎮接做板模零工，那時我才剛學會背書包排路隊走路到山內國小讀書，照理說父子 倆白天應當無暇練拳才是，說也奇怪，我爸可不這麼認為，儘管他幹完一天粗活回到家早已疲累不堪，卻還是堅持要教我練拳，反正就是不准我一日荒廢拳課，他 說：「這拳法是咱門張家老祖宗一路傳下來的，傳到你大陸上的爺爺，你爺爺再又傳給我，你要學不會，怎對得住張家列祖列宗？」於是，每天黃昏，我爸一回到 家，便領著我迎著餘暉走出庄外，到田間的農路上打拳，說打拳其實還不是蹲馬步，我打小蹲馬步蹲了幾年，蹲久了竟也蹲出一點心得，這馬步要蹲得久蹲得讓我爸 說聲好，不外就是兩個小要訣，其一是股跨間須柔中帶勁，勁中夾柔；其二是腳板要如千鈞頂，頂住全身。這怎麼說呢？剛開始大腿肌不是像汽水一樣畢波起泡胡顫 亂蹦嗎，可時間一久，抖顫的力道漸次減弱，轉而像波浪一樣在腿肌上運行，這時候只要一放鬆，全身便輕盈起來，一施力，股間就充滿勁道，這時候著力點便由大 腿轉向腳底，由腳底支撐全身，由股跨負責發勁。我蹲完馬步後，我爸這時候拍拍他的大腿和手臂，對著我說：「你要記住，這股肱是人的兩大彈簧，所有的勁道都 是從這裡發出。」然後站直身子說：「今天再教你一個新的樁法，叫仆步樁。」我爸把五個手法身形串在一塊兒練，左右對稱各五個號令，一是側推掌下弓步，二是 換手推掌單吊腳，三是轉身橫劈，四才是仆步正樁，單押腳側身下探，五是出掌。我爸演示過一回，要我依樣畫葫蘆照著練，我做了幾回，他極不滿意，說：「身子 骨這麼輕浮！」然後叫我跟著他一起走入還沒插秧的水稻田裡，把腳踩進爛泥巴裡頭，然後他在泥巴裡又演示一回仆步樁給我看，我一看當真傻眼，我爸在水稻田裡 吊腳、轉身、下探，動作之乾淨俐落如履平地，一點都不為泥巴所黏滯，膝蓋以下雖沾泥帶水，動作卻行雲流水，讓人簡直不敢置信。輪到我了，才剛要起腳，哪知 右腳陷得太深，拔不起來，拔了幾下才勉強拔起，推掌單吊腳，順勢正要轉身橫劈時，卻因動作太猛，下腳太遠，兩腳間距過大，一不小心，重心不穩，兩腳如繫桎 梏，動彈不得，撲通一聲，一頭栽進泥水裡，好巧不巧，這時候我外婆正好出現在庄口叫喚著：「阿榮仔，轉來食飯喔！啊我耶金龜孫子呢？」

只傳心法不講架子

算一算，我斷斷續續練仆步樁、蹲馬步的時間已經過了六年，但當真開始練太極拳還是等我爸從台南回來，用賺來的錢買了一間二樓透天樓房，從此父子倆有空閒聚 在一塊兒，這才又重新入門。新買的二樓透天樓房，位於蔥仔寮三公里外的褒忠街的街尾。搬進新家後，父親不再往台南工作，而是留在家裡讓人當師父僱請。這下 子，我爸又要我練拳了。

練拳的地點是在頂樓平台，時間和往常一樣是在黃昏時刻。這一天，做完暖身操、蹲完馬步後，父親說：「趕今兒個起，來練太極拳。」他叫我在一旁候著，自顧自 地演練起來，每演一式即口呼一令，只聽見金剛搗碓、白鶴亮翅、青龍出水、懶紮衣、單鞭、玉女穿梭、白猿獻果、當頭炮等名號絡繹從耳畔掠過，演了約莫八十餘 式，方才深呼吸雙手合圍順胸而下，對我說：「這是陳式太極拳，屬陽剛一路。」又站回原地，說：「再看仔細了！」然後又陸續演了楊式、吳式、武式、孫式四家 太極拳 ，有偏柔的、有偏剛的、有柔中帶剛、也有剛中含柔，風格不一而足。可我就不明白，既然我老祖宗傳下來給我爺爺，我爺爺再又傳給我爸，沒道理不用張家做名號 創一個張式太極拳 啊？我爸聽了我的問題，緩緩說道：「咱們張式太極拳，只傳心法，不講架子，所以不以拳式聞名，不過，咱們張家拳法遠在各家之上，日後你自然明白這個道 理。」

自此之後，我即由陳式太極拳入手，日日演練，約莫半年，熟習一家，熟習後便換習一家，四年之後，五家七種（陳式分老架、新架，楊式分一路、二路）太極拳皆 嫻熟精擅，演練無礙。四年期間，父親經常在一旁指點要領，說：「練架子要注意內外上下，屬於內者，即所謂用意不用力，下則氣沉丹田，上則虛靈頂勁；屬於外 者，用身輕靈、節節貫串、由腳而腿而腰、含胸拔背、沉肩墜肘。」其他道理我都懂，單單對節節貫串不明白，父親再又解釋說：「節節者，指身體之九關節，頸、 脊、腰、胯、膝、踝、肩、肘、腕，一動俱動，節節貫串，動在手，腳亦著動，動在腳，手亦著動，全身合而為一。」

變化多端來去自如

這一天，天氣酷熱，父親在一旁覷著我練拳，忽然發出嘆息聲，搖著頭伸手阻止我，說：「停停停，練來練去，一身空架子，半點神氣也沒。」叫我下樓，隨他出 門，朝家門前左邊一條農業小徑走去，最後停在一棟豬寮後面，這是一方池塘，池水碧綠。我爸衣服也沒脫，隨即縱身入池，要我也下去，我慢慢探腳下去，走到父 親身旁，池水深及頸部，我爸比我還矮一點，池水在他的嘴唇邊流蕩著，父親開口說話：「看仔細了！」忽然霍地一聲，父親從水裡高舉雙手，開始演起太極拳，只 見舉手投足之間，忽而水花四濺、忽然柔波輕漾、忽而拔跳出浪、忽而屈身破水，身形極其輕盈、神氣鼓蕩不已。收勢演完之後對我說：「這太極拳的精義，就在於 要如水之流，趁虛而入，盈科後進，柔而化剛。又可多姿多態，硬可為冰、柔可似水、虛可成雲成霧，變化多端，來去自如。」然後他又舞動右手，漣漪從手臂旁一 圈一圈漾出，說：「全身發勁，也要像水，手腳纏絲而動，剛開始是大動轉圈，大圈之中有小圈，圈圈相連，化小圈於無，也就是說要由大動化為小動，小動而不 動，雖不動卻全身皆動，這樣才算真正入了太極拳的門了。」然後只見父親把手靜止在水中，卻不斷有漣漪產生，向外推送。

後來我讀高中，有一天通車回家，遠遠望見賣房子給我們的房東兒子，正和父親大聲吵嚷著，房東兒子說：「這空地是我們家的，現在要闢作停車場，你種的這棵番 石榴要砍掉！」父親火冒三丈說：「房契上明明註明這塊地是我的，怎麼？現在仗著你們人多，地又變成你們的了，啊？」一旁的房東和親戚們七嘴八舌叫嚷著： 「這阿山仔，真正番袂直！」房東兒子那時剛從海軍陸戰隊退伍，全身黝黑精壯，肌肉結實，這時候又把脊骨挺直，看上去暴躁得不得了，瞪大著眼，厲聲道：「你 是欠打乎？」我爸當時已經六十好幾，略顯老態，個頭又差人一大截，我一看情形不對，趕緊上前要拉父親一把，預防衝突擴大。誰料房東兒子右手已電閃揚起，直 撲父親臉頰，眼看就要正中眉心，剎那間，父親側身微退半步，右手包住來拳，順勢後拖，房東兒子頓時前傾，手臂打直，父親左肩略一肘靠，劈叭一聲，房東兒子 手臂應聲而斷，大哇一聲，倒在地上，趕忙用左手扶住右手臂，狀似十分痛苦，圍觀者見狀，趕緊把人扶了起來送走，回途中沿路還不斷漫天叫罵詛咒著。

太極拳不就是動靜、虛實、剛柔、開合、方圓、卷放、輕沉、快慢、裡外、大小、進退、上下、左右，等等看似二元對立實又相互統一的狀態嗎？那麼生死呢？生死難道不也是太極嗎？

我上了高三，臨七月聯考之前的春假，意外以資優生保送台灣師大國文系，我爸可樂了，一來我們臨張家第一位博士的路又近了一步，二來讀師大全部公費，每個月 還有三千餘元生活補貼，能替家裡節省不少開銷，三來距大學開學還有半年時光，省去準備聯考的讀書壓力，反倒可以專心練拳。半年間，除了練拳之外，父親也搜 出一些太極拳書要我讀，第一本讀的是陳鑫《陳氏太極拳圖說》，這本書極厚，約二、三十萬餘言，善本書款，裡頭全是文言文，所幸我當時已熟讀四書，能用文言 下筆成章，閱讀上甚少阻礙。書裡頭談的是陳氏歷代積累的練拳經驗，詳解架子、身形、步法、運動和周身規矩，最特別的是以易理詮解拳理，貫串纏絲勁的核心作 用，而以內勁作為統馭。當中有段話，到現在我都還能背上：「用力日久，豁然貫通，日新不已，自臻神聖，渾然無跡，妙手空空，若有鬼神，助我虛靈，知豈我 心，只守一敬。」似乎是太極拳之最高境界，當時雖不能至，卻一心嚮往。後來又讀楊澄甫所寫的《太極拳體用全書》，身形手法與陳鑫所記略有不同，理論卻大抵 相近。

暑假結束，動身往台北讀大學的前一晚，父親在客廳對我說：「大凡諸家講太極拳的，沒有不以意為主，以固定架子為準，咱們張家太極拳恰巧在這裡與諸家不同，同樣以意為主，卻不執著於架子，所謂身隨意轉，意動架成，是咱們張家太極拳的主要心法，你要好好記住才是。」

「身隨意轉，意動架成，這樣說來，既然不注重架子，那我起先練那麼多家架子做什麼？」

「諸家太極拳所訂的架子，各得一偏，正所謂道術為天下裂，想要還原太極拳原貌，唯有熟習各家，再隨意而動，截補短長，出入各式架子，最後能隨意拼湊，變換萬端，這道理哪是諸家膠柱鼓瑟的固定拳式所能比擬。不過，話說回來，不由諸家拳式入手，也通透不到這等境界。」

推手不是在沙發上練的

就在我差不多認定這輩子功夫再怎麼努力也不可能超越父親的時候，父親卻被突如其來的幾個敵手攻擊得毫無招架之力，潰不成軍。這回遭遇的對手，個個來頭不 小，招招凌厲凶狠，盡取要害而攻之。譬如說，心搏速亂了他調息吐納之功，白內障蒙了他眼觀四面的清明目光，珍珠瘤掩了他耳聽八方的靈敏動靜，帕金森症廢了 他打樁使拳的身形，更糟的是，腎衰竭直搗五臟六腑，摧而毀之，就這樣內外夾攻之下，彷彿只是一夕之間，我爸，他老了，那速度之快，變化之巨，簡直讓我無法 相信。好似昨兒個才厲聲教訓我「身子骨輕浮」、「沒半點神氣」，一邊神氣鼓蕩演練著拳式的那個父親，今天猛可成了舉步維艱、佝僂喪氣、神情蕭索、垂垂老矣 的老人了。

那時我剛從金門退伍，進研究所念書，把父親接到台北同住，白天母親照料父親一切瑣事，晚上則由我負責替父親洗澡、餵食、分藥，攙扶著在客廳走東走西，或用 輪椅到樓下公園閒逛。大部分時間，我就坐在沙發上陪他玩推手，父親手顫得凶，其實已經不太能正確感受我的發勁，推著推著，雙掌就自己解開了，露出一大片致 命的破綻，這時候他會焦急地說：「啊，糟糕。」我便趁虛單掌長驅直入，笑道：「達陣得分！」然後他就搖搖頭：「老了，老了，手都不聽使喚。」說這話的當 頭，其實只有我知道箇中酸楚 －熟習太極拳的人都知道，這推手不是定在沙發上頭練的，而是必須配合身形步法，利用全身皮膚觸覺和內體感受探知對方來勁大小、剛柔、虛實、長短、遲速和動 向，施以四正手和四隅手的適當反應，手動身轉，進退周旋，達到引勁落空、乘勢借力、以輕制重的目的 －父親這哪是在跟我在練推手，不過玩玩而已，往昔練推手時，哪一回不是被父親約束纏繞、迴旋扭轉得東倒西歪，前仆後躓，狼狽不堪得很，此時推玩之間，可沒 想到竟推出一片感傷。

有時候，父親會自己從沙發上登起，想靠自個兒力量走進廁所方便，一不小心，就踉踉蹌蹌倒栽地板，通常額頭、後腦勺或膝蓋會撞出大小不一的傷口，鮮血直流， 我一聞撞擊聲便心知不妙，連忙倉皇奔出，趕緊扶好父親，熟練地包紮傷口。父親也不喊疼，只衝著我笑：「剛才那一招白蛇吐芯擺得還不錯吧！」又有時，我半夜 尿急起來上廁所，發現他倒在走道上動彈不得已經好一段時間了，我拍醒他，凶他：「有包尿布，尿出來就好了啊！」他就會傻笑說：「這怎麼好意思！」「不然就 叫我啊？」「那怎麼行，擾了你清夢，明兒個還要上課，沒精神。」接著又一派天真地說：「上得成廁所就上廁所，上不成我就躺在這兒，練練樁啊！」

父親定時去萬芳醫院洗腎已經兩年餘，每周三次，每次四至五個小時不等。後來不知怎麼了？原先左上臂的人工血管突然堵塞，洗腎的針頭插進去不見血出，只得趕 緊送進手術房開刀疏通，醫生說血管的使用年限到了，怎麼疏通也疏不成，只好又在左上臂靠胳肢窩的地方又重新埋了一條人工血管。這一折騰，就開了兩次刀，原 本以為就此打住，豈料新埋的血管要一個月後才能使用，但洗腎間斷不可超過四天，遠水救不了近火，於是直接將洗腎針頭插入右大腿的股動脈，當作臨時血液透析 之用，好端端洗到一半，沒想到又阻塞住了，只好又往左腿股動脈插上一針，重新再洗，好不容易終於洗完全程，總算可以好好休息三天。驚濤駭浪過後，我爸這 時，看上去虛弱得不得了，一個人躺在病床上沉沉睡著。

再來打一回拳吧

隔天，他幾乎都在睡覺，醒的時間很少。又過一天，我一早醒來，他也醒了，招呼著我說他要下床走走，我說不行，手上腿上各有傷口，醫生千萬囑咐不可輕舉妄 動。他不聽我勸，右腳攀著扶欄，做勢就要翻身下床，我奈何不了他，只好扶他下床坐著，要他乖乖坐好一起看晨間新聞，他看了一會兒，忽然轉頭對我說：「走， 咱們父子倆再來打一回拳。」我說好啊，來練練推手吧。「不是，咱們到走道上演演太極拳！」我說不可以，你身子這麼虛弱，萬萬不行！我爸牛脾氣又上來了，挺 直身子就要站起來，我又只好扶著他到走廊走走。他一到走廊，便伸直搖顫的雙手，開步紮樁，我一看這怎麼了得，趕緊在後頭抱住他，防著他又摔了下去，然後他 便緩慢又辛苦地演了三式我從未見過的架子，我在背後抱著他，只覺這三式意境蕭索卻又生機蓬勃，彷彿山窮水盡又似柳暗花明，看似淡默渾沌卻又從容飽滿，就在 我參悟不解的當下，右腿上一股熱流忽然漫上身來，我低頭一看，褲子竟染滿鮮血，再仔細一看，父親右股動脈正大量汩出鮮血，我揚聲大叫護士，連忙把父親扶上 病床，趕來的護士急忙壓住傷口止血，重新上藥包紮，再放上沙包壓住傷口，妥當處理後，護士回過頭來不斷指責我說：「不是說過不可讓病人下床嗎？你不知道這 樣很危險嗎？」我連聲道歉，護士才憤憤地離開，我回頭看父親，他又沉沉睡著了。

父親這一睡，就再也沒能醒過來了

入葬當天，大夥都散了，我一個人獨自留在五指山上，陪著父親，陽光清明，從墳地上望去，可以看見整個台北盆地，左邊遠處海上的基隆嶼歷歷可見，四周青山， 微風輕拂，我望著父親的墓碑，眼淚又不爭氣地掉下來，就在這個當頭，我不自覺地揮動起雙手，隨意周轉，任情擺架，不由自主地演起太極拳，這一刻我才恍然， 父親曾說過的張式太極拳心法「身隨意轉，意動架成」，原是這般道理，而我流著淚有意而出的拳式，竟是招招不捨，式式想念。

又過了一年，我爸周年祭，我上五指山祭拜燒紙錢，紙錢燒完後，又不由自主地演起拳來，不同的是，這回拳路極為心平氣和、哀傷無動，就在我收勢作結的同時， 忽然胸前湧起柔和似風、靜止如山的舒坦，這一刻我才猛然領悟出父親在醫院走廊上演示的那三式究竟是何用意，也許他老人家是想藉著太極拳告訴我一些人生況味 －太極拳不就是動靜、虛實、剛柔、開合、方圓、卷放、輕沉、快慢、裡外、大小、進退、上下、左右，等等看似二元對立實又相互統一的狀態嗎？那麼生死呢？生 死難道不也是太極嗎？父親在臨終前奮力一搏，他預知了自己即將不久人世，可是他知道死亡不只是生的終結，同時也是生的開始，生和死一樣看似對立，實則也是 統一圓融無礙的 －等我悟到這一層的時候，我才坦然喜悅起來，因為往後無論哪一回我開步紮樁、揮手運拳的同時，父親正也在另一個世界和我陰陽無缺地配合著，一回、二回、三 回，回回相扣，生死相關，一直要等到我把拳又傳給了我的小孩，他才會真正休息，而那時我早晚也是要和他再重新相聚的。

Graham Greene

No, I did not finish the reading about Ayn Rand after all. The first sentense of the article drove me away -- "The relationship is sexual or nothing".

Instead, I found another article about Graham Greeene, the author of the Quiet American. The author described that Graham Greene produced his writings in a very special way -- he wrote exact 500 words each day -- not more; not less. Graham would even leave an unfinished sentense as long as the word count reaches his quota.
It is quite impressive. I hope that I can write programs this way one day.

During the weekend, we took Anbo to the nearby indoor swimming pool. Details can be found in my lovely wife's blog.

Fountainhead

An article in NewYorker brought my attention to Ayn Rand. The article describes an architect, Stephen Valentine, who designs a special building named 'Timeship' as an ultimate site for cryonics. In the article, Stephe Valentine is described as a perfectionist who is largely influenced by a novel called 'Fountainhead.'

Ayn Rand wrote 'Foundtainhead' in 1943. Now, the novel becomes a classic. It is so popular that I can't even borrow one out from the local library even though the library holds 53 copies. This fact only triggers my curiosity about the author. After all, who on the earth is Ayn Rand, the author of such an influential novel?

I have New Yorker DVDs by hand and I did a search on them. Before long, I found an article about Ayn Rand. ( I start to appreciate the fact that I borrowed such a good collection from the library. Unfortunately, I have to return it back to the library. Somehow, I start to worry about my lives without these DVDs. After all, they did enrich my English and nourish my knowledge. A smart girl would understand what I mean. )

The article is quite long and enough to entertain me tonight. Tell you more when I am done with it.

The Economist and New Yorker

I now fall in love with two magazines: The Economist and New Yorker.

These two magazines are on two extreme sides of one spectrum:

Articles in The Economist are written by anonymous authors. The style of each article is uniform: short, concise, to-the-point and easy to read. In each issue, there are many short articles covering things happened internationally in the past week. I particularly like the title of each article -- one word captures the spirit of the article. The topics covered by the magazine are broad, including politics, economics, science, technologies and books.

On the other hand, articles in New York go for different direction. The magazine emphasize the authors, therefore, articles in one magazine normally show you the different styles of the authors. In each issue, there are not many articles, but each article are normally lengthy since a great details are shown in the article. Comparing to The Economist, New York covers topics more towards to arts and literature. I particularly like the fiction in each issue of New Yorker.

Although, the two magazines go for different directions; however, articles in both magazines are all enjoyable. I have great time with these two magazines.