With this book, it has always been a chance encounter.
Qian was my best friend in the middle school. Barely 12 years old when we first met, she would tell me story after story during recess for the next three years. While dismayed by the fact that I, with a nickname of bookworm, hadn't really read anything at all, besides the few well-known revolutionary titles, I was greatly enchanted by her stories. And her insights. From books and from her difficult life, as young as she was. Now that reminds me of Cosette.
Jean Valjean was thus introduced by her. 冉阿让, its translation in Chinese, sounded impossible in my hometown dialect. So the name left a more lasting impression than the story.
The next time I heard 冉阿让 again was when my dad telling the same story to my mom. I was in high school then and immediately seized the opportunity to peek through the book and finally matched the sound of the name with the chinese character.
Years passed. Not much left except the name and the rough storyline. As famous as it is, I read the book at too young an age to really understand or appreciate.
Then two years ago, LD decided to learn French. In the excitement of the first days, he also bought the book in both French and English versions. Needless to say, neither was touched. Scanning through the bookshelf the other day, it occurred to me that it was probably meant for me to revisit 冉阿让.
3 comments:
To avoid a similar fate as LD, I actually read/am reading the book in French. I find myself returning to the following powerful section (with my own understanding and translation), again and again:
What was he doing during this journey? What was he thinking? Like every morning, he was looking at the trees passing by, the roofs made of thatch, the planted field, and the pass-out of the landscape, which disappear at each end of the road. It’s there a deep thought appeared several times to his soul. Seeing thousands of objects for the first time and for the last time, what can be gloomier and deeper! Travel-it’s being born and dead at the same time. Perhaps in the vaguest area of his spirit, he made the connection between these changing horizons and the human existence. Everything in life is perpetually present in front of us. The vagueness and the clarity are intermixed: after a glare, an eclipse; we look, we hurry, we hold out our hands to know what happens; each event is a turning of the road; and suddenly we are old. We feel a shock, everything is black, we identify a vague door, this sad horse of life which pulled us to a stop and we see someone in veil and unknown who hide in the darkness.
wow, i totally missed out your comment. i will have to go back to my book to compare what i have read. i think i know where... thanks!
this is what in my book:
what was he doing during the trip? what was he thinking about? as he had during the morning, he watched the trees go by, the thatched roofs, the cultivated fields, and the dissolving views of the countryside that change at every turn of the road. scenes like that are sometimes enough for the soul, and almost eliminate the need for thought. to see a thousand objects for the first and last time, what could be more profoundly melancholy? traveling is a constant birth and death. it may be that in the murkiest part of his mind, he was drawing a comparison between these changing horizons and human existence. All aspects of life are in perpetual flight before us. Darkness and light alternate: after a flash, an eclipse; we look, we hurry, we stretch out our hands to seize what is passing; every event is a turn in the road; and suddenly we are old. We feel a slight shock, everything is black, we can make out a dark door, the gloomy horse of life that was carrying us stops, and we see a veiled and unknown form that turns him out into the darkness. pp248
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