Another wolf

Needlework, diameter 11''.

A blending of nature and civilization - Zermatt

Matterhorn


i've been to rocky moutains, canadian and american; also been to alaska. not foreign to them big rocks, i shall say.












but i am quite surprised by the alps. nothing to do with those "passes" or "impasse":-), but this harmonious mixture of civilization and nature: every rock that reaches beyond the sky is also nurtured, at the bottom, by meticulous greens and decorated, at the top, by impeccable imprints of human beings.






no time to snowboard; so took a book wtih me on the train ride up to the top: the sound and the fury.














the train rides to and fro Zermatt
were most unforgettable. long hours. mostly alone. didn't even bother with a book. in a different world. of peace and content.

what else does one need? but the mind
can still be elsewhere, too.

a Swiss Treat - Luzern

Luzern

such an elegant and pleasant small city.
impossible not to be delighted and comforted. even in my state of mind, then and there.

churches in switzerland always seem to have twin towers.








the two wooden covered bridges. and the chapel - didn't even know that i knew it before. it's
like "oh, you are here!"

such ignorance that i have.






















look out from the bridge -

anywhere one turns, it's another picture of perfection.

















the castles. surrounded by pastures. cows.
and kids playing soccer. the swiss are lucky people.













and of course, the lion.
thought he looked like those venetian lions. except













grandly, magnificently, beautifully sad.

Something about soldiers

There’s something about soldiers
The authentic ones
Their brutality
Their neglect of death

Such animalistic instinct
Hardly human
Utterly human
Call it mortal
Call it immortal

There’s something about soldiers

The Soldier
Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

three dishes and one

(another adaptation plus "translation")

I have eaten
the two yolks
that were on
chives
And the egg whites
that were on
cabbages
And the grounded
egg whites with chives

and which
you were probably
saving
for lunch

Forgive me but
they were delicious
so salty
and so fresh

I did leave you
(however)
the two egg shells
that were on water

两个黄鹂鸣翠柳，（韭菜上俩鸡蛋黄）
一行白鹭上青天。（一片菜叶上铺一行切成片的蛋白）
窗含西岭千秋雪，（四根韭菜围一框，里面洒点碎蛋白）
门泊东吴万里船。（清汤上浮两蛋壳 - by Searain)

This is just to say

by William Carlos Williams

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

Thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird by Wallace Stevens

to which I added a little tail (the 14th); this wondrous picture was taken by Dean and artistically enhanced by Olddog:

XIV

I do not know to awe
or to hate
his majestic jacket
of black
of gold
And the dying furs below

it turned out that i mistook "cattail" crumbs for a bunny, therefore:

XIX

Balck! balck!

It’s the blackbird, and
his veggie bunny,
which defines
this wintry spring.

Now enjoy the "real thing"---

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
Wallace Stevens

I

Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II

I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV

A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI

Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII

O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII

I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX

When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X

At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI

He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII

The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII

It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.

The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs

A short story (fiction)

"Send!" There went the last email for the day. I glanced at the clock on the screen. 7:30 PM. Tired but satisfied, I walked out of my office.

It was quiet as usual at this hour. But something was disturbing the deserted air tonight. I followed the sound. A low sob became sharper. Then I saw her. Through the half-shut door. I hesitated. Then walked over, "Nancy, you okay?"

She turned around, fresh tears washing down her face, "Oh, I'm fine. Fine. Really. Just... just a little allergy." She turned away. Buried her face in her hands, now crying relentlessly. Her cuddling body shaking. In her elegant blue suit.

Must be him. My heart sank... "Want to go have a drink?" I offered.

--------

One

"Welcome!" Nancy poked her head at my cubicle. With a warm smile. "I am so happy you joined us. Highly recommended for your hiring. Now, I have a chinese countryman for a neighbor!" She switched to Chinese for the last declaration.

"Oh, thanks!" I was instantly at ease.

"Still can't believe you're head of Finance," I recalled my interview with her. "You looked so young. You are."

"Really?!" she laughed, pleased but dismissing the comment with a gesture. I noticed she wore a pink Kitty Cat watch. With a matching pink Kitty Cat purse. "Not that young anymore, really. My husband has been talking about baby for years."

"By the way, Dan also started today. Transferred from the Europe office. Jim was excited. He told us you two will make a great team. To turn the business around. You know, things aren't going well here. By the way," she lowered her voice with a grin, "he is so tall and handsome!" "Come on. I will introduce you to everyone around." Immediately, Nancy became my best friend.

But things certainly weren't going well here; and Dan and I were far from "a great team". Sales had been falling for three consecutive years. Moe, the sales director, was sent one leg out of the door. Dan and I reported to the vacant marketing director, who reported to Jim, when he was last seen.


Two

"Cheers!" Moe raised his mug, "This darn Legal Seafood! I have spent more hours here with you than with my wife in the whole month!" "Well, I'm just sick of the popcorn shrimps. Wouldn't complain if they ran a Sichuan Gourmet at the airport. " All these years in America. Yet my stomach is more Chinese than ever. I turned my thought away from food,"At least, we are close to close the deal. After this final trip to the 'Middle of Nowhere'." Deep in my heart, I actually love Iowa. Endless cornfields. Infinitely inviting highways. The "New Continent". Dwelled by Dvorak.

"Sure, except" Moe said, "Dan will get the credit again - he is touring the Europe office with Jim. You know that, don't you?" "Not really. I was in the field earlier this week. Visited local physicians. Old contacts. What's the Europe trip for?"

"What for?! Creating "synergy" between offices. Last I heard. Man, you better know that stuff. I mean, if you even want a shot at the director position!" "Dan hasn't done a single thing worthwhile. As far as I can tell." My mood darkened, "and I heard he was kicked out of Europe - who would have left kids and wife to the other side of Atlantic?"

"So what? Jim seems to be very happy with him. And sales are turning the corner: 'Hmm, must be Dan.' By the way, Nancy went with them, too." "How do you know everything? You are away as much as I am."

"'Course I know. I have Olga briefing me everyday. Matter-of-factly, how could you not know? She works for the three of us, if you happen to forget.""Don't need her. I use Expedia. Much quicker and cheaper. No delays. No mistakes."

"Old man! how could you be a boss? If, if not bossing around?" Moe paused to enjoy his play of words.

"Well, why did Nancy go?" I became curious about this new development.

"That, I don't know. Except this is the 2nd time they've travelled together."

"With Jim?!"

"With Dan." I suddenly realized that I haven't seen her drop by for a while. Well, hard to picture her in business. With her Kitty cats and all.


Three

"Nancy, do you have a minute?" I caught up with her in the hallway after the meeting, "why did you say the US office needs improvement? This is the first quarter we have turned around sales. After four years!"

"But we did not reach our stretch goal. You know that. And sales in Europe are crispy."

"But you can't compare like this. Europe is always strong - thanks to the leadership of Alex, if you ask me." I felt an urge to antagonizing.

"Not just him. Jim and Dan have done a lot of work, too. Anyway we can learn more from them... Actually, I've got to run. To catch the plane to Paris - we are holding our next year's budget meeting there." She impatiently raised her hand, showing a glittering Swiss watch.


"What a scandal," Moe snickered on my encounter with Nancy, "You and I have worked our asses off. And they are vacationing in every city of Europe!" He turned to the wine list, "Know anything about wine? Let's pick a good one. We deserve better."

"Don't care much about wine, either. Just get the most expensive bottle." I answered absent-mindedly, "Talking about them, now the whole office is talking."

"Except Jim. He is the one signing off all those "synergy" trips."

"You think he doesn't know? He can't see? I don't get it. I could never figure out what Jim thinks. "

"Nobody could. Only Dan knows how to kiss up. I have never met a guy this useless. Yet our boss loves him. And Nancy loves him. What a scandal. What a shame. I can't work here anymore. I am looking. You should do the same, man."


Four

"The management has decided that you are ready to take more responsibilities - in charge of the whole marketing department. Great job, Xiaosong. " Jim extended his hand.

"Thanks, Jim! I will do my best." So good work didn't go un-noticed. After all. I felt a sense of vindication. a relief...and a question. It was somewhat unexpected, "How about ... Dan?"

"Oh, that's the other thing I wanted to tell you. Dan was just diagnosed with cancer. Late stage liver cancer. He is moving back to Europe. For chemotherapy... To be with his family."

...That was eight months ago.


Five

"Remember? you were the one who brought me here. When I first started." I looked around, remembering a time less than two years ago. Or ages ago.

"Yeah. Thought we would have come more often. Then... How things just happened!" She tried to smile, but broke down again, hollering. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry! For being like this. He wouldn't approve. He kept saying I should be strong. Strong."

I ordered orange juice for her and a Cronona for myself. Just like the only other time.

"How's the treatment going?" I asked, expecting the worst. Nancy was not able to answer for a while. Finally she caught a break and dried herself. With the soaked Napkin.

"Treatment? Xiaosong, he is dying tonight!" She suddenly choked... gasped for air... And between broken breathes, I heard, "He is dying tonight... but I can't be with him!"

So it had all come to this. Two failed chemotherapies in Europe. One failed experimental trial back in States... And tonight, the life support will be removed. Here in town. With his family....

I froze and felt tears welled up in my eyes. All my lingering resentments and confusions, about him, about her, evaporated. Slowly I reached across the table and patted her lightly on the arm, "Don't be so sad, Nancy. Things will be alright." She halted in her grief and looked up, "How strange, that's exactly the same last words Dan said to me."
....

Days later, we held a memorial service for Dan. All of us went. Moe flew back from Iowa, cutting short his trip. We met Dan's family for the first time. His wife was astonishingly beautiful. After the service, we went to the same Bar for a drink. Everyone told of fond stories about Dan. Jim recounted his heroic combat with cancer. Just one week ago, he had insisted on scheduling the next bi-weekly appointment with the doctor. He didn't make it....

Nancy was the only one missing.

---------

"Quick, Xiaosong! Come to the conference room." Nancy called outside my office, "You work way too hard. We are having a little party. For the closing of a great year! Hurry up!" Nancy was smiling brightly. For a moment, I had a flashback. Of the day when I first started.

How strange. Life is. In this "New Continent". Dwelled by Dvorak.

fairly simple, simply fair

On two pictures by Redheron and JN

Sunset, ice, bare trees
Frozen into a vertical past -
The pond’s more beautiful than last seen,
Who are they, turning their backs again?

Steps, rocks, and breeze,
Brought out a fresh prospect -
Melt is his heart into the spring,
Then comes a storm to bury it again.


how many times can one say "great pictures"? so i added a few more words here and there. then i broke them into lines.

the 1st half was about the walden pond and alluded to Redheron's very famous picture of some very famous CNDers.

the 2nd half built upon JN's original poem on his own picture and
gently poked fun at his earnest embracing of the spring - only days after, we had had the biggest late winter storm of the season.

by JN

The bone-biting breeze is our character.
The black and white resemble our hatre and love.
Shrudding off the ice to the pebbles,
Our heart already melt into the spring.

Lost in his Labyrinths

Labyrinths, selected stories & other writings
by Jorge Luis Borges

It took me awhile to finish this book. I was bored after a few stories, but picked up the book again and appreciated it bit by bit. Several stories stuck to mind, the simpler ones, most likely:
the spy message sent through a Chinese garden, reminding me of VN's Pale Fire (The Garden of Forking Paths), the guy with a moon-shaped scar (The Shape of the Sword), the murdering constructed and guided by mysterious messages, this one calling up the Da Vinci Code, (Death and the Compass), the ruinous city of immortals (The Immortal), the "indianized" western woman (Story of the Warrrior and the Captive), and the arabic scholar attempting to understand the words "tragedy" and "comedy" of Aristotle (Averroses' Search) ....

His writings are invariably complex, in every way - the "plots", the language and the extensive references to other writings/cultures/histories- which made it hard, if not impossible, for me to fully understand. And they speed up my transition to sleep, with the ever mind-boggling expanding of labyrinths, paths, layers, paradoxes, and infinites. So it was between dream-like wakefulness and wakefully dreams that i finished this book. So very fitting, for a book or a mind who explores the confusion between reality and fantasy. :-)

O, give me a burger

by little one

O, give me a burger-----
with extra fries-----
Make sure to keep -----
Them de-ep fried-----
Add some ketchup-----
On my burger-----
A meal to fill-----
My tummy for sure-----

O, give me a burger-----
With a milkshake-----
With a milkshake-----
Give me it now-----
Or I will take-----
Don't add any cheese-----
Or I will wheeze-----
Some bacon too-----
Eat this burger is what I'll do----------

Don't add any cheese-----
Or I will wheeze-----
Some bacon too-----
Eat this burger is what I'll do-----

Eat this burger is
what I'll do---------------

Black brown spider

by little one

Black brown spider,
Spinning a silver web,
he's been working all night,
until final daylight.
Sticky, sparkly, spiral,
covered in dewdrops,
He's flying through the breeze,
making his home as he will please.
From branch to branch,
making his web.
Finally done,
filled with glee,
balck brown spider,
living peacefully.

A taste or a lack of it

what do i look in a book? i invariably start a book with an attitude of an outsider, the less i know of the book or the author the better, and a high expectation, wanting to be taken by surprise, to be impressed or to be exposed to unknowns. and i have also slowly developed an appreciation of the language.

admittedly, i am judgemental, partly of my training as a scientist and partly of my personality. i like to tell apart the original and the learner; the authentic and the mimic. literary trends do not concern me because i am ignorant of them, and i am looking for "individuality" anyway, of each creative mind, of each end product.

i am equipped by my own gut feeling and my training. the latter becomes quite relevant because i had spent years pondering the biological basis of human behaviors (or behavioral disorders), which are really what literature is about, or can't get away from. this scientific understanding, undoubted biased, imcomplete and imprinted by my own misunderstanding, leads to discard the overwelming amount of writings that, i perceive, are but influence of rational thinkers like Freud, literary experiements, or social sciences - it's a mismatch of knowledge.

instead, i believe individual minds are inexhaustibly original and authentic. so writings based on personal experiences or inner most thoughts are generally good. here however, all minds are not created equal and one can only be satisfied by "great minds". then even great minds often have "moments of lapse" so only some of their works are superb.

adding to that is this ideological aspect of it. there are certain sentiments and thoughts i hold dearly to myself. when writers share them, i feel more satisfied by their works, although any reflective minds would show their knowledge of the opposite thoughts and they are as good even if they differ from my own.

for language, i just feel the flow, the eloquency and the elegance of words, and hmm, texture. it's a learning and evolving process.

so at the end of the day, what do i have a taste for? one writer here or there. one book here or there - random apparently, with the consistency of their uniqueness, i suppose.

there's something in the movements

we became instant friends in the gondola - as popular as snowboarding has become，this was the 1st time i met another mom snowboarder. the lady skier sitting next to me wondered: all my kids snowboard, too; what about it?”“i really don't know，” my fellow snowboarder answered, “there’s sth in the movements. ” i nodded in agreement.

actually, i am not sure, either. it seems to be a different kind of activity. while skiing, my attention was constantly on the slopes: green here, blue there, and black diamond elsewhere... skiing thus feels like a mission of conquering nature - you take it seriously and you work your way through the obstacles in a formal and rigid manner, with pairs of skis and poles.

not so for snowboarding. now the slope is just a playground and you are here to have fun: you and your board are one and, with every exaggerated movement of your body, you set to discover yourself, express yourself and delight yourself. full of freedom. full of individuality - that much you are convinced.

which also explains the fashionably casual outfits, the comfortably bulky boots，and the refreshingly individualized boards.

go snowboarding - there's sth in the movements. of every snowboarder.

teaching philosophy through a "creative" plot - Sophie's world

Sophie's World: A Novel about the History of Philosophy
by Jostein Gaarder

i enjoyed this book for several reasons. first of all, it reconnected me with what little i had learned about philosophy in my teenage years - even that little was grossly distorted and severely censored. thus, a course at the middle school level was embarassingly fitting. it was probably right timing, too, as i had been puzzling over many of the same questions from different angles and for different reasons recently. this book pointed me to a few "great minds" i would love to learn more from. finally, the thoughtfully designed layers of plot, which touched upon "creation", were somewhat awkward, but engaging enough to keep my attention from astray.

i am less impressed by the author's even-handed appreciation of max and feud (from now on, my nicknames for these two of my "least favored" folks), or by the few opinions evidently of his own; but then that's my own bias.

visiting the james - jan 19, 2007

it was a sunny wintry day. i went with juzi, whom i got to know through cnd. the cemetery was beautiful, quiet and receptive. the flowers were bought from a nearby supermarket; the idea, though, was prompted by another friend.

i have read only two books by the brothers: william's psychology (jimmy) long time ago and henry's the portrait of a lady a few years back.

"jimmy" didn't leave me much impression, because, for the more scientific part, my knowledge was much more advanced by training; and for the more personal aspect, i didn't connect with my limited capacity for understanding at the time.

"the portrait" , on the other hand, is one of my all-time favorites:

"Rarely does one get to read a story that touches just the "right' emotional pulses. Rarely does one gets to read something so elegantly written. I was delighted by the carefully depicted characters and deeply impressed by the author's sophisticated mind. Life doesn't look a bit easier even when human beings are free of material burdens; life doesn't look much different either. I was slightly disappointed, however, by the unexpected and abrupt turn of events towards the end of the book. "

"knowing them" was still earlier, when i first read a sketch about the james family in "touched with fire" (by kay redfield jamison), relating to their remarkable lives of accomplishment and painful struggles against severe mental distresses (pic. 1).

since then, they have often been in my thoughts and in discussions with my net friends. i was glad to have had this chance to visit them.

a point that's (not) proven

i have an aversion to fictional writings that start (or end) with one or two strong points. i call them "art work charged with a mission". i am so allegic to it that it's almost an instinctive reaction. thinking more deliberately, however, i've come up with a few reasons to justify my intuitive negativity against such practice.

first though, how do i know? easy. my own observation is that life is never neat; yet these stories often feel artificial, with the characters awkward and the plots coincidental and, more importantly, the points are unequivocally "proven". the former makes unpleasant reading and the latter raises suspicion: if the stories can "prove" something so elegantly, either it is too obvious (like we shall all die) or the stories are fabricated to suit the agenda. simple as that.

the paradox here is that when people read fictions, they instinctively do the opposite - they accept the stories first and then "draw" their own conclusions, which, in these cases, are the author's propaganda. so such writings mislead and are more or less equivolent to cooking scientific experiments to fit one's theory. it's falsehood. it's phony. though not necessarily intentional. :-)

these books are not satisfying also because it shows that the writer is probably too simple minded to grasp the complexity of life, which to me, is THE truth. the stronger the writers push their opinions, the more evident that they don't know better. it might even suggest that they are too arrogant, with no patience to observe the trivials (the essence) of life and to be sensitive of the vast unknowns. instead they seem to have figured it all and are eager to teach (or preach).

such writings are more likely very sensational or dramatic, so to swing readers (and probably themselves). for a receptive mind, if one is moved, touched or disturbed, it's got to be real, right and true. how false.

i am not saying that a writer can't have opinions or emotions, it's just that he has to be foremost honest or modest to draw from life, sometimes by simply recording or documenting the true happenings (feelings, thoughts), which in turn, believe it or not, will illuminate a point or two, if not more. it may inevitably be messier but honest; more confusing yet truthful. and this is already much better.

a good writer can not only express opinions, beliefs and feelings beautifully through writings, he is also able to recognize, differentiate and grade such matters; and realize their limitations, too. his writing would then appear somewhat detached, reflective, analytical, and, ultimately, impassioned - with passion. a kind of resigned melancholy or pity, towards human existence and its nuances. now this should be a good one.

(and a good reader is one who matches the writer, with equal sensibility, intelligence and knowledge and with the extra luxury of lashing out criticisms freely. :-)

Writing is about self - Labyrinths, by Jorge Luis Borges

Labyrinths
selected stories & other writings

Jorge Luis Borges

...I repeat that we should not be alarmed and that we sould feel that our patrimony is the universe; we should essay all themes, and we cannot limit ourselves to purely Argentine subjects in order to be Argentine; for either being Argentine is an inescapable act of fate - and in that case we shall be so in all events - or being Argentine is a mere affectation, a mask. - pp 185

Can an author create characters superior to himself? I would say no and in that negation include both the intellectual and the moral. I believe that from us cannot emerge creatures more lucid or more noble than our best moments. - pp 215

intelligence? may i have some?

(another old one)

The Bell Curve-Intelligence and class structure in American life

by Richard J. Herrnstein and Charles Murray

From what i could gather, this book basically dealt with one question "is IQ different among different ethnic groups, in particular between the white and the black?"

Obviously an extremely sensitive issue to discuss in this country, the authors, with a clearly positive answer in their minds, therefore spent painfully lots of time and effort to compile all data and perform all sorts of statistical analyses available in order to convince anyone else. Several interesting points stood out. a) The authors were both harvard professors and were very proud of that fact (high IQ, that meant). b) they tended not to draw conclusions or show their opionions directly although it was pretty apparent what they were leading to, making them a little bit deceiving. c). they did have a very strong social agenda: they were in favor of the tests.

Not necessarily disagreeing with them, but I had been only vaguely interested in the topic before and therefore, not sophisticated enough to form clear and final opinions. This book did raise some interesting questions I enjoy thinking and learning more about.

How is IQ measured? This question was not dealt with in the book (I suppose every native-born American knows so it is not necessary to describe it). I checked out some IQ tests. An IQ test is similar to an "intelligence contest questionaire" we had had back in China when we were kids. It has a few word games; some number crunches; several visual/spatial questions and a couple of logical reasonings.

Is IQ equivalent to intelligence? I thought this over after reading the book. It seems to me IQ does measure some aspects of intelligence; however, with all these years after school, I hesitate to say it is all that matters. In other words, there are other aspects of human intelligence not as easily measurable but as important, if not more important, as what IQ is able to show; and it is not clear to me that they correlate with one another.

Then what is intelligence? I do not have a satisfying definition yet. I will surly include language mastering, number crunching, and logical reasoning; but I would also emphasize creativity, imagination, capability of independent thinking and probably common sense. Another sticky point is that some people excel in one particular aspect or two; while some are pretty good overall. A comprehensive test would probably favor the latter while in real life, the former could simply do wonders. From a totally different perspective, intelligence might be difficult to define and harder to test, but one can usually "feel" all these qualities through human-human interactions.

Is one person's intelligence comparable to another? If one believes in IQ, the answer would be "yes", because it gives each individual a particular number (and it is mostly within 200 points). I am not so sure. Just like any other human behaviour traits, to me, individual intelligence is remarkably complex, diverse and unique. Every individual is distinctively unique and intelligent in his own way - so I believe.

I am also interested in how intelligence or the attempt to measure it plays its roles in a given society. Is it fair to determine one's destiny by exams or one exam? Is it fair to select people based on criteria other than exams, or besides exams? What is an ideal society, a "made fair" or a "natural one"? Well, I know too little to say. I do know this book represents one of many many opinions on these issues.

celebration of a sound mind - A Man for All Seasons

A Man for All Seasons, movie, 1966

how i love this movie and the story about thomas moore! not so much for the moral strength of his character, but for his incredibly logical mind, the capacity of knowing oneself, and others, knowing the truth of matters, and making decisions of own choices. to me, such is what humanity is all about, the kind of human spirits that endure, inspire, and enlightening.

notes of affection

notes from a small island
by bill bryson

it took me a while to be engaged, but i found myself enjoy more and more, with each turning page, of this small book, which is a delightful travelog of england, its places, large or little, people, noble or notorious, culture, terrific or tedious, and history, fascinating or fast-fading; written by an american who had lived there for 20 years, knew it intimately and detachedly, and talked about it with a humorous pettiness and absently-minded casualness, of the island and himself, to disguise, barely, his most earnest affection.