my new websites

A 20-year Memorial Service for Those Who Lost Their Lives in the Student Movement in the Spring of 1989

http://www.remember64.org/

a Chinese forum to exchange thoughts and find friends

http://www.baihua.org/

searching the truth of life - The origin of species

The Origin of Species

Charles Darwin

I picked up the book because I felt compelled to join the hype for the author's 200-year' birthday and for the 150-year anniversary of the book's publication. knowing not too little about modern genetics and biology, i was prepared to read it as something of historical significance but too outdated to enlighten the mind.

how wrong i was. the book has survived because it is still ever so fitting. the evolution theory is essentially the same today, just more vibrating with each new discovery in life science. the book entertains, too, with Darwin's broad and intricate knowledge of everything living or lively. besides "throwing light" on the origin of speices, the author also lights up himself: his intellectual power, his passion, curiosity, patience, thoroughness, ... and his humanity.

it's no exaggeration that Darwin found the truth of life. and as always, with a glimpse of truth -even a much lesser one - stirs the heart in a poetic sentiment. so he ends his book with these lines:

There is grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed by the Creator into a few forms or into one; and that, whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being evolved.

so true, so profound. :)

in search of identity

Dreams from My Father

by Barack Obama

I picked up the book because a review article on WSJ commented on its good writing. I had had little interest in Obama's politic views and found his speech, which seemed to inspire just about everyone else in my vincity, rather boring and empty - this was still true when I watched him again the other night addressing the congress. Well.

However, I was totally absorbed into his stories, an almost nonchalant account of someone searching and defining his ancestral identity exclusively from his father's line. From there, I was also taken to the traumatic journey Africans have experienced (or been driven to) in the past hundreds of years. It is sadness, humiliation, desperation, confusion, anger, even hatred combined. And simple - forever seemingly - disorientation or dislocation for a people. Individualism, which I myself identify with, is rather powerless against such tantalizing tragedy of human life - I have to admit.

Of interest to me was also his experiences as a "community organizer". I remember I was mildly offended by the constant scorn against such a career during the presidential campaign, but had no idea what it was about. Well, it was part of his personal search for those of his own, and a mostly futile effort to mobilize people for some common causes that are evidently important but lacking in glory. I know better now with my own share of such endeavor.

As a geneticist, it's also quite curious how he seemed to have no desire in defining himself as a "hybrid". He saw and thought of himself as black.

All in all, a very good book.

221b - reading Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

(comments later. now this cute little poem; Sherlock Holmes (R) and Dr. Watson (L), drawn by Sidney Paget)

221b

by Vincent Starrett

here dwell together still two men of note
who never lived and so can never die:
how very near they seem, yet how remote
that age before the world went all awry...
here, though the world explod, these two
survive, and it is always enghteen ninety-five.

and how can one not love these two dudes, their singular (an often used word in the stories) friendship, their most absurd adventures and their all eccentric neighbors in the great city of London. what fun. :-)

Writing poem

Writing poem

by the little one

My mom wants me to write a poem,
So I'm going to write some,
even though I'd rather not,
but if I don't, my mom will get hot.

Now what should my poem be about,
The ideas in my mind are a drought,
I have no ideas, and I'm writng a poem,
My family's working hard, I guess I owe 'em.

Still in a block, I'm bored out of my mind,
Where's the inspiration I need to find?
Maybe a poem about my boredom?
That wouldn't be appealing to my mum.--------->mum is mom)

An idea finally sprang up in my mind
a unique poem, one of its kind!
A poem about writing a poem!
I'm writing so quickly, my hands are going numb.

I'm finally done,that was really fun!
You want to read that poem, made by a kid?
Guess what? You just did.

go catch that planet

just a playful exchange with friends. Easy Roader introduced a poem called "With Tenure" (by David Lehman). later on, hbai suggested me to do sth with "some materials": Beethoven had a lifetime appointment, tenured job. So was Gallileo, from Medici of Florence. Tenure may had saved Mozart from poor youthful death...it is easy enough to just re-order what he said ---

WITH TENURE

With Tenure
And silence,
Beethoven composed
Nine symphonies in a row

With tenure,
And wings - probably -
Gallileo caught the planet
Around the star?! Oh! No!

And tenure-less
Mozart died a youthful death -
Mr. Antonio Salieri they say*
You are his tenured foe!

(*I always have a soft spot for Salieri)

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter --- or a puzzle

(last time i read about it, it was celebrated as one of the most influential poems of america. so i had to read it again. and disliked it again. granted modern poetry is beyond me. and this one is still harder to appreciate -when its "original" has been ingrained in my mind since childhood. still the much fame? this incredulous acclaim? and its ubiquitousness? this is the answer i found by google search (picture from www.esg.net):

(it was) "a stage in the development of Pound's poetic concerns from his original concepts of "luminous detail"and "Imagism," through "vortex" and "haiku" and "metaphor," and ultimately to the "ideogrammatic composition" of his Cantos." - by one Thomas

well, i could only see an awkward creative attempt. :-)

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter
by Ezra Pound

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.
By Rihaku

Now, "the real thing" ----

长干行

李白

妾发初覆额，折花门前剧。 郎骑竹马来，绕床弄青梅。 同居长干里，两小无嫌猜。
十四为君妇，羞颜未尝开。 低头向暗壁，千唤不一回。 十五始展眉，愿同尘与灰。
常存抱柱信，岂上望夫台。 十六君远行，瞿塘滟滪堆。 五月不可触，猿鸣天上哀。
门前迟行迹，一一生绿苔。 苔深不能扫，落叶秋风早。 八月蝴蝶黄，双飞西园草。
感此伤妾心，坐愁红颜老。 早晚下三巴，预将书报家。 相迎不道远，直至长风沙。

On Raglan Road - that much i know

(love this one! recommended by Dean. picture taken by him, too - somewhere downtown Disney.

love poems are often a direct outpour of emotion. as love is. powerful, but simple, too. we love "whole-heartedly". obstacles abound, but, more often than not, external. this love story, however, is a complex one about inner conflicts. as the first stanza says. there is enough doubt, or warning, about the desire from the very beginning. on Raglan Road... so what? emotion still overwhelms. takes him to the Grafton Street. when all is over, he is left on an unnamed "quiet" street, lick wounds and reflect... bitterness? yes. but more directed to self. the beauty of a true love? he gives her "gifts of the mind". he gives us a portion of that, too. and it amplifies....)

On Raglan Road

by Patrick Kavanagh

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew

That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;

I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,

And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge

Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,

The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -

O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone

And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.

With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now

Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow

That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -

When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

A Rhythmic River - the Wild Party

The Wild Party

by Joseph Moncure March
Drawings by Art Spiegelman

Except for the exceptional, like Homer, I rarely have patience for long poems: I don't look for them and I put it down quickly if I've started one accidentally. Now thanks for Dean's recommendation, I enjoyed another "exceptional". I even read it twice in a row.

The Wild Party runs like a happy river. Rhythmic and rhyming, it flows effortlessly and "naturally". And the reader willingly jumps in for a ride. In that eventful evening. Intrigued by its daring wild species here and there. Startled by its violent undercurrents now and then... And finally immersed in a tenacious scenery of the ninteen twenties.

The drawings are quite good, too, but often too dominating and too much --- the narrative is already vivid with incredible power. The artist over-did himself to match the poet.

This poem inspires mimics and I have been waiting to get one since....

Here is one "less wild" part:

9

Some love is fire: some love is rust:
But the fiercest, cleanest love is lust.
And their lust was tremendous. It had the feel
Of hammers clanging; and stone; and steel:
And torches of the savage, roaring kind
That rip through iron, and strike men blind:
Of long trains crashing through caverns under
Grey trembling streets, like angry thunder:
Of engines throbbing; and hoarse steam spouting;
And feet tramping; and great crowds shouting.
A lust so savage, they could have wrenched
The flesh from bone, and not have blenched.

the irrationality of a rational mind

The Basic Writings of C. G.

Jung by Carl Jung

(darn - doesn't he know it all?!)

From the standpoint of the rational type, the irrational might easily be represented as a rational of inferior quality; namely, when he is apprehended in the light of what happens to him. For what happens to him is not the accidental -- in that he is master --but, in its stead, he is overtaken by rational judgement and rational aims. This fact is hardly comprehensible to the rational mind, but its unthinkableness merely equals the astonishment of the irrational, when he discovers someone who can set the ideas of reason above the living and actual event. Such a thing seems scarcely credible to him. It is, as a rule, quite hopeless to look to him for any recognition of principles in this direction, since a rational understanding is just as unknown and, in fact, tiresome to him as the idea ofmaking a contract without mutual discussion and obligations appears unthinkable to the rational type. p270 (from Psychological Types).

finding faults with Freud - of course, of course :-)

The Basic Writings of C. G. Jung

by Carl Jung

(not one of his occasional courtesies to Freud. To me, Jung is everything what Freud is not. for the latter, here is my favorite quote: "what is true in his theories is not new; what is new is not true" by whom?)

The judgement would entirely devolve upon the observer -- a certain guarantee that its basis would infallibly be imposed upon the observed. To my mind, this is the case in te psychologies both of Freud and of Adler. The individual is completely at the mercy of the arbitrary discretion of his observing critic -- which can never be the case when the conscious psychology of the observed is accepted as the basis. After all, he is the only competent judge, since he alone knows his own motives. p262 (From Psychological Types).

spiritual or instinctive? one and the same - says Dr. Jung

The Basic Writings of C. G. Jung

by Carl Jung

Opposites are extreme qualities in any state, by virtue of which that state is perceived to be real, for they form a potential. The psyche is made up of processes whose energy springs from teh equlibration of all kinds of opposites. The spirit/instinct antithesis is only one of the commonest formulations, but it has the advantage of reducing the greatest number of the most important and most complex psychic processes to a common denominator. So regarded, psychic processes seem to be balances of energy flowing between spirit and instinct, though the question of whether a process is to be described as spiritual or as instinctual remains shrouded in darkness. Such evaluation or interpretation depends entirely upon the standpoint or state of the conscious mind. A poorly developed consciousness, for instance, which because of massed projections in inordinately impressed by concrete or apparently concrete things and states, will naturally see in the instinctual drives the source of all reality. It remains blissfully unaware of the spirituality of such a philosophicla surmise, and is convinced that with this opinion it has established the essential instinctuality of all psychic processes. Conversely, a consciousness that finds itself in opposition to the instincts can, in consequence of the enormous influence then exerted by the archetypes, so subordinate instinct to spirit that the most grotesque "spiritual" complications may arise out of what are undoubedly biological happenings. Here the instinctuality of the fanaticism needed for such an operation is ignored. p98 (from On the Nature of the Psyche)

Without freedom there can be no morality - Carl Jung

The Basic Writings of C. G. Jung
by Carl Jung

(This is the most forceful "indictment" against the coersive power of the mass.)

It is a notorious fact that the morality of society as a whole is in inverse ratio to its size; for the greater the aggregation of individuals, the more the individual factors are blotted out, and with them morality, which rests entirely on the moral sense of the individual and the freedom necessary for this. Hence, every man is, in a certain sense, unconsciously a worse man when he is in society than when acting alone; for he is carried by society and to that extent relieved of his individual responsibility. . . . Any large company composed of wholly admirable persons has the morality and intelligence of an unwieldy, stupid, and violent animal. The bigger the organization, the more unavoidable is its immorality and blind stupidity. Society, by automatically stressing all the collective qualities in its individual representatives, puts a premium on mediocrity, on everything that settles down to vegetate in an easy, irresponsible way. Individuality will inevitable be driven to the wall. This process begins in school, continues at the university, and rules all departments in which the State has a hand. In a small social body, the individuality of its members is better safeguarded; and the greater is their relative freedom and the possibility of conscious responsibility. Without freedom there can be no morality. p169 (from The Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious)

The idiosyncrasy of an individual is not to be understood as any strangeness in his substance or in his components, but rather as a unique combination, or gradual differentiation, of functions and faculties which in themselves are universal. p182 (from The Relations Between the Ego and the Unconscious)

With more foreboding than real knowledge most people feel afraid of the manacing power that lies fettered in each of us, only waiting for the magic word to release it from the spell. The magic word, which always ends in "ism", works most successfully with those who have the least access to their instinctual roots into the truly chaotic world of collective consciousness. p96 (from On the nature of psyche).

the golden threshold

I always recognize that the best books I've read often fail to meet "objective" criteria - the ones I use to justify my criticism of "bad" books. So I argue that a good book is not necessarily something that meets all "good writing practices"; but one that has some extraordinary strength, sometimes the form, other times the content; in artistry, creativity, novelty or deep thinking.

Good reasoning; yet it rarely succeeds in convincing anyone who does not already share my opinion about a given book. And it does not predict how the next book would "fare". So my literary criticism (or that of others) appears arbitary or subjective.

What I've realized recently is that this subjectivity is nevertheless "predictable", in the sense that one seemly always appreciates an artwork intuitively first. And it is with this "gut feeling" of satisfaction (or the lack of), which apparently has some kind of threshold, does one proceed to praise or criticize an artwork rationally, or "objectively".

While this aesthetic intuition is as subjective, and unique to each individual, as it can be, it evolves with growing up, or learning. Learning from experiences. Learning of known literary standards. And influenced by others, too. Thus, an "educated subjectivity" moves inevitably closer to an "objective" judgement, which would define a more stable, rational and sophisticated threshold. Individually, your own evolving threshold is always golden. Culturally, a few recognized great minds set the bar. And historically - one may suppose - the survived is the truly great. With the caveat that not all great works make it to the day.

Les Miserables - time and time again

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.

a chat about Atonement and more

Atonement

Ian McEwan

the conversation started with concerns about his interactions with others. I offered my opinion, which he evidently agreed upon, that it's not really his problem that people often feel offended or hard to communicate with him. nonetheless, it is an obstacle for his ambition.

people like him need total freedom; but where to find it?

then he said that he was re-reading carl jung. this chapter on introvert and extravert. he sort of rationalized his own constructive and destructive behaviors along the line of being an extravert. i am often not patient enough about personality theories (but jung will be my next book). in his case, his overwhelming "problem", IMO, is his intelligence. an intelligence not protected with conventional credentials.

feeling guilty about not knowing enough of Jung, i instead confessed that i was reading 007 with joy. surprisingly, he also considered those books "classics, of course". right there then, he said a few good words about Atonement.

now i am not that impressed by atonement. it is a very simple sentiment dressed up with crafty writing, which ultimately falls short of the expectation when all is revealed （and revealed too belatedly). Jr countered that my criticism was too sketchy, only about "imbalance of content and form". incomparable to a pro-critic who knows the in-and-outs of modern art... he gave a few examples, all lost to me as I wasn't familiar with those artists.

i justified my own opinion as a rationalization of gut feeling, which can't be fooled. but he thought feelings and thinking are both needed to appreciate art. he also thought my standing was too negative, demanding the writer to meet my taste instead of aspiring to regard others more positively. well, i admitted that but saw nothing wrong with judging art subjectively.

actually i think subjectivity is what art is all about. whether one's subjectivity can be appreciated by another human being, as if turning it into sth objective, is a different matter....

(well, hard to record how the conversation really went).

the much more attractive 007

Dr. No

His Majesty's Secret Service

You Can Only Live Twice



by Ian Fleming



What ignorance. I didn't even know that James Bond was books first and movies there after. After a couple of glowing reviews on WSJ commemorating the author's 100th birthday, I picked up these three to read. Quite enjoyable indeed. Of the three, I liked "Twice" most, which, with its setting in Japan, reminded me of Eighty Days Around the World.

Overall, the stories have slower pace than their modern day equivalents but are much more enriched with careful development of characters, vivid description of the cultural and historical background and, necessarily, enough turns of the events for 007 and his heroines. To me, they are both simple and complex, making satisfactory reading.

I never cared much about the movie-version 007s, while the bond in the book is younger, rougher and less polished. far more attractive, in my opinion.

高中两年

“还有，华老师也要来；他说，从高中毕业到现在，都十一年了，每次都不巧，再没有见过你。这回一定不能错过了。” 小云说。 她的眉头不被察觉地皱了一皱，“那太好了。麻烦你了。跑了好几天，这下子，还在新江的同学，老师全部找齐了。”“你看你，从美国回来，人都变客气了。 有啥子关系嘛！ 不要搞忘了，星期六下午五点，新江饭店，吃火锅。然后去我朋友开的歌厅，唱卡拉OK。”

今天是周二，父亲照旧上班，母亲去菜市场了。 小云走后，她独自在家里，无聊地这里站站，那里望望，“每次都不巧，” 她想，“这应该算巧，还是算不巧，还是……？”



一、化学课

刚上课一会儿，她就走神了。 似听非听地，顺手用铅笔在白白方方的橡皮擦上描出了一个娃娃头。 她越看越喜欢，拉拉同桌的袖子，侧过头去，“你看我的洋娃……”， 一句话没完，就听见自己的名字被叫了。 她慌忙抬起头来，正撞上华老师的眼睛，“上课不要摆龙门阵哦！” “都高中了，不能再三心二意的。高考只有一年半了！”。 华老师直直地盯着她，眼神里有说不出的关心，失望和责怪。 她赶紧低下头，拿起课本来。 却感到那双眼睛如影随行地，一直看着自己。

下一堂课，再下一堂课。 她吃惊地发现，她躲不开那双眼睛了。有一天放学后，趁着没人，她走到讲台上，审视了一下自己的座位。教室里一共有三十来张桌子，排成四行，她坐第三排。 从讲台上看，中间靠右。 如果自己再高一点点的话，眼睛盯在那里正好。 她有些释然，觉得自己是疑心病。

但好心情并没有持续太久。据说是为了保护视力，每隔两个月，大家就要换到靠自己右边的那行课桌上，最右边的学生则搬到教室的最左那行去。她的座位从右搬到左，从左搬到右，那双眼睛也跟着从右搬到左，从左搬到右。 每次上课，她都在这个似乎忧怨的眼神的笼罩下，低着头，盼着有人调皮捣蛋，盼着下课的铃声。 更盼着午休。



二、午休

通常只有她自己在教室里，头也不抬地看小说。她喜欢这份宁静，这份自在。 大多数同学都住城里，中午回家。 她家远，在郊外的厂矿区。 父母怕她每天来回走，没时间睡午觉，就让她在学校吃食堂。 又跟班主任商量好，中午在学校自习了，就不用再参加统一的晚自习。下午放学就回家。 但是她从来不需要午觉，也不愿意复习功课。 于是不为人知地享受着这份宁静，这份自在。直到他进教室。

每天下午上课前半个多钟头，有几个男生总会结伴先来。 他们在课桌上跳来蹦去，比赛谁最快最灵活；或在两张桌子之间，用手臂撑起身体，引体向上，看谁做得最多。 宇总是最好的那一个。 她照常看自己的书，不理不睬。 听见喝彩声时，才会漫不经心地回一下头，悄悄地瞟上一眼。 心里却不再宁静，而是莫名其妙地快乐。 快乐得让她害怕。第一次“发现”他，是校运动会的二百米比赛。 班里在体校训练的两个男生都跑百米去了。他中等个，文质彬彬的，一点不像运动员，甚至连运动衣都没有。 他很随便地往第三个弯道那里一站，拐弯拐得飞快协调，一下子就把其他人甩得远远的。 轻轻松松地，得了个第一。高中两年，她从来没有跟他说过一句话。 上大学后，班里组织四乘一百，她想也没想，就说，“我跑第三棒。” 原来，他跑弯道的形象，始终在她心底。



三、教研室

华老师对她说，“今天放学以后，你到教研室来一下。” 她那随着下课的铃声，已经放下的心，又提了起来，变得沉甸甸的。 一下午上课什么都没听进去，心里反复回忆，自己到底做错了什么事？教研室里，只有华老师自己。 随着他小心翼翼的关门声，她的心都快冲到嗓子眼了。 他走得很近，笑眯眯地对她说：“就想先跟你讲一声，化学竞赛你考了第一。最后一道题，是高二课本上的，没想到你也做出来了。” 她的心放下去一半，“谢谢， 我可以走了吗？”。 他一下子失去笑容，“这么好的事，你怎么也不特别高兴？人家别个的话，得一个名次就跳起来了！”


四、电影院

出了电影院，她一眼看见小云，就跑过去跟她一起走，“你说巧不巧，这回又是强坐在我边上。” 小云扭过头，上上下下地把她打量了一番，说“全班都传遍了，你怎么装得啥子事都没有一样。”“传遍什么了？！”“你们俩个啊，全班学习最好的。 每次看电影都坐一起！” “是燕发的票呀！她是文娱委员，跟我有什么关系！” 她又有些生气，“你怎么不早点跟我讲？ 我就只有你一个好朋友，你却把我当外人。”“但是你一放学就回家，我，我跟他们几个每天走一路，还要上晚自习，星期天我们还在大院里一起做作业。”

对这个传言，她置若罔闻 - 没有人，根本没有人知道她真正的秘密。



五、教研室

铃声已经响过，她还在放上一堂语文课的复习资料。 华老师站在讲台上，不耐烦了，“上课了，上课了，先收起来！” 不知道为什么，这几句话搅动出她满腔的怒气。 她把手里的资料，散开来，哗啦哗啦地抖了一地，满脸通红地走回自己的座位。全班鸦雀无声。他看着她很久，才说“放学后，到教研室来讲清楚。”

他从头到脚地数落：骄傲自满，不尊重师长；她粗心大意，作业经常出错；其他同学已经追上来了；高考越来越近了……她无言以对，不时地应一声“是”，“错了”，“改”，徒然地想把谈话的方向，尽快地往结束的轨道上引。他的眼睛没有离开过一瞬。

走进家门，母亲站起来，端起饭菜，倒回锅里加热，“咋个这么晚，是不是把作业都做完了，才回来？ 我们都吃过了。我又给你买了好多李子，在小盆子里。你慢慢吃，我去隔壁给李阿姨说个事。”。她感到一种从未有过的亲切，眼睛都有些湿润了。 坐下来吃饭。 父亲从报上抬起头，“这星期的科技报都来了，又有一套高考模拟题。你等会儿做一做。”



六、 放学

离高考还有几个月的一天。 早上走进教室， 平常挺压抑的班里， 仿佛炸了窝，所有的男生围成一团，乱哄哄地大声说笑，叫闹。 小云一看见她，就冲了过来，眉飞色舞的，“你怎么才来！今天早自习都取消了。 鹰考上了空军！全校唯一一个。 马上就要走了。去河北。他跟我住一个院子！”。 她也激动起来，赶紧从人缝中间找到鹰。 鹰长得结结实实的，隐隐地透出一种雄壮，黝黑的脸堂非常端正，但没有一丝书卷气。她突然意识到， 同学快两年，这其实是自己第一次注意到他。 放学了，还是她自己，磨磨蹭蹭地收书包。 “我会给你写信的！” 她吓了一跳，抬起头来，只看见鹰奔跑的背影。 后来她也去了北方念书。大学一年级时，她收到了一封厚厚的信。 河北来的。 鹰现在很好。 胡耀邦视察空军基地时，他被选为四个扛军旗的之一。 他邀请她去玩。



七、 高考后

成绩出来的前一天晚上，父母硬拉着她去学校打听消息。 她垂头丧气地跟在后面，心里惭愧不已，因为就象一直她一直担心的一样，她考砸了。没找到班主任，出校门时却意外地碰上了华老师。 他眉开眼笑地对父亲说，“哎呀，考得好好哟！她自己估分，啷个一点儿都不准哦！” 又转过头来看着她，“你要远走高飞了！” 她点点头，如释重负。 她再也不用见到他了，再也不用忍受那双眼睛了。

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再见到华老师，她有些吃惊。当年高高在上，让她担忧害怕的他，没想到还那么年轻。 在座的十几个同学，平常也很少见面，但注意力都集中在她身上。 她侃侃而谈，接受大家的仰慕欣羡。 华老师突然问：“你现在做什么呢？”“搞科研啊！”“在哪里？”“哦，还没有工作。 还在大学里，博士后。”“都毕业那么多年了，啷个还在上学呢。 光晓得读书，就成书呆子了哦！” 华老师看着她，眼神里有关心，似乎还有一点失望。“你说得对。 度假回去后，就找工作。” 她也望着他，心底的一丝阴云， 终于散去。

A mystery

A mystery

Love is the mystery of things
“To the stars!”
The little pig flies with wings

Down the valley
The Lost River it up springs

And in heart of hearts
A muse awakes and sings

Love
It is the mystery of things

(The lake, Beida; photo taken on July 6, 2008)

The Golden Compass leads nowhere

The Golden Compass
Philip Pullman

Only managed to finish "His dark materials", the first book (1/3). The author has very limited imagination and not much of a fiction writer, either.

I was annoyed by his sneering at the Ring and didn't even plan to read. Now I know I was right.