凌晨4点, 望着窗外街上孤零零的几个行人, 我又一次感到眼泪就要涌出。回头看到地上尚未打开的行李，想起妈妈精心打包进去的大红枣、普洱茶、和豆浆粉，心中不禁百感交集。人有悲欢离合，月有阴晴圆缺。昨天一家人还在一起涮火锅，今天就距离如此的遥远！
芝加哥，海德公园，我们又见面了。
(二）
航班起飞了，盘旋在北京的上空。望着窗外暮色中的京城，我的眼泪淋湿了安全带。这是我出生并且成长到十岁的城市，它曲折的胡同里有我最幸福、最珍贵的回忆。可是这次走，真不知何时归来。
（三）
每次回家见到姥姥、姥爷，就发觉他们又苍老了许多。这次走之前，姥爷意味深长的叮嘱我要学会寻找生活中的幸福，并递过一幅他亲笔书写的我最喜爱的《孟子》采摘。姨妈悄悄的告诉我，“这幅书法来之不易。姥爷的左眼失明后已经很少写字了。” 接过那幅精致裱好的字，我心中一阵心酸，只愿能够留在家里尽一个孙女的职责。
（四）
因时差而失眠的我，坐在床上翻阅苏轼的诗词。
大江东去，浪淘尽，
千古风流人物。
故垒西边，人道是，
三国周郎赤壁。
乱石崩云，惊涛裂岸，
卷起千堆雪。
江山如画，昔日多少豪杰。
（五）
天亮了。马路上的车多了起来。这一夜，我的眼泪都哭干了。虽然每次离家都恋恋不舍，这次却尤其伤感，好像多了一层永别的感觉。人长大了，究竟是要在外面走出一片自己世界的。新的一年，来吧！
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
I made my way in that direction where, to judge by the voices, stood beings akin to me.
One of my favourite novels is Invitation to a Beheading by Vladimir Nabokov.
Without intending to be overly narcissistic, I repost here a hastily-written reading response on this novel for a Vladimir Nabokov class I took in the spring. It's certainly not my best work, but rereading it reminds me of how much I would rather be writing about Nabokov than international trade.
PS. The quote in the title is probably my absolutely favourite line in the book. Sheer genius.
Many have compared the experience of reading Invitation to a Beheading to Cincinnatus’ slow and torturous road to execution. Upon finishing the novel, I find myself thinking that not only do Cincinnatus and the reader both go through an “execution”, but they also underwent a journey of self-discovery. After a lifetime in a world where everyone acts in an irrational manner, Cincinnatus finally heads toward the other opaque beings, and only in taking this step is he finally about to learn who he really is. Likewise, by challenging the reader to delve into a world where “gnostical turpitude” is punishable by death and judges and prosecutors are meant to be brothers, forcing us to explore how we feel about this world and these characters, Nabokov gives us a better understanding of ourselves. Instead of viewing it as a novel of despondence and oppression, Invitation to a Beheading is more appropriately seen as a novel of hope.
I have always admired how Nabokov’s works seem to have infinite levels of interpretation – the literal, metaphorical, allegorical, existential, and so on. At Cincinnatus’ trial, “the words “translucence” and “opacity” rose and burst like bubbles (21)”, and so he is condemned to death because he is not translucent like the others. He practices duality and hides another “Cincinnatus” within himself, one who dreams of another reality, and such secrets makes him opaque. On some level, Nabokov uses Cincinnatus to represent all those who feel out of place from their environment, and Invitation to a Beheading can be seen as a positive force of encouragement dedicated to anyone who feels different. People are afraid of what they cannot understand, like Cincinnatus’ opaqueness, but even in the darkness of his prison cell, Cincinnatus still believes “it exists, my dream world, it must exist, since, surely there must be an original of the clumsy copy. (93)” Isn’t it ironic that Cincinnatus had accepted his fate from the beginning, with self-pity and lamentations, when all along he had been aware of possessing the power to change the situation? “…and by evoking them – not believing in them, perhaps, but still evoking them – Cincinnatus allowed them the right to exist, supported them, nourished them with himself. (156)” This is an especially memorable line referring to the characters of Rodion, Rodrig, M’sieur Pierre, and the like. It implies that their right to exist lies in the hands of Cincinnatus, yet they are also the exact individuals who are carrying out his execution!
In the end, when Cincinnatus finally asks himself, “why am I here? Why and I lying like this? (222)” In a world shrouded with cloudy misery, there is now “a clarity he had never experienced before – at first almost painful…but then suffusing him with joy.” (222) This clarity comes with the realization that the power of one lies within himself, and it is no coincidence that Cincinnatus’ world collapses and prison guards shrink to the size of larvae as soon as he finds the courage to pursue his “dream world.” Perhaps, through this gruesome tale, Nabokov is telling us that, like Cincinnatus, we should also be edging closer to beings akin to us.
PS. The quote in the title is probably my absolutely favourite line in the book. Sheer genius.
Many have compared the experience of reading Invitation to a Beheading to Cincinnatus’ slow and torturous road to execution. Upon finishing the novel, I find myself thinking that not only do Cincinnatus and the reader both go through an “execution”, but they also underwent a journey of self-discovery. After a lifetime in a world where everyone acts in an irrational manner, Cincinnatus finally heads toward the other opaque beings, and only in taking this step is he finally about to learn who he really is. Likewise, by challenging the reader to delve into a world where “gnostical turpitude” is punishable by death and judges and prosecutors are meant to be brothers, forcing us to explore how we feel about this world and these characters, Nabokov gives us a better understanding of ourselves. Instead of viewing it as a novel of despondence and oppression, Invitation to a Beheading is more appropriately seen as a novel of hope.
I have always admired how Nabokov’s works seem to have infinite levels of interpretation – the literal, metaphorical, allegorical, existential, and so on. At Cincinnatus’ trial, “the words “translucence” and “opacity” rose and burst like bubbles (21)”, and so he is condemned to death because he is not translucent like the others. He practices duality and hides another “Cincinnatus” within himself, one who dreams of another reality, and such secrets makes him opaque. On some level, Nabokov uses Cincinnatus to represent all those who feel out of place from their environment, and Invitation to a Beheading can be seen as a positive force of encouragement dedicated to anyone who feels different. People are afraid of what they cannot understand, like Cincinnatus’ opaqueness, but even in the darkness of his prison cell, Cincinnatus still believes “it exists, my dream world, it must exist, since, surely there must be an original of the clumsy copy. (93)” Isn’t it ironic that Cincinnatus had accepted his fate from the beginning, with self-pity and lamentations, when all along he had been aware of possessing the power to change the situation? “…and by evoking them – not believing in them, perhaps, but still evoking them – Cincinnatus allowed them the right to exist, supported them, nourished them with himself. (156)” This is an especially memorable line referring to the characters of Rodion, Rodrig, M’sieur Pierre, and the like. It implies that their right to exist lies in the hands of Cincinnatus, yet they are also the exact individuals who are carrying out his execution!
In the end, when Cincinnatus finally asks himself, “why am I here? Why and I lying like this? (222)” In a world shrouded with cloudy misery, there is now “a clarity he had never experienced before – at first almost painful…but then suffusing him with joy.” (222) This clarity comes with the realization that the power of one lies within himself, and it is no coincidence that Cincinnatus’ world collapses and prison guards shrink to the size of larvae as soon as he finds the courage to pursue his “dream world.” Perhaps, through this gruesome tale, Nabokov is telling us that, like Cincinnatus, we should also be edging closer to beings akin to us.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Addicted to Fashion Blogs
Beauty is really hard to resist. Sometimes, I wish I was in fashion school.
sources: Picked Pics, The Sartorialist
sources: Picked Pics, The Sartorialist
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Thought Provoking...
An accurate depiction of society, if I let my pessimistic instincts take over. It's good to see nothing's changed since 50 B.C.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
First Snow
I woke up and saw white everywhere.
Usually I keep the blinds open when I sleep, so that the abundance of light outside would force me out of my practical hibernation. This morning, the scenery outside was blindingly beautiful.
Well, then. Never mind the pile of half-open democratic theory books by my pillow and the pages of monetary policy notes scattered all over the floor. Never mind the slush and unsalted sidewalks. Never mind the cold and my unkempt appearance. I decided to follow my instincts and go get coffee.
Maybe the years in Singapore has eliminated all memories of a temperate climate, because despite being a Beijing-er I still marvel at snow. I can't help it. There is something about the perfect geometry of a snowflake and the awash of whiteness it brings that best conveys the wonder of our world. Plus, there is no better feeling than walking through the quiet streets of the morning, with snowflakes falling on your hair, and a winter wonderland before you.
I leave my apartment and slowly trek towards Istria Cafe. It must have been snowing all night, because some accumulation had been built up on the sidewalks. I wave hello to the man spreading salt on the pavement. A couple of kids prance past me, excited about a snowball fight by the lake. It is at times like these when I feel like I'm seeing the real Hyde Park and appreciate this kaleidoscopic community. I may be an outsider (a foreigner, even!)wearing a University of Chicago sweatshirt, but lately, on walks like this one, I finally began to open my eyes. I want to understand this neighbourhood, discover its charms, and remember the ambiance of this little juxtaposition of race and culture on the South Side.
The distance to Istria is only two blocks down Lake Park, but I took my time. Despite the snow, I stop in front of the murals on the 56th street Metra station and examine them closely for the first time. The paintings depict various members of the Hyde Park community, from a university professor to an immigrant shop keeper. I step back to absorb its powerful message, and see an old lady walking past shoot me a little smile. It warmed me up instantly.
Finally, I reach my destination and walk into the smell of dark roast coffee and freshly baked muffins. Five minutes later, with a soy chai latte and cinnamon chip scone in hand, I head home feeling inexplicably contented. By now, it was snowing harder, but the pavements had been salted. Brushing the snowflakes out of my hair, I watch the salt crystals glisten in the sunlight, my mind flooded by an overwhelming sense of peace. 40 pages worth of papers and two finals await me, but for now, I couldn't help but think: Life is good.
Usually I keep the blinds open when I sleep, so that the abundance of light outside would force me out of my practical hibernation. This morning, the scenery outside was blindingly beautiful.
Well, then. Never mind the pile of half-open democratic theory books by my pillow and the pages of monetary policy notes scattered all over the floor. Never mind the slush and unsalted sidewalks. Never mind the cold and my unkempt appearance. I decided to follow my instincts and go get coffee.
Maybe the years in Singapore has eliminated all memories of a temperate climate, because despite being a Beijing-er I still marvel at snow. I can't help it. There is something about the perfect geometry of a snowflake and the awash of whiteness it brings that best conveys the wonder of our world. Plus, there is no better feeling than walking through the quiet streets of the morning, with snowflakes falling on your hair, and a winter wonderland before you.
I leave my apartment and slowly trek towards Istria Cafe. It must have been snowing all night, because some accumulation had been built up on the sidewalks. I wave hello to the man spreading salt on the pavement. A couple of kids prance past me, excited about a snowball fight by the lake. It is at times like these when I feel like I'm seeing the real Hyde Park and appreciate this kaleidoscopic community. I may be an outsider (a foreigner, even!)wearing a University of Chicago sweatshirt, but lately, on walks like this one, I finally began to open my eyes. I want to understand this neighbourhood, discover its charms, and remember the ambiance of this little juxtaposition of race and culture on the South Side.
The distance to Istria is only two blocks down Lake Park, but I took my time. Despite the snow, I stop in front of the murals on the 56th street Metra station and examine them closely for the first time. The paintings depict various members of the Hyde Park community, from a university professor to an immigrant shop keeper. I step back to absorb its powerful message, and see an old lady walking past shoot me a little smile. It warmed me up instantly.
Finally, I reach my destination and walk into the smell of dark roast coffee and freshly baked muffins. Five minutes later, with a soy chai latte and cinnamon chip scone in hand, I head home feeling inexplicably contented. By now, it was snowing harder, but the pavements had been salted. Brushing the snowflakes out of my hair, I watch the salt crystals glisten in the sunlight, my mind flooded by an overwhelming sense of peace. 40 pages worth of papers and two finals await me, but for now, I couldn't help but think: Life is good.
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