Dear Reader

The little bell on the right-up corner is red: “You’ve made 50 posts and you’ve received 100 likes.” I feel thankful but not proud.

I never imagined who might read my blog, by accident or by following? I didn’t link this site to my Facebook account, neither informed my friends. Being anonymous is important, at least now, because I can feel free and open to the whole world. I can also forgive my English deficiency.

Dear Friend, if you are a real friend in my real life, you may generously touch “like” just in order to encourage me, sometimes even forgetting to read the words. You may discuss with me the topic and express your agreement or disagreement. You may hurry up to console me when you have smelled something wrong in my post. You may find out whether I lied on some details or concealed others. You may hope that one day I would write about our friendship… Dear Friend, but you, you will not.

Gustave Flaubert, my favorite writer, spent most of his life in solitude, justifying his grandeur by ignoring all readers. He was a pessimist, thus pitiful. However, by overlooking the profile of his potential reader, he could finally concentrate on his writing. In fact, he had a strong belief : There is someone who appreciates what I think and what I write.

It’s difficult to depict what is the reader’s role, although I have read a lot of literary criticism on this subject with labels of modernism or postmodernism.

For everyone that commits to write a post, there must be a desire to have one reader, whose presence is vital but not his comments.

You are that one! and Thank you !

I don’t know who you are, as you don’t know who I am. But we all know that words are powerful. When I write, I believe that writing can make me better. Or maybe, some day, my writing can make the world better. When you read me, I hope that your reading can make you happier and eventually better too. If it’s not this post which catches you, move on and you will find that One.

Just keep reading and keep loving to read.

Meet another Me

How could I describe my emotion when I found, by chance, my former blog, which was suspended six years ago. I accidentally entered the wrong mail address and taped the same password, wishing to write a new post in my present blog. The former one, written in Chinese, just showed up, making me astonished, as if I was in a dream. I hardly recognized the front page and had no idea that was it. It was my former blog annexed to MSN, which was moved to Word Press while MSN invalided the relevant service. I just accepted that MSN died out of my day. I might never think to save this blog. For all these years, I didn’t know the existence of WordPress, since it is censured in China.

More than two hundreds articles, written from 2016 to 2010 ! Full of emotion, I clicked my mouse to read several posts. Ma memory was motivated but the past of my life was not clear enough. I skimmed my college life, the beginning of my career and the new life after my marriage. Is it me? With such an innocent and emotional style?

I met another me, whom I now barely recognize and may not agree with. Was I naive at that time, believing that romantic and pure words were the most suitable to express my daily thoughts? Or just because that my thoughts at that period were as simply as my writing fragments.Was I only capable to be authentic to my life or Had I already indulged myself in a romantic and lyrical writing, which made my past appear so pure and beautiful ?  It’s only six years between the present Me and the much younger and much simpler Me. What has happened?

Let me translate the last post of that blog, written on September 14th, 2010, in Paris.

The age of Paris

“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” said Hemingway. But why in one’s youth?

I dream, when I’m very very old, I would live in Paris.

Every day, with so much time and enough money,

Dressed up daintily, a lighter skirt, red lips,

I would admire the organ in church, enjoy a coffee at terrace,

taste small but exquisite chocolate,

I would appreciate a movie, at noon, in a desert cinema,

go to opera and indulge myself in the grandeur of the surroundings.

My partner would be with me, soak up the sun in silence,

pass an afternoon at a park, where the noise becomes now tolerable.

I might learn to bake cake, but still desire to try different restaurants.

Never I would mind the body shape, because I have already got the secret.

No longer I would  prefer to stay all day in library, Neither to pass my day between books,

Read, but only a little, Write, but only occasionally,

That’s all.

Time changes people. I don’t regret the change. I could never write in that way any more. I have moved on with my age. Have I become more cynical? Have I lost my pure optimism in life? Have I turned out to be more complex and less credulous?

The past is beautiful and the present should be the same, but with different perspectives. I dreamed a lot when I was young. Sometimes, I still dream the same thing, but with less idealism and more consciousness to cherish the present pleasure.