The woman who makes my heart ache

Author: Gao Yong
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-06-01
Features: The reason why Gao Yong's comics possess an irreplaceable impact lies in two aspects. First, while drawing inspiration from Japanese comic techniques, he incorporates the delicate lines of classical Chinese art, creating exquisite and profound images with a unique charm. Especially in his portrayal of ancient figures, he blends modernity with classical beauty, captivating and enchanting viewers. Second, his compelling and passionate love stories, where he "writes novels with one hand and draws comics with the other." More importantly, years of literary creation have nurtured his profound humanistic concern. Gao Yong points out that comics should not be created in isolation—they are not purely products of fantasy, nor are they tools to escape real-world pressures; otherwise, it would be a case of putting the cart before the horse. His works bravely confront the realities of life and challenge eternal themes, something many contemporary comic artists fall short of. When he is gentle, he is like a warm ocean, allowing her to lie in his broad chest, protecting and embracing her in the many nights she couldn’t sleep. His smile is adorable—he has truly loved her deeply. To love someone is so painful, while missing someone is so sweet. May she have never met any man, and may she hope to be like a shooting star. In my senior year of high school, the person I secretly admired gave me a completely blank notebook, with only eight characters written on the cover: "Lightly Sketch the Heart, Gently Write Life." From then on, I wrote down all my feelings in that notebook, as if it were a mysterious ritual. I believed that by writing them down and keeping them in the diary, she would embrace them and share my joys and sorrows. After so many years, occasionally flipping through the old notes, memories drift like snowflakes quietly falling into the heart’s lake. The tears shed for her, the sleep lost for her—all resurface. Emotions change in an instant, but a wounded heart does not disappear with time; it only hides in some corner, and when accidentally uncovered, it hurts all over again. Every time I pass those familiar alleys, I seem to see the youthful, reckless me, riding a bicycle through the pouring rain without regard for anyone’s objections, just to catch a glimpse of her; I also seem to see her leading me past the red walls, with us both silent, while the cicadas compete in their chorus on the gnarled banyan trees. That line, "I love you," sank deep into my heart, but I never got the chance to say it. Sometimes I ask myself, if I could meet her again after several years, would I have the courage to confess my feelings? Would she still look the same as she did in her youth? I think I would smile and tell her the secret that had long been hidden in my heart. But that initial longing, that thrill—it has long faded into a dream, like every story in this collection. No matter how I try, I can no longer capture any of those emotions.