Passed by the dragonfly

Author: Tang Mi / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-10-01
Features: You know some things are timeless themes, like men and women, love, and separation. We keep trying to depict love, yet we can never accurately grasp its shape, texture, color, or even scent. The only thing we can be certain of is this: even if love is deep, one must always go first. Separation is merely a matter of time.
The author once worked for an entertainment and fashion magazine for many years, interviewing countless celebrities. This book is not a novel in the usual sense, nor is it a literary work or a celebrity autobiography—it simply tells a love story set against the backdrop of the entertainment industry. Centered around a super fan's pursuit of an idol, it resonates with readers (who are also fans of celebrities); it intersperses many aspects of a journalist's real work life, an idol's inner monologue, and a complete record of Hong Kong's entertainment trends from 1991 to 2005, showcasing the process of "gathering stars with bare hands" over 15 years.
Zhao Yiliang, the publisher of the top-selling magazine "Ray·Fashion Pioneer" and a seasoned media professional, highly recommended this book when she said, "Even if you have the tenderness of the entire world, it cannot compare to the need for one person. Even if you can sing the most passionate songs, it cannot compare to the pain of longing for a heart. When he tears himself open into a stunning wound, the curtain falls. Those songs that grew up with one person are frozen in memory."
"Fans who don't want to get close to their idols aren't good fans—this book ultimately talks about the ultimate fan rule. As once said, 'Men are all fickle, so it's better to find a fickle celebrity.' Of course, because celebrities can't get close to most fans, these fans' experiences are particularly precious and were written into this novel," said Yuan Lei, a senior entertainment journalist, when writing the preface for the book.
2. In my diary, in my daydreams, I sketched the love blueprint Sam brought me—handsome men walking through the gates of his luxurious villa in Hong Kong, sitting at a white grand piano, gently playing and singing. I still remember that back then, a group of perfectly handsome and stylish men and women began to frequently appear in the golden ballad segments of TV stations. They sang and danced, talented and versatile. At that time, it was just a blink of an eye from Hong Kong to the mainland. Yet, it was then that a piece of romantic grassland was opened in the hearts of mainland girls—they first saw so many well-dressed and perfect men and women, each a masterpiece of God, full of charm, allure, and appeal.
"Packaging" was still an unfamiliar term back then. Everyone thought they and they were natural works of art. They sighed, wondering who had such sharp eyes and luck to gather and support so many ideal figures. Words, music, voice, and character—originally, there were so many benefits, creating a vibrant dream. Whether illusory or real, I was certain this was the moment my heart skipped a beat. Like looking at a flower through mist, like drifting dry ice, he was my everything—my blueprint. Even if I called him my entire world, it wouldn't have been an exaggeration. My small room was filled with his smiling faces. My pencil case and schoolbag were adorned with his eyes. I used him as a role model when teaching classmates, and I took his sincere words from newspapers and media as my motto. Some I treasured, others I gave as priceless treasures. I thought, "One should be like him." That way, there would be no regrets.
To collect everything about him, I gave up breakfast, even walked instead of taking the bus, searching for any image or sound related to him. To make him surprised by my beauty one day, I spent more time in front of the mirror, already in my tender years, learning to control every possible excess in my body. Any unexpected pimple would make me sad for a long time. Willow-shaped eyebrows, long eyelashes, a pair of enchanting eyes full of charm, a small and delicate nose, and a silken long hair. These were my original assets. I wasn't the most beautiful girl in school, but I still won glances and whistles as I walked across the campus.
At the age of five, my parents sent me to piano lessons. At seven, I learned ballet. In the third grade of elementary school, I represented my school in the city's math competition and won second place, then rose from an arts committee member to a class vice monitor. When I received my Red Scarf, the school also made me one of the first Communist Youth League members. Starting from high school, boys began writing love letters to me, but I never replied. I knew in my life, there would be no second man worth such passion. His Shanghai fan club was also my masterpiece. My career began here, though without financial compensation. "Volunteer" was also a fashionable term back then. His fans gradually gathered around me through the messages I posted in the newspaper's margins.
People who are similar attract each other, and our common topic was him. It was enough to fill two hours of dinner, and we still didn't want to end. It was enough to sustain a two-day celebration, and we still wanted it to last three days. Even two days and two nights of waiting in the hotel lobby felt insufficient. For the first time, I realized that people could truly fall in love with someone just because of a plant or a tree, let alone a voice and a color? This obsession could even transform a fan into a lover. And I was actually a woman with a strong sense of possession. Like a dragonfly that alights only on a single lotus tip, unwilling to just pass by. If I had had the talent for writing and composing songs back then, years later, the song "My 1997" would not have been sung by Ai Jing. She said her Sam was in Hong Kong. I also told all my classmates and friends that my Sam was in Hong Kong. But everyone just laughed it off. Of course, Hong Kong was like abroad back then—you thought you were someone, and you could go to Hong Kong anytime you wanted.
A classmate who later became a hostess at a night club told us at a dinner that after dating a Hong Kong boss, she had circulated photos signed by Sam. Everyone sighed with a mix of envy and admiration. That was the mainland girls of the late 1980s—that was the love orientation of the time. Our parents were too poor, and our parents were too proper. The wave of going abroad mixed with the trend of materialism, spreading through Shanghai and polluting our youth. Handsome, deep, wealthy, and foreign—that was the entire definition of a "white horse knight" back then. And Sam was the ideal of ideals. Moreover, he sang passionate love songs, using music and beautiful lyrics.
Every day and night, in my diary and in my daydreams, I sketched the love blueprint Sam brought me—handsome men walking through the gates of his luxurious villa in Hong Kong, me watching him play and sing at a white grand piano, every word and note deeply moving me. As night fell, the stars covered us like a curtain, and we stood in front of the curtains, gazing at the deep blue sky. His charming eyes stared at me, still so moving, with his magnetic voice. He said, "Jiahua, no, dragonfly, I love you." I even remember every word I wrote in my letters to him—those written on fancy, expensive paper with scented pens, some naive, some innocent, even some excited. But the sincerity in them was beyond reproach. I said, "Dear Sam, I don't expect you to receive this letter from Shanghai. I don't hope you will reply personally, but I would be very grateful if you read my entire confession. Outside the window, it's early spring, with light rain falling. Yet, I'm thinking of you. The entire room is filled with your voice. I don't care who composed the music or wrote the lyrics—I believe they are all your sincerity and your heart. Otherwise, why could I see a moving force in your eyes every time you sang those passionate lines on TV? Truly, you are the only man who sings love songs with his heart, at least in my heart! Keep going, okay? I will always support you, encouraging you silently."
The address was copied from a magazine, neatly written on a beautiful envelope. The stamp was stuck upside down. I stood in front of the mailbox for a long time, kissing the letter repeatedly before gently placing it into the green angel's embrace. That night, I sat cross-legged on my single bed, staring at Sam's smiling face on the poster on the wall, silently whispering, "Dear, you must receive my letter! You must read it carefully!"
After sending the letter, I started counting the days, calculating when he would receive my reply. I firmly believed that fate would surely connect us. In reality, he didn't even know me. Perhaps this letter from a girl named Zhu Jiahua would just sink into the depths of the sea. Even the members of the fan club I secretly organized frequently wrote to him! Except for a few who received signed photos back, most of the letters were sent with no reply. But so what? Only girls from that era would continue to pour passion and hope into an idol without expecting anything in return. Not even a single bit of heat would be lowered. I even demanded that each member strictly follow the rules—someone had to be responsible for writing and sending letters every day. If any replies came, they were not to be selfishly kept but shared with all members. Sam was our common idol, and we loved him openly and honestly. I firmly believed that collective strength was infinite. At least at the airport, in the hotel, or at the concerts, we could build a noticeable wall, making him notice every "brick." And each fan hoped to be the only "golden brick" polished with gold.
A new member once couldn't help but ask me, "President, if you ever met Sam, would you definitely invite everyone to take a group photo and chat with him?"
"Of course!" I replied without hesitation, nodding firmly. But in my heart, I thought, "We'll see when that time comes."
Later, a Hong Kong member joined, her name was Lisa. She was very enthusiastic and hardworking, even helping us establish contact with Sam's Hong Kong fan club. Every month, she regularly sent us from major Hong Kong newspapers about Sam, which I personally bound and copied before distributing to each member. The originals were kept in my bookshelf. Lisa told me, "Jiahua sister, don't worry, you and your fans are so passionate and supportive of Sam—I'm sure he will notice you! Moreover, with the help of the Hong Kong fan club, I'm even more confident!"
I thanked her for a long time in my reply and invited her to be the honorary president of the fan club. She accepted with a smile.