My Love with Kafka - Notes from My Life

Author: Hongying
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-09-01
Features: Her hand encircled me as soft and light as silk: I will make you happy, joyful, carefree as your nature, loving, loving freedom. When you gaze at the sky, the sky fills with singing birds; when you gaze at the river, the river fills with dancing fish; when you gaze at people, people will follow you for no reason. Between us, there is only a distance that time and water can pass through. She said she didn’t want to see my eyes again filled with melancholic shadows, sorrow. She told me to remember, forever remember, that I was the person who moved her and for whom she was willing to trade everything in reality and imagination. She told me she had never said such things to anyone else; she would not let another woman or man lie within her heart. To others, if she could, she was cold. She had never treated anyone like she treated me. That night, time was exceptionally generous and selfless, flowing exceptionally slowly. In the middle of the night, she lay flat, holding my hand, and told me about a past romance—a story between a dance director and her. She remembered every letter they exchanged and recited them to me piece by piece. She said these letters hadher young life. Later, he married an American doctor. Before the wedding, he knelt before her and begged her: I don’t want the stars and stripes, the Mississippi River, missiles, spaceships, the moon—none of these things should ever exist between us. Leave me. Leave me. I’d rather return to our suburban home and live a life of picking chrysanthemums under the east fence, leisurely seeing the southern mountains, a simple but happy life. I love you, only you are the one I am willing to stay with for my entire life. She said nothing. Since the road had already been taken, there should be no trace of lingering backward glances. But in her heart, she hoped this was all just a dream. He left, and she was never heard from again. She lay beside me, motionless, with only her voice drifting in the air. He was highly intelligent. Willful and untamed, he would go to any lengths for his dreams. He knew himself too well. He knew what he needed. He suffered from severe tracheitis and other illnesses. He knew the value and role a wealthy American doctor would play in his struggle. She turned her body to look at me and, after a long while, said, You’re not like him. I didn’t want to tell you, but I couldn’t help it. You belong to a different kind of person—a writer who accompanies loneliness and solitude, not one who follows the times, nor one who values fame and fortune highly. You don’t even want to show your face. You’re too proud, and that’s bad—it will make you hurt every moment; you’re too real, to the point where you’re like a ghost who doesn’t eat the smoke of the mortal world, a formless wind, an untieable cloud, an unreachable shadow, a broken dream within a dream, vanishing in an instant. How I detest your name. She said, This name signifies something that doesn’t exist. I love this name. I insisted, smiling. But I had already melted into her presence, her voice, her skin as fine as silk, and her blood burning like fire. This night, this dawn, I had no past, no future, only my present—happy, peaceful, without shame. P18-19