Dream Room Archive: Collected Works of Chen Mengjia

Author: Chen Mengjia
Publisher:
Publishing Date: Not available
Features: In the twelfth letter, I and my sister said we would each write you an eight-page letter, but I've been exhausted all night because I didn't sleep at all. You must allow me to hide this from her and write a bit less. She didn't go back to her room all night and lay in my bed. We talked all night about "Chen Mengjia and ××." This girl is strange—she's never even met you, yet she's heard so much about you two. In the middle of the night, we were interrupted several times by our good mother from the next room, but we lowered our voices and continued talking. Downstairs, our old father coughed and sighed, scaring us into making faces at each other. After blowing out the light, we whispered in the dark. Excited, we gradually raised our voices again. In short, we talked quite a lot, and you must allow me to be so excited as I thought and told her all along. Our moonlit lakes, the night at the café, our walks at the foot of the mountain—all came flooding out, leaving only a small part hidden. I wanted to cry and laugh; I couldn't breathe. A ghost returning to their former home—what must that be like? Half to tell her, half to sing to myself. It felt as if I had returned to the "little chimney's home." It felt as if the coffee was steaming. I developed a fondness for your red paper umbrella and blue cloth robe here. Your big eyes and sunburnt face, your timidness and silence—you can win with your "talent and clumsiness," and everything else you have, I have brought to you one by one. ××, I say, is a foolish girl who loves to dress up and tell tall tales, with a "hospital obsession." She also finds it very pleasant to be foolish and ramble. (This isn't bad) If I were speaking alone, I wouldn't have talked all night. She really chimed in with so many opinions and questions, and she helped me along the way, as if you were old friends. Besides, I said you were very smart and a bit hazy, with a touch of Pan Peter's confusion. I said the three of us had spent many wonderful, envy-inducing moments together. (Of course, her eyes got red) I painted that lake and the little tea shop as if they were in the heavens. She was eager to leave. Gradually, I became more boring and annoying. I could have avoided thinking so often, but I always felt it, and it frightened me. You will see me again, and you won't recognize me. I'll no longer be the kind of friend you'd want to meet or talk to. Are you sad? No, you won't be. You all have your own style—you won't get sad before something sad happens, and when it really does, you won't care much. I hope the best thing is that that word isn't a knife. You must insist on carving it into a knife, then you can believe this knife is hidden in the dark and won't harm anyone. If you happen to pick it up, it won't cling to you tightly. Have you ever thought about the story of a swallow skimming the water's surface? You should think about it and understand its beauty. You have no reason to cling to small things. Let it pass, not even touching a shadow. I want to stay here longer, linger for a while, and delay leaving. Thinking about that place is half enchanting and half exhausting. That place is rarely calm, and my spirit is often tossed by storms, which isn't good for me. This isn't really a letter, just a small "eight pages." I'm too tired to struggle any longer—it's as if I'll die the moment I collapse. Because of your illness, this "eight pages" crawled through my drowsiness, turning into a poor "heap of Chinese nonsense," which is too hard on your stomach. I once thought I could write it to be a bit better, but what can I do? Look, I've already closed one eye.
August, some day. P015-P016