I realise that after a time, it becomes disgusting to repeat the story of my life. So it's true that I've had an unconventional way of doing things and every stranger who comes along and listens to it finds it 'interesting' but I start to wonder if it is that special after all. What does it matter to them anyway—it is not as if they were there every step of the way experiencing the same emotions and angst and difficulties of another man's life. What makes us so important, I think, is because we cannot see and feel past ourselves. That is why we can still be proud of who we are despite our failures and eccentricities and humiliating ways, and judge others as losers or misfits by that very measure. Holden Caulfield, if only you knew what a hero you are.

"If you want to know the truth, I don't know what I think about it. I'm sorry I told so many people about it. About all I know is, I sort of miss everybody I told about. Even old Stradlater and Ackley, for instance. I think I even miss that goddam Maurice. It's funny. Don't ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody."

—J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

Once, I really enjoyed our little conversation over coffee about life. We talked for three hours without realising it. And each time when we have to part ways, a certain sadness always fills my being: what is good must inevitably end somewhere, and I wonder when we'll get to talk like that again, and if we'll feel the same happiness the next time. But between now and then, we always seem to be pulled apart by circumstances and our foolish egos. If only we could give each other a chance, save each other from ourselves. But I suppose we're still young about such things, so the best thing to do I guess is to wish you the best, my Friend, and let you go.

And in the end the man realises that life, with all its complications and difficulties and misses and regrets, turns out exactly the way he wanted it to be; but he is an old man now, and such is the price of wisdom. But surely, he muses, if life had turned out otherwise, this day too might not have come? Indeed, indeed, you old man—the game, too, is a game.

The Clod and the Pebble

"

Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite.

"

—William Blake (via Bards and Sages)

"Most of the writers I know are weird hybrids. There's a strong streak of egomania coupled with extreme shyness. Writing's kind of like exhibitionism in private. And there's also a strange loneliness, and a desire to have some kind of conversation with people, but not a real great ability to do it in person."

—David Foster Wallace (via Booklover)

And I've been thinking, perhaps it's time to apply myself back in school.

There once was a soul who knew itself to be the light. This was a new soul, and so, anxious for experience. "I am the light," it said. "I am the light." Yet all the knowing of it and all the saying of it could not substitute for the experience of it. And in the realm from which this soul emerged, there was nothing but the light. Every soul was grand, every soul was magnificent, and every soul shone with the brilliance of My awesome light. And so the little soul in question was as a candle in the sun. In the midst of the grandest light—of which it was a part—it could not see itself, nor experience itself as Who and What it Really Is.

Now it came to pass that this soul yearned and yearned to know itself. And so great was its yearning that I one day said, "Do you know, Little One, what you must do to satisfy this yearning of yours?"

"Oh, what, God? What? I'll do anything!" The little soul said.

"You must separate yourself from the rest of us," I answered, "and then you must call upon yourself the darkness."

"What is the darkness, o Holy One?" the little soul asked.

"That which you are not," I replied, and the soul understood.

And so this the soul did, removing itself from the All, yea, going even unto another realm. And in this realm the soul had the power to call into its experience all sorts of darkness. And this it did.

Yet in the midst of all the darkness did it cry out, "Father, Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?" Even as have you in your blackest times. Yet I have never forsaken you, but stand by you always, ready to remind you of Who You Really Are; ready, always ready, to call you home.

Therefore, be a light unto the darkness, and curse it not.

And forget not Who You Are in the moment of your encirclement by that which you are not. But do you praise to the creation, even as you seek to change it.

And know that what you do in the time of your greatest trial can be your greatest triumph. For the experience you create is a statement of Who You Are—and Who You Want to Be.

—Neale Donald Walsch, Conversations with God Book One

The World Does Not Belong to You, Though You Belong to the World,

for this is not a marriage,
living. Only you have
given your hand and
climbed into the carriage
of Morning. Where do you
think you're going? Morning
owes you nothing. She is

fickle, she is strong. Only
to Morning does Morning
belong. As she takes you
into the day, onto the old
wide way of the world, she
sings so intimate a song you
may begin to believe she

loves you. You may even
come to believe you somehow
guide her along sometimes,
but you are wrong.
You think you are a pitcher
taking the mound, but it's
the other way around.

—Todd Boss (via A Poet Reflects)

"Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth." —Fyodor Dostoevsky

Yes, I think I haven't been seeing things in the right perspective after all, from an inflated view of how we are connected in some way in this world. Step back, step back; and the illusion disperses. I was young Werther, unworthy of Lotte. I wish I had never read this book that mimics my present situation in life; but if I hadn't I might have ended up like poor Werther, dead and unloved and unpitied.

But people, they don't yet know how words have the ability to cut into each other's hearts like a knife in the dark. I once killed a man in my naiveté; now it is my destiny to be the bearer of wounds. Be strong, don't die—I tell myself everyday.

Nothing harsher than the sudden need for friendship, but one cannot be sure if one is being demanding on people's time. Loneliness always wins in the end; and in the end, someday at the very end, death to a man who doesn't know who to turn to.

白先勇: 写给阿青的一封信

阿青：

我写这封信给你想跟你谈谈一些问题，这些问题可能正在困惑着你。我不能说对每个问题都有现成的答案，我只能凭借我个人对人生的观察及体验，给你一些提示，帮助你去寻找你自己认为可行的途径，踏上人生的旅程。

我知道，你已经经历了你一生中心灵受到最大震撼的那一刻，那一刻你突然面对了真正的自己，发觉你原来背负着与大多数人不同的命运；那一刻你可能会感到你是世界上最孤独的人，那突如其来的彷徨无主，那莫名的恐惧与忧伤，恐怕不是你那青涩敏感的十七八岁年纪所能负荷及理解的。当青春期如狂风暴雨般侵袭到你的身体及心灵时，你跟其他正在成长中的青少年一样，你渴望另一个人的爱恋及抚慰，而你发觉你爱慕的对象，竟如你同一性别，你一时的惊惶失措，恐怕不是短期内所能平伏的。你无法告诉你父母，也不愿意告诉你的兄弟，就连你最亲近的朋友也许你都不肯让他知道。因为你从小就听过，从许多人们的口中，对这种爱情的轻蔑与嘲笑，于是你将这份“不敢说出口的爱”深藏心底，不让人知——这份沉甸甸压在你心上的重担，就是你感到孤绝的来源，因为没有人可以与你分担你心中的隐痛，你得自己背负着命运的十字架，踽踽独行下去。可是我要告诉你，阿青，其实在你之前，也会在你之后，世界上还有不少人，与你命运相同，他们也像你一样，在人生的崎岖旅途上，步履维艰的挣扎过。有的失败了，走上自我毁灭之途，据统计，同性恋者的自杀率及酗酒倾向比一般人高，因为他们承受不了社会的压力，无法解除内心沉重的负担。旧金山是美国同性恋者比率最高的城市，但也是自杀率最高的城市之一，已经有上千人，大部分还是年轻人，从金门桥上，坠海而亡。有的一辈子都在逃避，不敢面对自己，过着双重生活。但也有不在少数的人，经过几番艰辛的挣扎，终于接受了上天赋予他们特殊的命运，更有的还化悲愤为力量，创造出一番事业来。我读过俄国大音乐家柴可夫斯基的传记、日记，以及他写给他弟弟的信——他的弟弟也是一个同性恋者。我一直深爱他的音乐，但更为他一生感情的折磨所感动。柴可夫斯基开始也不能接受他是同性恋者这个事实，他三十岁的时候跟一个崇拜他的女弟子结了婚，那是一个失败的婚姻，柴可夫斯基一度精神崩溃，跳河企图自杀。事实上他一生最钟爱的人是他姊姊的儿子鲍勃，鲍勃少年时，柴可夫斯基已经与他发生了深厚的感情，二人既有父子之情，又兼师生之谊，日后更变成一对相依为命的情侣。柴可夫斯基在日记上写道：我是如此的深爱着他，真可怕。一刻不见鲍勃，他便感到“令人无法忍受的寂寞”。但是社会道德及伦理规范又常常使他内疚自责，他把满腔的幽怨及哀伤都写入了他的“悲怆交响曲”中，那是他最后的杰作，也是他的压卷之作，这首不朽的乐章便是他献给鲍勃的。柴可夫斯基死后不久，鲍勃便自杀身亡了，因为他不能忍受失去了他舅舅呵护爱怜的生活。我当然还可以引许多历史上的名人，从苏格拉底、亚历山大大帝、米开朗基罗到惠特曼来做例子，说明他们虽然天生异禀，但仍旧可以成为人类精神文明的缔造者。但毕竟他们只是少数中的少数。阿青，我希望你明白的是，当你发觉你的命运异于常人时，你只有去面对它、接受它。逃避、怨愤、自怜都无法解决你终生的难题。我并不是说接受了你的命运，以后你的路途便会变得平坦，相反的，我要你知道，你这一生的路都不会好走，因为这个社会不是为你少数人设计的，社会上的礼法、习俗、道德，都是为了大多数而立。因此、你日后遭受到的歧视、讪笑，甚至侮辱，都可预料得到，因为社会上一般人，对少数异己难免有排斥惧畏的倾向。但你接受了你不平常的命运，接受了你自己后，至少你维持了为人的基本尊严，因为你可以诚实、努力的去做人。只有在人这个基本的条件下，你可以抬起头来，与大家站在一条线上，人生而平等，这是几个世纪来人类追求的理想，也是近年来全世界同性恋人权运动追求的目标。那些参加运动的人，并不是向社会呼吁同情，更不是争取特权，他们只是向社会讨公道：还给他们人的基本尊严。上星期美国同性恋人口最多的城市纽约终于通过了反对歧视同性恋法，这项法律，纽约的同性恋者经过十五年的艰苦奋斗，终于在市议会中通过，此后纽约的同性恋者有了法律的保障，不必再畏惧受到居住、工作等的歧视了。

在人的生活情感中，我想同性恋、异性恋都是一样的，哪个人不希望一生中有一段天长地久的爱情，觅得一位终生不渝的伴侣？尤其在你这种敏感而易受伤的年纪。阿青，我了解你是多么希望有这样一位朋友，寂寞的时候抚慰你，沮丧的时候鼓励你，快乐的时候跟你一起分享。我听到不少同性恋青少年抱怨人心善变，持久的爱情无法觅得。本来，青少年的感情就如同晴雨表时阴乍晴，何况是“不敢说出口的爱”，在社会礼法重重的压制下，当然就更难开花结果了。异性情侣，有社会的支持、家庭的鼓励、法律的保障，他们结成夫妻后，生儿育女、建立家园，白头偕老的机会当然大得多——即使如此，天下怨偶还比比皆是，加州的离婚率竟达百分之五十。而同性情侣一无所恃，互相唯一可以依赖的，只有彼此的一颗心，而人心唯危，瞬息万变，一辈子长相厮守，要经过多大的考验及修为，才能参成正果。阿青，也许天长地久可以做如此解，你一生中只要有那么一刻，你全心投入去爱过一个人，那一刻也就是永恒。你一生中有那么一段路，有一个人与你互相扶持，共御风雨，那么那一段也就胜过终生了。有的孩子因为感情上受了伤，变得愤世嫉俗、玩世不恭起来，他们不尊重自己的感情，当然也就不会尊重别人的。最后他们伤人伤己，心灵变得枯竭早衰，把宝贵的青春任意挥霍掉。阿青，我希望你不会变得如此，即使你的感情受到挫折，你不要忘了，只要你动过心，爱过别人，你的人生就更深厚了一层，丰富了一层。人生最大的悲哀不是失恋，而是没能真正爱过一个人。我确切地知道，有些同性伴侣，终身厮守，过着幸福的生活。虽然他们的例子比较少，而且需要加倍的努力与毅力。阿青，我希望你永远保持住你那一颗赤子之心，寻寻觅觅，谁知道，也许有一天在茫茫人海中，突然会遇见你将来的那一位终身伴侣呢！

阿青，你对一些比你年少的孩子特别温柔照顾，我知道，那是因为你怀念你那位早夭的弟弟，你在他们身上找回了一些从前你跟弟弟在一起时那份相依为命的手足之情。你对某些中年男人特别仰慕，那是因为你想从他们那里求得你父亲未能给你的谅解与同情。你在想家，自从你被你父亲逐出家门后，你的飘泊感一定与日俱深了。其实不只是你一个人，阿青，大多数的同性恋者心灵上总有一种无家可归的飘泊感，因为在某种意义上，他们都是被父母放逐了的子女，因为很少父母会无条件接纳他们同性恋的子女的，他们发现了他们子女的性倾向后，开始一定恼怒、惊惶、羞耻，各种反应齐来：家里怎么会生出这个怪胎来？他们也许仍旧爱他们的子女，但一定会把子女同性恋的那部分摒除家门之外。而同性恋子女那一刻最需要的就是父母的谅解与接纳了。本来同性恋子女与父母之间爱恨交集的感情就比较强烈，一旦冲突表面化，尤其是父子间的裂痕会突然加深，父亲鄙视儿子，儿子怨恨父亲。这场家庭冷战，往往持久不能化解。其实同性恋者，尤其是同性恋者的青少年，他们也是非常需要家庭温暖的，有的青少年爱慕中年男人，因为他在寻找父爱，有的与同年龄者结伴，因为他在寻找兄弟之间的友爱，当然也有的中年男人爱上年轻孩子，那是因为他的父性使然，就像柴可夫斯基爱上鲍勃一般。家是人类最基本的社会组织，而亲子关系是人类最基本的关系。同性恋者最基本的组织，当然也是家庭，但他们父子兄弟的关系不是靠着血缘，而靠的是感情。

阿青，也许你现在还暂时不能回家，因为你父亲正在盛怒之际，隔一些时期，等他平静下来，也许他就会开始想念他的儿子。那时候，我觉得你应该回家去，安慰你的父亲，他这阵子所受的痛苦创伤绝不会在你之下，你应该设法求得他的谅解，这也许不容易做到、但你必须努力，因为你父亲的谅解等于一道赦令，对你日后的成长，实在太重要了。我相信你父亲终究会软下来，接纳你的，因为你到底是他曾经疼爱过，令他骄傲过的孩子。

祝你快乐、成功

一九八六年四月二十日《人间》第七期

The Wake.

Colours. Blue. White. Black. Yellow. Orange. Red. Gold. Sounds. Chants. Music. Trumpets. Cymbals. Shuffling feet. Chatter. Big noisy fans. Plastic wrappers and tablecloths caught in the wind. Smell. Incense. Flowers - what type? Sandalwood. Grass after rain. Sight. The coffin. The body. The people. The priests. The paper house. The set of clothes dressed over a chair. Touch. Wood. Plastic bags. Paper plates. Joss sticks. Emotion. Solemn. Laughter. Tears. Silent strength. And when all this is over, what shall we do?

Perspective, perspective...

All of a sudden I realise that the book is too linear. It goes from A to B to C to D, Sunday to Monday to Tuesday to Wednesday, two o'clock to three o'clock to four to five. That wasn't the intention, no no no. And then the distance one feels with the characters. It focuses too much on Damien (yes, a name at last!) but the thing is not to make one stand out too much. Everyone is a main character in some way and then no one is the main character. What crazy ideas, coming from a budding writer! Before this is over I will have thrown ten jotter books into the bin, I am sure.

In the end,

I couldn't speak like my life depended on it.

"Let your boat of life be light, packed with only what you need—a homely home and simple pleasures, one or two friends, worth the name, someone to love and someone to love you, a cat, a dog, and a pipe or two, enough to eat and enough to wear, and a little more than enough to drink; for thirst is a dangerous thing."

— Jerome K. Jerome, Three Men in a Boat (via Literary Verve)

"There are times when I very much want to say: 'take my hand, let us go together, let me show you this other world filled with love.' But I cannot, not yet. You haven't fully understood the pain of your loneliness, nor the true value of love which is not always sweet and is capable of plunging one's heart into a thousand darknesses just to love one being. And only when you have understood these things and more, then you'll begin to find people who really matter. But not before. Before, my love for you will only be wasted and you will not win any wisdom for yourself. So go, because I too had to go through it. But when you come back one day, if you did not come to hate me first, know that I have always kept this space in my heart for you. It is yours and you would complete me if you fill it."

坏人情歌 III

The man comes to understand the poet's love within himself: enduring, bittersweet, illuminating. Still, as in all types of love, there is too much desire to quickly give it away, all of it. Patience, young poet! It is but a budding seed, barely breaking out from its shell, out from the earth. No doubt love's light is too bright for one to bear, but in order to grow a tree, one must not be too quick to harvest in the hope of finding fruit.

So he learns.

"Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you’ll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way."

— Janet Fitch (via A Poet Reflects)

One should not fault man for not seeing deeply, for not awakening. Life in its entirety is a big black chasm, and the longer one gazes into it one really begins to feel its lack of meaning and wants to jump in and get it over with. So to live like there is a purpose, man compartmentalises his life into manageable portions, such that each, taken on its own, will seem like it is capable of being cultivated to fruition. As for the other portions that do not serve him, they remain seeds in the dirt, unwatered. Yes, I believe now that many want to grow a garden of flowers, because flowers are colourful and beautiful, pleasing to the eye; but I, I want a tree and nothing more. A solid one with deep roots, that rises to touch the sky, to bridge the earth and the stars. The Tree of Life—I imagine that must be the sort of tree I want.

I live my life in widening rings
which spread over earth and sky.
I may not ever complete the last one,
but that is what I will try.

I circle around God, the primordial tower,
and I circle ten thousand years long;
and I still don't know if I'm a falcon, a storm,
or an unfinished song.

— Rainer Maria Rilke

The work, the work...

I haven't touched my work for so long. Even as it goes unwritten so many experiences in the recent months have added new layers to it. But enough—a man must do his work in the end. I talk so much about it that I spend more time talking about it. And so I see that the first will be written this year, because the practical truth is that I am running out of income as well. It is good, life: it forces you to the edge of desperation and, having no time or recourse left, to action.

A few thoughts:

Two parts, three families, three primary characters.

A funeral scene, the wake.

A young boy sitting in the middle of the train station, crying in his folded arms. Everyone walks past him. Only the young man goes up to him and offers a tissue and a light pat on his shoulder.

His nurturing instinct, like he wants to protect all the helpless children in the world.

In the end, to love another being entirely, he realises that he can stand next to C as equals, not as a guardian.

And when all this is over: more work. I already have ideas for two more books. But first, this work, this book...

I have been thinking about the resurrection of Christ. Not whether it is true or possible, but how we would know. How would we know if a person is Christ resurrected? If he claims himself to be, the world will put him down, you'll see. It is the same even after two thousand years—we will kill the man before we will realise it is indeed Him. Perhaps it is necessary for things to be like that, so that man commits his greatest sin, Christ is sacrificed, and then man is forgiven. Then we'll know.

I will make inseparable cities with their arms about each other's necks,

          By the love of comrades,

             By the manly love of comrades.

—Walt Whitman, For You O Democracy (Leaves of Grass)

The Killers - Read My Mind.

I am always amazed by drummers and their ability to manage so many things at once...

...He was walking by Katov's side once more. Yet he could not free himself from her. "A while ago she seemed to me like a mad woman or a blind woman. I don't know her. I know her only to the extent that I love, in the sense in which I love her. One possesses of another person only what one changes in him, says my father.... And then what?" He withdrew into himself as he advanced into the increasingly dark alley, in which even the telegraph insulators no longer gleamed against the sky. His torment returned, and he remembered the records: "We hear the voices of others with our ears, our own voices with our throats." Yes. One hears his own life, too, with his throat, and those of others?... First of all there was solitude, the inescapable aloneness behind the living multitude like the great primitive night behind the dense, low night under which this city of deserted streets was expectantly waiting, full of hope and hatred. "But I, to myself, to my throat, what am I? A kind of absolute, the affirmation of an idiot: an intensity greater than that of all the rest. To others, I am what I have done." To May alone, he was not what he had done; to him alone, she was something altogether different from her biography. The embrace by which love holds beings together against solitude did not bring its relief to man; it brought relief only to the madman, to the incomparable monster, dear above all things, that every being is to himself and that he cherishes in his heart. Since his mother had died, May was the only being for whom he was not Kyo Gisors, but an intimate partner. "A partnership consented, conquered, chosen," he thought, extraordinarily in harmony with the night, as if his thoughts were no longer made for light. "Men are not my kind, they are those who look at me and judge me; my kind are those who love me and do not look at me, who love me in spite of everything, degradation, baseness, treason—me and not what I have done or shall do—who would love me as long as I would love myself—even to suicide.... With her alone I have this love in common, injured or not, as others have children who are ill and in danger of dying...." It was not happiness, certainly. It was something primitive which was at one with the darkness and caused a warmth to rise in him, resolving itself into a motionless embrace, as of cheek against cheek—the only thing in him that was as strong as death.

—André Malraux, Man's Fate

Before the year ended, the energies took a turn all in the other direction and boy, was the light so bright. I shouldn't be talking like that—so out of this world—but that's just what it is. At times I feel as if I really can save the entire world, bursting into a thousand shards like thousand-armed Avalokitesvara and helping a thousand beings at once. And then, thinking like that while walking, I'd trample onto a snail in my mindlessness and realise the mortality of my existence: I am still human. Poor, poor snail; but life has its cycles, and even now I am killing some microscopic germ somewhere in my body. I looked at my hands again, and asked myself if I am capable of changing lives. I think I can, maybe not a thousand, but one at a time. But some days I despise myself, for it comes at the expense of some other life I cannot help while helping another at the same time...

I pray that each may find a light to guide him somewhere along the way.