Walking alone on the journey of life, one cannot avoid feelings of loneliness or even despair. Whenever this happens, I like to immerse myself in the sea of books, stepping into another all-encompassing world. The joys and sorrows, emotions, and the ups and downs of fate in that world seem closely related to me, exerting a profound influence on my life.
I cherish the romantic charm of Tang poetry and Song lyrics, often reciting them slowly when alone. The drizzling rain moistens Li Qingzhao's lyrics; the hairpin of "more withered than the yellow flower" carries the sorrow of parting; the short flute that has played "Yangguan" thousands of times is hidden in red sleeves, sitting alone on the west tower... The influence of classical poetry has endowed me with a sentimental character and an elegant, classical temperament. A familiar yet strange wind blows through the vast rivers of memory, through Lu Xun's "Wild Grass," Goethe's "Faust," Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," and again through Dai Wangshu's "Rainy Alley." Wandering through the sea of books, you might see the Count of Monte Cristo's gloomy and resolute face, his thin lips parting to utter words of revenge; you might see whether Colonel Aureliano Buendía's mysterious little golden fish, kept in solitude for a hundred years, is finally finished; you might see the Xiangxi girl waiting persistently on the dilapidated tower under the sunset, where everything has changed; or you might see Eileen Chang walking gracefully through the gray fog of old Shanghai, softly singing, "Life is a gorgeous gown, covered with lice"... Prose, poetry, novels, and dramas from China and abroad have enriched my life and expanded my soul.
Many books contain profound and enduring values and outlooks on life. As reading deepens, these ideas gradually seep into the soul and are implanted in the marrow, influencing growth imperceptibly. By contemplating the fates of literary characters and reflecting on my own experiences, I cannot help but feel my own insignificance. I used to treat minor setbacks and frustrations as inescapable shadows, wandering in pain, despairing in confusion, and struggling between ideals and reality, unable to find a way forward. These thoughts seemed reasonable at the time, but compared to the many unyielding souls in the vast sea of books, what are they worth? I often think of Scarlett's words at the end of "Gone with the Wind": "Tomorrow is another day." If tomorrow has already unveiled a new chapter, yet your ideals are buried in yesterday, what a pity that would be! When I encounter difficulties and setbacks in my studies and feel cowardly or hesitant, I think of the ill-fated Beethoven in "Lives of the Artists"; he gripped the throat of fate, and I draw nourishment for my perseverance from his courage. When I become impetuous and aimless after achieving some success, I recall Zhuge Liang's admonition in "Romance of the Three Kingdoms": "Without detachment, one cannot clarify their will; without tranquility, one cannot reach far." If I, inexperienced in the ways of the world, am like a young seedling that hasn't weathered the storm, then the fragrance of books is like the purest sunlight, rain, gentle breeze, and bright moon, nourishing me day after day, allowing me to grow into a lush tree that accompanies me until the end of my life.
If life is a boat, and I run aground or sink in the tides of time, the fragrance of books is like a boatman, pulling me out of the mire and back to the waves of life, sailing toward a more magnificent ocean.
If life is a journey, and I lose my way and direction, the fragrance of books is like a guiding lamp, leading me through the harsh winter, through the spring of life, toward a brighter and more distant future.
If life is a journey, and I lose my way and direction, the fragrance of books is like a guiding lamp, leading me through the harsh winter, through the spring of life, toward a brighter and more distant future.
