It is quite an unexpected book.... wow, while looking up its book name, it turned out that it is actually called A Romance in Tibet, wow! I was making up this blog's name without knowing the books is called a romance... what a coincidence!
But indeed, this is a romance, and quite a sad book. When the airbnb host recommended it to me, I was like, ok, sure I'll read it, but well, maybe. The first few pages were actually quite not getting it. But that's how it turned out, that getting up 3 in the morning due to jetlag, I got nothing else to read but this book, and what a sad story it turned out.
You know, these days somehow I do feel there is something like a fate, like an invisible hand that is guiding my readings. I came up with these random books here and there, and for some reason their contents will converge, will echo during the days I was living, and made me wonder whether they were all put in my path by someone so I would have read them in that order one by one, and gradually formulate my thoughts so I think the way I think, and behave the way I do. Is that so? Or, maybe it's the other way around, that the way I think and look at this world make them interest to me, but not on other kinds?
I don't know. While reading it, I couldn't help to think of the book written by Siqi's grandfather, also a narrative of his days in Tibet, some sixty years later than this. Not that there were much in common, but it made me to think of her, again. I wish there were time I could see her again, and I wonder how her hometown is like — is it also lying near these places in the book? and how that would have shaped her ways, her views? I wish to know, but I guess I will never have the chance to know anymore. This, makes me sad.
I thought of regrets in life, a lot, these days. Not that I have many of them to brag and to lament. Yesterday while walking in the rain and with all the neon lights reflected off a watery street, I suddenly had a feeling that life is so hard, so hopeless, so not fun without her, that death is indeed a relief, for me. I know it's the depression talk. My life is actually not bad, comparing to anyone's, and I'm not bad, comparing to anyone's. As a matter of fact, I should say that my life is quite comfortable, nice, healthy, and so on... yet, all these mean little to me, when my heart is empty, lacking a voice inside to speak to, a person to think of, a love to give and to receive.
So that's the magic of romance. Watching people walking in this massive metropolitan, I can't help asking how they go about their life, if they also don't have a luxury of romance? Do they care, or don't they? and how can they not to, by their own choice, or just by nature of theirs? I want to know. I want to know how they can reason with themselves so their life can go on, so that maybe I can check myself from falling? But deep inside I also know, that even if they bother to describe theirs to me, I would not take it in ← I would have then argued that theirs is just, theirs, and that has no reference to mine, besides, mine will turn out to be quite superior to, most of them, for sure.
How ironic! Now I sound like my mom, who is never satisfied w/ what she has, and how much I have despised that!....I don't know. I'm just getting old, I guess, so I am approaching, like a proximity curve, to my parent's way, infinitely approximating, but will never touch.
But then, there is romance, that always touches my soul, however remote it had been, is always beautiful, makes me sad, makes me wonder. Two souls connect, endure, and be apart — death is not the end, if it breaks a love, because that love becomes, eternal.
— by Feng Xia