Such as Kawabata Yasunari. I think his writing should have a Leng Yan. But every time I turn to his works in the bookstore, I am always disappointed. I read his article about the ancient capital a long time ago. What impressed me deeply was that the only night the two sisters spent together, they faced separation in the early morning. A brief description of the scenery. What rises in the morning is a thin snowflake. When I read it, I changed the translated Chinese first. The artistic conception inside, the heart that can understand, has gone beyond simple words.
But I can't refuse Duras. Her two lovers are my favorites. I prefer Ji's translation of The Lover of Northern China. Simple and direct. It has a stiff and strong impact. Vision and imagination. Let people sink.
Rereading Duras, on a rainy night.
It suddenly occurred to me that some things can be circulated for a long time. In some connected souls. Endless.
The sound of the city is close at hand, so close that you can hear the rubbing of shutters. It sounds as if they are crossing the room. I caressed him in my voice, and the voice flowed. The sea gathers into infinity, recedes far away, rolls in a hurry, and so on.
I asked him to do it again and again. Come with me again. He did it. Actually, I'm dying.
He told me that he would remember this afternoon all his life, although I would forget his face and name at that time.
Physical kissing makes people cry. Maybe some people say that's comfort. I am getting old. Suddenly found himself old.
My love for him is unreasonable. It's a secret to me, too.
I love him, maybe forever. Nothing new can join this love.
At that time, I forgot about death.
Mekong river. The river winds through the rice fields.
In Duras' works, words are free and wandering. She can change the person and chronological order of the narrative at will. It is also a kind of desperate tension, which is always tightly stretched there. Persistent melancholy and sadness. She has been trapped by alcohol and desire all her life.
But the past is so clear. The man I love. His breath and the touch of his skin remained in her heart.
/kloc-a white girl of 0/5 years old, wearing an old silk dress and Phnom Penh high heels, with Indian braids and lipstick.
Poverty, unbridled eyes. Then I met a man from the north of China on the ferry.
The shadow of fate hangs over life.
Desperate sex. Wordless parting.
Duras wrote The Essence of Love.
It won't happen again.
It's like loving someone at last. I suddenly found myself so lonely.
That night, I went to the library to find a book about yoga. The rain has stopped and there are still wet and cold raindrops in the air. The sky is a strange color. Very empty blue. There are large dark clouds surging. The river flowing through the city finally calmed down.
There are some strangers walking in the street. Somewhere in our lives, there will always be someone. Maybe the skin is blind.
Maybe forget each other again. But at the end of time, the past is left behind. Like a scar.
Or gentle. Or pain. Or a tear he left deep in his body.
Cycle in the continuation of life.
Duras, 15 years old, was on the boat back to France, watching China's car fly away.
At last the car was out of sight. The port disappeared. Then the land disappeared.
She closed her eyes.
She will never see him again.
In the dark world with her eyes closed, she smelled silk, skin, tea and opium again.
Separation. Abandon forever.
How vast this plain is.
How high and straight these peaks are.
The garden is full of the fragrance of grass.
I look for it in prosperity.
Maybe looking for a dream, a ray of sunshine, a stone, a smile.