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A Corner of Beinecke Book and Manuscript Library

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F rom the corner where I am sitting, two walls can be seen. One is the wall of marble, another is the wall of books. In my sight, it is a world of straight lines. Squares and rectangles, are arranged one after another, in such a regular order in such a modern way. However, in this modern cave of geometry, ancient words and thoughts are treasured.  Natural light shines in from the outside through the thin marble, but only a little. From the first time I saw it, I wondered what it reminds me of - t his sturdy and fragile feeling that the stones give to me. And this mottled and elusive yellow. “Amber”, that word comes to my mind. It is. Because of the mystical light, the marble becomes like amber, a kind of stone maintaining a creature just like maintaining an eternal time. The grain above seems to be the trace of the torrent of time. They are infinite variations in rigid squares. The light strives through the pattern of marble, but it can not go any further. It dissipates
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Rooms By The Sea

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1 I am a man living in a room by the sea. The room is my island. My room is quite simple. It seems I don’t need too much stuff in my daily life. A small portrait of my mama with a plain golden frame. A red sofa, so incongruent with the green carpet, seems that it has been here since I lived in this house. On the chest, a black-and-white television with a bad signal. There is often a classic show I like to call "Greyish Snowflakes" on its screen. I have one thousand secrets and one thousand daydreams. No one knows what they are, even I forgot some of them. I place them in the coffee cup, on the floor, or next to the potted plants. Everywhere. Sometimes, my dream and I f a ll onto the sofa together. I stare at the TV, stroking it like a kitten. Being at sea – fishing, rowing, just feeling everything, the cold, the heat. I don’t think I am a fisherman at all. Maybe I am a nine-to-five traveller. When I row on the sea, I can often see other boats. We greet, cha
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Into a Miracle

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Even though it has been a long time, I still like to open my small box from time to time. I look at the origami, the drawings and the letters that say “I love you...waiting for your return”.  Staring at the words I wrote on the box "Into a Miracle", I realize my heart is filled with both warmth and bitterness again. For nineteen years, I have lived an ordinary life with some glistening slices. I struggled for my grades. I was happy for the tiny successes. I read. I travelled. I participated in various activities. In my life, I only learn ed how to think about my own feelings. I did not expect that a decision to go to Inner Mongolia as a voluntary teacher  would bring me such a warm and  moving but frustrating experience.  In early June, on the train to the small village where the school is located, I was imagining what would  happen in the next two weeks, with the shaking of the carriage and changing scenery outside the window. I moved f rom the rolling
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