The morning in which I hadn’t decided to go to Paris, I opened The Paris Review for the first time and skipped the interviews of Truman Capote, directly towards to the Ernest Hemingway one. At that moment I just floated from the seabed to the deep water area——the weight-crushing the heart was removed, but the pressure still threatened my flesh and bones.
The day before I went to Paris, 19/11/2024. London snowed, but I missed all the things when I woke up. Snow is no longer light and superficial to the world, it becomes the mud underneath my feet. At that day, I walked with the mud to the Daleham Gardens to meet the crisis team. The last meeting they officially and personally discharged me. I can’t help trembling on the late bus back, the famous judgement declaration of Madame Bovary from Flaubert occured to me and echoed in my mind.
She longed to travel; she longed to go back to her convent to live.
She wanted to die, and she wanted to live in Paris.
I completed the first half of the sentence and now is time to complete the next one. The unconscious thoughts are like a fuse buried in my mind. The spark is the second day’s weather report. That day is a sunny day, which the sun is too good that it’s like the last day of London to exist in the world. I was checking how many 24 hours the doom day will last. And suddenly I saw the report of Paris. Although the UK accomplished the Brexit, but it is still connected to the Europa in tiny ways.
There are 75 percentages snowy in Pairs.
Annie Ernaux used to express her suspicion of all the modern technologies in her The years, which is reasonable and solid. A data may be calculated and published by AI makes me abandon the rare sunny days of London. I said goodbye to everything in an idyllic pastoral frame and buried myself in the endless darkness of the subway. And the next is the anxious procedure at the airport. I am heading to a European city in which I know nothing of the language. And which is worse there may be probably a 25 percent chance of Paris just being gloomy, miserable, and rainy.
I regretted heavily when the subway left the sunshine and went to the darkness, I regretted heavily when I walked in the plane with my simplified package. The plane flew plainly in the sky, from the 4 of London to the 6 of Europe. I slid into a huge gap of time. Here is London, there is Paris, and the hour that disappears in between is like a fog-filled chasm in a cliff. The sky turned dark suddenly when we were out of the clouds, like how the classical films do——they just dragged the curtain to change the scenery. And then I saw the view out of my expectations, no matter how the land will disenchant herself, the beauty came across me in a PRESENTING way, I immersed in it with huge astonishment.
Europe which is woven with golden threads, France which is woven with golden threads, and Paris which is woven with golden threads. Paris’s night lights are golden which looks like an overlook of a blacksmith’s casting table, quite different from London’s night full of red shining lights. The lights outline the curve of the city and also convey the fluidity of the city’s inner. Beauty flows in that form. My hotel is in the city center, and I felt that way when I did the city walk from the dinner restaurant to it. I walked past Musée du Louvre, Notre-Dame de Paris and Senie. I walked according to Google Maps, but I don’t think I was led by the blue line on the map, but by the city. If it is London that embeds the quality and texture of the Thames River, then it is the Seine that embeds these of Paris. The feminine and maternal quality. He is like the woman in my dream, whose face is covered by the veil, and the Greek-style long dresses slid from her shoulders. I am like the new birth of the world, try to catch the invisible fabric that flows like time, and follows her with every step.
I stopped beside the Senie for a long time and my feet were on the crunching late-autumn falling leaves, which seemed like the real material consisted of the bank. This Seine, I thought while watching the waves under the bridge. In August, I saw the Goddess in armour riding the waves on every social media.
A stranger was skating in front of the transparent primad of Musée du Louvre. Fly on the ground like a bird. He may be entitled to an artist, but maybe not. In Paris, I only think he do it just because he wanted to not for the performance. He may be aware of me, maybe not. But nothing is important if it is undoubtedly beautiful. Just like on Senie, on the boat which is modified by a train carriage, people are singing, laughing, and drinking. There’s not much space shown by looking through the transparent window, but people are happy and the boat floats beautifully. Which is enough. It‘s all about the narcissism at the moment or in the permanent safe deposit box. All is beautiful if the moment is.
The Paris snowed as I expected the second day I went out. That is the reason why I came here. I was not as excited as I expected when it started to snow. Maybe I know I have already made a secret agreement with the Wind God of the city. I asked for a Strawberry macaron with raspberry center and chocolate cake capricious in a random shop around local people buying croissants and buns. The face the shop owner makes is like the story of Angla Carter. In the adaptation of the story ‘The Blood Chamber’, the protagonist, the newly minted mistress of the old castle, asks for all the flavors of ice cream to be brought out for dinner, with the eye of the maid in there who is used to serving aristocratic masters rather than whimsical schoolgirls. But the fact showed I am bright, people only knew taking out of the camera unpreparedly and took photos. While I appreciating the chocolate cake in the corridor of an unknown old museum. The snowflakes fall down on the mirror-like chocolate cake. I ate it with my mouth and part of my face skin because I didn’t have a spoon. I thought I wiped them clearly, until an Asian look like man looked at me uneasily in the line of Pompidou. I realized that I had a chocolate trail left like a split above my lip. It just so happened that I had a cut on my lip and he probably thought I just have had a stitching operation.
I am not an expert of art, so I am past the world famoust paintings unconsciouly in Musée du Louvre and Pompidou. But the museums are tolerant enough, maybe they know they have too much to be pround of. The center of Marc Chagall’s The Bride and the Eiffel Tower in Pompidou is the half-human, half-ghostly pale bride, dressed in a pure white wedding gown, her physical existence seemingly fading away. Meanwhile, the woman in Picasso’s The Muse always appears so weary. Art is always so honest—in 1935, as Picasso separated from his wife and edged toward divorce, his paintings candidly revealed everything. Also, in the time I traveled around Musée du Louvre, there were also women leading me, three women, the Three Graces: La Liberté guidant le peuple, Mona Lisa, and Venus de Milo. Shameless in their nudity, shameless in their concealment, shameless in their loss.
On the fourth day I went to Napoleon’s tomb and the Pantheon, French people made the tomb spectacularly restored. I just didn’t expect Napoleon’s tomb to be so mellow and Hugo’s so frugal. The tombs of Hugo, Dumas, and Zola are pure white, like three fresh sheets of manuscript paper. Voltaire and Rousseau stand side by side, while Diderot has a statue alone upstairs. The audio guide will locate where you are, then you press the number corresponding to the map, it starts to play, or there’s no data will be uploaded. But the map was actually so confusing. Generally, it’s hard for me to learn anything from the audio guide. The only information I could learn from them was that de Gaulle used to cover the true name with Leclerc, and for Pantheon, as usual, the Frenchmen were arguing over who got to sleep under that huge church building. The person who proposed to the president with the reason “Do you have the heart to see Voltaire’s ashes in the hands of a private buyer?” And Voltaire was poped in the crowded underground floor. Hugo, as well, may also not have expected himself will share the room with two others. When evening fell, the church was extremely empty and cold, the heat from the body’s temperature vanished in one second. The dome of the church is ornate and detailed, and I feel dazzled when I look up, but perhaps it is not for the living, but for the dead, who have had countless days and nights lying on their backs to view it. With coffins and chambers forming the foundations, statues beneath them telling of the wonders of the world of the dead. I also found the words of San Antonio, who disappeared into the sea, inscribed on the walls, also claimed that it is the House of the Dead. It feels warmer when I left the grand hall, the shining stars of French history is blown directly behind it by the warm breeze.
This is Paris, where history does not exist in a carried and burdened form.
I read Annie Ernaux when I was in Paris. At first, I was not very into her. For me, it is the specific identities’ memories, french white women. But when one day I read her on the Paris underground, it was like being hit by a perfumed breeze. The book and the life around me referred to each other. The way people talk, walk and sit down make the words solid and vivid, and the book also enlightens life. Her honest record gave confidence to a tourist. She reminds people humans are humans, and they are complicated when the stereotype wall is highly built again. She opens up herself with every detail, the open-up is full of repentance and review, shame and anger. They fill people’s daily lives. As I wrote before, Paris’ tourists are led by the maternal quality of the city. I led by the maternal quality of the French female writers. At first, I just wanted to find one copy of The Years of Annie Ernaux, and I found her in the first bookshop I went. Then I can’t help myself going to more secondhand bookshops. It was as if I had received a ball of string from Ariadne and was trying to find an exit for the labyrinth of thoughts of millions of Parisian brains in second-hand bookshops.
In an Asian bookshop, I found lots of books about Chinese contemporary history. The Chinese books in Paris are unusually detailed and insightful especially about Chinese revolutionary history. At each stage, there is a corresponding history book. I found a biography of Zhao Ziyang’s political life, as well as an overview of China’s 20th-century history. I also dug up fossils about China’s 20th-century history in another second-hand bookstore, not only translations of Mao’s personal poems but also a compilation of different commentaries by People’s Daily and Red Flag based on the same event. Like a prism refracting the curiosity of the French at the time, the enthusiasm, the anatomical meticulousness so. At the same time, I was vaguely aware that the Revolution was not only a source of historical pride for them, but also a source of doubt and trauma on the other side of the coin.
I saved the last part of The Years on the Underground, I want to finish the book in a public and moveable space. I read in an open space when it comes to the closure of the long diary of her past 60 years. I can be immersed in the life of the book when I finish reading, just like going to the cinema directly to the filming field. I sat on the underground and drifted off to sleep in the long, flat, nap-like narrative, I felt like being accompanied by the literary readings I was hypnotized like I was a protagonist in a film, that’s what everyone does in Paris. Become no one, an audience or a protagonist consumes all the beautiful things from Paris, I am so light and I can fly away anytime I want.
But at the end, a reader quoted her Nobel Prize acknowledgment in a comment, and the moment I read it, it was like hearing the girl who began the narrative sixty years ago shoot an arrow through all time and hit the bell above my head that hangs at the origin of eternity witch earth’ has been consequent rotating, it gives out a warning sound as sharp as a bird’s chirp. The visionary picture disappeared like a summer night when my mother draws the curtains to block out the sunlight, and the big grey hole that had coiled itself in my heart appeared before my eyes once again. Gender, race, class. Some things people have when they are born that in turn make them lose the world and the truth. I know she saw the same big hole as I did. But fortunately and unfortunately, I saw her response first.
In writing, no choice is self-evident. But those who, as immigrants, no longer speak their parents’ language, and those who, as class defectors, no longer have quite the same language, think and express themselves with other words, face additional hurdles. A dilemma.
When the reader was culturally privileged, he maintained the same imposing and condescending outlook on a character in a book as he would in real life. I felt, a betrayal.
This commitment through which I pledge myself in writing is supported by the belief, which has become a certainty, that a book can contribute to change in private life, help to shatter the loneliness of experiences endured and repressed, and enable beings to reimagine themselves. When the unspeakable is brought to light, it is political.
In the bringing to light of the social unspeakable, of those internalized power relations linked to class and/or race, and gender too, felt only by the people who directly experience their impact, the possibility of individual but also collective emancipation emerges. To decipher the real world by stripping it of the visions and values that language, all language, carries within it is to upend its established order, and upset its hierarchies.
My brain was like a book with fast-turning pages, recording my movements in Paris. How I became bored with the monuments full of patriarchal qualities and how I unconsciously searched the bookshops for women writers. I found Annie Ernaux, I found Hélène Cixous, who was posing with other French feminist writers, and I tried to find Duras, with no luck. Then dumbfounded, because I was wearing a man’s hat, and all I could think about during my entire visit to Paris was how she wrote that fifteen-year-old heroine in The Lover wearing a man’s style hat.
The idea that a trip can change a person always struck me as a means of consumerism. They go out of their way to transport your bodies from one continent to another, insisting in flowery language that this is a new life. But at the end of this journey, I found that I was no longer ashamed of my position. I’ve always been ambivalent about political positions because I thought identity politics would make you miss out on something as a ‘natural person’. I thought it would make me look prudent and smart, but in reality, I just didn’t brave enough to acknowledge what the world and myself like. And it was only belatedly, with these women writers leading the way, that I was able to solidify my identity as a feminist. It was the first time I had a separate image of myself in my mind’s eye as I imagined the future, and it was also the first time I imagined myself growing old. It always used to look like an American posting from the eighties, with the eternally young me in an eager embrace with a man without face. I still wore the oversized, especially in the shoulders, Japanese men’s suit coat and navy hat. I was dressed like a student of the May Fourth Movement and like the protagonist of a novel from the Taisho era. But it didn’t matter, what mattered was the way I tilted my head slightly, the way I leaned my shoulders against one of the cupboards, or perhaps my bookcase, and the way my eyes, like those of , Annie Ernaux or any woman who writes honestly and finds the holes in the patriarchy so glaringly obvious that they’re not worth it, were motherly, intelligent, aloof, mocking, and teasing, and in the wrinkled eyes, Medusa’s laughter echoed during the period.
在还未决定去巴黎的那天上午，我第一次翻开《巴黎评论》，我跳过了卡波蒂·杜鲁门的访谈，直接来到了第二篇欧内斯特·海明威的谈话。当时我正从生活的海底中浮到深水区——那种压灭心脏的重量被挪走了，但是压强还凶狠地伺机环绕在你的骨肉周围。
在我去巴黎的前一天，也就是2024年的11月19日，伦敦下了一场雪，我醒来的时候已经错过了全部。雪从一种轻盈而超于世间的物事变成了脚下翻涌的泥浆。在那一天，我踩着雪水最后去了一趟位于达勒汉姆花园的危机处理团队的会面，最后一次会面意味着解除了我的危机。我在回程的公交车上止不住颤抖，脑袋里是那句福楼拜对于包法利夫人的著名判词：她既想死，也想去巴黎。
我擅自完成了前一句的一半，我想我该完成后一句。这个潜意识像一条埋在脑海里的引线。把它引燃的是第二天上午的天气预报。当日伦敦的太阳好得像这个城市生存在地球上的最后一天，我在查看末日将会延续多少个24小时时，看到了巴黎的预报。明天有75%的可能会下雪。
安妮·艾尔诺曾在她的《悠悠岁月》中明确表达过现代的一切技术工具的怀疑。而这显然并非空穴来风。一行或许不是由人类计算发布的数据就让我将鲜有的晴天抛在脑后，在这里是田园牧歌画框中的一切，在那头是地铁里无尽黑暗，机场如催命般的程式，一个我完全不会说语言的欧洲城市，以及25%只是阴沉或下雨水的泥泞巴黎。
在地铁驶入黑暗时我深切后悔着，而我一直忏悔到了走上登机口。飞机乏味地在天空中翱翔，从伦敦的四点飞到了欧洲的六点，我在浑然不觉中滑入了时间的巨大空档中。天空像是老式电影牵扯幕布一样在云层散尽后变得突然黑暗，接着我看到了我未曾预想的景致，无论这片陆地将来会以何种形式褪去她的魅力，但是美以一种临在的形式穿过了我，我在巨大的震撼中与其融为一体。
金线织就的欧洲。金线织就的法国。金线织就的巴黎。与伦敦闪烁红光的夜色不同，巴黎的灯光一律是金黄色的，就像铁匠铺铸造台的俯瞰。灯光既勾勒出城市的清晰轮廓，又让人感到其内在川流不息的流动。美以这种形式流淌而过。我的旅店在市中心，而我吃完晚饭夜游时再一次感受到这种呈现形式。我在恍然不觉中走过了卢浮宫，巴黎圣母院，以及塞纳河。我按照地图行进，但并非是地图上那条蓝色的，顺流而下连通终点的线引领我，而是这座城市在引领我。如果说伦敦赋予了泰晤士河气质，而塞纳河赋予了巴黎气质。女性的，母性的气质。她像以纱覆面的梦中妇人，抖落肩上的希腊式长裙，我如同世界的婴儿，伸手去接落那如时间般无形的布料，亦步亦趋地蹒跚行走。
我在塞纳河边驻足良久，脚面踩在深秋的落叶上，仿佛那才是构成堤岸的物质。这就是塞纳河。我看着桥洞下的波浪心想到。在八月的时候，我在无数社媒的片段上看到女神渡河而来。
在经过卢浮宫的透明金字塔时，有人在卢浮宫面前滑冰，在旱地上像鸟一样滑翔。他或许有某种头衔，或许不是。在巴黎只是让人觉得他想这么做。他或许发现了我，或许没有。但一切不再重要。如果毋庸置疑的美的。就像在塞纳河上，火车车厢改造的游船里人在欢歌和欢饮。透过透明的窗户所见空间并不大，但船如是漂浮是美的。这就够了，无限的对于当下瞬息和落在永恒保险箱中的记忆的自恋，现在美即一切美。
第二天我出门时，巴黎不负众望地开始下雪。这是我来这里的原因，真的下雪时我却没有意想中的雀跃，可能我早就知道我和这座城市中的风神的秘密契约。我在一个烘焙店里在一众购买可颂和法棍的当地人中，任性地钦点了草莓马卡龙和巧克力蛋糕，店主看我的眼神就像安吉拉·卡特在改编的《染血之室》的故事中，女主角新晋古堡女主人，要求晚餐拿出所有口味冰淇淋，里面那个服侍惯了贵族主人而非异想天开女学生的女佣眼神。但事实证明我的明智，当人们面对雪景的反应只有仓皇拿出摄像机拍摄时，我在一座记不起名字的博物馆前吃巧克力蛋糕。雪花落在如镜面一样的蛋糕上，我没有勺子，吃得满嘴都是。我以为自己擦得足够干净，直到在蓬皮杜排队，前面一个亚洲面相的男人看我一脸惊异，我才发现自己嘴唇上方有如裂口一样留着一道巧克力的痕迹。正好我嘴唇上有道伤口，他或许以为我经历了一场缝合手术。
我对艺术知之甚少，因此在蓬皮杜和卢浮宫的希腊雕像馆前总是在掠过惊世骇俗的珍藏中毫无自觉。但博物馆对我足够宽容，似乎他们也知道自己富集太多名家名篇。蓬皮杜的藏品中马尔克·夏尔的《新婚夫妇和埃菲尔铁塔》的中心是那个半人半鬼，身着纯白婚纱，实体似乎消亡的苍白妻子，而毕加索的缪斯的《缪斯》中的女人，永远看上去那么疲惫。艺术永远是诚实的，1935年毕加索与妻子分居并濒临离婚，他的画坦诚地吐露了一切原因。同样，在我游历卢浮宫的有限时间里，引领我的游历的也是三个女人，三美神。《自由领导人民》，《蒙娜丽莎》和《米洛的维纳斯》。无所羞耻的裸露，无所羞耻的隐藏，无所羞耻的残缺。
在第四天我去了拿破仑墓和先贤祠，法国人的墓修得很壮观。只是我没料到拿破仑的墓会如此圆润，雨果的墓又如此俭朴。雨果，大仲马和左拉的墓都是纯白色的，像三张新的稿纸。伏尔泰和卢梭并肩而立，而狄德罗在楼上独有一个雕像。讲解器对应地图上的数字，租给我的讲解器似乎是会索引你的地点，我没有走到相应的地点按键不动，而地图又是如此扑朔迷离。因为讲解器是如此难用，我在荣军院所能了解的唯一信息是戴高乐曾化名勒克莱尔，而在先贤祠，讲解器里的法国人照例在为谁能沉睡在那栋巨大的教堂之下争论不休。当时上议的人以“你能忍心伏尔泰的骨灰落在私人买家手里”而将伏尔泰移到了这游人如织时拥挤的地下一层，而雨果也没想到自己死后会躺在三人舍间。夜幕降临后，这座教堂因为空阔而格外冰冷，人与人相近的热气在瞬秒中挥散了。教堂的穹顶华丽而细致，我抬头时感觉眼花缭乱，但或许这不是给活人，而是死者看的，他们有无数个仰卧的日日夜夜来观摩。棺椁和墓室构成的地基，雕像在诉说死者世界的奇遇，墙上刻着消失在大海的圣安东尼奥的字句，这是死者之家。离开这座大殿后反而温暖了起来，法国的群星闪耀史直接被打在脸上的暖风吹散在身后。这就是巴黎，历史并不以一种负载的形式存在。
我在巴黎的时候一直在读安妮·艾尔诺，我开始并不觉得她吸引我。法国白人女孩的生活，特定群体的追忆。但是我某天在地铁上继续读她的《悠悠岁月》的时候，就像被一阵香风吹醒了脑子。文字和生活相互映照，人们说话，行走，坐下地方式具象了文字，而文字启发了形象。她的诚实记叙给了一个外来游客信心，一种在如今的偏见之墙又开始高铸时点醒着人就是人的写作方式。因为她事无巨细地敞开着，这种敞开中又带着忏悔和检视，羞耻和愤怒。而这就是人的日常。我在前文说道，巴黎的游客是被这座城市的母性引领的。而我是被巴黎的女作家引领的。我在法国去了有五六家二手书店，起初是为了买一本法语的安妮·艾尔诺的《悠悠岁月》，而我在第一家书店就找到了她。而随后我就像接到了阿里阿德涅的线球，试图从二手书店中找到巴黎千万大脑思想迷宫的出口。随后我去了巴黎的亚洲书店，巴黎的中文书本异样地对中国革命历史进程端详得细致而深刻。在每一个阶段，都有对应的历史书本。我在其中找到了赵紫阳的政治生活传记，以及中国20世纪历史的全览。我在另一个二手书店也挖到关于中国20世纪历史的化石，不光有毛泽东的个人诗词翻译，还有《人民日报》和《红旗》基于同一事件的不同评论合集。如同棱镜折射出当时法国人的好奇，热忱，解剖细致如此。同时我也隐隐约约意识到，大革命不仅是他们的历史自豪，同时翻动另一面，也牵连着无数疑虑和创伤。
我有意在地铁上看完安妮·艾尔诺的《悠悠岁月》的最后一部分，我想在一个公共、流动的空间完成她，在一个敞开的空间看她如何收束这60年。完成阅读后，我直接浸没在生活里。就像直接从影院走到拍摄场地。我坐在地铁上，在那绵长平坦如午睡般的记叙中昏昏欲睡，伴随着文学读本我就像电影里的女主角一样被催眠，就像所有人来巴黎所做的那样。成为无名之辈，只要享用巴黎提供给你的一切，我轻盈得可以明天就飞走。
但是在结尾处，有一个读者在评论中引用了她的诺贝尔获奖致谢词，在读到的一瞬间，就像听见六十年前开始记叙的女孩射出一枝隔世经年的箭，射中了我头顶上那枚悬置在永恒不变，地球随之旋转的原点的铃铛，发出尖锐如鸟鸣的警醒声。幻梦的图景像夏日夜晚母亲拉上遮挡阳光的窗帘那样消失了，那个盘踞在我心中的灰色大洞再次显现在我眼前。我知道她和我同样看到了那个大洞。性别，种族，阶级。一些人身来具有又使得他们失去世界和真实的东西。但幸运而不幸的是，我先看到了她的回应。
“对写作的任何一种选择都并非自然而然的。但是移民们不再说他们父母的语言，社会阶级的叛逆者们完全不再说同样的语言，而是以另外的词语来思考和表达，他们都面对着一切额外的障碍。一种进退两难的困境。
当读者在文化上享有特权时，他对书中的人物保持着与现实生活中一样的威严和居高临下的看法。…我觉得这是一种背叛。
作为在写作中对我自己的保证，这种由信仰支撑的倾向变成了确信，一本书能有助于改变个人的生活，打破一切被忍受和隐藏的事情的沉默，以不同的方式思考。当难以言说的事情被说出来的时候，这就是政治。
在对那些不可言说的社会问题的揭露中，这种阶级和/或种族的、同样还有性别的统治关系的、只有那些作为被统治的对象的人才能感觉得到的内心化，有着个人的但也是集体的解放的可能性。在了解现实世界的同时抛弃它的由语言、全部语言承载的一切观念和价值，这就是在扰乱它的既定秩序，动摇它的等级制度。”
我的大脑如同一本飞速翻页的书，记录着我在巴黎的行踪。我是如何对那些充满着父权制色彩的纪念碑感到乏味，而我又是如何无意识地在书店寻找女作家的踪迹。我找到了安妮·艾尔诺，我又找到了埃莱娜·西苏，她与其他的法国女性主义作家摆在一起，我试图寻找杜拉斯，没有找到。后来哑然失笑，因为我戴着一顶男帽，而在整个巴黎的游览期间，我想得都是她如何在《情人》中书写那个十五岁的女主角戴着一顶圆顶男帽。
一趟旅行能改变一个人，我总觉得是一种消费世界的手段。他们想尽办法地把你的肉体从一片大陆搬运到另一片，花言巧语地坚称这就是新生活。但是在这趟旅行的结尾，我发现我对于立场不再羞耻。我总是对政治立场含糊不清，因为觉得身份政治会让人错过一些作为“自然人”的东西。我以为这样可以显得审慎、聪明，实际我只是不够了解世界和自己。而在这些女性作家的引领下，我才迟来地确凿自己女性主义者的身份。我的脑海中摹想未来的时候，第一次出现我的单独形象，那也是我第一次想象自己变老的样子。以前总是像八十年代的美国张贴画，永远年轻的我和一个面目不清的男人热切的拥抱。我依旧穿着那件偏大，特别是肩膀过于宽阔的日本男式西服大衣，带着海军帽。我穿得既像“五四”运动时期的学生，又像日本大正时代的小说男主人公。但是这一切不重要，重要的是我微微歪着头的样子，肩膀靠在某个橱柜，或许是我书柜的姿势，还有我的眼神，就像安妮·艾尔诺，或者一切诚实写作而发现父权制的漏洞如此鲜明而不堪一击的女作家那样，带着母性、智慧、冷淡、嘲笑和戏谑，在被皱纹环绕的眼睛里，美杜莎的笑声回荡期间。
Noraeverland 