The Ocean
Broad is her mind
Deep is her soul
Grand Canyon
The land and the sky were once in love
Behold the deep canyon
It is the scar from that romance
Love of a mosquito
The kiss that cost your life
Has vanished without a trace
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Danse Esmeralda (Poem)
Danse Esmeralda 08/09/06, By XP
When the sun has hidden the last ray of light
Danse, Esmeralda
The bleeding bonfire shines on your hair dark as night
The handbell tinkles like wild rose
Rivers and mountains faraway in the land of home
Blossom on the earth of this strange place
Your eyes are brighter than the stars
The smile on your face fly along with the fluttering skirt
That weightless waist brings the smell of Spring
And ecstasy to the heart of wanderers
You offer him cool water under the scorching sun
Danse, Esmeralda
My soul spreads its wings above the fire of hell
The travelers who stop for you on the plaza
And the old lady who waits no longer
Are so alike lonely inside
I sobbed quietly after a flashing joy
Danse, Esmeralda
Even beauty is not a promise of eternity
You perished in the season of cherry flower
Your love lingers on the guitar of summer
My broken heart falls in this vale of tears
Suffers the torture of agony one after another
Danse, Esmeralda
That is such a fair picture in the early morn
The memory about you brings me back over and over
Danse, Esmeralda
Is it there not any more bitter
Have you found the happiness of a roamer?
When the sun has hidden the last ray of light
Danse, Esmeralda
The bleeding bonfire shines on your hair dark as night
The handbell tinkles like wild rose
Rivers and mountains faraway in the land of home
Blossom on the earth of this strange place
Your eyes are brighter than the stars
The smile on your face fly along with the fluttering skirt
That weightless waist brings the smell of Spring
And ecstasy to the heart of wanderers
You offer him cool water under the scorching sun
Danse, Esmeralda
My soul spreads its wings above the fire of hell
The travelers who stop for you on the plaza
And the old lady who waits no longer
Are so alike lonely inside
I sobbed quietly after a flashing joy
Danse, Esmeralda
Even beauty is not a promise of eternity
You perished in the season of cherry flower
Your love lingers on the guitar of summer
My broken heart falls in this vale of tears
Suffers the torture of agony one after another
Danse, Esmeralda
That is such a fair picture in the early morn
The memory about you brings me back over and over
Danse, Esmeralda
Is it there not any more bitter
Have you found the happiness of a roamer?
In The Silver Moonlight (Poem)
In The Silver Moonlight 09/01/06, By XP
In the silver moonlight
Wind from the far Caucasian mountain
Touched the chest of the wayfarer
Gentle as Mother's hands
Softly opening the backpack so slender
In the silver moonlight
There was peace even without a dream
The heart that has long broken
Bit by bit melted into the night
Perhaps recovering to what it had been
In the silver moonlight
I wiped off all my tears in silence
In tomorrow's journey I won't be forgetting
One night a melody was played
For the youth that's going and coming
In the silver moonlight
Wind from the far Caucasian mountain
Touched the chest of the wayfarer
Gentle as Mother's hands
Softly opening the backpack so slender
In the silver moonlight
There was peace even without a dream
The heart that has long broken
Bit by bit melted into the night
Perhaps recovering to what it had been
In the silver moonlight
I wiped off all my tears in silence
In tomorrow's journey I won't be forgetting
One night a melody was played
For the youth that's going and coming
Love Letters (For a writing competition)
Love Letters
By XP
My Dear Mountain,
Your name I dare not whisper, not even in this letter upon which you will never set your eyes. I am writing it in peace, on this lovely afternoon, to you, or rather to myself. Outside of the window birds are flying in a clear blue sky, gracefully white clouds taking their gentle but long journey toward an unforeseeable end. When I think of you I descry in my mind a vast mountain in the distance melting away to the horizon. You are there, tall and solid. On my face warm sunlight sheds, and I feel content and hope.
For long I have fared. My feet are weary, but not nearly as such as my heart, laden with burdens of doubt and pain along the way. No longer am I the innocent, fearless young girl who dreamed a world of only the bright and the true. At times my steps go astray. I look around, not knowing what I should seek in this world fraught with bewilderment and insecurity. Yet in the dark night a voice hidden inside reminds me that, as said by Victor Hugo, "the supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved". The one faith without which I shall perish is love, the ultimate comfort and relief. Still of love I know very little, as it were. With all the efforts I can only discern a fair lady in veil, radiant light shining through her elegant figure and raiment. Generous she is, she dwells in a far land of wonder and mystery. In our world each one of us may catch a different glimpse of her.
Years back I for the first time attempted to love in a fit of youthful zest. Now all that remains is a scar laid deep, covered by the dust of time. In the throes of the loss my eyes were open to imperfection and realness of the world. Little do I regret, for aside from that I learned what I wanted not. I have also become aware that the love for which I long is so rare that few would have the luck of finding it in a lifetime. It is a pity to think that through endless empty darkness we came into life, and shall leave without what our hearts truly desire and never have the choice of returning. But many have endured that and so can I. I need, however, to know that it exists, that the soft rain from heaven might fall on my hands one day.
Thus far in my life I have met a few wonderful people worth unconditional love. No one else touched the depth of my heart as you did though. Never have I beheld someone who combines so perfectly many talents: a mind of brilliance, hands of skills and a heart of strength. Indeed a lot I learned from you, even though I have not properly spoken of my gratitude. That is not all. Sometimes I see myself in your humbleness, your liking for music, even your little burst of subtle temper or stuborness. How admirable are the strong determination and quickness in solving problems that I lack! I shall certainly not leave out the twinkling light in your keen eyes when you smile. Did I not feel something special? The answer is of little importance, for were there a flame of yearning I had quenched it ere its spreading. My respect for love and for you is too deep. I could never bear being a source of slightest disturbance even in my own secrecy.
I am sorry for the unfortunate loss for both of us. Sorrier am I for the following awkward conflict and tension between us. I was striken hard by the cruelty of life. And though I have not confessed it to anyone I care for you too much, such that little discordance was over amplified into resentment. Long in pain I was, but finally I have revived. Naught has changed since, if I count in not the growing harmony in my mind. A lot of you I do not know, and never shall, like as not. But that matters not, or for the best it is. Yonder you stand with other marvelous figures, my heart soothed and pleased. In days that will come to pass, I shall walk with strength and resolution along whichever path I choose to take. It may even be likely that I shall meet someone with whom I can exchange love, for as precious as love is, she never forsakes one unless she is forsaken first.
Valentine's day is approaching. It is probable that I will not be able to speak to you of my wishes - you may find them queer if I do. So here they are: Merry be you and your loved ones! Happy and healthy be you all! Merry be all in this world who deserve true happiness! May light fall on those who need it!
Happy Valentine's day and Happy every day,
When_Swallow_Flies
**************************
"Love Me and Despair"
My Love,
I have come. From the beginning of ageless Time I have come; at the instant a lightning smote your window I have come. Through the core of stars brighter than the Sun, through motionless coldness darker than the void. Through life and desolation I have come. I have plodded for eternity, for I must come to you, my love.
Do you hear my whisper? I speak your name and say to you in the stillness of night: Open your eyes, my love. Behold the darkness of light, behold the mercilessness of shadow. Touch the empty deeps of your soul that are beyond good and evil. In your dream you tremble, like the last leaf in the gale. Have no fear, my love, come to me, come to my arms and seize me. I it is who am your only salvation. Come to me, come with me to the road of no returning.
Hold me tight and I shall lead you to the abyss toward bliss and misery. Waste everything that you held precious heretofore. All shall be blazed into ashes of forgetfulness. You only with me, and I only with you. Together we fly. Together we shall rise and fall. Fire in Hell flares more blindingly than the greatest truth, yet it is naught compared to your desire. In the flame of anguish we tear joy beyond enduring. The world is of no more question; life reveals its meaning. Let us love, let us love into oblivion.
When all is silent, tell me, my love, do you not see in my eyes beauty surpassing all the oceans on this planet and all the stars in the universe? Is it not that my smile warms you more than the fireplace of home on the coldest night of winter? Weep not, for I laugh with tears. My voice echoes in the bottomless chasm of love. You have followed the steps of doom and fled from hollowness to me. Do you not know, my love, that the black hole of love has no escape? With the tips of my fingers I can crush your beating heart when a flower is blooming. Speak of no wrong, for love has no right or wrong. Love is despair.
On this earth too many powers clothe themselves with the tender garb of love. Mock them, for the delicate love shall revenge itself with power beyond reckoning. This power bestow upon me, my love, and I confer on you mine. We shall wander abreast, rejoice and suffer, till the far end of all.
My love, I have come, hither at your door. To take my hand or not, I leave it free for you to choose. But hark! Fate is knocking for me. I shall see your face as the first light of dawn falls, and I know, my love. I know you shall love me and despair.
Yours,
Angel of dark
02/04/06
By XP
My Dear Mountain,
Your name I dare not whisper, not even in this letter upon which you will never set your eyes. I am writing it in peace, on this lovely afternoon, to you, or rather to myself. Outside of the window birds are flying in a clear blue sky, gracefully white clouds taking their gentle but long journey toward an unforeseeable end. When I think of you I descry in my mind a vast mountain in the distance melting away to the horizon. You are there, tall and solid. On my face warm sunlight sheds, and I feel content and hope.
For long I have fared. My feet are weary, but not nearly as such as my heart, laden with burdens of doubt and pain along the way. No longer am I the innocent, fearless young girl who dreamed a world of only the bright and the true. At times my steps go astray. I look around, not knowing what I should seek in this world fraught with bewilderment and insecurity. Yet in the dark night a voice hidden inside reminds me that, as said by Victor Hugo, "the supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved". The one faith without which I shall perish is love, the ultimate comfort and relief. Still of love I know very little, as it were. With all the efforts I can only discern a fair lady in veil, radiant light shining through her elegant figure and raiment. Generous she is, she dwells in a far land of wonder and mystery. In our world each one of us may catch a different glimpse of her.
Years back I for the first time attempted to love in a fit of youthful zest. Now all that remains is a scar laid deep, covered by the dust of time. In the throes of the loss my eyes were open to imperfection and realness of the world. Little do I regret, for aside from that I learned what I wanted not. I have also become aware that the love for which I long is so rare that few would have the luck of finding it in a lifetime. It is a pity to think that through endless empty darkness we came into life, and shall leave without what our hearts truly desire and never have the choice of returning. But many have endured that and so can I. I need, however, to know that it exists, that the soft rain from heaven might fall on my hands one day.
Thus far in my life I have met a few wonderful people worth unconditional love. No one else touched the depth of my heart as you did though. Never have I beheld someone who combines so perfectly many talents: a mind of brilliance, hands of skills and a heart of strength. Indeed a lot I learned from you, even though I have not properly spoken of my gratitude. That is not all. Sometimes I see myself in your humbleness, your liking for music, even your little burst of subtle temper or stuborness. How admirable are the strong determination and quickness in solving problems that I lack! I shall certainly not leave out the twinkling light in your keen eyes when you smile. Did I not feel something special? The answer is of little importance, for were there a flame of yearning I had quenched it ere its spreading. My respect for love and for you is too deep. I could never bear being a source of slightest disturbance even in my own secrecy.
I am sorry for the unfortunate loss for both of us. Sorrier am I for the following awkward conflict and tension between us. I was striken hard by the cruelty of life. And though I have not confessed it to anyone I care for you too much, such that little discordance was over amplified into resentment. Long in pain I was, but finally I have revived. Naught has changed since, if I count in not the growing harmony in my mind. A lot of you I do not know, and never shall, like as not. But that matters not, or for the best it is. Yonder you stand with other marvelous figures, my heart soothed and pleased. In days that will come to pass, I shall walk with strength and resolution along whichever path I choose to take. It may even be likely that I shall meet someone with whom I can exchange love, for as precious as love is, she never forsakes one unless she is forsaken first.
Valentine's day is approaching. It is probable that I will not be able to speak to you of my wishes - you may find them queer if I do. So here they are: Merry be you and your loved ones! Happy and healthy be you all! Merry be all in this world who deserve true happiness! May light fall on those who need it!
Happy Valentine's day and Happy every day,
When_Swallow_Flies
**************************
"Love Me and Despair"
My Love,
I have come. From the beginning of ageless Time I have come; at the instant a lightning smote your window I have come. Through the core of stars brighter than the Sun, through motionless coldness darker than the void. Through life and desolation I have come. I have plodded for eternity, for I must come to you, my love.
Do you hear my whisper? I speak your name and say to you in the stillness of night: Open your eyes, my love. Behold the darkness of light, behold the mercilessness of shadow. Touch the empty deeps of your soul that are beyond good and evil. In your dream you tremble, like the last leaf in the gale. Have no fear, my love, come to me, come to my arms and seize me. I it is who am your only salvation. Come to me, come with me to the road of no returning.
Hold me tight and I shall lead you to the abyss toward bliss and misery. Waste everything that you held precious heretofore. All shall be blazed into ashes of forgetfulness. You only with me, and I only with you. Together we fly. Together we shall rise and fall. Fire in Hell flares more blindingly than the greatest truth, yet it is naught compared to your desire. In the flame of anguish we tear joy beyond enduring. The world is of no more question; life reveals its meaning. Let us love, let us love into oblivion.
When all is silent, tell me, my love, do you not see in my eyes beauty surpassing all the oceans on this planet and all the stars in the universe? Is it not that my smile warms you more than the fireplace of home on the coldest night of winter? Weep not, for I laugh with tears. My voice echoes in the bottomless chasm of love. You have followed the steps of doom and fled from hollowness to me. Do you not know, my love, that the black hole of love has no escape? With the tips of my fingers I can crush your beating heart when a flower is blooming. Speak of no wrong, for love has no right or wrong. Love is despair.
On this earth too many powers clothe themselves with the tender garb of love. Mock them, for the delicate love shall revenge itself with power beyond reckoning. This power bestow upon me, my love, and I confer on you mine. We shall wander abreast, rejoice and suffer, till the far end of all.
My love, I have come, hither at your door. To take my hand or not, I leave it free for you to choose. But hark! Fate is knocking for me. I shall see your face as the first light of dawn falls, and I know, my love. I know you shall love me and despair.
Yours,
Angel of dark
02/04/06
Fireworks (Poem)
Fireworks 11/12/05, By XP
I remember in the plaza of late fall
There gathered a big crowd
Some people talked aloud
Some people exchanged smiles
They were all waiting for miracle to kindle
The dusk that had just departed
I held my breath, looked at the first tender
Shy as the first kiss of lovers, quickly hid
Behind the sparse stars long forgotten
Moonlight was shining and said don't sorrow
Your sentimental heart
Lo and behold
There is another flower
That illuminates the trembling mouth sending a soft sigh
The blooming is so elegant
It rises, rises
And pauses to impregnate
Many many small lights for the next splinter moment
They were isolated, awash, thick, light
They were red, green, purple, golden
Ah
Fire suddenly spread throughout both of my eyes
All the starts and ends were awaken
Who are falling from heaven so determinedly?
As if it were only for the innocence at the very beginning
With tears inside I looked up
At millions of ardent lives going by without an answer
If all has been arranged long before, fireworks
I will remember your radiant happiness
I remember in the plaza of late fall
There gathered a big crowd
Some people talked aloud
Some people exchanged smiles
They were all waiting for miracle to kindle
The dusk that had just departed
I held my breath, looked at the first tender
Shy as the first kiss of lovers, quickly hid
Behind the sparse stars long forgotten
Moonlight was shining and said don't sorrow
Your sentimental heart
Lo and behold
There is another flower
That illuminates the trembling mouth sending a soft sigh
The blooming is so elegant
It rises, rises
And pauses to impregnate
Many many small lights for the next splinter moment
They were isolated, awash, thick, light
They were red, green, purple, golden
Ah
Fire suddenly spread throughout both of my eyes
All the starts and ends were awaken
Who are falling from heaven so determinedly?
As if it were only for the innocence at the very beginning
With tears inside I looked up
At millions of ardent lives going by without an answer
If all has been arranged long before, fireworks
I will remember your radiant happiness
Absurd Memory (Poem)
Absurd Memory
By XP
This is a time
When absurdity exists no longer
Ideas and thoughts piling up in flee market
Emotions tagged with price
We are no more surprised
Drunk, people frivolously talk about
The tender feelings
That have been dressed up
Or Madam butterfly
Wearing combat boots
Yet in a breeze
From some corner of the Autumn
I saw an unfamiliar look
From a pair of unfamiliar eyes
Like the deep ocean
And it silenced instantly
The dusk of the whole city
10/07/04
By XP
This is a time
When absurdity exists no longer
Ideas and thoughts piling up in flee market
Emotions tagged with price
We are no more surprised
Drunk, people frivolously talk about
The tender feelings
That have been dressed up
Or Madam butterfly
Wearing combat boots
Yet in a breeze
From some corner of the Autumn
I saw an unfamiliar look
From a pair of unfamiliar eyes
Like the deep ocean
And it silenced instantly
The dusk of the whole city
10/07/04
Hibernation (Poem)
Hibernation 05/12/06, By XP
Yes, I've found my peace
On this summer afternoon
torpid and sweet
Moist wind threading the sunlight
Future is as distant as the past
Around some corner
Leans a thin young girl
With slender, bemused look
Morning spreads its wings
Flies toward the dusk
Vague music walks from one dream
Into another
Happiness it is
As long as my eyes shut
Yes, I've found my peace
On this summer afternoon
torpid and sweet
Moist wind threading the sunlight
Future is as distant as the past
Around some corner
Leans a thin young girl
With slender, bemused look
Morning spreads its wings
Flies toward the dusk
Vague music walks from one dream
Into another
Happiness it is
As long as my eyes shut
Pink Rose (Poem)
Pink Rose
By XP 12/01/05
I saw a pink rose on the internet
She blossomed quietly
Sunlight cast broken shadows
Every petal was so elegant and perfect
In a flash they seemed to be
Touching so many gentle memories
But only for a split second!
Other thoughts engrossed me like faraway tides
That innocent pink color
Is what Human watchfully choose
After countless generations of artificial breeding
I moved away my eyes
Thinking of the blue flower in the dream
Forgotten in the wind, softly swinging
People are busy under the pink rose
Playing games of heart and body
Beautiful temptations naked
In this prosperous world, if its dazzling dress peeled
The most ancient puzzle still hides in the white pistil
Some is inevitable
Some is unreachable
I am an inept yet unfortunately sober outsider
Helpless tears dribble in my heart
Occasionally I stare at the grayish blue sky
An now
In one rose garden at one corner of this planet
She has turned into ashes
Perhaps on a fertile field in nature
A celestial song was gone with the wind
By XP 12/01/05
I saw a pink rose on the internet
She blossomed quietly
Sunlight cast broken shadows
Every petal was so elegant and perfect
In a flash they seemed to be
Touching so many gentle memories
But only for a split second!
Other thoughts engrossed me like faraway tides
That innocent pink color
Is what Human watchfully choose
After countless generations of artificial breeding
I moved away my eyes
Thinking of the blue flower in the dream
Forgotten in the wind, softly swinging
People are busy under the pink rose
Playing games of heart and body
Beautiful temptations naked
In this prosperous world, if its dazzling dress peeled
The most ancient puzzle still hides in the white pistil
Some is inevitable
Some is unreachable
I am an inept yet unfortunately sober outsider
Helpless tears dribble in my heart
Occasionally I stare at the grayish blue sky
An now
In one rose garden at one corner of this planet
She has turned into ashes
Perhaps on a fertile field in nature
A celestial song was gone with the wind
To Bilbo (Two Poems)
Sleep
- To Bilbo, E=MC3, Espoir
02/27/05
Rest, my dear
In a complete and crystal dream
Light shed through the cloud
Will surround you, pellucid
As deep lake water
Embryo in the uterus
The quiet clock goes to eternity
Do you simply run
Climb and jump, Freedom
Is the heavy rain in the afternoon
That irrigates all the sweet fruits
I proceed, carrying my sins
Exploring with my own species
I reach for sunshine, truth
That falls to our world
You don’t know you saved me
I will finish the journey left
Endure anguish, enjoy happiness
There will be one day
When my time comes
Then, would you hate me?
If I could hold your hand
And pick a flower from Spring
I watch you from outside the window
Soft breath, no pains
Sleep, my dear
Elegy
12/07/05
In the late night I woke up from a dream
A song haunted my heart
The grief that has been lurking for long
Turned into tears on a distant violin string
Do you know?
That autumn has passed
Even in the warmest south
Leaves and grasses are falling
In a galaxy I cannot see
With whom are you meeting?
In the days without you
For a thousand, a thousand times I tried to forget
At times your name slipped off my tongue
No longer shoving waves in the ocean of my mind
Only on this winter night
The helplessness on your face
And the agony you could not speak
Suddenly came to me as tides
Into the eyes that have long been dry
My poor thing
Those moments and many others in the past
Have etched me so deeply
That I cannot forgive life
Just as I cannot forgive myself
Has your pain ended?
I hope for all your happiness
I am still here struggling, rising and falling
Blindly writing the sorrow of an elegy
- To Bilbo, E=MC3, Espoir
02/27/05
Rest, my dear
In a complete and crystal dream
Light shed through the cloud
Will surround you, pellucid
As deep lake water
Embryo in the uterus
The quiet clock goes to eternity
Do you simply run
Climb and jump, Freedom
Is the heavy rain in the afternoon
That irrigates all the sweet fruits
I proceed, carrying my sins
Exploring with my own species
I reach for sunshine, truth
That falls to our world
You don’t know you saved me
I will finish the journey left
Endure anguish, enjoy happiness
There will be one day
When my time comes
Then, would you hate me?
If I could hold your hand
And pick a flower from Spring
I watch you from outside the window
Soft breath, no pains
Sleep, my dear
Elegy
12/07/05
In the late night I woke up from a dream
A song haunted my heart
The grief that has been lurking for long
Turned into tears on a distant violin string
Do you know?
That autumn has passed
Even in the warmest south
Leaves and grasses are falling
In a galaxy I cannot see
With whom are you meeting?
In the days without you
For a thousand, a thousand times I tried to forget
At times your name slipped off my tongue
No longer shoving waves in the ocean of my mind
Only on this winter night
The helplessness on your face
And the agony you could not speak
Suddenly came to me as tides
Into the eyes that have long been dry
My poor thing
Those moments and many others in the past
Have etched me so deeply
That I cannot forgive life
Just as I cannot forgive myself
Has your pain ended?
I hope for all your happiness
I am still here struggling, rising and falling
Blindly writing the sorrow of an elegy
The Tragedy of Blind Belief
The Tragedy of Blind Belief
By XP
Generally speaking, I do not like war movies. War is about man killing man, fast and undisguised. And often times it is about a large number of people slaughtering each other mercilessly for the sake of a few who hide themselves in the safest spots. Traditionally there have been two kinds of stereotypical war movies in my view. The western type emphasizes a super hero, who is a master of killing. Usually he wins the heart of a beautiful woman by being a hero with all the blood in his hand. The oriental type, on the other hand, focuses on the nature of the war. There are the righteous and the wrong, the good and the evil, sharply demarcated as black and white. The righteous side is glorified by eternal truth, hence everyone does heroic sacrificing deeds whereas none of the evil guys has a heart. Perhaps in a war, the hateful war in which all lose, many of such stories indeed happen. However, to me a war movie that single-mindedly or unilaterally portrays the picture out of the consideration of material interest or political propaganda could not bring the audience anything meaningful other than a momentary excitement or an awkward moral lesson.
The 2000 “Enemy at the Gates”, however, is a very well made war movie. Of course, I say this not because it carries all the basics of a typical western war movie as summarized above, but because of its fine depiction of the inside of those involved in a war, including those of the heroes, from the angle of humanism. The movie is based on a true historic character: former Soviet Union soldier Vassily Zaitzev, a great sniper with unbelievable skills, killing over 250 enemies during the second world war, including 221 in the battlefield of Stalingrad and 11 snipers. It tells the story of how a shy young shepherd from Urals became a national hero with his amazing shots, calm wisdom and honest courage in the cruel battle of street fighting. The plot outline is as follows: In 1942, Stalingrad, both Soviet Union and German suffered from tremendous losses and low morale. Soviet general Kruschev, following the order of the boss, was determined to resist and hold fast to the city that bore the name of Stalin, at whatever prices it might take. To inspire the red army soldiers, he accepted the proposition of a second-class political officer Danilov: to set a heroic icon as an example of bravery and love of the motherland. The talented crack gunner Vassily became that icon. The Germans quickly responded to it by sending a prestigious snipe specialist major Konig from Berlin to kill Vassily. After a long, hard and brutal duel, Vassily finally shot the major, for himself, for his country, for those who loved him and lost lives for him.
Doubtlessly, after more than half a century, when we look back upon the history, the world owes the brave red army for their huge sacrifice in their defeating the Nazi Germans. However, when it comes to each individual life fighting in that war, the movie presented things that shocked me to certain extent. Perhaps due to the background in which I grew up, I have always pictured every Soviet Union red army soldier only with iron will and determination. I have never imagined that in the midst of all the sacrifice in the bloody battle, there are ones who were frightened and wanted to retreat. Neither have I imagined a loving mother straight up and down, after hearing mistakenly that her son betrayed the country and had gone over to the Germans, would think that “perhaps he’s made the right choice”. Her brave little Sacha collected intelligence about the major at the risk and eventually paying the price of life, just because he so innocently wanted Vassily to “win”. Even Vassily himself was not a perfect hero in the traditional sense. As a sniper, he clearly saw the enemy through the sight “if he has a wedding ring” or “if he shaved that morning”; he saw them not as uniforms but as human faces, and “those faces don’t go away”. He was brave; but after realizing the impossible skills and tactic of major Konig, he found Danilov and told him that “you have to stop writing about me. You promised a victory I can’t deliver.” He fought with every bit of his energy; but he could also miss the ideal chance to shot out of mere fatigue and sleepiness. He devoted himself to the country; but his ideal was not to give all he had to the cause of communism, but to run a factory, becoming the man who “sees and knows everything” there. All those figures, those who sacrificed themselves for the greater good, were first human and then courageous and respectable heroes.
But some people did not realize this. They were blinded by the shining, perfect ideal and could not see the world or themselves clearly in the objective way. The character Danilov in the movie carried such typical trait. Perhaps many despise him as a “snake”, I personally feel the deepest and most painful sympathy for him. As a young promising political officer, Danilov was well educated and sincerely believed in communism. He believed in truth, believed in his own pursuit for the truth, but failed to observe himself and others in real forms. Although his belief was all equality, deep down he also considered himself “born for a different purpose” and more useful than those fighting in the battleground. Both Danilov and Vassily fell in love with a beautiful female soldier Tania. But no matter how Danilov tried and how reserved Vassily was at the beginning, the girl’s heart of course only went to the hero. Danilov was integrated, yet he could not see his own selfishness. He was sincere, yet he could not see his own envy. He used his power to transfer Tania for he wanted her to be safe. He let Sacha risk his life for intelligence, because he had to answer to Kruschev with a final victory. After finding out Tania’s love for Vassily, he was so overwhelmed by jealousy that he wrote in fury a report that in that circumstance could kill a person: Vassily’s “indescribable duration of his duel with the Nazi shot and public defeated comments could only be due to his lack of belief of the communist ideal”. Well, no wonder a lot of audiences do not like him.
I sympathize, because I see a piece of myself and perhaps of many others from Danilov. I cared for truth and the beautiful so much that I did not have the courage to confront the real self and the real world, making small or large mistakes without knowing. I know that Danilov was sincere, because when Tania was hit by shred in a commotion, he knelt down in front of the girl in blood who he loved so dearly. He shouted an aching cry, disclosing and tearing the deepest bottom of his own mind. He found Vassily who was still in duel with the major and painfully spoke the following words. “I’ve been such a fool, Vassily. Man will always be man. There is no new man. We tried so hard to create a society that was equal, where there would be nothing to envy on neighbor. But there will always be something to envy, a smile, a friendship… In this world, or even a soviet one, there will always be rich and poor, rich in gifts, poor in gifts, rich in love, poor in love… Tania is dead. She was going to come back for you. She was right, you are a good man…” In a despondent composure Danilov made a decision, “Let me help you Vassily. Something useful for a change. Let me show you where the major is.” He took off his helmet and raised his head from the hiding place, instantly shot on the forehead by major Konig, whose position was hence exposed by Danilov’s life.
I understand his decision. I understand the pain when one sees something valued so high and dearly vanishing into the thin air, when love and belief are destroyed or mocked by reality. A vulnerable heart that dreams of light with eyes closed simply cannot handle the despair that is so profound. It makes one fall to an abyss, doubting all, losing the motivation to live. Death is the perfect annotation for sincerity, the only escape and extrication. He had not had the courage of confronting before. He still didn’t. The only thing he could do was to give the broken world a useful gift when he departed. Danilov was also a hero. At least in that last moment, he became a hero of truthfulness.
But Danilov was only a tragic hero. No matter how bad the world needs more heroes, we do not need them in such a sad way. Although everyone has to find his/her own path, tragedy in the past may help avoid repeating itself in the future. We believe in truth, not just because of its soothing glow, but also because it is reality. I often think that love and belief have something in common- perhaps that is exactly why in many people including Danilov’s hearts, the two emotions are so tightly entwined. We love for it is beautiful. But if only for it is beautiful and refusing to acknowledge or accept the parts that are not so beautiful, then it is not true love. Rather, it is merely a pretty yet pale dream a heart weaves for itself. The more passion one has, the more lost, excruciating, desperate it will be when waken up by reality. We can never give up love and belief. We have to be brave to believe, to face the world and ourselves. To believe does not only require piousness, it also requires honest courage. The imperfect does not mean that it is not beautiful or not worth pursuing. It does not deserve to be discarded. To believe is not to be destroyed, not to create tragedies, but to fill all our lives with hopes and meanings. At least, I am talking about myself. I hope with true, healthy belief I can passionately see the world, see myself, and live.
03/13/05
By XP
Generally speaking, I do not like war movies. War is about man killing man, fast and undisguised. And often times it is about a large number of people slaughtering each other mercilessly for the sake of a few who hide themselves in the safest spots. Traditionally there have been two kinds of stereotypical war movies in my view. The western type emphasizes a super hero, who is a master of killing. Usually he wins the heart of a beautiful woman by being a hero with all the blood in his hand. The oriental type, on the other hand, focuses on the nature of the war. There are the righteous and the wrong, the good and the evil, sharply demarcated as black and white. The righteous side is glorified by eternal truth, hence everyone does heroic sacrificing deeds whereas none of the evil guys has a heart. Perhaps in a war, the hateful war in which all lose, many of such stories indeed happen. However, to me a war movie that single-mindedly or unilaterally portrays the picture out of the consideration of material interest or political propaganda could not bring the audience anything meaningful other than a momentary excitement or an awkward moral lesson.
The 2000 “Enemy at the Gates”, however, is a very well made war movie. Of course, I say this not because it carries all the basics of a typical western war movie as summarized above, but because of its fine depiction of the inside of those involved in a war, including those of the heroes, from the angle of humanism. The movie is based on a true historic character: former Soviet Union soldier Vassily Zaitzev, a great sniper with unbelievable skills, killing over 250 enemies during the second world war, including 221 in the battlefield of Stalingrad and 11 snipers. It tells the story of how a shy young shepherd from Urals became a national hero with his amazing shots, calm wisdom and honest courage in the cruel battle of street fighting. The plot outline is as follows: In 1942, Stalingrad, both Soviet Union and German suffered from tremendous losses and low morale. Soviet general Kruschev, following the order of the boss, was determined to resist and hold fast to the city that bore the name of Stalin, at whatever prices it might take. To inspire the red army soldiers, he accepted the proposition of a second-class political officer Danilov: to set a heroic icon as an example of bravery and love of the motherland. The talented crack gunner Vassily became that icon. The Germans quickly responded to it by sending a prestigious snipe specialist major Konig from Berlin to kill Vassily. After a long, hard and brutal duel, Vassily finally shot the major, for himself, for his country, for those who loved him and lost lives for him.
Doubtlessly, after more than half a century, when we look back upon the history, the world owes the brave red army for their huge sacrifice in their defeating the Nazi Germans. However, when it comes to each individual life fighting in that war, the movie presented things that shocked me to certain extent. Perhaps due to the background in which I grew up, I have always pictured every Soviet Union red army soldier only with iron will and determination. I have never imagined that in the midst of all the sacrifice in the bloody battle, there are ones who were frightened and wanted to retreat. Neither have I imagined a loving mother straight up and down, after hearing mistakenly that her son betrayed the country and had gone over to the Germans, would think that “perhaps he’s made the right choice”. Her brave little Sacha collected intelligence about the major at the risk and eventually paying the price of life, just because he so innocently wanted Vassily to “win”. Even Vassily himself was not a perfect hero in the traditional sense. As a sniper, he clearly saw the enemy through the sight “if he has a wedding ring” or “if he shaved that morning”; he saw them not as uniforms but as human faces, and “those faces don’t go away”. He was brave; but after realizing the impossible skills and tactic of major Konig, he found Danilov and told him that “you have to stop writing about me. You promised a victory I can’t deliver.” He fought with every bit of his energy; but he could also miss the ideal chance to shot out of mere fatigue and sleepiness. He devoted himself to the country; but his ideal was not to give all he had to the cause of communism, but to run a factory, becoming the man who “sees and knows everything” there. All those figures, those who sacrificed themselves for the greater good, were first human and then courageous and respectable heroes.
But some people did not realize this. They were blinded by the shining, perfect ideal and could not see the world or themselves clearly in the objective way. The character Danilov in the movie carried such typical trait. Perhaps many despise him as a “snake”, I personally feel the deepest and most painful sympathy for him. As a young promising political officer, Danilov was well educated and sincerely believed in communism. He believed in truth, believed in his own pursuit for the truth, but failed to observe himself and others in real forms. Although his belief was all equality, deep down he also considered himself “born for a different purpose” and more useful than those fighting in the battleground. Both Danilov and Vassily fell in love with a beautiful female soldier Tania. But no matter how Danilov tried and how reserved Vassily was at the beginning, the girl’s heart of course only went to the hero. Danilov was integrated, yet he could not see his own selfishness. He was sincere, yet he could not see his own envy. He used his power to transfer Tania for he wanted her to be safe. He let Sacha risk his life for intelligence, because he had to answer to Kruschev with a final victory. After finding out Tania’s love for Vassily, he was so overwhelmed by jealousy that he wrote in fury a report that in that circumstance could kill a person: Vassily’s “indescribable duration of his duel with the Nazi shot and public defeated comments could only be due to his lack of belief of the communist ideal”. Well, no wonder a lot of audiences do not like him.
I sympathize, because I see a piece of myself and perhaps of many others from Danilov. I cared for truth and the beautiful so much that I did not have the courage to confront the real self and the real world, making small or large mistakes without knowing. I know that Danilov was sincere, because when Tania was hit by shred in a commotion, he knelt down in front of the girl in blood who he loved so dearly. He shouted an aching cry, disclosing and tearing the deepest bottom of his own mind. He found Vassily who was still in duel with the major and painfully spoke the following words. “I’ve been such a fool, Vassily. Man will always be man. There is no new man. We tried so hard to create a society that was equal, where there would be nothing to envy on neighbor. But there will always be something to envy, a smile, a friendship… In this world, or even a soviet one, there will always be rich and poor, rich in gifts, poor in gifts, rich in love, poor in love… Tania is dead. She was going to come back for you. She was right, you are a good man…” In a despondent composure Danilov made a decision, “Let me help you Vassily. Something useful for a change. Let me show you where the major is.” He took off his helmet and raised his head from the hiding place, instantly shot on the forehead by major Konig, whose position was hence exposed by Danilov’s life.
I understand his decision. I understand the pain when one sees something valued so high and dearly vanishing into the thin air, when love and belief are destroyed or mocked by reality. A vulnerable heart that dreams of light with eyes closed simply cannot handle the despair that is so profound. It makes one fall to an abyss, doubting all, losing the motivation to live. Death is the perfect annotation for sincerity, the only escape and extrication. He had not had the courage of confronting before. He still didn’t. The only thing he could do was to give the broken world a useful gift when he departed. Danilov was also a hero. At least in that last moment, he became a hero of truthfulness.
But Danilov was only a tragic hero. No matter how bad the world needs more heroes, we do not need them in such a sad way. Although everyone has to find his/her own path, tragedy in the past may help avoid repeating itself in the future. We believe in truth, not just because of its soothing glow, but also because it is reality. I often think that love and belief have something in common- perhaps that is exactly why in many people including Danilov’s hearts, the two emotions are so tightly entwined. We love for it is beautiful. But if only for it is beautiful and refusing to acknowledge or accept the parts that are not so beautiful, then it is not true love. Rather, it is merely a pretty yet pale dream a heart weaves for itself. The more passion one has, the more lost, excruciating, desperate it will be when waken up by reality. We can never give up love and belief. We have to be brave to believe, to face the world and ourselves. To believe does not only require piousness, it also requires honest courage. The imperfect does not mean that it is not beautiful or not worth pursuing. It does not deserve to be discarded. To believe is not to be destroyed, not to create tragedies, but to fill all our lives with hopes and meanings. At least, I am talking about myself. I hope with true, healthy belief I can passionately see the world, see myself, and live.
03/13/05
The Gladiator and the Roman Spirit
The Gladiator and the Roman Spirit
By XP
I have to admit that I’m not the type of person who runs for all the latest entertainment products right after they come out. To me the real artistic work should certainly bear the passage of time. What difference does it make if I choose to appreciate it after a while? In terms of movies, I in fact rarely go to the theatre and mostly just watch the previews when I happen to see them on TV. Then I forget about it. Yet there are ones that cannot be forgotten. The striking plot, the splendid scene, a simple line or an expression on the cast’s face, sometimes leaves me such touching impression that I know one day I will definitely watch that movie. “The Gladiator” is one of them.
Luckily enough, I finally got the chance to see this majestic and elegant picture, directed by Ridley Scott, starring Russell Crowe, Joaquin Phoenix and Connie Nielsen. While it is truly difficult to summarize all the visual and spiritual impacts this cinematograph shed on me laconically and precisely, allow me to start by simply stating that I love it. During more than two hours’ presentation, I was stunned, I smiled, I cried, my heart ached yet there were no tears… And most of all, I was so impressed by the spirit of ancient Rome depicted so vivaciously throughout the movie, the idea of republic, of greatness, a man’s strength and wisdom, his dedication to his family, his duty and his country.
Maximus (by Russell Crowe) was a general of Caesar Marcus Aurelius, who won a cruel battle for Rome in a military campaign. Right after the victory the old Caesar privately trusted him as his heir, rather than his own son Commodus. I really liked this scene when Marcus (who, in real history, was also a stoic philosopher, possessed virtues seen as noble by the aristocracy at the time and considered a great man) talked to Maximus about his philosophical thoughts of Rome as a dying emperor. From there I started to realize how beautifully the script is written. Is the expansion of the land at the price of man’s blood and lives true greatness? Will political corruption of the empire be the fatality of the empire? I liked it especially because such meditation of a country’s ruler, even upon the end of his life, is very rare in oriental culture (in China, after DaYu’s time). Though I don’t necessarily agree that a man not knowing too much politics can be a great leader of the empire as Marcus put it, the sacredness with which the name of Rome was whispered, the solicitude for the fate of the country but not indulgence of passing power to his own offspring, touched me right then right there. After two thousand years, this ancient spirit is still so inspiring. I see it as a great human being bowing to the rest of the people, whom he rules but also protects and serves. Perhaps so did Maximus. Although he longed for going home and reunite with his family that he loved so dearly, we all know that he was going to accept the honor and the duty.
Unfortunately Commodus (by Joaquin Phoenix) was too ambitious a son. After knowing his father’s decision on the throne, he brutally murdered the old Caesar and prosecuted Maximus and his family. Being an extraordinarily strong man, Maximus escaped from the execution and went home, where he found that his wife and son were burned alive. If anyone feels sorry for the name of the historical figure of Commodus, don’t. In history, Commodus was even more bizarre and rotten than he appeared in the film. I can only say that nature allows diversity, so we as the children of nature sometimes find ourselves having to deal with those on the extreme negative end of the distribution. The real question is, how to establish a system so that damages caused by such individuals can be minimized?
Let me leave the question to sociologists and come back to the movie. The misery of Maximus went further. He was turned into a slave and then a gladiator, one who constantly fought for life with other gladiators or even with beasts of prey. Although he was unwilling to kill, eventually he had no other choice and probably he later accepted that as his new duty. Maximus became the greatest gladiator at the time due to his unusual physical strength and tactic. His owner, a former gladiator who earned his own freedom, taught him to “win the crowd”. To me Maximus must have taken these words as a knack for survival, though about which he did not necessarily care. On one hand he was loyal to his duty, on the other hand he hated it. A very striking scene here was that Maximus and his fellow gladiators were fighting with the other side that had more people and much better equipment. While normally they would be doomed to fail, to people’s surprise they won and killed their opponents. The crowd cheered at Maximus. At that moment I admired the character’s muscular strength and wisdom in fighting strategy, but a strong grievance and indignation soon followed. What’s the good of it? How can such magnificent capabilities be forced to turn to a tool of merciless slaughter, only for the entertainment of a heartless crowd? The wrath in Maximus’s heart could only be stronger than mine. He threw the weapon and shouted at the cheering crowd, “you asked me to kill, and I kill, are you satisfied?” (Don’t remember the exact words here)
Yet something is still missing.
The fame of Maximus, ironically now as a gladiator, led him to the great arena in Rome, where he won the cheers and respect from the crowd, where he was also recognized by Commodus, the incumbent emperor. Commodus, as his historical prototype, was a ruthless and arrogant tyrant. He wanted absolute power beyond any restriction and hated the idea of republic. The senates, and his very sister Lucilla, were aware of his resentment of the political system that Rome was famous for and proud of. Opposition thus formed, the emperor versus the senates, the dictator versus the people. Who will win? How can he win? Lucilla arranged a secret meeting with Maximus and asked for his help. Not too surprisingly Maximus showed his initial hostility. His hatred toward Commodus who slew his family, and the dramatic change in his life and his duty, certainly afflict him in a way few men can imagine. He cried painfully, “What can I possibly be useful for? All I do is to fight and to entertain the mob!” And then, Lucilla, a woman of beauty, wisdom and strength, who possessed the most gracefully figure that I can vision, spoke the truth. “The mob is the power. Who wins the mob, who wins the battle.” (Again please don’t quote me for the exact phrases, I don’t remember them that well :) It is just that simple.
To me this is one fundamental theme in Roman spirit – the power of the people, or, the mob. The mob is made of average people. Just as nature brings in characters like Commodus, there is a great diversity of people in this world. As long as the people are well informed and educated, and have the opportunities to express their free wills with the only limitation of rightful laws, when everyone has a voice, as in the great arena, one can never expect it to be the most beautiful and harmonic chorus. It maybe noisy, unpleasant, or as I have phrased it earlier, “heartless”. But if you have faith in human nature, that in all the sum of individuals will make judgments that benefit the majority, you shall know that the people is the real source of power. You have to trust them and rely on them even though you may not personally like every single one of them.
Maximus realized this when, in a combat he defeated a powerful opponent yet refused to kill him, ignoring Commodu’s order, the crowd went silent and then cheered at him. He was still the beloved former general of the army, who recently won great reputation in the mob in a most absurd circumstance possible. With his help, the senates and Lucilla may be able to overthrow Commodus’s dictation and save the greatness of Rome, the greatness that Caesar Marcus had envisioned. I think from that moment on Maximus assigned himself a new duty and mission, for which he is worthy living and willing to die.
Unpropitious accident, however, always happens. Right before Maximus had the chance to be secretly released and meet his army, Lucius, Lucilla’s 8 year-old son, divulged the secret to his uncle. Maximus, whom his fellow gladiator admired and died for without hesitation, was caught by Commodus. The vicious emperor decided to kill this man who had won his father and sister’s love in a contemptible way. He stabbed Maximus at the left chest and had the wound concealed. Then he claimed that Maximus challenged him as a gladiator.
The last climax of the play came when the ebulliating crowd cheered at the emperor and Maximus in the arena. To the astonishment of Commodus, even though Maximus carried the fatal injury, his tremendous strength and perhaps hatred too allowed him defeat the devil very quickly – Commodus soon lost his sword. Terrified, he shouted at his subordinates for weapon. However, an officer who originally was on his side yet witnessed his dishonored plot against Maximus a few minutes before, ordered the soldier’s to sheath the sword. The helpless emperor drew out a hidden knife and put up a last-ditch struggle, but Maximus fought back in time and killed him.
With his last strength, Maximus ordered the officer to release the gladiators and to give the power back to people as the will of Caesar Marcus Aurelius went. Then he died. The sorrowful Lucilla made a moving speech toward the senates: “Is Rome worth a great man’s life? We believe it once, make us believe it again. He was a great soldier of Rome. Honor him”. (Oh, yes, I remember these lines well) The chief senate and Lucius, the future Caesar of Rome, together with the other people, carried Maximus’s body.
As one who grew up in an oriental culture, what these plots stroke me most was the ability to make independent judgment by a moral standard that makes common sense to individual person. I could have never imagined that when the emperor himself was about to be defeated and killed in a combat, his subordinate refused to offer help out of despise for the his morality. The emperor is not necessarily the absolute authority. He can be questioned too. An empty throne means little. This valuable retention of independence of the public, to be able to think for oneself and to question, honor or law beyond authority, is also the basis of the republic system. Or to put it more appropriately, they are foundations of each other.
Needless to say, the movie is full of stereotypical western heroism. Maximus, who is a collage of different historical figures, represents the idea of a great man. I personally don’t believe heroes can solve all the problems. But a world without or not allowing the existence of hero is most likely one with little spirit. Heroes are worshiped not because of their status, but because of their strength, wisdom and determination. They are not part of the ruling class, but are chosen by the people upon their free wills. In this way heroes are reflections of idealism in the heart of the people. The inspiration they bring is actually a resonance of something that is already there. Well, again if you have faith in human nature.
I have so far omitted all my comments on the extraordinary scenes and sound effects this film brings. The splendid landscape and the soothing solo on the background are simply fantastic. While it’s hard for me to find words describing those, let me reflect upon the Roman spirit that the screenwriter, the director and the casts beautifully present us again: the worship of people’s power, of values, of individualism, and in the end, of humanism.
08/18/03
Revised on 03/13/05
By XP
I have to admit that I’m not the type of person who runs for all the latest entertainment products right after they come out. To me the real artistic work should certainly bear the passage of time. What difference does it make if I choose to appreciate it after a while? In terms of movies, I in fact rarely go to the theatre and mostly just watch the previews when I happen to see them on TV. Then I forget about it. Yet there are ones that cannot be forgotten. The striking plot, the splendid scene, a simple line or an expression on the cast’s face, sometimes leaves me such touching impression that I know one day I will definitely watch that movie. “The Gladiator” is one of them.
Luckily enough, I finally got the chance to see this majestic and elegant picture, directed by Ridley Scott, starring Russell Crowe, Joaquin Phoenix and Connie Nielsen. While it is truly difficult to summarize all the visual and spiritual impacts this cinematograph shed on me laconically and precisely, allow me to start by simply stating that I love it. During more than two hours’ presentation, I was stunned, I smiled, I cried, my heart ached yet there were no tears… And most of all, I was so impressed by the spirit of ancient Rome depicted so vivaciously throughout the movie, the idea of republic, of greatness, a man’s strength and wisdom, his dedication to his family, his duty and his country.
Maximus (by Russell Crowe) was a general of Caesar Marcus Aurelius, who won a cruel battle for Rome in a military campaign. Right after the victory the old Caesar privately trusted him as his heir, rather than his own son Commodus. I really liked this scene when Marcus (who, in real history, was also a stoic philosopher, possessed virtues seen as noble by the aristocracy at the time and considered a great man) talked to Maximus about his philosophical thoughts of Rome as a dying emperor. From there I started to realize how beautifully the script is written. Is the expansion of the land at the price of man’s blood and lives true greatness? Will political corruption of the empire be the fatality of the empire? I liked it especially because such meditation of a country’s ruler, even upon the end of his life, is very rare in oriental culture (in China, after DaYu’s time). Though I don’t necessarily agree that a man not knowing too much politics can be a great leader of the empire as Marcus put it, the sacredness with which the name of Rome was whispered, the solicitude for the fate of the country but not indulgence of passing power to his own offspring, touched me right then right there. After two thousand years, this ancient spirit is still so inspiring. I see it as a great human being bowing to the rest of the people, whom he rules but also protects and serves. Perhaps so did Maximus. Although he longed for going home and reunite with his family that he loved so dearly, we all know that he was going to accept the honor and the duty.
Unfortunately Commodus (by Joaquin Phoenix) was too ambitious a son. After knowing his father’s decision on the throne, he brutally murdered the old Caesar and prosecuted Maximus and his family. Being an extraordinarily strong man, Maximus escaped from the execution and went home, where he found that his wife and son were burned alive. If anyone feels sorry for the name of the historical figure of Commodus, don’t. In history, Commodus was even more bizarre and rotten than he appeared in the film. I can only say that nature allows diversity, so we as the children of nature sometimes find ourselves having to deal with those on the extreme negative end of the distribution. The real question is, how to establish a system so that damages caused by such individuals can be minimized?
Let me leave the question to sociologists and come back to the movie. The misery of Maximus went further. He was turned into a slave and then a gladiator, one who constantly fought for life with other gladiators or even with beasts of prey. Although he was unwilling to kill, eventually he had no other choice and probably he later accepted that as his new duty. Maximus became the greatest gladiator at the time due to his unusual physical strength and tactic. His owner, a former gladiator who earned his own freedom, taught him to “win the crowd”. To me Maximus must have taken these words as a knack for survival, though about which he did not necessarily care. On one hand he was loyal to his duty, on the other hand he hated it. A very striking scene here was that Maximus and his fellow gladiators were fighting with the other side that had more people and much better equipment. While normally they would be doomed to fail, to people’s surprise they won and killed their opponents. The crowd cheered at Maximus. At that moment I admired the character’s muscular strength and wisdom in fighting strategy, but a strong grievance and indignation soon followed. What’s the good of it? How can such magnificent capabilities be forced to turn to a tool of merciless slaughter, only for the entertainment of a heartless crowd? The wrath in Maximus’s heart could only be stronger than mine. He threw the weapon and shouted at the cheering crowd, “you asked me to kill, and I kill, are you satisfied?” (Don’t remember the exact words here)
Yet something is still missing.
The fame of Maximus, ironically now as a gladiator, led him to the great arena in Rome, where he won the cheers and respect from the crowd, where he was also recognized by Commodus, the incumbent emperor. Commodus, as his historical prototype, was a ruthless and arrogant tyrant. He wanted absolute power beyond any restriction and hated the idea of republic. The senates, and his very sister Lucilla, were aware of his resentment of the political system that Rome was famous for and proud of. Opposition thus formed, the emperor versus the senates, the dictator versus the people. Who will win? How can he win? Lucilla arranged a secret meeting with Maximus and asked for his help. Not too surprisingly Maximus showed his initial hostility. His hatred toward Commodus who slew his family, and the dramatic change in his life and his duty, certainly afflict him in a way few men can imagine. He cried painfully, “What can I possibly be useful for? All I do is to fight and to entertain the mob!” And then, Lucilla, a woman of beauty, wisdom and strength, who possessed the most gracefully figure that I can vision, spoke the truth. “The mob is the power. Who wins the mob, who wins the battle.” (Again please don’t quote me for the exact phrases, I don’t remember them that well :) It is just that simple.
To me this is one fundamental theme in Roman spirit – the power of the people, or, the mob. The mob is made of average people. Just as nature brings in characters like Commodus, there is a great diversity of people in this world. As long as the people are well informed and educated, and have the opportunities to express their free wills with the only limitation of rightful laws, when everyone has a voice, as in the great arena, one can never expect it to be the most beautiful and harmonic chorus. It maybe noisy, unpleasant, or as I have phrased it earlier, “heartless”. But if you have faith in human nature, that in all the sum of individuals will make judgments that benefit the majority, you shall know that the people is the real source of power. You have to trust them and rely on them even though you may not personally like every single one of them.
Maximus realized this when, in a combat he defeated a powerful opponent yet refused to kill him, ignoring Commodu’s order, the crowd went silent and then cheered at him. He was still the beloved former general of the army, who recently won great reputation in the mob in a most absurd circumstance possible. With his help, the senates and Lucilla may be able to overthrow Commodus’s dictation and save the greatness of Rome, the greatness that Caesar Marcus had envisioned. I think from that moment on Maximus assigned himself a new duty and mission, for which he is worthy living and willing to die.
Unpropitious accident, however, always happens. Right before Maximus had the chance to be secretly released and meet his army, Lucius, Lucilla’s 8 year-old son, divulged the secret to his uncle. Maximus, whom his fellow gladiator admired and died for without hesitation, was caught by Commodus. The vicious emperor decided to kill this man who had won his father and sister’s love in a contemptible way. He stabbed Maximus at the left chest and had the wound concealed. Then he claimed that Maximus challenged him as a gladiator.
The last climax of the play came when the ebulliating crowd cheered at the emperor and Maximus in the arena. To the astonishment of Commodus, even though Maximus carried the fatal injury, his tremendous strength and perhaps hatred too allowed him defeat the devil very quickly – Commodus soon lost his sword. Terrified, he shouted at his subordinates for weapon. However, an officer who originally was on his side yet witnessed his dishonored plot against Maximus a few minutes before, ordered the soldier’s to sheath the sword. The helpless emperor drew out a hidden knife and put up a last-ditch struggle, but Maximus fought back in time and killed him.
With his last strength, Maximus ordered the officer to release the gladiators and to give the power back to people as the will of Caesar Marcus Aurelius went. Then he died. The sorrowful Lucilla made a moving speech toward the senates: “Is Rome worth a great man’s life? We believe it once, make us believe it again. He was a great soldier of Rome. Honor him”. (Oh, yes, I remember these lines well) The chief senate and Lucius, the future Caesar of Rome, together with the other people, carried Maximus’s body.
As one who grew up in an oriental culture, what these plots stroke me most was the ability to make independent judgment by a moral standard that makes common sense to individual person. I could have never imagined that when the emperor himself was about to be defeated and killed in a combat, his subordinate refused to offer help out of despise for the his morality. The emperor is not necessarily the absolute authority. He can be questioned too. An empty throne means little. This valuable retention of independence of the public, to be able to think for oneself and to question, honor or law beyond authority, is also the basis of the republic system. Or to put it more appropriately, they are foundations of each other.
Needless to say, the movie is full of stereotypical western heroism. Maximus, who is a collage of different historical figures, represents the idea of a great man. I personally don’t believe heroes can solve all the problems. But a world without or not allowing the existence of hero is most likely one with little spirit. Heroes are worshiped not because of their status, but because of their strength, wisdom and determination. They are not part of the ruling class, but are chosen by the people upon their free wills. In this way heroes are reflections of idealism in the heart of the people. The inspiration they bring is actually a resonance of something that is already there. Well, again if you have faith in human nature.
I have so far omitted all my comments on the extraordinary scenes and sound effects this film brings. The splendid landscape and the soothing solo on the background are simply fantastic. While it’s hard for me to find words describing those, let me reflect upon the Roman spirit that the screenwriter, the director and the casts beautifully present us again: the worship of people’s power, of values, of individualism, and in the end, of humanism.
08/18/03
Revised on 03/13/05
Translation of “le temps des cerises”
le temps des cerises
Paroles : Jean-Baptiste Clément
Musique : Antoine Renard (1868)
Quand nous chanterons le temps des cerises,
Et gai rossignol, et merle moqueur
Seront tous en fête !
Les belles auront la folie en tête
Et les amoureux, du soleil au coeur !
Quand nous chanterons le temps des cerises,
Sifflera bien mieux le merle moqueur !
Mais il est bien court, le temps des cerises
Où l'on s'en va deux, cueillir en rêvant
Des pendants d'oreilles...
Cerises d'amour aux robes pareilles,
Tombant sous la feuille en gouttes de sang...
Mais il est bien court le temps des cerises,
Pendants de corail qu'on cueille en rêvant !
Quand vous en serez au temps des cerises,
Si vous avez peur des chagrins d'amour,
Evitez les belles !
Moi qui ne crains pas les peines cruelles,
Je ne vivrai point sans souffrir un jour...
Quand vous en serez au temps des cerises,
Vous aurez aussi des peines d'amour !
J'aimerai toujours le temps des cerises :
C'est de ce temps-là que je garde au coeur
Une plaie ouverte !
Et dame Fortune en m'étant offerte
Ne pourra jamais fermer ma douleur...
J'aimerai toujours le temps des cerises
Et le souvenir que je garde au coeur !
My humble translation: By XP
When we chant the Time of Cherries
Merry nightingale, and mocking blackbird
Will all be in a revelry!
The heads of the beauties, full of folly
And the hearts of the lovers are all jolly !
When we chant the Time of Cherries
The mocking blackbird whistles pretty !
But how short it is, the Time of Cherries
In dreams couples amble while culling
Pendants of earings...
Cherries of love fall in clusters
Under the leaves like drops of blood...
But how short it is, the Time of Cherries
In dreams pendants of coral are culled !
When you are in the Time of Cherries
If of the sorrow of love you are afraid
Avoid the beauties !
I do not fear the pains however cruel
For I will ever live each day with dolor...
When you are in the Time of Cherries
You'll taste the sorrow of love, be sure !
I will always cherish the Time of Cherries :
It is that time that I keep in my heart
An open tear !
Nothing that the Lady of Fate offers
Will ever be able to close my wound..
I will always cherish the Time of Cherries
And the memory that I keep in my heart
Untitled (poem)
Untitled
By XP
12/13/05
I've been on the road for long
Thousands of miles heard my footsteps
Only the hometown willows can tell
How many Springs have since passed
Beneath Heaven Man endure so much
That I learn to forget sorrows
I calmly behold wind and rain striking flowers
Watch destined joys and pains with apathy
All are only brief dreams like morning dews
But listen, who is singing a song of love?
So beautiful, so gentle
It stirs the dreary lake of my mind
And drowns me in a sleepless night
I fell, to the past
Tender feelings awakened once more
With the company of a lonely dim lamp
I saw through the mist of time
And glimpsed the young devotion
That has shattered into heartaches long before
By XP
12/13/05
I've been on the road for long
Thousands of miles heard my footsteps
Only the hometown willows can tell
How many Springs have since passed
Beneath Heaven Man endure so much
That I learn to forget sorrows
I calmly behold wind and rain striking flowers
Watch destined joys and pains with apathy
All are only brief dreams like morning dews
But listen, who is singing a song of love?
So beautiful, so gentle
It stirs the dreary lake of my mind
And drowns me in a sleepless night
I fell, to the past
Tender feelings awakened once more
With the company of a lonely dim lamp
I saw through the mist of time
And glimpsed the young devotion
That has shattered into heartaches long before
My Life
My Life
By XP
(Based on true stories disclosed by local media)
When I came into this world, crying as all other babies, nobody knew the first thing about my charmed gift and reminiscent memory of former lives. In the little mind of mine there hung a vague yet pretty picture: countless snowflakes danced all over the sky, flickering in the yellow street light, beautiful beyond enduring. The air was clear and fresh, above the white, flawless ground. In years to come to pass, I would have grown into a lovely young girl, who likes to quietly contemplate snowing nights by the window. Perhaps a handsome young lad would suddenly appear in front of the window and smile at me. Or a mere glance of me might have reddened his face.
But soon reality drew me back from that distant quixotic image. On a hot and humid July evening, I was lying on a turf all alone. On the left there was a desolate trail. No one had passed by since the woman who gave me life left in a hurry. Underneath rough grasses and stones mercilessly shoved against my delicate skin. A miasma of latrine lingered in the air. Sweating all over, I suffered from acute hunger. I was too little to move myself, let alone seeking milk or anything else to drink. Desperately, I started crying out aloud. Yet the understanding of my own frailness was quickly furthered by the loss of my voice.
It was indeed a night of misery. In darkness all sorts of queer nameless sound of summer floated around, bugs jumping back and forth on my body. Those tiny creatures, tinier than I was, who were they to push me around like that? I waved my hands in anger, but the movements were so clumsy and ineffective that the bugs partied even more wildly. Occasionally I managed to turn my head and see the wraith of ghostly light in the distant field. I stared at the world from which I just came, shivered over the thought of its endless darkness and coldness beyond any bounds. Minutes and seconds ticked away, as my new life wore on. I wept under the stars, still unable to hear my own voice. Then I fell asleep, exhausted.
When I woke up I saw red clouds in the morning sky. The perfect sunrise cheered me up. Feeble as I was, I waited for the turn of my fate with hope, still dreaming about the fairy tale of snows. I was almost falling into the last sleep of all when I heard sounds of steps stopping beside me. A man stooped down. It was a jaundiced face in its forties, grimness carved into the deep wrinkles on its forehead. The man checked me up and down before he smirked, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth and stench. Having been prepared by the latrine reek over the night, I looked at him calmly. He reached and held me in his hands. The touch of a human being for the first time since I left the womb suddenly betrayed me. I strived to make a hoarse sound of crying and then lost consciousness.
The power of hunger was hefty. The instant I smelt a strange yet also familiar sweetness I opened my eyes, pounced on a dirty plastic teat with my little chapped lips, and sucked with all my might. Revitalized a bit by the turbid liquid, I started to check out the new surroundings. It was an ordinary room, plain yet decent. Behind the milk bottle was a 5 year-old. Her eyes were big and clear, filled with tiredness beyond her age. The skinny man who picked me up stood beside a stout woman. They muttered to each other, occasionally glancing at me with a look of contentment. I smiled back to show my gratitude, but they didn't seem to understand it. Farther away a girl of 7 or 8 years old stared at a water bottle with an empty gaze, not interested in me or anything else around. Being a charmed one, I soon came to realize that this was a small family and the two girls were called Ahua and Ali. Perhaps, I have become one of its members too? The sense of belonging somewhere immersed my heart with a tide of warmth. I recalled an old saying from a previous life: "The quality of life is contingent upon the people whom you are with, not the place where you are." The tender thought of my growing up and watching snows together with my family engrossed me.
Outside the Sun had risen high. The parents called the girls and murmured a few words. Ahua then came over to grab me, walking toward the door. Her younger sister Ali picked up a stained backpack and followed after hesitating for a splinter of second. We thus left the six-storied apartment building in a small village. I lost the count of turns before the three of us reached a bus station out of the hamlet. Curiosity mixed with nervousness began to build up on me: where were we going? Was my home not set already? I hadn't had time to elaborate my concerns when the girls got on a bus. The driver, a guy tall and robust, took a thoughtful look at the sisters and me. Pity and something else that I could not read were in his eyes. I tried to have a conversation with Ahua as the bus started, only to find myself not acquiring the ability to speak yet. Ahua still looked insolent and weary. Holding me in her arms, she yawned and soon fell into a nap. Ali gazed at me for a while, but before long she leaned her head against the bus window and dozed off. I, on the other hand, remained fully awake. Staring thoughtfully at the wobbling ceiling, I continued the dream of my beautiful snow. When the bus stopped, the driver left his seat and came toward us. He patted Ahua on her shoulder, "Watch out for the baby. Don't let it fall." Said he gently. Before I was able to raise my head and look into his eyes, he walked back to the front, mumbling to himself, "Every day! Free bus ride, to beg for money..."
That was a blow to me. So Ahua and Ali were going to beg for money? Why? Why them? Why bringing me? Even though I had learned to accept the dreadful prelude to my life, it was really difficult for me to bear its absurd development. The fairy tale of snow shattered inside of me. I coughed my heart out, asking the world for an answer. Not the faintest whisper was stirred.
It was an hour later when we arrived at our destination. I let Ahua carry me onto a downtown overheard bridge, with no strength left to care. This was a lively city, extravagant mansions and skyscrapers standing tall everywhere. Banners of different colors offered all sorts of eye-catching commercial discounts, whereas smoking babes displayed their enticing smiles on gigantic billboards. Under the bridge automobiles came and went, whose impetuous honks formed an endless stream. Lots and lots of people, clad in shiny fashions, hurried by in confident steps. What a prosperous world. Ahua put me down. From the backpack that Ali carried, she took out two enamel bowls and two large pieces of paper filled with words. She ordered Ali to take one bowl with one piece of paper and sat down about thirty steps away. Meanwhile she herself held me and settled on the ground. The bowl pressed down a corner of the paper, on which I was able to recognize a "HELP" in big fonts. Below it poor handwritings related some sort of miserable stories. I laughed. What could be more miserable than the encounters of me, a one day old baby? Scorching sunlight fell on my face and my body without pity. I laughed even louder. In the ears of the world, it was merely crying sound of a starving baby. Nobody knew that my voice conveyed a mockery of its stale absurdity from a soul yet fresh.
Through tears I saw several passer-by tossed coins and notes into the bowl, shaking their heads and sighing. Grimly Ahua looked at them, uttering a few mechanical thanks once in a while. Such wore half the day. The fiery Sun of July burned till I was soaked in gnawing sweat. Ahua appeared to have become impatient. She rocked me harshly for a couple of rounds before placing me down on the smoldering ground of cement. My back was on fire, and my stomach joined the protest with intense hunger. Ahua must have got hungry as well. She yelled a quick sound at Ali, who then left with a couple of notes taken out from her bowl, and quickly returned with two cooked tea eggs, handing one over to Ahua. An innocent compassion entered her eyes when she noticed the torture on me. "Sister, let me hold the baby." She said. Ahua agreed immediately.
So I migrated to Ali's arms thirty feet away. I sucked on the teat put into my mouth, gazing at her eyes that were still unclouded. My thirst and hunger subsiding for the nonce, I attentively watched Ali nibbling at the tea egg. Suddenly she gave me an impish smile, wetted a finger tip with juice from the egg and sent it to my mouth. She was truly a tender, innocent little angel.
Tenderness and innocence as such were ubiquitous. Take a little boy dressed nicely for example, he was apparently in shock when he saw Ali and me. Rushing toward us, he stopped halfway and turned to his Mom, "Please give the little sisters some money, Mama." He requested. The beautiful lady patted her son encouragingly on his hair, took out a fairly large bill from her purse and put it in the bowl in front of us. The young boy left reluctantly, his hand held by his mother. From afar he still turned to look at us. I seemed to hear his mutter in the air, "Poor little sisters!" As soon as they were out of sight, Ahua hurried to our location, grabbing the large bill to thrust it into the backpack. "I've told you many times. Put the big money away!" At her words Ali nodded at once.
I cried wearily for the whole afternoon. Stream of people flew constantly on the overpass. There were toddlers, teenagers, youths, middle-aged, seniors. A sad-looking guy in midlife squatted in front of us, let out a long sigh as he dropped a note of 50 cents. A middle school student bashfully poured all the coins from her school bag into the bowl, as if our misery were her fault. Three uniforms strode by, heads held high. A bald, beer-bellied business man strolled drunk, cuddling with a pretty young woman. A couple of college students, keenly debating something about "domiciliary registration law", stared at us for a few seconds and walked away. A guy wearing thick glasses obviously wanted to talk to Ahua and Ali, yet both of them remained deadly silent.
I was lost into sleep. Those who wanted to help could not, and those who could did not want to! Or perhaps nobody could help me at all. Who made me abandoned to the wild right after I was given a life? Who turned me into a shameful tool of greedy hands? I was too little to protect myself, but where were you all, people who should have protected me?
At sunset I was carried back to my "home". A day before I lied in desolation, still waiting for miraculous turns of my life. Yet now I was left with nothing save a broken dream of white snows.
I thus extended my life of a little beggar day after day. Miracles did not favor me after all. My health deteriorated fast. Oftentimes I completely lost my voice on the bridge. Red spots grew all over my gaunt, stinking body. Even in my own eyes, I was a little disgusting creature. Occasionally Ali sent me a gentle look, but she has become more and more alike to her sister. They belonged to "Les Miserables" themselves. On days when they could not turn in the demanded amount of money, the villain beat them badly. Just as with me, life was not in their hands. But who has that privilege? In this splendor yet ghostly empty city, all lived as desired by others.
I often thought of my beautiful white snowing night. The dream of snow-field was especially soothing under the heat of the summer Sun. How wonderful it would have been were I able to live till a day when snowflakes fly in the sky, even without the window, the handsome lad or the hazy streetlight! That image would at least be worth this short life of toil. But of course I have got used to my deluded self and to the breaking of all fantasies. Thirty-nine days after I was born, I calmly stopped breathing. Within a few days my sense was still able to hang around the body. I watched the skinny guy rip off all its clothes and push it in a ragged bag. I watched him throw it into a trash can. Ahua and Ali were also watching quietly, with indifferent fear. Their father would soon find them new props.
I visited my shell once more before I returned to the void. Rats bit off one of its eyes. It was covered by blood and flesh, smelling of a foul carcass. If Ali had seen this, she would have been horrified into tears. I smiled at the thought of that little girl born good and naive. I would be very happy if one day she grew up to be the girl contemplating snows in my dream. Glittering snowflakes danced in front of my eyes. Slowly I sank into the darkness that had been so familiar to me.
02/28/06
By XP
(Based on true stories disclosed by local media)
When I came into this world, crying as all other babies, nobody knew the first thing about my charmed gift and reminiscent memory of former lives. In the little mind of mine there hung a vague yet pretty picture: countless snowflakes danced all over the sky, flickering in the yellow street light, beautiful beyond enduring. The air was clear and fresh, above the white, flawless ground. In years to come to pass, I would have grown into a lovely young girl, who likes to quietly contemplate snowing nights by the window. Perhaps a handsome young lad would suddenly appear in front of the window and smile at me. Or a mere glance of me might have reddened his face.
But soon reality drew me back from that distant quixotic image. On a hot and humid July evening, I was lying on a turf all alone. On the left there was a desolate trail. No one had passed by since the woman who gave me life left in a hurry. Underneath rough grasses and stones mercilessly shoved against my delicate skin. A miasma of latrine lingered in the air. Sweating all over, I suffered from acute hunger. I was too little to move myself, let alone seeking milk or anything else to drink. Desperately, I started crying out aloud. Yet the understanding of my own frailness was quickly furthered by the loss of my voice.
It was indeed a night of misery. In darkness all sorts of queer nameless sound of summer floated around, bugs jumping back and forth on my body. Those tiny creatures, tinier than I was, who were they to push me around like that? I waved my hands in anger, but the movements were so clumsy and ineffective that the bugs partied even more wildly. Occasionally I managed to turn my head and see the wraith of ghostly light in the distant field. I stared at the world from which I just came, shivered over the thought of its endless darkness and coldness beyond any bounds. Minutes and seconds ticked away, as my new life wore on. I wept under the stars, still unable to hear my own voice. Then I fell asleep, exhausted.
When I woke up I saw red clouds in the morning sky. The perfect sunrise cheered me up. Feeble as I was, I waited for the turn of my fate with hope, still dreaming about the fairy tale of snows. I was almost falling into the last sleep of all when I heard sounds of steps stopping beside me. A man stooped down. It was a jaundiced face in its forties, grimness carved into the deep wrinkles on its forehead. The man checked me up and down before he smirked, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth and stench. Having been prepared by the latrine reek over the night, I looked at him calmly. He reached and held me in his hands. The touch of a human being for the first time since I left the womb suddenly betrayed me. I strived to make a hoarse sound of crying and then lost consciousness.
The power of hunger was hefty. The instant I smelt a strange yet also familiar sweetness I opened my eyes, pounced on a dirty plastic teat with my little chapped lips, and sucked with all my might. Revitalized a bit by the turbid liquid, I started to check out the new surroundings. It was an ordinary room, plain yet decent. Behind the milk bottle was a 5 year-old. Her eyes were big and clear, filled with tiredness beyond her age. The skinny man who picked me up stood beside a stout woman. They muttered to each other, occasionally glancing at me with a look of contentment. I smiled back to show my gratitude, but they didn't seem to understand it. Farther away a girl of 7 or 8 years old stared at a water bottle with an empty gaze, not interested in me or anything else around. Being a charmed one, I soon came to realize that this was a small family and the two girls were called Ahua and Ali. Perhaps, I have become one of its members too? The sense of belonging somewhere immersed my heart with a tide of warmth. I recalled an old saying from a previous life: "The quality of life is contingent upon the people whom you are with, not the place where you are." The tender thought of my growing up and watching snows together with my family engrossed me.
Outside the Sun had risen high. The parents called the girls and murmured a few words. Ahua then came over to grab me, walking toward the door. Her younger sister Ali picked up a stained backpack and followed after hesitating for a splinter of second. We thus left the six-storied apartment building in a small village. I lost the count of turns before the three of us reached a bus station out of the hamlet. Curiosity mixed with nervousness began to build up on me: where were we going? Was my home not set already? I hadn't had time to elaborate my concerns when the girls got on a bus. The driver, a guy tall and robust, took a thoughtful look at the sisters and me. Pity and something else that I could not read were in his eyes. I tried to have a conversation with Ahua as the bus started, only to find myself not acquiring the ability to speak yet. Ahua still looked insolent and weary. Holding me in her arms, she yawned and soon fell into a nap. Ali gazed at me for a while, but before long she leaned her head against the bus window and dozed off. I, on the other hand, remained fully awake. Staring thoughtfully at the wobbling ceiling, I continued the dream of my beautiful snow. When the bus stopped, the driver left his seat and came toward us. He patted Ahua on her shoulder, "Watch out for the baby. Don't let it fall." Said he gently. Before I was able to raise my head and look into his eyes, he walked back to the front, mumbling to himself, "Every day! Free bus ride, to beg for money..."
That was a blow to me. So Ahua and Ali were going to beg for money? Why? Why them? Why bringing me? Even though I had learned to accept the dreadful prelude to my life, it was really difficult for me to bear its absurd development. The fairy tale of snow shattered inside of me. I coughed my heart out, asking the world for an answer. Not the faintest whisper was stirred.
It was an hour later when we arrived at our destination. I let Ahua carry me onto a downtown overheard bridge, with no strength left to care. This was a lively city, extravagant mansions and skyscrapers standing tall everywhere. Banners of different colors offered all sorts of eye-catching commercial discounts, whereas smoking babes displayed their enticing smiles on gigantic billboards. Under the bridge automobiles came and went, whose impetuous honks formed an endless stream. Lots and lots of people, clad in shiny fashions, hurried by in confident steps. What a prosperous world. Ahua put me down. From the backpack that Ali carried, she took out two enamel bowls and two large pieces of paper filled with words. She ordered Ali to take one bowl with one piece of paper and sat down about thirty steps away. Meanwhile she herself held me and settled on the ground. The bowl pressed down a corner of the paper, on which I was able to recognize a "HELP" in big fonts. Below it poor handwritings related some sort of miserable stories. I laughed. What could be more miserable than the encounters of me, a one day old baby? Scorching sunlight fell on my face and my body without pity. I laughed even louder. In the ears of the world, it was merely crying sound of a starving baby. Nobody knew that my voice conveyed a mockery of its stale absurdity from a soul yet fresh.
Through tears I saw several passer-by tossed coins and notes into the bowl, shaking their heads and sighing. Grimly Ahua looked at them, uttering a few mechanical thanks once in a while. Such wore half the day. The fiery Sun of July burned till I was soaked in gnawing sweat. Ahua appeared to have become impatient. She rocked me harshly for a couple of rounds before placing me down on the smoldering ground of cement. My back was on fire, and my stomach joined the protest with intense hunger. Ahua must have got hungry as well. She yelled a quick sound at Ali, who then left with a couple of notes taken out from her bowl, and quickly returned with two cooked tea eggs, handing one over to Ahua. An innocent compassion entered her eyes when she noticed the torture on me. "Sister, let me hold the baby." She said. Ahua agreed immediately.
So I migrated to Ali's arms thirty feet away. I sucked on the teat put into my mouth, gazing at her eyes that were still unclouded. My thirst and hunger subsiding for the nonce, I attentively watched Ali nibbling at the tea egg. Suddenly she gave me an impish smile, wetted a finger tip with juice from the egg and sent it to my mouth. She was truly a tender, innocent little angel.
Tenderness and innocence as such were ubiquitous. Take a little boy dressed nicely for example, he was apparently in shock when he saw Ali and me. Rushing toward us, he stopped halfway and turned to his Mom, "Please give the little sisters some money, Mama." He requested. The beautiful lady patted her son encouragingly on his hair, took out a fairly large bill from her purse and put it in the bowl in front of us. The young boy left reluctantly, his hand held by his mother. From afar he still turned to look at us. I seemed to hear his mutter in the air, "Poor little sisters!" As soon as they were out of sight, Ahua hurried to our location, grabbing the large bill to thrust it into the backpack. "I've told you many times. Put the big money away!" At her words Ali nodded at once.
I cried wearily for the whole afternoon. Stream of people flew constantly on the overpass. There were toddlers, teenagers, youths, middle-aged, seniors. A sad-looking guy in midlife squatted in front of us, let out a long sigh as he dropped a note of 50 cents. A middle school student bashfully poured all the coins from her school bag into the bowl, as if our misery were her fault. Three uniforms strode by, heads held high. A bald, beer-bellied business man strolled drunk, cuddling with a pretty young woman. A couple of college students, keenly debating something about "domiciliary registration law", stared at us for a few seconds and walked away. A guy wearing thick glasses obviously wanted to talk to Ahua and Ali, yet both of them remained deadly silent.
I was lost into sleep. Those who wanted to help could not, and those who could did not want to! Or perhaps nobody could help me at all. Who made me abandoned to the wild right after I was given a life? Who turned me into a shameful tool of greedy hands? I was too little to protect myself, but where were you all, people who should have protected me?
At sunset I was carried back to my "home". A day before I lied in desolation, still waiting for miraculous turns of my life. Yet now I was left with nothing save a broken dream of white snows.
I thus extended my life of a little beggar day after day. Miracles did not favor me after all. My health deteriorated fast. Oftentimes I completely lost my voice on the bridge. Red spots grew all over my gaunt, stinking body. Even in my own eyes, I was a little disgusting creature. Occasionally Ali sent me a gentle look, but she has become more and more alike to her sister. They belonged to "Les Miserables" themselves. On days when they could not turn in the demanded amount of money, the villain beat them badly. Just as with me, life was not in their hands. But who has that privilege? In this splendor yet ghostly empty city, all lived as desired by others.
I often thought of my beautiful white snowing night. The dream of snow-field was especially soothing under the heat of the summer Sun. How wonderful it would have been were I able to live till a day when snowflakes fly in the sky, even without the window, the handsome lad or the hazy streetlight! That image would at least be worth this short life of toil. But of course I have got used to my deluded self and to the breaking of all fantasies. Thirty-nine days after I was born, I calmly stopped breathing. Within a few days my sense was still able to hang around the body. I watched the skinny guy rip off all its clothes and push it in a ragged bag. I watched him throw it into a trash can. Ahua and Ali were also watching quietly, with indifferent fear. Their father would soon find them new props.
I visited my shell once more before I returned to the void. Rats bit off one of its eyes. It was covered by blood and flesh, smelling of a foul carcass. If Ali had seen this, she would have been horrified into tears. I smiled at the thought of that little girl born good and naive. I would be very happy if one day she grew up to be the girl contemplating snows in my dream. Glittering snowflakes danced in front of my eyes. Slowly I sank into the darkness that had been so familiar to me.
02/28/06
'I have been; I was a good kid'
"I have been; I was a good kid" (True Story)
By XP
When Yan SHE, a sweet angel left this prosperous and uproarious world, she had lived for 8 years. Her short life was of poverty, hardship and painful illness. But it was also of love, strength and tender inspiration for us who remain. As she requested, on her tombstone carved these words: "I have been; I was a good kid."
Yan was abandoned by her biological parents right after she was born on Nov 30th, 1996, barely alive when her foster father Shiyou SHE found her on a patch of turf beside a bridge in a small village of Sichuan province. Thirty years old, single, too poor to afford a marriage, Shiyou has a heart of gold. He was determined to raise the baby who otherwise had no chance to survive all by himself, however difficult it might be. He worked on the land during the day, and wove bamboo baskets at night. A pair of baskets could sell for 8 Yuan, with which he was able to buy milk powder for his baby. Shiyou gave the girl a beautiful name "Yan", which means "glamorous" in Chinese, since the harvesting autumn was the season of her birth.
Yan grew into a caring, bright girl, although frail and often sick partly due to poor nutrition. As to what life had forced on her, she did not complain. Instead, she started showing great affection and deep appreciation for her penniless but kind foster father very early on. Since 5 years old, she had already helped with chores such as cooking, doing laundry (by hand of course). She just wanted to be a good kid and to bring joys to her small family. Even her neighbors were all very fond of this sweet little one. As one of them recalled, when Yan was seven, she caught a bad cold once and kept coughing for a long while. She knew medicine was expensive, so she quietly collected herbs for self treatment according to a folk prescription that she heard of.
That year Shiyou decided to let Yan go to school. Everyday before dawn she walked two miles on mountain road to get to school with a flash light, which took her an hour and a half one way. We may get a glimpse of what was in that beautiful young mind at those moments from a short composition that Yan wrote: "My Road"
"My road is not the small trail that little kids toddle on; my road is not the broad street that cars run on. I like to walk upwards on my mountain road. I like to sing together with little birds when walking downwards. If you are willing to walk on my road, you will hear me and the birds singing. Listening to our songs, you will not feel tired however long the road is. I like to walk on my road."
Yan did very well in school, making Shiyou very happy and proud of her. She would prepare dinner every evening, so that her father could eat right away when he got home after a day's hard work in the field. She would sing for her Dad, and told him all fun happenings during the day at school. The daughter and the father may be short of money, but their love was certainly bounteous.
Yet fate itself sometimes can be merciless. Yan started to bleed often in the nose from May, 2005. Early June when Shiyou took her to a big hospital in the capital city of the province for medical examination, he was struck hard by the result: Yan had acute leukaemia. There was barely time for heartbreak, because he must find a large amount of money immediately: 300,000 Yuan, for his daughter's treatment. With his financial status, that amount was truly astronomically beyond hope. But he did everything he could anyway. Shiyou put his small adobe house for sale, which was in such a poor condition that he could not find a buyer. He borrowed money from all possible sources, and got 10,000 Yuan.
Little Yan learned about her terrifying disease and the efforts that Shiyou had made to collect money. She said, "Dad, don't sell the house. Where would YOU live in after years?" Shiyou patted her and replied, "Don't worry. I can build a small nest." Apparently the unconditional love between the father and the daughter did not move the hospital, for they refused to continue the treatment after the 10,000 Yuan was quickly spent. Shiyou's elder sister, who stood beside Shiyou under the difficult situation, knelt down twice before the doctors, "Please, please, have pity. Please save my niece. I'll get a loan to repay the hospital." Her pleas were turned down.
The poor family wept together. One day the 8 year old held her father's hand and said, "Dad, I want to die." "Why? You are only 8 years old!" Shiyou asked with surprise. "I am an abandoned kid. Maybe my life is lesser. We could not pay for it. Let's go home!" On June, 18th, Yan, a second grade, wrote on her own medical record for her illiterate father:" I shall give up treatment for Yan She voluntarily."
When they got home on the same day, Yan made a request - she had never asked for anything before - to be able to wear new clothes once, and to have a photograph taken. She explained to her father and aunt, "When Dad misses me after I'm gone, he could look at my picture." The grown-ups broke into tears. They bought the girl two sets of new clothes and took her to the photostudio in the nearest town.
Yan's constitution weakened fast. Sometimes she stood on the road to school in the village with tears in her eyes, for school had become a dream too far for her to reach. But Yan still insisted on doing chores: cooking, washing clothes, cutting grass. Everyday she washed her hair, made herself as pretty and clean as possible. She said, "I hope when you think of me in the future, you will think that I was a good kid."
Mercy finally fell upon the girl when all seemed in despair. A reporter, Yan Fu, heard her story at the hospital. She went to her home at once and brought her back to a children's hospital in Chengdu. The news report was published on local newspaper and the story soon spread out over the internet. The whole Chinese community of the world was touched and reached out for help. In 10 days, Yan received 560,000 Yuan's donation. More continued to pour in afterwards.
The hospital worked hard to treat Yan's leukaemia. In all the painful procedures, the young lady showed extraordinary endurance. She did not even make a sound during the bone marrow puncture. After chemo-treatment, Yan kept vomiting, aching all over and having fevers. She went through tens of surgeries. Yet she smiled, most of the time, even though she seemed to forebode her own death as her condition deteriorated. Just as she appreciated her foster father, she was very grateful for all the kindness that has reached her. Two days before she passed away, she asked Reporter Fu, "Aunt, why do people donate to me?" "Because they are kind." "I want to be kind too." Yan took a maths exercise book from under the pillow, "Aunt, this is my will."
It was clearly written separately at at least six different times. A little disorganized, the "will" included a few points. Since Shiyou once told her that if she died, he would "cut his own throat", she wrote, "Dad, don't be mad. Don't cut your throat. Aunt Fu please keep an eye on my Dad." She mentioned that Shiyou's house was about to break down, "Please help my Dad pay back the 10,000 Yuan debt, help him find a job." As to the remaining donation she received, she said, "Aunt, please give a little bit to my school." To her school teacher, she said, "I want to come back." To all those who helped, she "will never forget your kindness." She wrote down many "good byes", "Good bye. See you in dreams."
On August 22nd, Yan closed her eyes for the last time and all her pains finally came to an end. Countless people wept for her parting. Thousands attended her funeral. At the end of her days, Yan received love and cares from many. Shiyou said, "Her life was worth it." The girl had suffered, but none of the adversities changed the innocence and goodness of her quiet soul. She was kind, caring, grateful for the good from the very beginning till the day she left. Whose heart would not tremble and feel purified in front of an angel like her? The remaining donation of 540,000 Yuan for Yan was transfered to seven children with leukaemia, whose families could not afford medical treatment. That, was the last gift that she gave to this world. She has been; She was a good kid.
03/09/06
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Autumn Leaves (Poem)
Autumn Leaves, By XP
09/04/06
Flying Autumn leaves
Have treaded for a whole summer
Free at last
In the sighing wind
Don't disturb, please
This short returning journey
Not carved in the growth ring
Are scattered memories
The first raindrop in the spring
Awakened a trembling villus
Life was impatient
To spread toward sunlight
Youth, is meant to be curious
Let the melody flow
As if it can stream into eternity
The simplest happiness
Was full of butterflies, flowers
And a singing creek
It doesn't matter
Whether the turning season
The voice of cicada
Used to penetrate the heart
And how you sustained
The thunderstorm and
The long dark night
Weeping, or striving
Time never judges
Swiftly it washes away
All the marks in the past
So when this day comes
In the farewell of finale
Smile in silence
Rise, turn, glide
In the far horizon ahead
There is still fledgling life
Soft, soft
My friend
This is not an elegy
This gentle and secret whisper
Is the best gift you give to me
09/04/06
Flying Autumn leaves
Have treaded for a whole summer
Free at last
In the sighing wind
Don't disturb, please
This short returning journey
Not carved in the growth ring
Are scattered memories
The first raindrop in the spring
Awakened a trembling villus
Life was impatient
To spread toward sunlight
Youth, is meant to be curious
Let the melody flow
As if it can stream into eternity
The simplest happiness
Was full of butterflies, flowers
And a singing creek
It doesn't matter
Whether the turning season
The voice of cicada
Used to penetrate the heart
And how you sustained
The thunderstorm and
The long dark night
Weeping, or striving
Time never judges
Swiftly it washes away
All the marks in the past
So when this day comes
In the farewell of finale
Smile in silence
Rise, turn, glide
In the far horizon ahead
There is still fledgling life
Soft, soft
My friend
This is not an elegy
This gentle and secret whisper
Is the best gift you give to me
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