The arc of a life

European Beech (Fagus sylvatica) in winter

European Beech (Fagus sylvatica) in early fall

European Beech (Fagus sylvatica) in later fall

European Beech (Fagus sylvatica) in summer

And so it goes. Morning gives way to afternoon; afternoon to night. And we find ourselves in the end of November already. Leaves are mostly gone, so are bees, butterflies and birds. Nights are longer; the usual rain are here, there is more time for reading, or someone else's better words. 

Another 40 days or so, 2020 will be all over. Is 2021 will be better? I believe so, the sun and the moon and the stars in the chart told me so. We all keep up the high hope at every year's end.
Lives are shaped by chance encounters and by discovering things that we don't know that we don't know. The arc of a life is a circuitous one. In the grand scheme of things, everything we do is an experiment, the outcome of which is unknown.

香港/Paris

Because you can make a sentimental journey to a place that changed your life 40 years ago in the hope of finding some trace of your younger self, and then discover that this younger you has been living in Paris all these years, just as Paris has been living all these years in you...

The Brontë Country, Yorkshire

Charlotte Brontë,
author of Jane Eyre

Home for the Brontë sisters, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne, was the wild sweep of England's Yorkshire moors. This land still untamed save for a few stone stalwarts like the picture here. The Brontë would leave their mark on English literature and in one another's hearts with their writings.

"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will." —Jane Eyre

Follow, poet, follow right...

W. B. Yeats 1865 – 1939

.

 

Follow, poet, follow right

To the bottom of the night,

With your unconstraining voice

Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse

Make a vineyard of the curse,

Sing of human unsuccess

In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart

Let the healing fountain start,

In the prison of his days

Teach the free man how to praise.

—In Memory of W. B. Yeats, W.H. Auden

香港/Dublin

Generous tears filled Gabriel’s eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling...—Dubliner, James Joyce

夢𥚃花落知多少

夜來又回到那個小島上, 尋常巷陌依舊, 桃花似的人面依舊, 時光倒流, 又回到少年十五, 六那段日子。

一如戰後千萬個離鄉別井的中國人一樣, 父親無可奈何底下放棄家鄉的祖居和田地, 一無所有地南下移居到那小島上, 一個遠離鬧市喧嘩, 只有鄉村人定居有山有水的好地方。那𠒇有炎熱悠長的夏天, 令人懨懨欲睡一下又一下的蟬鳴, 影樹的細細碎碎遮掩不了暴曬下來的大熱太陽, 我是如斯深愛那影樹, 轟轟烈烈的紅花真的像英雄灑血般悲壯, 落下來的小葉子浮滿不遠之處的魚塘, 那個令我一坐就坐上半天的魚塘, 翻兩三篇查拉圖拉如是說, 讀幾行古詩十九首, 而那人一直在我耳邊絮絮不休細說將來, 那時候還以為有用不盡的時光。
那小島盛載有我滿滿的歉意, 因為我堅持離去, 傷透兩個愛我至深的人, 走的那天晴空萬里, 一如過去萬千個日子那種無雨無雲, 南中國海的好天氣, 一樣可以令人意氣低沉, 祖母甚至不肯到碼頭看我離去, 我只有一步一回顧, 看着她背裡淌淚的身影, 啊... 祖母我給你的創痛說要多深就有多深, 祖母一直活在她和祖父那種兩小無嫌猜, 十六為君婦的世紀𥚃, 以她那一套來衡量, 女子一生是願托喬木的絲蘿, 捨棄一個從小相識知深可托終身的人, 離家遠去找尋所謂天際一抹雲彩, 對她來說, 非常難以理解, 不可思議, 但在我要努力爭取時, 她還是人前人後一貫的支持我。
再回去的時候, 祖母已經不在了, 千里孤墳, 教我無處說凄涼, 和那人再見面時, 執子之手不能與子偕老矣, 一時間黯然無語相對, 想到坊間流言說他成功的事業背後有兩段不和諧的婚姻, 又如何開口好言相慰? 要是我不曾離去, 留下來吃着他家裡茶飯, 不求上進, 不事生產, 又豈是當初那個心高氣傲令他眷戀不已的小女孩。
給我再來一次機會, 我仍然會作出同樣選擇, 即使我知道要付出何等代價, 以後的年數𥚃, 常常在深夜夢裏驚醒過來, 想着小島𥚃的蟬鳴, 想着那花開花落的影樹, 想着那魚塘, 想着那小島上零零碎碎的人和事, 想着想着... 久久不能再入睡, 眼睜睜的一夜到天明….
—1991年4月1曰發表在加京華報

偶然 —徐志摩 By Chance —Xu Zhimo

我是天空裡的一片雲,
偶爾投影在你的波心 —
你不必訝異,
更無須歡喜 —
在轉瞬間消滅了蹤影.
你我相逢在黑夜的海上,
你有你的, 我有我的, 方向;
你記得也好,
最好你忘掉,
在這交會時互放的光亮!

原載《晨報副刊·詩鐫》第9期 1926.5.27 

I am a cloud in the sky,
casting random shadow in your mind;
you need not startle,
nor take delight
for I'd forthwith vanish out of your sight.

You and I met at sea in the darkness of night,
You have your destination, I have mine;
You may remember,
though it'd be best if you could forget,
we glowed as our paths crossed and brightly shined.

Originally published on Issue 9 of "Morning News Supplement · Poems" 1926.5.27