When a real connection is not close enough, people seek compensation through the body, as if that can offer certainty.

But I prefer Vivian. The physical part is only an addition.

If going to Tibet is the dream journey of many young artistic people, then meeting you at twenty would be my fantastical journey.

I like this: thinking that there are still people like Bai Lan in the world. There are too many beautiful people, but too few interesting ones. As long as they exist, it is a comfort, even if I never meet them. And most of the time, that kind of interestingness is out of step with its era. Simply put, it seems distinctive, ahead of its time, perhaps even shocking to people then.

I finished it in eight and a half hours. I found all the stories the author wrote full of flavor, especially those involving Bai Lan. But at the end, he wrote a poem that seemed to come from nowhere and lead nowhere. I probably do not have the constitution for reading modern poetry; I skimmed right past it. I may be destined not to be a reader of poetry, but stories move me deeply. I am grateful to still have this one pleasure.

I remember a famous writer whose daughter published poetry. It was not very good—or rather, it read like a running account—yet she still wanted to publish more. Her father was dissatisfied but never said so directly. Lu Xiaolu mentions talent many times. It is not her fault that she has no talent for writing poetry, and it is not her fault that she has no aesthetic sense for poetry either. But I cannot help remembering Lu Xun’s warning not to become merely a writer of empty words.

This book writes about missed chances and remembrance, but most of it happens when Lu Xiaolu is nineteen or twenty. I am nineteen now. I attend an unremarkable university and study a major that leaves me confused. Yet I keep thinking that I am no longer young. It is rather embarrassing. I spend too much time thinking about these things.

Will I ever meet a “Bai Lan”? Not someone with the same personality, though I really do like people who are distant. But could I meet a Jane Eyre? Someone I could speak with soul to soul.

I have to say that the author’s roguish air is infectious. Even the way I speak has started to sound affected. But mine is only a fake roguishness; it cannot compare with the real thing.