Rediscovery

A Room (Brain) Full of Books

I can't stand to read only one book at a time... I don't really know why

Maybe I just get bored easily.

As result I always have a web of short stories, non-fiction, textbooks, and philosophical reflections scattered throughout my room and my head. There are rarely full-fledged novels in the mix though.

A full novel take a lot of focus and commitment. I don't have that yet.

I've got piles littered around my bedroom in a subtly organized fashion that only I would understand. I've got the books in the bathroom to accompany me in... lonely times. I've got the books sitting in my messenger bag that i carry with me everywhere just in case I feel like reading during a quiet moment. I've got the shelves full by the door, a few on top of my school documents, and of course, the good book sitting on my desk.

To my right on a broken, blue, swivel chair is a stack of Chinese philosophical works from Kong Zi's Lun Yu (Confucius' Analects) to its flowery, sugar coated, modern exposition by Yu Dan. In between are Chinese history textbooks, other biographies, source documents and references. In this pile the Tao of Pooh converse with Lao Zi himself. Scholars from across China's turbulent modern past pit their ideas against one another over tea and cookies in my brain.

Liang Shu Ming nervously undoes his collar and adjusts his glasses as he respectfully listens to Gu Hong Ming's explanation of the "True Chinese Spirit." How would he know? Gu grew up in Indonesia and studied in Europe before becoming such advocate for China's Confucian worldview. Then again, had Liang not traveled a similar journey, dabbling in liberal Western perspectives before re-settling on his roots?

"At least my journey was walked out on my native soil," Liang thinks.

"Perhaps, but it's my books that are still being sold in bookstores on the mainland. You don't have a voice here anymore," Gu retorts.

"Patience, it'll take some time," a new voice adds, "I'm just starting to find a voice again." Feng You Lan's "A Short History of Chinese Philosophy" was written in 1947. It is a simplified version of his monumental, two volume work "History of Chinese Philosophy" in 1937. I bought it in a Beijing bookstore by the National Art Gallery. From what I can tell, he is one the leading scholars and explainers of Chinese philosophy in the modern era. His work in the States and China has not gone unnoticed... for better or for worse.

Is what I'm writing here too sensitive? Hope not. I'm outta here in a half a year anyway.

Most of the books I'm reading right now are connected to my graduate degree in Intercultural Studies. In specific, my Chinese Philosophy Independent Study (as you may have guessed). As the summer classes approach I've been given another list of books on the thological and historical foundations of the Body and its role in the world. Something about good news.

I'm just looking for trouble now, aren't I?

One book I've been gnawing away at for sometime is a biography of Xi ShengMo. I'll not mention any details of the man, you'll have to look it up yourself. For all the thoughts produced by high philosophy, there is nothing like a a life of action and love to put it all in perspective. His story both challenges me and gives me hope, a deeper trust in life and Father's presence. This is the kind of stuff I'm signing up for.

It's the stories that move us after all... not just the principles behind them.

But for all the fun biographies and philosophy can be, my soul has been crying out for something of rich literary imagery and beauty. The answer to that cry came in the form of Japanese author, Haruki Murakami. My girlfriend was raving about him during her time with me in late January.

He is a novelist by profession, which obviously turned me off at first. I haven't the time for a novel. Luckily, I stumbled on a collection of his short stories by the title "Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman" while wandering the Bangkok Airport.

I do love me a good short story.

Indeed, Murakami delivers a collection so absorbing, mystical, and transcendent that I might just pick up one of his novels when all this mess passes. The Japanese have their pulse on the subtle and the meaningful woven into the simple as well as the absurd. The feelings of the stories are raw, real, and stick to your gut, almost the way smoke from a cigarette does your lungs. At the same time the images are magical, light, and float just beyond your reach. You can only see them, and while you do life seems to make more sense. But reach out and try to touch it, and it'll disappear. Swirls and twirls of smoke forever enchanting but disappointingly temporary.

I felt the pain of the stories, the quiet desperation of those seeking to make sense of life, but also the humor and joy of the journey. After finishing reading a few stories on the train from Qingdao to Nanjing, I text messaged my roommate, Dan, my feelings.

"Murakami makes me dreamy, like a feather floating low in crowded city traffic. I would hate to settle on the hot, lifeless, concrete, but ironically, its the fumes keeping me afloat."

"What's Murakami?" he texts back

"A drug," I say.

He doesn't reply

So I read a lot of different things at once. Part of it is because I can't focus, get bored... but the other part is the richness of having all these stories, ideals, and people engage one another.

It's party in my head and only the brightest and greatest are invited.

How do I have all this time to read? Well... it was holiday.

Classes start tomorrow.

Sad.. .

posted by Unknown @ 10:56 AM