Chapter 132

Reading is an art that allows one to perceive the essence of life. Reading the poems of Du Fu helps one grasp the bitterness of life; reading the poems of Li Bai allows one to realize the corruption of officialdom; reading the essays of Lu Xun helps one recognize the darkness of society; and reading the works of Ba Jin makes one feel the hope for the future. Every book is a friend that teaches us how to view life. Reading is an indispensable lesson in one's life; by reading books and reflecting on life, we are helped to navigate every step of our journey.

Books are lamps; reading illuminates the path ahead. Books are bridges; reading connects distant shores. Books are sails; reading propels the ship of life. Reading is an art of living, for it is through reading that life becomes truly magnificent.

It is a charming afternoon. You sit by the window with a thick, old book. Afternoon tea exudes a rich, sweet aroma, and your old dog lies lazily at your feet. The sunlight casts your silhouette in gold, blending with this languid time to brew into a memory.

This is a memory belonging only to you, like a dewdrop caught on a fingertip at dawn. You can smell its fragrance, yet you cannot grasp it, nor can you describe it clearly. You see, reading is just like that. It is merely a feeling.

Sometimes, as you read, you seem to embrace the entire world. You are no longer just yourself; you can observe, like a world-weary troubadour, watching everything unfold before your eyes. The story begins, surges, twists and turns, and finally concludes. You collect these fragments, weaving them into songs—sometimes lighthearted, sometimes sorrowful—and sing them softly. As you read, you read into life itself, discerning a certain flavor, attaining a certain state of mind. At such moments, you are like an open-minded elder, calmly watching the joys and sorrows of life. Perhaps life is nothing more than a waning moon in the quiet night; it appears cold and incomplete, yet in reality, it is always full—it is merely a distant planet rotating in silence. Of course, sometimes you will immerse yourself wholeheartedly, inevitably swayed by fate and occupied by human emotions and desires; this is because we need to love and to hate, and no one can be exempt from this. You read with such focus that you almost forget to breathe. Is this not the intensity of life, pulling you to run wildly? You are led by a mood, running blindly forward as the wind whistles in your ears. In this moment, reason is submerged; you cast aside the mask of life in an instant. Like a child, you shout, collide, and act without hesitation, with true sincerity. You even bravely rebuke the unfairness of fate, condemning the darkness, obscurity, bitterness, and fragility of this society.

In that moment, you weep uncontrollably, your tears dampening the pages, only to realize you are merely reading someone else's story. Yet, why do you see your own reflection there? Why do you feel that you are living so vividly, so authentically? For a fleeting moment, you surrender all your emotions to it, without a shred of regret.

Long afterward, when you pick up that book again and recall the feeling of that time, you shake your head in confusion. You may have forgotten why you were so moved.

This is reading. You never sought to gain anything from it with a utilitarian motive; there was no premeditation, no pressure. You were simply tasting life in a vague, ethereal way. You cry, you laugh, you hate, you love. You read it, and then you forget, turning your back to return to the bustling reality. Reading is catalyzed by your emotions in that instant; because you are happy, you read joy; because you are sad, you read sorrow.

Such is reading, and such is life. By grasping a single moment of full bloom, life becomes as brilliant as summer flowers.

Ever since humanity separated from the ignorant animal world, we first had language, then writing, then essays, and finally books. Sometimes, thinking of this long process, a sense of awe arises in my heart, for without this process, there would be no "reading." And today, what an unbearable deficiency that would be!

However, although everyone is inseparable from reading, there are differences in the depth of one's reading, depending on individual insight.

One level is reading for exams and seeking fame. In my view, this is the "lowest grade" of reading, because it can no longer be considered true pursuit of knowledge, and naturally, there is no true joy to be found. When the reader’s eyes are always fixed on the glitter of fame and fortune, any knowledge is reduced to a "stepping stone." Once it has opened the door to success, it is inevitably discarded. Can this not be considered a profanity against knowledge? This type of reading is evidenced by the scholars of the imperial examinations in the past, and by the countless people today who tirelessly participate in various tests—college entrance exams, graduate school entrance exams, professional certifications, and civil service exams. Do you not see the various candidates before every exam, standing or sitting outside the hall, clutching their "scriptures," frowning in distress? This kind of reading is more of a nightmare in one’s life journey—all pain and no joy. Yet, few in this world can escape this "painful reading," which is, one must say, a form of alienation.

Another level of reading is for the sake of exhausting knowledge and truth. This can be classified as the "upper grade," as it has broken free from personal fame and profit, stemming instead from humanity's great curiosity. Throughout history, countless giants of science have spent their whole lives, white-haired and tireless, exploring specific questions. There are even rare, universal geniuses who delve into multiple disciplines, exploring the mysteries of the world and life through reading. This is automatic, autonomous, and conscious "reading." On the path to exhausting knowledge and truth, they are brave travelers and explorers; we have no reason not to show them our deepest respect. I would even go so far as to say that those who can enter this realm have already attained the blessings of life.

Yet, Zhuangzi once said, "Life is finite, while knowledge is infinite. To pursue the infinite with the finite is perilous." This is, after all, a "partial truth." Therefore, in my eyes, while the second level is an "upper grade," it cannot reach the "supreme" realm. The truly "supreme" reading is reading without desire or demand—it is a stroll of the heart, a wandering of the soul. Such readers have no desire for wealth from books, no pursuit of digging for treasures of knowledge, and certainly no impulse to distill moral maxims to save the world. They see kindness and beauty in books; they are moved by the brilliance within and weep for the happiness found therein. They always need to read, yet they seek nothing from "reading," simply finding fulfillment and tranquility in the act itself. "Reading" provides them with spiritual air and sustenance, and thus they transcend the material and realistic life.

These three levels of reading share a similar appearance, but their spiritual cores are vastly different. In the end, I must admit that as to which is higher or lower, different people will have different judgments. The order of "lowest," "upper," and "supreme" might well be reversed in the minds of others.

Listen to nature: the rustling of the pines is the rhythm of the forest; the chirping of autumn insects is their private whispering; the poignant cry of the cuckoo is its lament.

Listen to the heart: the tender warmth is a touch of affection; the blazing fire is a burst of passion; the kind greeting is a heart of crystal ice.

Listen to the words of books: there is the subtle craftsmanship and fresh, bright beauty of Qu, Tao, Li, and Du; there is the magnificent literary talent and dreamlike tenderness of Zhimo and Eileen; there is the vibrant individuality and humanity of Hanhan and Annie.