Yesterday I took my daughter to a bookstore to get her own collection of Jane Austen, an act that I see as a rite of passage for all women who ever take reading and probably womanhood seriously. It is a privilege for a Dad to hold her daughter's hand and pay for a collection from the most famous and probably most important female novelist of all time, and it was his personal triumph when the cashier affirmed the gravity of the moment by breathing out these words from the lowest point of his diaphragm when we laid the books on the counter: "Wow, Jane Austen..."
But it was not an unqualified triumph. I have my doubts and insecurity. I doubted in an age when kids are trained to be a consumer even in what they choose to read, if my daughter finds them a bit of a stretch from her usual taste (she likes characters that are all animals--not that human are not animals, but you know what I mean). And what if she doesn't like them? Would I see it as a failure of Ms. Austen, of me as a father, or of my daughter as a reader? Before we decided on the purchase, I turned to one random page in "Sense and Sensibility" and asked her to read it and tell me if she can understand the sentences. I didn't ask her if she likes the sentences, because there is no way for her to tell yet. I can only take the leap of faith to trust that as long as she is intellectually capable to understand the words, then one day she will grow up to their greatness. Nothing is secure other than this trust.
And I suppose I used the same approach in writing this blog. All along I am very aware of my own naivety in trusting people of different backgrounds, life styles, ideological orientations, and even skills in language comprehension would somehow find their own paths in navigating the spaces both within and outside of the "screen" I choose to display. I do not advertise my blog. I don't attach the address in my emails. Yes, I am aware many of my faithful readers do know me personally, but I would rather they don't. The arm's length is not for the sake of my detachment, but to create a safety zone for someone to acknowledge, yes, it is ok to think differently, and yes, it is also ok for me as as reader to agree or disagree with this writer, and yes, most importantly, it is ok for me to think he is very right about some things but I choose to not listen and to not change. Just because the truth is revealed, it doesn't mean I will need to move a finger. It's like laughing at a funeral when everybody is blessed with deafness.
When this space is properly observed and respected, life can go on even when blood is splattered all over the words. Oh, but the naivety of this trust. Of course people do not detach me from my writing. When people see me in person, they sometimes look to the other side. Sometimes they see through me---out of contempt or out of shame? I do not know. Sometimes when people talked to me, they tried to explain themselves, as if I needed their explanation to validate their taste in movie, in music, in life choices. Not that I do not care about the person, but I truly don't care about all these "character traits" when I talk to him/her. This is reality, not Facebook. For years, everyday I enjoyed beautiful friendship with a coworker sitting beside me, who happens to be a homosexual. In our years of interaction, God knows not for once did his sexual orientation become a "consideration" in my head when I spoke or listened to him. Not that I do not care about homosexuality as an "issue", but it was a non-issue when we were engaged in human contact. Sometimes he even flirted with me, and I always have my way to get back at him with an even funnier joke.
What a lengthy prologue. What I really want to say today is: I won't be writing this blog any more. No, there is no animosity or bitterness in my heart, not a single bit. No one is responsible for this decision other than myself. If you think this is an act of protest, then you cannot be more wrong. I will write about it if I want to protest about anything. This is an act of moving on. An act the grows out of an understanding of myself and this medium called a "blog". To me, it is all or nothing at all. I find it no longer viable to write the way I want to write. I aim to be an Alice Munro, a Michael Ondaatje, a Margaret Atwood. Whether I actually possess the talent to fulfill this goal is another matter (so far it does not look good), but the aim is there. And this is not the place. I don't know where the place is or if there is actually such a place. I can't imagine Munro going to a party without people trying to see through her. Jane Austen published the first two editions of "Sense and Sensibility" anonymously.
It was a good run. Five years. Millions of words. Some of the comics are so ingenious that I don't know which fallen angel blessed me with the wicked ideas. Some people "open" a new blog every now and then as if they are getting a new pair of shoes to pull themselves out of a moment of shitty feeling only to discard the product after the consumption satisfied the transient need (no, I am not talking about anyone specific, especially not you if you think I am talking about you; I am only speaking generally), but I wrote with diligence and commitment, as with everything else I do in life. But all good things must end. So my fellow eavedroppers (sorry for an one last jab), au revoir and merci.
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