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The Peach Blossom Spring is a Chinese tale written by Tao Yuanming (c. 365��427). It tells the story of a fisherman who, by chance, discovers a beautiful place where its community and the natural surroundings were in perfect harmony. Dynasties, people, politics, fashion - everything outside their haven of peace and plenty was unbeknownst to them. The fisherman was received and treated with great cordiality and after several days of idyllic landscapes and hospitality, the man left not without marking the route with signs. He tried to return but never found it again. This story is the inspiration for Wei’s poem.
There is no such thing as a utopia, but even something remotely beneficial is hard to find. One of the many ironies of life is that, when we find it, we are usually oblivious to its existence until we lose it.
We are prone to clichés.

That’s the rule. To imagine it, to see it, to finally grasp it. And to let it go, unaware of the transient nature of things and people. To contemplate the distance between the bodies, the unspoken words, the constant glances. There, where the soothing Rhine, whitened by the moonlight, became the path to confusion, intense happiness and immeasurable loss. Turgenev told his story using a most delectable language, the kind that is often inspired by a bittersweet reminiscence.

The sound of a soft, carefree laugh which could melt glaciers. The eyes to which everything is saying goodbye. A withered geranium flower given as a gift amidst laughs. The only permanent thing he owns is the memory of its faint fragrance, which finally outlived him: N. N., who spent unforgettable days in the small German town of Z–�� on the left bank of the Rhine, when he was about 25. The unwary writer who thought he could buy time, control circumstances, trick fortune. The one who would later travel the world to find that fragrance again, just to see his enthusiasm wane at the thought of defeat. The one whose love had burst alight with irresistible force only a few moments later, when there was nothing to be done.

Loss is everywhere and regret, a faithful companion.
A similar issue is addressed in one of the books I’ve read recently which left a deep impression on me. Using the kind of gorgeous language whose lucidity stirs the heart, Yoshida Kenkō discusses the nature of delay: the art of vacillation, the tendency to procrastinate. I’m one of its victims trying to recover, so this monk’s words kept reverberating through my head: ...always intending to make more effort later. And if such are your days, how much less aware must you be of the passing moment’s indolence. Why should it be so difficult to carry something out right now when you think of it, to seize the instant? To seize the instant. To seize the instant that will never repeat itself. The simplicity of the statement is overwhelming. Taking into account the natural awareness of human finitude, why should it be so difficult to��?

Loss is everywhere and time never calls a truce. It’s inevitable. Alone, in a little room, you find a tiny piece of paper with a few words written in pencil: ...if you’d said one word to me, just one word, I’d have stayed. You didn’t say it.
Turgenev knew it well. So do we. Countless examples with solutions and complete desolation.
The keys you lost because of your general absent-mindedness. The job opportunity that slipped out of your hands due to perpetual doubts. The potentially entertaining conversation with a stranger that never started thanks to your shyness, even your mistrust. The quarrel you couldn’t avoid because of your senseless and oppressive silence, or a shameless lie that never knew guilt; a mixture of both and the following distance that preserves ‘dignity��. The possibility of a little happiness you didn’t pursuit because of fear. Or the arrogant thought that the unique was going to appear in your life a thousand times.





Jan 16-Feb 05, 18
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** Actual rating: 4.5 stars.