Jia's Reading Diary

Guess it's time to read some subject- or work-related materials before going to bed. Such a sad thing. But then again it feels good to be busy.

沒想到自己會遭遇倫敦的鵝毛大雪。難怪昨天去看展覽的時候，寒風刮得凜冽。有些事物之間本沒有聯係，但借助聯想的力量，生活便有了詩意。下雪前最冷的一天去看Mark Rothko最後一天展覽；離開倫敦前，這座冰冷的城市忽地飃起了晶瑩的雪花，讓我倍感榮幸。幾乎是全城停運，沒有公車，沒有地鐵。我和同事面面相覷，不就是一場雪麽，這要在中國、德國，該干嘛還得干嘛。而這個島國據説熱愛意外，一有不對勁兒的地方就停下不動了，頗像反恐的神經過敏。

因爲住得離學校太近，就踩著齊腳深的白雪去上班。走在大片大片平靜的處女地裏，像孩子一樣開心。從小到大，杭州從不缺雪，但走在這麽深的雪中，看著雪花浮上鞋面，有生以來還是頭一次。空中亂飃的雪花撞到臉上，化成冰水，從鼻梁流下來。拿著相機亂晃，也不擔心雪水流進機器裏。此時此刻，我是愛倫敦的，愛我住的這片地區，也想念劍橋，那裏應該更冷。不是因爲外國有多好，而是“出國”這個殘酷的事實迫使我們學會珍惜艱辛生活裏的點點滴滴。

坐在雅思辦公室裏，穿過落地玻璃墻，看著雪花紛飛，突然間很感動，想擁抱生活，之前那麽多的埋怨哀傷都像冰雪消融似的蒸發了。很想知道這周末的雅思考試還能不能照常進行。考生也都有些歇斯底里，電話鈴響個不停，郵件不斷湧來。這個時候正是續簽的高峰，尤其是移民簽證。很多人攷了無數次的試，還是過不了。簽證，只一個詞，耗掉了多少人的精力，傷了多少人的心，又承載著多少人的希望。現在的我並不介意簽證期滿回國，而是擔心一旦回國，這邊的朋友要怎樣才能忘記，要怎樣才能淡然地笑笑，說聲“日日思君不見君，共飲長江水”。

整整一天，飄雪依舊。學校不得不關門。我們幾個頑皮的員工索性在空地上堆起了雪人。第二個快兩米高了。其間還遭遇野蠻外來者的突襲，企圖擊垮我們的作品。其間被同事放倒，躺在雪地上照了十分尷尬的相。又是有生以來，第一次體會滾雪球的興奮。這裡的雪真能滾起來！真的越滾越大。這和滾元宵有異曲同工之妙，而且成就感翻倍。幾個小時下來，渾身充滿能量，很久沒有鍛煉身體啦，很久沒有如此開懷大笑啦。

不管我能否按時起飛，這場雪是上天的恩賜。

People say that, if it rains before you leave a city, it means the city does not want you to go. What about snowing then? Should I worry about my flight?

Went to see Mark Rothko exhibition on such a chilly and windy day. Today was the last day, so I bought a ticket without hesitation. It was worth the price. The works displayed this time were made in his later life, when he focused on darker colours, red on maroon, black on maroon, brown and gray, black on gray.

Felt peaceful when looking at his paintings from afar. When observed close up, their surface was flat and smooth. It was amazing that over such a huge space the painter's strokes were softly distributed and his brushwork scarcely discernible. For the maroon series, the edges of the object were fluffy and feathery, making a gentle and natural transition from the background to the object in the front. Sometimes, he used a slight amount of colours in stark contrast to that of the object along the edges to make the latter stand out. It was easy to believe that his paintings were only one colour on top of another. But careful examination told us that there were more than two layers of colours that made the surface appear rich and meaningful.

In the black on gray series, sometimes the edge was feather-like, the gray was coming onto the black from below like restless tides. Yet sometimes it appeared clear-cut, as if the two colours were restricted by some force. The upper black was most of the time calm and thick, like the night. The lower gray showed some irregular disturbance, or vitality. This was his final series, in which I saw calmness and warmth, albeit in the colour of black.

Couldn't say what Rothko tried to express through these colours. But liked his words, quoted in the small booklets distributed to visitors, that "If a thing is worth doing once, it is worth doing over and over again - exploring it, probing it, demanding by its repetition that the public look at it." Repetition is a basic element in the creation of art and beauty. Look at life, a huge part of reality is repetition. It works perfectly well. Before leaving, bought three books, The Total Library by Jorge Luis Borges, Phenomenology of Perception by Merleau-Ponty, and Being and Nothingness by Sartre. A helpless repetition of my insatiable desire for books.

Booked my tickets for 05 Feb and 19 Feb between London and Shanghai. Have to go back. Or I'll always think about it. Besides, I have to remind myself how it feels to walk around West Lake again, to visit my favourite bookstores and to meet my friends again. And there are things I want to leave behind for some time.

So I am going back. Last minute decision.

The coming two weeks are my days off. Already booked tickets for Rothko Exhibition in Tate Modern and Sunset Boulevard in Comedy Theatre. I need to make full use of these two weeks to clear things up.

"No. About the trial."

During the whole meeting, Michael behaved like an outsider, a lawyer, which he was, and someone that had no memory of the past. This bewildered Hanna and threw her down into the abysmal. "Well, I taught myself to read." But she was not happy about that, since the man that inspired her had backed off and kept his distance. There was no "us".

Film reviews have been saying quite different things about the story. About Hanna's illiteracy and her controversial assistance to Nazi camps. But my big concern is still on the relationship between man and woman. Hanna was a tough woman. She did her job and later paid for her moral sin. But the last straw was Michael's indifference and coldness on the surface. Then she chose death.

Not much to say about the film. Going to read the book first.

This is just another sunny and pleasant day, though winter still lingers on. From our test centre, I can see people sipping coffee and chatting in the sunshine. I like the tall glass walls through which sunlight pours in onto the sofas and tables. It must be noisy outside, but with our centre's doors closed I only see people moving their lips, raising eyebrows, chewing silently.