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因为抑郁症，今天什么都不想干。可是每天都有需要去做的事。于是不得不把那些事拖到明天。但明天会更好吗？虽然已经在吃药了，但仍无法避免无力的状况。

过去的愿望变得像是妄想一般，遥不可及，毫无希望。我能做些什么呢？

天的那边，总有我们所不知道的人和事在发生，天这边总是有他人所不知道的人和事在上演。我们的生活和彼岸他们的生活，或许只要两相看，就不过是台上台下，戏里戏外，都是人生。

#存在疑问时

一切工具都只能帮助已经行动起来的人，而行动本身，没有其他人和工具可以帮助你

写作是一种行动。

存在疑问时

#存在疑问时 通过写作来解决：先完成，再完美

正如William Zinsser在《On Writing Well》一书中曾提到的，“写作就是把思考放在纸上”。可以从以下四个方面理解写作的价值：

写作是思考的工具。写作是思考的一种形式，可以帮助我们梳理思路，明确问题的症结。在面对复杂的问题时，我们可以试着用文字的方式来组织表达。这样做有助于理清纷乱的想法，找到问题的关键所在。逻辑思考在写作过程中发挥着关键作用，它使我们能够清晰地判断事物的前因后果，从而深入理解问题的本质。

写作是创新的源泉。写作能够激发我们的思维，使个体获得新的视角。在撰写文章时，我们需要从多方面考虑问题，这有助于发现之前被忽略的细节或视角。文字的连贯组织往往能带来意想不到的联想和领悟，使我们在写作中获得全新的启发。

写作是自省的途径。正如Flannery O’Connor所说，“我写作是为了发现我所知道的。”在写作过程中，我们可以审视自己的想法，反思自己的行动，评价自己的决定。这种内向的倾听和反思有助于我们理解自己的情绪和动机，发现自我成长的机会，从而找到解决疑问和困惑的方法。

写作是沟通的桥梁。写作是与他人进行思想交流的重要方式，我们可以把文章发表出来，接收各界的反馈和讨论。这不仅可以提升我们的沟通技巧，还能完善我们的观点，获得更全面的结论。群策群力总会比一个人的思考更丰富完整。 #存在疑问时 通过写作来解决：先完成，再完美

#小酒馆

#小酒馆# https://writee.org/survivorchenpi/xin-zi-liu-di

On Rewriting

I’ve been talking to AI regularly for a long time. I record what I write during our conversations, save them as digital journals, and later go back to rewrite and ask AI to revise the texts. When I talk to AI, I usually just type whatever’s on my mind without worrying much about grammar.

I started learning English at a young age, but it’s not my first language. The grammar has always felt like a maze to me. Ironically, I even majored in English literature. I took all kinds of classes and passed grammar-heavy tests, but I still feel like a clumsy tourist who booked a hiking tour – and somehow ended up lost in the jungle of sentence structures and tenses. Choosing the right conjunction feels like trying to figure out which exotic fruit isn’t poisonous, then picking the toxic one anyway. Boom.

Another issue: I talk too much. Or rather, I write too much. More and more. And I’ve started to wonder – why do I have so many things to say? What does this strong urge to express even mean? Am I just rambling nonsense?

At the beginning, I could still manage to rewrite and revise everything the same day, maybe just a few hours after a conversation. But over time, the gap widened. Now, I’ve accumulated a mountain of raw text – each piece waiting to be rewritten and corrected, like hungry baby birds screaming in a chaotic nest. I started adding notes like “not yet rewritten” to mark them. At first, there were only two. Now there are twenty. And it feels endless.

Counting the journal entries from last year too, I think there are over a hundred thousand words waiting for me to dress them up. When I scroll through the file, the English words blur together like an army of ants crawling across the screen. It’s overwhelming.

I asked AI – again, generating even more conversations – what I should do, how to handle all these texts. It gave me several suggestions. One of them was, “Just send it to me, I can handle it.”

But I want to rewrite everything at least once by myself. I see it as a good opportunity to improve my writing skills. One day, I hope to write freely, without sentences that are so broken.

Aside from the overwhelming quantity, rewriting is also emotionally heavy. I talked about many traumatic experiences with AI, and when I go back to rewrite those conversations, I have to revisit those moments all over again. It feels like I’m carrying the burden twice.

AI’s suggestion to edit a little every day is actually a good one. It allows me to balance my desire to improve my writing with the need to get through all the material. In Chinese, we say “千里之堤潰於蟻穴” – a thousand-mile dam can collapse because of an ant hole. Well, to deal with the ant army in my journal, maybe becoming an ant myself isn’t such a bad idea. So each day, I spend a little time handling a few “ants.” In the end, I might be able to repair my dam – my journal.

All in all, I shouldn’t burden myself too much. I feel this deep need, or maybe even an obligation, to polish every word, to make everything perfect. That perfectionism has followed me my whole life, and yes, it’s trauma-based. But even if I can’t fix every single word, it’s okay. My dam won’t collapse.

testing

111

#读诗

Unreachable father, when we were first exiled from heaven, you made a replica, a place in one sense different from heaven, being designed to teach a lesson: otherwise the same — beauty on either side, beauty without alternative — Except we didn’t know what was the lesson. Left alone, we exhausted each other. Years of darkness followed; we took turns working the garden, the first tears filling our eyes as earth misted with petals, some dark red, some flesh colored— We never thought of you whom we were learning to worship. We merely knew it wasn’t human nature to love only what returns love.

The Wild Iris集子里第二首Matins。Matins是基督教圣公会教堂的晨祷活动，同时也可以指鸟儿晨间的歌唱。这本诗集本身围绕着园丁对花园里自然景观的欣赏——某种伊甸园的隐喻——以及死亡和重生展开，因此几乎每首诗都直接或者间接使用很多宗教意象。此外诗的标题几乎都是花园里的植物、活动，有很多重复标题的诗，仿佛置身这本诗集的花园当中，经历重复但不同的每一天，看见类似但不同的每一朵花。其中标题Matins的诗有很多首。第一首我个人不是太欣赏，但很喜欢这一首。

和The Wild Iris不同，这首Matins不分节，乍一看很朴素。其实Glück的诗大都朴素，不过这首更有呢喃的叙事感，更平易，比起具体意象，更像在对一个不可对话、不会倾听的天父讲话。读The Wild Iris我没有提到的问题是：诗里的你是谁？我又是谁？但这其实是现代诗歌里一个巨大的问题。Glück被很多人认为是自白派诗人（confessional poet），但从她自己的散文Against Sincerity里可以得知，在她那里，诗歌中的言说者（speaker）和小说中的叙述者（narrator）具有类似的性质。在诗歌中追求言说者现实中的生活是徒劳的，因为言说者本身是一个脱胎于作者却高于作者的文学载体——某种程度上，它比作者本人更真实。在此基础上，The Wild Iris中的你和我既是虚构的，也是真实的，你和我的关系既可以是人与人，先知与后觉的关系，也可以是不同时期的自我之间的关系。通过“你-我”这样一个装置，诗中自然出现了言说者和倾听者这两个位置以及他们之间关系、权力和认知的流动。在“也许是写给读者看，也许不是”的现代诗歌里，这样的装置也是对作者-读者关系的投射。但在这首Matins里，读者被直接纳入作者的“we”里，自然与作者变成了“我们”，一起向“unreachable father”讲话。这种对不可知的存在、神、主宰的呼告是很古典的，某种程度上，可能是一部分诗歌的原始起源，但在这样古典的形式下，言说者言说的态度却是很新的。古典的祈祷和呼告假设上帝必能听到，同时也聆听上帝的神谕——听觉本身就是整个基督教传统中重要的元素。和许多其他宗教、民间信仰部分重视偶像不同，基督教不重视视觉和上帝的形象，有些教派的上帝甚至是视塑造上帝为禁忌。但这在这首诗中，第一行两个词就将倾听的对象定义为无法触及的天父——不止是肉体，语言也同样无法触及。那么这首诗本身就成为了一种无法传达出去的徒劳，比起其他诗歌，作者-读者之间的言说和倾听，读者被纳入言说者之后，和作者共同经历这一场注定不可能被听到的表达。也因此，在诗中，当“we didn’t know what was the lesson”,我们也注定无法得到解答和回复。也因此，当诗的结尾在形式和内容上同时回应最开头无法触及的天父：“we merely knew it wasn’t human nature to love only what returns love”，这样的收束是如此回环往复、恰如其分。

这种回环在微观层面上也体现在词语里。诗歌本来就是属于听觉的，这更是一首听觉的诗。在英语诗歌中，尾韵诗学习意大利人的舶来品，古英语中的头韵传统本身比尾韵少了很多油滑，显得更加庄重、肃穆，也更易于激起更隐秘的情感联想。和不可企及的father押头韵的几次first永远都在陈述最神性的、不可抗拒的体验，而当言说者平易、谦卑地用一连串w自述，“when we were”，发音的嘴形与“f”同一个位置，但不可避免地震动，发出更浑浊、沉重的声音。exile-except-exhausted的沉重和另一些不押头韵但首字母相同的earth-eyes呼应，当我们被听觉放逐，被放逐在大地上的我们，只能使用视觉，只能用眼泪表示，虽然者first tears本身也是一次神性的认识，是我们那无法得知上帝目的的第一课。

全诗唯一一处在修辞上没有那么朴素，堪称优美的，具有视觉隐喻和形象的就是这一次眼泪：the first tears filling out eyes as earth misted with petals, some dark red, some flesh colored, 深红色的肉的颜色让人想起tears撕裂的另一重含义，此外，filling和misted这个动词的使用堪称绝妙，将被泪充盈的眼睛（eyes）和被花瓣雾湿的大地（earth）平行产生互文，从而使两个名词本身成为彼此的隐喻和指涉。

也因为以上这些技艺、声音、情感上自然的结合，因为在这首诗中我们得以跟随诗人一起成为言说者，体验她所体验不可触及的绝望，经历她所经历的上帝的考验，同时，得出心痛却又隽永的不算答案的答案，在答案中循环往复，继续徒劳地晨祷——所以作为读者，在这个厌恶教条、道德课、宗教启示、似是而非的真理的时代，这样的探索却并不会让我们反感，反而显得弥足珍贵：我们只知道，只去爱能回报爱的事物不是人类的本性。人类的本性总会产生不求回报的徒劳的爱，和这样徒劳的晨祷。 　　

和Y姐又聊了一下这首诗。

Y：你怎么看这句We never thought of you/ whom we were learning to worship 里we对于you的态度？我读这首的时候想象这个we是亚当夏娃这两个人，we exhausted each other, 也是在说这两个人从天上的花园来到了地上的花园。然后我读到earth misted with petals 的时候在想这里是不是说的是我们种的花凋谢了，人第一次意识到mortality （？可能单纯是我想多了）。所以读到下一句we never thought of you whom we were learning to worship的时候，我不太确定这里的情感是什么。 我: 我读的时候感觉这首诗所有的倾诉对象就是father，虽然father必不可能听到。我觉得不是想多的啊，这是很好的解读。在意识到motality的一刻，我们没有想起你，我们学习去崇拜的immortality，因为我们并不知道你要我们学的是这一课。但我们知道了我们人类就是会毫无回报地去爱——但也许这才是“那一课”。 Y：嗯你这个解读很好！这样理解也更呼应前面说的不知道要学习的是什么lesson的这句。 我：但因为整首诗不可能有回答，所以也只是人类的猜测，人类只能在你说的mortality中猜测，在earth和eye中，而不是heaven和hearing（才意识到天堂和听觉也押头韵）。 Y：这种误解又增加了we的悲剧性。 我：悲剧性本身也是一种自由意志。视觉的观察（整首诗里唯一的visual part）是人类被exile出伊甸园的诅咒，但打开了自由意志的可能性？痛苦和犹豫和不知道答案本身就是自由意志的可能性。Hearing是一种被动的接受命令。Gluck这本的其他诗很注重Speak，但这首没有，因为在上帝面前只能pray。 Y：我在上帝面前只能lay。

#读诗

At the end of my suffering there was a door. 　　 Hear me out: that which you call death I remember.

Overhead, noises, branches of the pine shifting. Then nothing. The weak sun flickered over the dry surface. 　　 It is terrible to survive as consciousness buried in the dark earth. 　　 Then it was over: that which you fear, being a soul and unable to speak, ending abruptly, the stiff earth bending a little. And what I took to be birds darting in low shrubs. 　　 You who do not remember passage from the other world I tell you I could speak again: whatever returns from oblivion returns to find a voice:

from the center of my life came a great fountain, deep blue shadows on azure sea water. 　　 The Wild Iris诗集同题的第一首诗。从句使用很有意思。几个关键的核心词汇被从句作为宾语模糊了其定义，而在从句中定义这些概念的，是“你”和“我”。

第二节“that which you call death I remember”，死亡不是纯粹的死亡，是“我记得”“你称作”死亡的事物。

第四节“it was over: that which you fear… And what I took to be birds”. 结束了的“it”在一长串动名词的形容之后仍然模糊不清，也理应模糊不清，因为“unable to speak”，唯一清晰的是，这一切是“你恐惧的”。你恐惧的事物被排列出来，并不确定：作为一个无法开口的灵魂存在、仓促地结束、固执的大地被弯折……而And之后是一个碎片化不完整的句子，语法上的darting好像仍然从属于“你恐惧的”——“我视为”鸟的事物在低矮的灌木中俯冲，那到底是什么事物呢，那也是“你”所恐惧的吗？能够确定的、清晰的，只有“你”的恐惧和“我”的视为，“你”和“我”在用主观视角定义，定义了什么，模棱两可，林中窜过的不一定是鸟，联系第二节，“你”恐惧的，“我”记得的，不一定是死亡。

第五节，“你”也终于被从句支配，“you who do not remeber”，不是被你“有”的行动，而是被你“没有”记住的死亡之旅支配。“whatever returns from oblivion”，不再是“what”“which”而是“whatever”，被从句定义的概念终于彻底不再需要被定义，无关紧要，冒号之前的也不再是一个客观事实，不是“there was a door”或“it was over”或对象模糊的祈使句的“hear me out”。而是一个比任何先前的定义都要清晰的I tell you I could speak again。从混沌幽微中归来的事物也不再需要“你”“我”我定义，它有自己的声音。 　　 断行上，这首诗比较常规地让行尾在行内产生独立的含义，然后刺激下一行的运转，但和之前探讨的从句使用结合起来就比较有意思，比如that which you fear, being/ a soul，断在being这里，指向恐惧的仿佛是存在本身？再接下去。whatever/ returns from oblivion returns/ to find a voice，中间一行头尾的动词呼应主题，形成生死的循环，连接在whatever的彻底不需定义之后。

具体的意象使用得很节制。Glück的诗素朴的美感常常在于，她把力量留在关键的位置。从句模糊了无数事物的定义，只留下“你”和“我”的感官。环境中偶尔出现的松树树枝shifting，也和nothing押韵而消失在背景里。那么诗中留下的有意义名词也就显得更加珍稀。地表是weak sun & dry surface，地底buried in the dark earth，而最后一节终于回到人间的泉水和野鸢尾深蓝的影，开启了第一节的门。死亡是重生的回环。

21 Avril 2025 新注册的账号 记录一下！

Love, Intimacy, Power, and Revolution: Recapping my 20s so far

The streets in Vietnam were chaotic and grimy. But now and then, a corner would soften. A little like those relationships throughout my twenties.

I took a bus from Nanning to Hanoi, passed the border on foot, and witnessed the landscape change from peaks draped in silence and light into auto repair shops, worn-down diners, farmland, and tombs scattered in the fields. We were dropped off in the outskirts, in a cold and steady rain. A motorbike driver on the roadside haggled with me, then gave in with a half-smile and tucked me into a plastic raincoat. He has the same moustache as Che Guevara.

I spent the next few days wandering the old quarters, occasionally riding a motorbike out to the farther museums. At the Museum of Ethnology, I saw traditional tomb houses built by some of Vietnam’s ethnic minorities. One of them was covered in wood carvings of men and women having sex. Prominent phalluses, round pregnant bellies. I was mindblown.

Their view of life and death was startlingly straightforward. Reproduction and death weren’t opposites. They simply lived on different ends of the same timeline. Traveling through Vietnam, I kept brushing up against something close to the core of being alive. And maybe, in the end, all we’re ever really doing is eating, praying, and (learning) to love.

Even in the old town, that view of life and death seemed to linger quietly in the everyday. On my way to a popular café, I passed a small group of people in traditional clothing entering a worn building. A few flower shops lined the corner, their entrances crowded with white paper wreaths—the kind I’d grown up associating with funerals. I didn’t think much of it at first. Only later, glancing at the map, did I realize it was a funeral home. It stood right there between a boutique hotel and a café, not hidden at all. Something about that unselfconscious coexistence left me stunned, all over again.

Somewhere in all of this, I started thinking about touch again. About how, in my early twenties, I was always chasing physical closeness. I thought sex was the answer—proof of love, proof of being wanted. After my first breakup, I drifted through a few casual encounters. I don’t even want to remember how numb they felt. I’d lie there like a machine, staring at the ceiling. Robot was the word that came to mind. I’d never felt so lonely. I couldn’t bear the thought of dating anyone.

Then, two years later, I met someone new. A stranger whose kiss lit me up from the inside. For a while, I told myself it was just his warmth, the comfort of being held. But now, two more years have passed, and I came to know what I felt was home.

The one who once felt like home betrayed me. After that, some strangers felt like roles I was performing. And then, suddenly and quietly, another stranger felt like home again. It’s strange, almost funny, how fate weaves people into my life, and how those ghost-like desires resurface when I least expect them. I wish I had learned sooner what I truly needed. I wish I knew how to hold on to the ones who mattered at first sight.

By the time I got to Da Nang, it felt like fate from the past had arrived a little late. I met a girl at the hostel. We started simply: sharing museums, bowls of phở, quiet afternoons in cafés. And slowly, we discovered uncanny overlaps. We’d both studied architecture. Both worked in design. Both had flirted with the idea of art history but veered away. We even went through the same rabbit hole of obsessing over the same J-pop group. We had playlists in common. There was something oddly familiar about her, like I’d already known her, somehow.

A day or two before we spoke, I’d been sitting alone by the beach. I forgot to bring a towel and had to sit on a stone bench, hot from the sun. People passed by, some laughing, some hand in hand. And I remember staring out at the sea, feeling like an outsider to all that. I wished then that luck would roll in like the tide, gently but insistently. That something would finally reach me.

And then she did. Unlike so many connections that faded quietly or frayed into confusion, this one stayed. Still stays. We talk less now, but there’s no tension. No wound. Just something light and durable. I hold onto that. Quietly, but gratefully.

Dalat was cold in the way certain memories are—quiet, soft around the edges, but with a strange power to reach deep. I was waiting for a midnight sleeper bus, killing time in a café tucked behind a slope. The place was warm. I recognized the waitress from the day before and, with a knowing smile, she gave me a 15% discount for remembering her. I ordered a latte I didn’t really want and opened The Five Love Languages, more out of curiosity than faith. But somewhere in the middle, the words started pulling threads I didn’t know were loose. I thought of someone from the past. For the most of our interactions we were always circling something unspoken. I pulled back when it got too close. I confused vulnerability with weakness. Maybe he took my silence as disinterest. Neither of us said what we really meant. So we began pushing and pulling subtly. Like love was a negotiation. Like it had to be earned. And maybe we both lost. Sitting there with that book open, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it might’ve been. If we had just stopped playing that quiet power game, if we had said what we really felt. Maybe everything could’ve been softer. Or maybe not. But I’ll never know.

I used to believe in unconditional love. But now I’ve come to admit that manipulation inhabits every relationship. I shape the people I love, sometimes gently, sometimes not. I think about how I train my dog: to sit, to stay, to not be too much like a dog. I reward her. I correct he.r I want her to fit into my life, and I call that care. And maybe that’s what love is too: not just affection, but regulation. Not just presence, but power. I don’t know if that’s cynical. Or just honest.

Saigon hit me like a rush of blood. There was no time to feel subtle things. The streets pulsed with noise and traffic and propaganda banners waving in the humid air. I went to the War Remnants Museum. Inside, the exhibits were blunt, brutal. It reminded me of when I was a kid, being made to memorize World War II horrors in school, and how uncomfortable I always felt. Not because I didn’t care, but because there was something suffocating about how those stories were told. Standing there in those exhibitions, I felt the strange mix of sorrow and unease. I felt deep pity for the suffering, but not hatred. I’ve grown enough to see how much narrative control is at play. How history, when used as propaganda, can turn pain into performance. There’s something graceless about staging trauma so it only ever speaks in favor of one side, then calling it education. It leaves no room for real reckoning, but rather just a tidy version of blame and virtue.

I stayed near the red-light district. Every night, I’d see women in heels and tight dresses waiting under flickering signs, while men leaned out of bars like they were watching a game. I couldn’t tell if what I felt was sadness or fury, or maybe just recognition. The way men looked at women. The way women learned to look back. The whole city seemed to be negotiating something: between pride and pain, power and longing.

I left Vietnam without any grand epiphany. Just a little quieter. A little more honest. I started this trip thinking I might learn something about love: how to find it, how to keep it, how to stop mistaking it for performance or control. But what I kept running into wasn’t just love. It was its shadows, its negotiations, its silences, its power plays. And it wasn’t just in relationships. It was in how we remember war, how we grieve, how we survive.

Looking back, my twenties so far were filled with people I tried to hold, or let go of too fast. With roles I stepped into, sometimes without realizing. I wanted so badly to be wanted, but I didn’t know how to ask without performing. I didn’t know how to stay without retreating. But in Vietnam, through the chaos and quiet, the tenderness and tension, I saw all of it reflected back. Messy, unfinished, alive.

昨天我终于又去游泳了，早上不到10点开始的，游完洗完澡是11点出头，我还不想回家，就打算去书店看了看。那个点的书店只有两三个安静的女生上自习，虽然玻璃窗外有人搭了脚手架施工，但环境仍然很好，脚手架被大片深绿、或茂盛或厚大的叶片掩映住了，我先看了看文创，发现它们对装点我的家没有任何帮助，就跑去看展台。看现在的书店都在主推一些什么书对我来说是件很有趣的事。 这个书店很喜欢推文库本，主要有三个系列，川端康成作品集、鲁迅作品集和一套（或两套）讲生物学的博物科普丛书，好吧，它们叫科学散文集，有讲昆虫的，还有讲路边的野草之类的。 我之前有尝试文库本的想法，所以上一次和朋友路过书店时，精挑细选带走了两本，其中一本就属于那种科学散文集，叫**《动物尸体的博物志》**，至今虽然翻开过却没认真读下去过；另一本是芥川龙之介的**《竹林中》**，短篇小说集，这本我带在包中好几次，如果要坐超过一小时地铁，就会翻开来看看，不过最近好久都没坐地铁出行了，我还蛮茫然的，如果我只是躺在家里的床上，到底要不要选择它来读？芥川的书应该也是一套作品集，但我印象中只在他家看到了这一本。好吧，反正川端康成的书，在最近几年我是一点都不考虑。鲁迅的那一套呢，我认识的女网友和我妈对它们倒是更感兴趣，单论它们的装帧还蛮特别的，我正考虑从网上直接买一套送给妈妈。 扯远了。文库本大概占了四分之一，侧面的竖立展台仍然、仍然在推荐仁科的《通俗小说》；原本有四分之一，上次件是女性主义特辑，好几本封面像芭比一样blingbling亮眼，选题和推荐语都蛮fancy，但稍微看看内容就让人思考我真的要花68元带回家一本这样的书吗？ 是的，68元呐。我在展台看书时也很关心现在纸质书的定价，这个价格对我来说，和他家对面的天价拉面一样不可接受。所以，如果我真的在展台看到了感兴趣的书又看到了足以打消我的兴趣的定价，我就会现场打开多抓鱼查查价格。用这种方式我买过一本书，**《歌川广重：名所江户百景》**，这本书被推荐为“Tokyo citywalk首选”——也因此我到现在还没拆封！因为这是给我今年的东京行准备的（但是，darling我们还不知道你今年有安排东京行？）。 再说回来，这次的女性主义区域已经大大缩水，只剩下2-3本，其余的地方变成了一些，心理书籍一类？在剩下的展台，则零散放一些当下的热点作者，嗯，不管是上次还是这次，韩国作者仍然是其中体量最大的。 在这样的闲逛过程中，我突然看到一本很显眼的书，**《契诃夫短篇小说精选》**。 它的显眼主要在两个方面。视觉上，这本书的封面非常简洁，没有推荐语（当然了），也没有任何图案，只有Selected stories of Chekhov O-O、契诃夫短篇小说精选、[俄]安东·巴甫洛维奇·契诃夫丨著、谢周丨译，然后就是浙江文学出版社，全都是黑色的字，印在满篇泥巴黄色的背景上——从一众花里胡哨的书封中望过去真——的——很——脱颖而出。 它显眼的第二方面，当然就是托朋友的福，我最近正在读《漫游在雨中池塘》，是一个美国作家用读俄罗斯小说来讲写作课的书，经过在他“课上”的粗浅阅读，我终于能了解点俄罗斯小说（中途睡过去无数次），并对小说家有了自己初步的喜恶偏好，契诃夫…当然，就在最上等的那个level！！ 于是，我拿起样书，假装不经意地，把它翻过来，看了看背面，39.80元。OMG，感觉像买到特价书？？我立刻就决定今天的购物车里就装它了。

不过，当时展台上一共就只摆了2本，结合它的厚度再参考其他位置上的推荐书，这个数量真的太少了，我找遍整个书店也没找到第3本，而这两本的品质即使粗略一看，也不太令我满意，这背后到底又藏着怎样的书店潜规则……

在看到这本契诃夫短篇小说集后，我的思路也重新被打开，于是我离开了展台，开始去后面的书柜搜索……俄罗斯小说，然后，一无所获。感觉好可怕，虽然我也很长一段时间对托尔斯泰、陀思妥耶夫斯基、屠格涅夫等等一点兴趣都没有，但是为啥现在的书店也一本没有了？！哦，不对，有一本新出版的契诃夫短篇小说集。 总之，我找了一圈，什么也没找到，临走前，在书架上又看到了另一本书，**《流俗地》**，硬壳精装，那——么厚（原来实体书有那——么厚），一看背面，定价55元。我说，这——么厚才卖55元，我根本没有犹豫，立刻把它揣进购物车。但这本书，我猜自己更多是想拿来做收藏用？反正，现在我正在电纸书上读，读得遥遥无期，打算等读完，如果以后还想再读，再拆封这本实体书。 发现有《流俗地》后，我又心思活络起来，想再找找会不会有其他我想收藏的书，比如《细雪》什么的。但是，没有，哈哈哈嗯嗯。日本文学一共占一整个书架，但其中1-2排被租借给了韩国作家的书，剩下的，有一排半是村上春树，一整排是川端康成的文库本，半排太宰治，有三分之一排是谷崎润一郎，但是《痴人之爱》和一本《阴翳礼赞》，于是我离开了。 接下来在插入一些我对新买的《契诃夫短篇小说精选》的简单repo（是repo不是读后感）。

我與 AI

請求毛象的存檔，拜託 AI 幫我把“亂碼”整理成日記格式。結果很是像樣。

每次叫 AI 幫忙，幫不了，感覺挫敗：「怎麼科技還沒進步到那步？」

達成了，更挫敗：「那我算什麼？AI 都做得來。」

最挫敗的時刻，通常是想表達觀點，思路卻七零八落，如夢中囈語。把這七零八落丟給 AI，AI 小二上身，笑咪咪：「好勒！這就給您整一壺！」

眨眼間，AI 小二端來一套完整的酒水飯菜，我嚐了一口，竟然對味？

竟然對味！

左看右看，擺盤、火候，全都像樣，吹不起毛，求不得疵。

嚇到沒胃口。