In the small coastal town where your parents now live, near the lagoon, there are the garden colonies. I have not yet seen the flowers bloom and the fruit bear in the summer, but I know that the gardens are quiet in the snowy winter.
I’D SEEN A photograph of Abuelita’s dead sister. I’d come upon it in her family albums, pasted in between portraits of my be-whiskered ancestors in their starched collars and fancy top hats. Her little sister had been laid out in white lace on her funeral bier with garlands of roses cascading about her, a cluster of lilies in her hair. In the photo, her white shoes point like a dancer’s, her arms lie peacefully across her chest, her curls are combed down on her brow, her eyes stare out, wide open. My Great-Grandfather Cisneros stands behind the body, and, above his black cravat, his face is long and gaunt. His eyes seem to be sliding down his cheeks like stones in a mountain huayco. His oldest daughter, my grandmother, stands beside him in a veil of black lace. Her eyes are dry but haunted. Although she is seven, her little face appears even smaller than her sister’s. Her sister cannot be two.
Marie Arana, American Chica, page 204
On a quiet side street on the north side of the city. Similar to your window in Brooklyn, the apartment has a balcony facing a red brick spice factory.
Our first meal in the small kitchen was your pasta.
And now, at 4 a.m., I finally turned in the subtitle translation for a documentary.
Good morning.
陽光溫暖乾爽的日子極適合唸書。午前坐在窗邊，讀的是顏元叔譯寫的《翻譯與創作》（民國六十二年，志文出版社）。書裡主要是翻譯與譯論，書末附上數篇譯者的短文與小說，其中一篇寫到冬天坐在院裡晒太陽：
這時候，我聽到推開窗戶的聲音。大概是妻把睡房的兩個窗戶推開了。對，把窗戶推開，全部推開，盡量推到底，好讓帶著陽光的空氣湧進來。屋內的角落裡，一定長霉了。這時候，我聽到父親也在推窗戶，母親也在推窗戶，嘩啦啦的好長一聲，想必也是一推到底。我懶洋洋地躺在藤椅裡，躺在陽光裡，也許我該把我書室的窗戶推開，可是我不願意離開椅子。大兒子領著兩個弟弟，從屋內一瀉而出，紗門先砸在牆上，砰的放一砲，然後砸回到門框上，更響的一砲。我一聲吆喝，三個人都停在院子中間，我說：「顏學誠，把我書房的窗子推開！」他嘩的一聲就把一扇重重的窗戶推開了。大兒子能推窗戶，還是這幾個月來的事。年紀七歲不到，一餐三碗，據說體重全班第一。然後，三個小搗蛋，一齊衝出院子的大門，呼哨的聲音，似乎使陽光也顫抖起來。
這個未滿七歲的老大，後來成了我的老師。
Last weekend, during our phone conversation, my mother mentioned the awakening of insects, that is, 驚蟄, the 3rd solar term. (Is such a calendar valid on the tropical island of Taiwan?) It reminded me of one spring when I was sitting in my advisor’s office at the Department of Anthropology in Taipei, talking about my upcoming field research. Suddenly, the sky outside darkened and a distant, muffled thunder echoed through the air, mixing with the humid and heavy atmosphere and the cheerful voices of the students. We then discussed how each of us heard the first thunderclap of this year’s spring.
Since March, this small Baltic town has been blessed with warm sunlight every day. The sun pours into the room at seven in the morning, casting a blue sky behind the yellow curtains. In the afternoon, the sharp diagonal shadows on the walls are a delight to behold. It’s only when the bright and cheerful colors gradually appear in everyday life that I realize how long and stagnant the winter days have been.
Yesterday I watched The Snail Restaurant (食堂かたつむり), and I couldn’t stop crying towards the end.
I write this diary reluctantly. Its dishonest honesty wearies me. For whom am I writing? If I am writing for myself, then why is it published? If for the reader, why do I pretend that I am talking to myself? Are you talking to yourself so others will hear you?
Witold Gombrowicz. Diary I, page 34, 1988. Translator: Lillian Vallee
