Tuesday is alsways my busiest day among the week. I have three courses today. The interesting thing is that the poem I wrote for a Southern Song Civil Service Examination was put into discussion in class today. Professor and my class mates acted as the examiner to evaluate my poem. I know it is poorly written but it is still a complete poem. The discussion ends up into whether it is an appropriate way or possible to test the characteristics of the candidates through his poem; whether poem is a way to know a more "genuine" aspect of a person.

Then in the Shiji class we discussed about Kongzi Shijia, a chapter I have read before in my sephomor year. It is just during such reading that my former efforts in slowly reading and reciting the Analycts become really valuable: I can easily recognize those quotes Sima Qian put into his writing. Thus it gives me such a strong feeling that he has made a wonderful stories with those dialogues out of the Analycts, putting them into delicate timeline and concrete circumstances. The problem is that it is still impossible to tell the origins of many of those sentences in the Analycts.

I am imaging: Sima Guan was sitting in front of his desk, with those beautiful words from the Analycts, those fantastic stories from Xunzi, Mengzi and those interesting arguement in various documents about Confucius, and then he gradually came to form a picture, a long scroll of the whole life of Confucius, with all the vivid events he had experienced, all the harsh he had met during his search for an ideal king, all the affection he had for his deciples and the profound sorrow of his prediction of his own death, when his Way has not been practised and had no way to pass down. Sima Qian must have been deeply indulged into his imagination, and deeply moved during his narration. That gives birth to this contraditory chapter about Confucious silently lying on my desk now.   

I put myself in an exile to my motherland at the other side of the huge Pacific Ociean. My body is still tied to the daily routines of Harvard, whereas my heart has long been flying in the air of PKU.

(A huge squirrel runs across the grass outside my window. His tail is so soft and beautiful with a color of delicate grey.)

I guess when we are looking at the moon, something magical happens, connecting our feeling in a symphony with people in different places and time. 江畔何人初见月，江月何年初照人。This moon is the same one as that under which Taibai and Dongpo toasted to and danced with; the same to which Qu Yuan ever questioned; also the same for which Zhang Ruoxu wrote down this couplets. It is the moon, so mysteriously that attracts Chang'e to cheat her husband, steal the magic poison and fly to the sky, lonely. Although the little rabbit is in her embrace, I still consider this departure totally lonely. In this sense, Chang'e may be the first woman that gives up family and husband to seek her own dream.

Maybe, it is such desire to look up, to seek something above the earth that transcends the spece between me and Chang'e, that makes me stop under the moon light.

I went to the Fung Scholar dinner on Wednesday. It is Fung Fellowship that makes my being here possible. I really wanted to know the officials of this foundation. 

After changing several suits before the dinner, I finally chose the offical-style suit and rode my bike so quickly to catch up with the time. It must have been odd to see a person in the formal suit while crazily riding the bicycle across the street. 

It is really quite a surprise when I got to know Victor Fung also set up the Ling & Fung Company in Hongkong, because that company supported my exchange program to HKU in 2007. It seems to me that there is a magical line behind the stage of my life threading together all the things and people around me. I also met a senior student from the same high school as me in this dinner. He said he hadn't seen people from Yunnan for years.

I believe more in kind of predetermined destiny.