In 2020, I wrote a reflection on why literature matters to me, which was mostly a commentary on Mario Vargas Llosa’s “Why Literature?”.

A little more than three years later, I find myself going back to that reflection for the first time. A couple weeks ago over the holidays, I finished reading “Daughters of the Flower Fragrant Garden” by Zhuqing Li. I actually started the book at a Barnes and Noble almost a year ago in January 2023 but didn’t finish until the last days of the year. I’ve read my fair share of memoirs and historical fiction that took place during 20th-century China. I initially didn’t have high hopes for it, but this memoir hit me with the force of a truck. I realized this within the first 100 pages, when Jun recited the lines of a Tang dynasty poem, 《九月九日亿山东兄弟》:

独在异乡为异客， 每逢佳节倍思亲。 遥知兄弟登高处， 遍插茱萸少一人。

As I read those lines, tears flowed down my face. I set the book down. I had remembered that same poem, recited those same words, when I was studying abroad in Switzerland a few months earlier. That moment while reading, and many other moments throughout, prompted me to write an email to the author after I finished the book.

Today, I received a reply back. Here are some lines that stood out to me:

… emails like yours have been the most tangible evidence that the power that had possessed me all those years had reached someone like you, someone real on the other side. This has been the single most powerful reward of my work.

And it’s particularly gratifying to me that, if I may plagiarize another saying, a reader should emerge a different person at the end of the book, in however small increments. The reason we read. The reason we share stories. The way we bond, in so many different ways, even if we never meet.

After reading her reply, for the first time in years, I remembered the power of literature. I was touched by how literature could connect people through time and space. I imagined how Li must feel, opening her inbox to stories from her readers about what her book meant to them. I felt envious of Li and other artists for possessing that power to touch so many people but also immense respect for her skill and courage in doing so.

I also remembered what I penned a few years ago:

It’s amazing that despite the length and geography of human history, everyone who was born experienced the same set of emotions… When we are at a loss for words or when we, perhaps, want to lose ourselves in words, we turn to literature for advice or even a sense of belonging. All because somewhere, some years ago, someone felt the same way we’re feeling in that moment.

Wasn’t this how I felt in January 2023 when I read Wang Wei’s poem, itself written more than a millenium ago, being recited by someone who lived a century before me and in vastly different circumstances? Isn’t this the feeling Li alluded to in her reply: “The way we bond, in so many different ways, even if we never meet”?

I felt the urge to write today after reading Li’s reply. The result of that is this post. Cheers to more literature in 2024.