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I’ve been making a point of my respect for punctuality, by putting off everything to the last moment before the deadline. Urgency forced me out of dormitory this afternoon. I spent most of it looking for people of whom none to be found, dealing with tasks that did a perfect job evading me.

I ended up in the library reading Paul Auster.

The first time this name meant anything to me was when I came across a remark by Murakami (村上春树), who said ‘to be introduced to Paul Auster is the greatest honour of my life.’ (I’m sure he didn’t say it in such ragged English.) I got my hands on a Paul Auster book in July, after years of hoping that he would miraculously turn out in piles of second-hand books, then I would scream with ecstasy.

This sort of thing happened once actually. I was leafing through DVDs in a store with a friend. Half an hour passed and proved to be a waste of time. Then I recognised a film; I had long ago lost my faith in ever finding it. Then I bursted out English sentences, each with a exclamation point, if not more, assuming that my friend was right behind me. Of course the bastard not there. When I turned around, all I can find is a girl shopping assistant trying her best to stifle laughter, which she hardly succeeded.

Anyway, I paid a visit to Shanghai Library in mid-July and got the City of Glass; and I cursed myself for not going there till then. I read the book in one sitting, stunned. I concurred Murakami on that comment. For a bibliophile, meeting Paul Auster is indeed something different.

My problem with it is: what if I met Paul Auster in say, Junior High. I just don’t think my life would still be the same. Or just make it earlier by one or two years. Probably my college would take on a different complexion. I really think so.

But I’ve got another feeling that all the readings and all the things that happened to me to this point prepared me for this encounter. I would not GET Paul Auster if I were younger or my English were poorer. Just like Sense & Sensibility almost meant nothing to me because that was possibly the first English novel I’ve ever read. Not everyone wrote six equally brilliant novels as Jane Austen did. Otherwise I would be guilty that I spoilt her.

Meeting someone, or in a broader sense – the timing of something happening to you in life, can rarely be right, be it good or bad. It’s the subtlest and trickiest business in the world. Either you haven’t grown into the self proper, or you have already grown out of it. Or it’s only you FEEL you haven’t or FEEL you have. In all of the four cases, you are fucked. That’s pretty much all you can say about love really.