socalfunplaces Chapter 148 645 Bush Street
Chapter 148 645 Bush Street
Chapter 151: 645 Bush Street
Lin Yan didn't rush into visiting Eileen Chang. He spent two days not only carefully reading the English version of "Love in a Fallen City" at the hotel, but also, with Lin Gang accompanying him, visiting almost all the major bookstores in San Francisco, searching for other works by Chang and related reviews. He knew that for such a sensitive and proud writer, hasty and superficial admiration would be disrespectful.
On the afternoon of the third day, the sun shone gently. Lin Yan carefully selected gifts: a set of high-quality Huizhou ink brushes, a box of agarwood from his spatial dimension with calming and soothing effects, and several exquisite but not overly sweet Chinese tea snacks. He changed into a decent set of casual clothes and, alone, went to 645 Bush Street according to the address.
This was an old-fashioned, ochre-red apartment building. It wasn't dilapidated, but it wasn't luxurious either, exuding a slightly austere atmosphere. Lin Yan straightened his clothes and gently knocked on the slightly mottled paint on the door.
A moment later, the door was opened a crack, and Eileen Chang's face appeared behind it. She was wearing a casual cheongsam with a knitted cardigan over it, her expression calm, seemingly unsurprised by his arrival, but her eyes still held the usual scrutinizing aloofness.
"Ms. Zhang, I apologize for disturbing you." Lin Yan bowed slightly.
Eileen Chang silently opened the door a little wider, stepping aside to let him in. The apartment wasn't large, and the furnishings were simple, mostly books. Chinese and English books were neatly or haphazardly placed on bookshelves, coffee tables, and even chairs, the air filled with the scent of old books, paper, and faint ink, creating a pure intellectual world. The only decoration was perhaps a few potted green plants that were growing quite well on the windowsill.
Without much small talk, Eileen Chang gestured for Lin Yan to sit on an old sofa, while she herself sat in the wicker chair opposite him. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting dappled shadows between the two.
The conversation naturally began with *Love in a Fallen City*. Lin Yan didn't offer superficial praise; instead, after a moment's contemplation, he said, "I've had the privilege of reading Ms. Zhang's book. Your writing is like a delicate scalpel, dissecting the layers of pretense about sincerity, calculation, and survival worn by ordinary men and women swept up in the torrent of time. Reading it is like searching for and protecting that inch of clean lining that belongs to oneself within a magnificent robe crawling with lice," he paused, using a variation of her well-known metaphor, "...struggling to find and protect that inch of clean lining that belongs to oneself. Isn't the entanglement between Bai Liusu and Fan Liuyuan a unique form of cultivation amidst nothingness and longing?"
These words precisely touched upon the core of her writing. A faint, almost intimate, glimmer of light flashed in Eileen Chang's previously somewhat indifferent eyes. She softly hummed in agreement, and the atmosphere subtly eased.
The conversation deepened, touching on the themes of "wandering" and "belonging." Lin Yan gazed out the window at the undulating streets of San Francisco, her voice calm: "When I read your characters, whether in the alleyways of Shanghai, Repulse Bay in Hong Kong, or this apartment in a foreign land, I always feel a profound sense of desolation. This doesn't seem to stem from geographical distance, but rather from a kind of emotional disconnect. It's as if... there's always a transparent, hard pane of glass separating me from all the bustling world around me."
These words, like a small pebble, were thrown into the depths of Eileen Chang's heart. She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again, her tone was less polite and more genuinely emotional: "I see things clearly. This layer of glass, which cannot be broken nor left behind, is the essence of my writing."
Sensing the change in the atmosphere of the conversation, Lin Yan carefully chose his words and cautiously presented his thoughts. He deliberately avoided any expression that might be seen as "charity".
"Ms. Zhang, to be honest, my family has some businesses overseas, and we've always wanted to contribute to the preservation of our motherland's cultural heritage. We're considering establishing a cultural fund to support established authors like yourself, allowing you to create without financial worries. This could take the form of advance royalties or dedicated research grants." He paused, observing her reaction, and seeing no displeasure, continued, "Furthermore, Hong Kong's publishing environment might be more flexible. We have some connections there, and if you have any works, we might be able to introduce you to relevant publishers. Of course, the value of your work ultimately depends on the work itself; no one can guarantee that."
He added, "I happen to have a vacant apartment in Hong Kong. The environment is decent. If you don't mind its simplicity, it might serve as a quiet place for creative work. The rent is negotiable and will certainly not put you in a difficult position." He emphasized "cultural support" and "equivalent exchange," striving to uphold her dignity.
However, after listening, Eileen Chang simply shook her head slowly, her expression calm and firm: "I appreciate Mr. Lin's kindness. But Lai Ya and I are here, living a quiet life, and we've grown accustomed to arranging everything ourselves. As for writing," she pointed to the stack of manuscripts on her desk, "it ultimately comes down to facing a blank sheet of paper alone. The quality of the external environment has no necessary connection to the world on the paper. Hong Kong... is too bustling; it's not suitable for me."
This rejection was expected by Lin Yan, yet it still deeply shocked him. What he saw was not aloofness and arrogance, but a "humanitarian" strength that tenaciously maintained spiritual independence and creative autonomy even in poverty and hardship. This strength was more complex and resilient than the "Heavenly Way" he cultivated, and it was also closer to the essence of "humanity."
He didn't insist, but nodded respectfully, took out a simple business card from his pocket with only his name and a New York post office address printed on it, and gently placed it on the coffee table. "I understand. In any case, please accept this token of my appreciation. If you need to consult any rare Chinese classics in the future, or if you need someone to run errands for you in publishing matters, please don't hesitate to ask. This is merely the smallest amount of support a reader can offer."
Eileen Chang glanced at the business card, and this time she didn't refuse, simply saying, "Thank you."
The visit ended in a slightly sentimental yet respectful atmosphere. Lin Yan rose to take his leave, and Zhang Ailing saw him to the door.
Just as Lin Yan turned to leave the stairwell, his keen senses detected a figure on the street corner diagonally opposite the apartment building, who quickly disappeared into the shadows as the two opened their doors. The figure carried a sense of spying, unlike an ordinary passerby.
Lin Yan didn't stop walking, but a thought struck him. It seemed that this writer, who had chosen to distance herself from the hustle and bustle, wasn't entirely at peace; she must have encountered some trouble. He didn't turn around, but he had already made a mental note of it.