Words of Innocence and Experience

(In order to display the Wife of Bath’s conversational style, some paragraphs are not coherent and occasionally the content becomes slightly off-topic.)

Dear Scarlett,
You may wonder why I am writing this letter to you. To tell the truth, I did not write anything but the sleeping friar next to me scribbled my words. Yes, I can see your mouth open; he is a religious person. Somehow religious people hold more charm to me these days; moreover, I need some company before I find another husband. You know how lonely the night becomes without a man beside you. Anyway, the man is attractive since he is shrewd, knows how to please ladies, and most importantly, he is a successful businessperson just like me. He was interested in the head coverings I wore and asked me if he could buy them for the ladies he would later grant marriages. Then I asked him teasingly what he would give me in exchange of the ornament, and therefore he spent the night with me and told me about your story. In the middle of the storytelling he was already worn out, but I was so moved so that I begged him to continue until the morning was broken. On the final day of our stay in the inn (the friar, many other fellows, and I are on our way to Canterbury for pilgrimages), I insisted that he help me write this letter to you. After suffering from my endless naggings, he had no choice but complied with my wish. Did he write spiteful things about me? (Friar: Yes, I wish I could!)

Sister, actually we are very alike. Whether you believe it or not, I was once pretty, too, as pretty as you are. Also, we both have ways with men, and we were both forced to deal with marital problems and lack of money at young age. Finally, as much as we are infatuated with gaining power, what we desire deep inside our hearts is true love. We both fell in love with inappropriate men. Well, I did not regret being married to Janekin, but he unmistakably deafened my one ear. However, you were a lot luckier than I was at youth. You were brought up a lady and were spoiled by your parents before things turned upside down by the Civil War, but I have never had the feeling of being cherished.

You have been married three times. In my opinion, you had one good husband, one mediocre husband, and one bad husband. Your first husband, Charles, was a poor victim to your charm. For my part, the marriage was totally unnecessary and you should not have involved yourself in it and even ended up with a child. I know why you lost your heart to Ashley Wilkes, for women always desire whom they cannot seduce. Nonetheless, marrying Charles Hamilton was a terrible means you had utilized. If I was you, I would confront him, just like you did, but I would have done much more, used my sexuality and eloquence to persuade him into eloping with me. However, I am glad that you did not take it to extremes since what you encountered later in your life was certainly exciting, and you would have missed the fine chance if you had tied the knots with Ashley Wilkes. Okay, let us go back to Charles. He was the mediocre husband I was referring to, as he was poor in bed and was not particularly wealthy, yet he let you take full control. Power is the next best thing in marriage, you know, and if he had not died so early, you would have had a fantastic time torturing him and watching him suffer.

You were at first dejected when you became a widow. But think about it, Scarlett, how fun it was! You were once again granted the chance to flirt with men, dance, and hang out. You were so uptight, nevertheless, since you never crossed the boundary of Platonic dalliance. Well, I, Alisoun, had really had great fun in widowhood, if you know what I mean. It puzzled me that how you managed to prevent yourself from jumping onto Rhett Butler, the ultimately attractive blockade runner. He was in his prime form and was obviously much sexier than the soldiers whose hearts were captured by you. If I were you, I would have agreed to run away with him rather than stayed in the fiendish city and took care of a pregnant woman. However, you may have made the right choice since through the years Melanie had been grateful for what you have sacrificed for her forever. Us sisters’ union carries more weight than yearning over men, you know.

After the fall of Atlanta, you retreated to Tara, where everything was in ruins. Oh, I was in tears when the friar told me this part of the story, which also increased my respect for you. I can hardly imagine a world without men, and you actually had to till the land yourself. Oh, darling, it must have been agonizing. Fortunately, you came up with a scheme to cope with the hardship, as I always do. Our undefeated pride and courage always prick us up, don’t they?

I must say that Rhett Butler’s heart of granite really maddened me when you went visiting him in the cell. Turning down a lady’s request and mock on it is the worst thing that a man can do, and I wholly identify with your wrath. But I have to admit that Rhett Butler’s courting you when you were married to Frank Kennedy makes him somewhat forgiven. When it comes to Frank Kennedy, he is the best husband that you have ever had, despite the fact that he was your sister’s fiancé. He saved Tara for you, allowed you to be financially independent (although grudgingly), and let you took control while he himself behaved as meek as a lamb. You may protest since there is no love in the marriage, but love makes us weak and foolish. When we care about a person even more than ourselves, it is not a pleasant feeling at all unless the person shares the obsession as well.

You accepted Rhett Butler’s proposal not long after you were widowed, which reminded me of my days with Janekin. Oh, I certainly miss him, and only by seeing him throws my reason into oblivion. Anyway, it is difficult for me to judge your relationship with Rhett Butler, a bad husband as he was. He was infuriating, arrogant, and extremely selfish, yet was utterly attractive and mysterious. Besides, your romance lasted for twelve long years! None of my matrimonies had lasted so long, and maybe I was to blame… Anyway, the Butler fellow claimed to have loved you, but how could true love rule when his favorite amusement was to insult you? I experienced the same predicament with Janekin, when he was telling stories about how evil women are endlessly, and it was driving me crazy! Why does book knowledge play such an important role in society? At least you know how to write; maybe you should write a book about our resentment against books.

It was heartbreaking to you finally realized that you loved Rhett Butler, while he was going to leave for good. You were also convinced that you have received punishment from your past wrongdoing. But think about it, honey, maybe it was not your wrongdoing at all. He unquestionably understood you and admired your qualities, but he always left you when you needed him most, didn’t you see? He left you helplessly on the road when you escaped from Atlanta, which was about to be taken. He refused to lend you money when you visited him in the cell, which we just talked about. Worse still, he left you after you two shared the bed in ecstasy after long-time departure and then disgraced you by telling you that he went to the whorehouse and was about to took your daughter. Wait, I must say something about the sleeping issues, for he promised you to show you a marvelous time but only carried it out once on that very night. And he was the cause to the loss of your unborn baby and your beloved daughter, Bonnie. Do you see my point now? The man is nothing but a liar and a bastard! He reminds me so much of my fourth husband, who had a mistress outside of the hearth. Rhett Butler and my husband were both desirable but fiendish, and you should avoid falling in love with such people again.

Listen to my advice, little pretty sister! There were some mistakes you have made, and make sure you will not fall in the same traps again. First, try to reconcile with all sisters! You never know how important they are to you when troubles come about. Or maybe you do know since your best friend had passed away. Oh, I feel so sorry for the young sister, Melanie. She was an angel! Anyway, try to re-join yourself to the affiliation by all means. It may be increasingly difficult for you because the sisters in your era are not as friendly as my close friends are, but it is worth trying.

Second, stop dreaming of your third husband, since you can always find a better one! He is too old for you. Well, you already have enough money, and I am sure Rhett Butler would give you some more if you two divorce, so you are in no need of more good, old, and wealthy husbands. Find one man who loves you thoroughly and can thrill you both physically and mentally. I am happy to see that you have given up on Ashley Wilkes, for he cannot even satisfy the humble sister, Melanie, how can he satisfy you with ardent passion?

Finally, maintain your business and make it prosper even more. Having thriving business is the next best thing to love, you know. It was pitiless of Rhett Butler to have fraudulently sold your sawmill to Ashley Wilkes, knowing how important your business meant to you. Don’t worry because you still have your own other enterprises; moreover, it was easy to snatch back what you had from a person as incapable as Ashley Wilkes. Business can be your best solace and contentment when there is temporarily no man to fill the emptiness in your life.

Scarlett, you are still young and stunning, still with a long road ahead of you. Do not be so depressed and cry over the mere loss of a husband. Men are cruel, nasty rascals, but something about them is so oddly fascinating. No matter how old we become, always keep the faith that we will find our ain true husband. After all, there are numerous men on Earth, so we will always have treasure to discover. Stand up, all the sisters in the world!

Your best friend,
Alisoun

The elementary school I attended was near my house, so my mother and I often took strolls there on weekends. The campus, where plants grew wild and butterflies and bees flew unfettered, was relatively spacious compared with those of other elementary schools. Before tall buildings were constructed to accommodate more students, the almost savage gardens scattered on campus were paradise to energetic youngsters and insects rarely found in the busy city. Amid the fields of green not only children like me but also other animals thrived.

Even inside the picturesque campus some ugly spots existed that blurred the overall beauty. On a scorching, lackluster Saturday morning, my mother and I happened to pass through the dark, damp staircase, where barren walls stood horridly, stained with grey dirt. Normally we would get past the hideous area without any willingness to linger, yet on the special day something, or to put it in a better way, someone, from under the staircase, caught my eye. I stopped pacing forward to take a closer look at the lovely animal—a small puppy who might have merely come to the world for several weeks. The white puppy snuggled closely to its mother and the two dogs lay peacefully on the terrazzo floor. It seemed to have sensed my presence when I crouched down and it abruptly left the comfort of its mother. To my amazement, it slowly crawled to me and clung onto my leg; its watery eyes shined as if wanting me to take it way, to leave the ghastly staircase. My mother was obviously fascinated by the unusually mercurial puppy as well, and after minutes of discussion, we have decided to take “him” home. Holding the puppy tightly, I was overjoyed to be able to have a pet, yet his eyes still shined with faint tears, contrary to my exultation.

Since bringing the shiningly white puppy was not on our original plan, we found a crude cardboard box for his accommodation. Putting him down lightly on the red-bricked floor in the yard, he looked around the surroundings with naked curiosity. Watching his every motion with marvel, Mother and I agreed that it was “lucky” of us to have found him and “lucky” of him to flee the destiny of becoming a stray dog. Thus, “Lucky” became his name. The scene of him infiltrating the yard was evocative, for his small body and the gentle movement of his paws showed fragility, yet his apparent enthusiasm displayed juvenile sprightliness. We found a small baby’s bottle, which Grandma once used to care for one of her diseased cats, and filled it with milk to feed Lucky. The sweet smell of milk must have been intoxicating to Lucky, as he rushed to the bottle and started voraciously sucking the tiny pacifier.

However, we should have been skeptical whether he considered himself lucky or not. Lucky began howling melancholily in the middle of the night; each sound thrust into my heart like needles. Having watched dogs crying in movies, it was bloodcurdling to really listen to it in real life. Mother and I went by the cardboard box he slept in and caress him softly, and his weep gradually died down. Mother asserted that his missing his mother at the elementary school staircase was the cause of his sorrow, yet I felt otherwise since it is difficult for us humans to interpret animal languages. Whatever was the reason that ripped Lucky’s heart, he gradually adapted himself to our family and ceased to cry at night.

Lucky grew up at an unbelievable speed, and soon he did not need the baby’s bottle anymore and began eating dog food. Having been carefully taken care of by us, the lost look on his face when he first came had disappeared. His eyes, although still watery, blazed with life, and his white fur, frequently cleansed by us, shined like silver under the perennially violent sun in Taiwan. Every day when I arrived home from school, he would waggle his thick tail at me, fawning on my appearance. Nevertheless, even though his high spirits satisfied us, his excessive energy turned out to be danger for his companions in the yard. One day Mother was furiously surprised finding him having torn all the bonsais that were within his reach.

It was when we discovered that we were deceived by his innocent face and failed to notice the wicked glow surging behind his perpetually moist eyes. When clothes were hung in the yard to be dried by sunlight, he would pull them all of and cut them to shredded pieces with his growing, sharpening teeth. His devilish mischief never seemed to wane even though he had been ruthlessly whipped numerous times. In addition, he attempted to run out all the time whenever we opened the front gate. At the beginning we were able to catch him before he made his way out. Yet, with his legs gradually gaining their power, it had become an impossible mission to prevent him from fleeing. At last, we gave in and granted him the freedom to venture when he felt like so.

He embraced the freedom we offered him with extreme ardor. There was a large park across from the alley where our house located, and the park proved to be tempting for Lucky’s search for excitement. Yet, the road that divided the ally and the park looked risky for Lucky to cross, as there was no traffic light to occasionally stop the oncoming cars. To ensure his safety, I followed behind him to the park, watching in amusement when he sniffed everything inquisively. Mother and I were inappropriately convinced that his going out was not harmful for his own good, so we no longer gave the incident the attention it deserved.

Always being obsessed with being a hound, Lucky carried some loot in his mouth every time he returned home from his quest. To our amusement, there was no wildlife appearing in the city park, so the only preys he could capture were plastic bags, empty cans, or lunchboxes. It filled me with odd and improper pride that my dog was capable every time I caught him with booty. Nonetheless, Mother punished Lucky severely whenever the sound of clanking cans or sizzling plastic bags hit her ears, knowing he had brought garbage home once again.

Eventually, his abandoning domestication would become his charm as well as his own destruction. Shortly after Lucky reached one year old, he ran out of the house once morning, wishing to escape from the bonds of the yard, as usual. Shaking my head at his excessive zeal, I watched him running away in haste. Just as I planned to go indoors to have breakfast, a keen sound of car break along with one alarming of sharp cry destroyed the pure silence in the still alley where our house lay. I quickly dashed outside and finally found Lucky, lying on the stony ground, his white furs stained with dust. As soon as he saw me, he produced a series of pleading whimpers, similar to the sound of baby crying. The poignant sound raised my goose bumps, and I squatted down to observe his condition, realizing he could no longer walk.

After some disastrous bustle, Mother and I put the lifeless and vulnerable dog on the backseat of the car and rushed to the hospital. On the way, Lucky produced harsh sounds of chocked breathing now and then. I felt a burning urge to caress him and distract him from the sharp pain he must have been suffering, yet stemmed by my fear of touching his broken legs, I could not move a finger. Frightful tears unconsciously began falling down from my cheeks. The journey seemed to have taken an eternity, with Lucky’s difficult breathing, my sobs, and discordant car alarms suffusing the air.

To my astonishment and grief, Lucky’s life on Earth ended on that very day. The doctor told us that many organs inside his body were severely damaged; to relieve his pain, the most ruthful way was to let him go. After Lucky was vaccinated the euthanasia liquid, he looked at Mother and me in oddly consoling eyes, as if he was in a dreamy state. With the medicine gradually showing its effect, his watery eyes narrowed to lines, and were afterwards closed forever without saying farewell.

After Lucky was gone, Mother found a new dog in an attempt to solace the painful loss. The newcomer, who was black, young, and spry, was named “Lucky Junior.” However, I never liked him as much as my first Lucky.

Several months had passed and zephyr spread its wings to the world, mildly dropping the temperature. One night in autumn, strangely for a 12-year-old girl, I suffered from insomnia. I put on a coat to protect myself from the chills and stepped outside to stare at the sky, something I had always taken a liking to do. In the dark and deep sky, some extremely brilliant stars made their stubborn appearance under the threats of the street lights. Then I noticed Sirius, the brightest star in the sky, twinkling warmly at me. The glowing splendor suddenly reminded me of Lucky’s watery eyes and his eagerness of becoming a hound. He always hankered after running wide in the pasture without any restriction and was obsessed with bringing some preys home, even though the only victim he could find in the city was trash.

I focused my gaze at Sirius, and in the bleak night, he seemed to be aware of my presence and was anxious to salute me with naughty winks, like the day I found Lucky under the school staircase. Or could Lucky be Sirius, who fell to the Earth by chance and was destined to meet me? Miraculously, my suffering over losing Lucky was alleviated, for I came to realized that he was not typical dogs who would find satisfaction in closed cages or fenced yards. He belonged to the sky, to Orion, who would take him hunting in the wild and care for him as a master. After bowing at the star once more, I retuned to bed and had dreams of running on my vast campus.

I have come up with a strange idea today after recording some things I want to say to… well… the guy in the physics department who killed himself.I happen to know him, and well, this isn’t the point. Anyway, I did not realizethat he was a perfectionist until I have listened to seniors’ descriptions about him.Incidentally, I have read a book called “Essays in Love” in which there was a chapter named “Jesus Complex.”The author claimed that if Jesus had not been crusified, he would have lived inobscurity.Thus, people who agree that one must sacrifice severely in order to achieve something great are obsessed with “Jesus Complex.”The point makes me think that can people who are unable to get over fame be categorized into “Beowulf Complex” sufferers? I truly believe that such people exist, and perhaps everyone more or less is victim to any sort of “complex,” whether we are aware of it or not.The senior student majoring in physics was so eager to seek meaning for his life that he decided to end it to make it… I don’t know.

Well, I don’t know what I’m talking about right now…Ridicuous thoughts bubble up in my brain all the time.Please forgive me if they do not make any sense to you.

Around eight o’clock in the morning, Grandma walked to the door, dragging a small cart. Although I already knew where she was heading for, I still saluted her.

“Good morning, Grandma. Where are you going?”

“To the ‘mark’t,” answered her impatiently. “I need to buy some fish for my beloved kitties.” Then she slammed the red gate of the house close and began her daily routine in heavy footsteps, which could hardly bolster her heavy weight. She staggered with her chin up with resolute pride written over her slightly wrinkled face.

As a woman from mainland China who had been in Taiwan for over fifty years, Grandma still went her own way. She chose to pronounce words in her resonant Beijing accent, which sounded elegant to me but quaint to others. Although being short and plump, she had short, straight hair, the same style as most high school girls are required to have in Taiwan. She barely had friends and was usually indifferent when people greeted her. Therefore, some residents in the neighborhood referred to her as “the cold outsider,” yet she could not care less about others’ views on her.

Grandma’s love for her cats was probably her oddest hobby. As a person who was fortunate to receive quality education, she named her cats poetically. “Blackie,” “Whitie,” and “Flowery” might have been ordinary names, but it was amazing that she named a male cat “Snow-covered” because the cat was all in black except for a tuft of white furs covering his back. When she was ready to fill the cats’ already full stomachs with even more food, she always knocked on the iron-made bowl that she used to feed the cats with chopsticks. Hearing the clear but sharp sound, the cats would rush to the messy back yard and devour the delicacy, tasty tomato fish from cans or steamed fish which Grandma made especially for them. Interestingly, she showed conspicuous preference for the male, the very same difference in treatment that happened in our family. “Snow-covered” and “Little Brown” were offered extra pieces of fish maw all the time.

The cats were eternally allowed to enter the kitchen, which was designed queerly. To be precise, the kitchen was a small hut in the back yard with a small window connected with the house. Mother hated the design and complained to Grandma several times but always encountered cold shoulders.

“That is what the kitchen is like in my hometown!” Grandma would howl.

“But it isn’t useful in Taiwan. Besides…”

“Shut up!” Grandma stomped on the floor, “how dare you defy me! I’m the daughter of a general and the wife of a professor! If you don’t like it, just get out of my house! Stop the nonsense! ‘Little Brown’ is home…” When one of her favorite cats returned meowing, Grandma’s harsh expression softened as she approached the cat and held it in her round arms.

Ironically, Grandma was apathetic toward nearly every human being except for my father; in contrast, the cats meant more than life to her. She always roared like an enraged lion when she caught me trying to throw the innocent cubs down from the wall.

“The cats are far more precious than you! Ungrateful, non-filial kid!”

Nevertheless, we hated the cats! Grandma never cleaned the back yard every time she finished feeding the cats and let the leftover lie on the ground, uncleaned. Thus, our back yard had become the favorite residence for cockroaches. Worst still, a pungent smell of rotten food mixed with vile excrement would ruthlessly assault people whenever they came near the house. Nevertheless, our urgent advice fell deaf on Grandma’s weakness of hearing.

In addition to her devotion to cats, watching TV was what Grandma did most often. She watched news all day long, afraid to be uninformed of any new occurrence. That she could not take her eye away from the TV news perplexed me because she always ended up in a fury.

“That is what Taiwanese people do. Uneducated citizens!” she remarked bitterly every time she caught a glimpse at a murder or robbery case. Sometimes I aspired to remind her that she herself was also a Taiwanese according to her identification card as severely as she disdained the identity.

The truth was that she detested the place where she lived. She did not believe any of the circumlocution came from the politicians she disdained and retorted upon them right in from of the TV set. Also, as a determined atheist, she always mocked on the traditional beliefs which were common in Taiwanese society. After some disrespectful words being exchanged, we decided to let her believe that every religion was sheer foolishness and superstition.

Grandma held on to some restrictions that we could never cross. Unlike most families, we had meals separately, even on Chinese New Year’s Eve. During our first year of living with her, a number of collisions had taken place, particularly owing to her untidiness and some troubles caused by the cats. Therefore, we expected a harmonious truce during the Chinese New Year. Yet, the impossibility struck us right on New Year’s Eve.

“Happy New Year, Grandma!” We led her to the table and showed her the gourmet meal we were about to have together.

“What is that?” Grandma pointed at the still boiling pot whose smoke was fluttering to the air.

“That’s ‘hot pot,’ Grandma! It is very delicious!”

“No, said she, in a nonchalant but stern tone, “that is not what we eat in China.”

“Well, it is what we eat here. Haven’t you ever had hot pot, Grandma?”

“No, and I don’t want to try it. You have your dinner, then.” She paced away to the kitchen, her favorite retreat, leaving us jaw-dropped.

After years of being under the same roof with her, finally there came a day that Grandma’s rejection of adaptability would never be judged by others anymore. When she told us about her decision, Mother and I could hardly believe our ears.

“Are you sure you want to do so, Grandma?” asked I, still not recovered from the shock.

“I never joke, you know. Of course I mean it. I’m moving back to China!” replied her, sternly.

“But… but…” I fought with my irresistible desire to continue, “You have been here for over 50 years, but you don’t like here a bit?”

“No!” she shouted emphatically. “I hate this vulgar, downward island! I’m leaving forever!”

However, later when she was packing, her remaining bond to Taiwan was unexpectedly confirmed. With her numerous suitcases standing respectably on the corner, she was tossing books endlessly into another large bag.

“I can’t stand simplified Chinese characters,” said she in her usual stubbornness. “I have to bring books so that I can be able to read there.” She continued her motion of stuffing books into the bag regardless of the heaviness she would later suffer from.

I respect my grandma dearly, for she is the real non-conformist that I have ever met in my life. I hope she lives happily now in China.