they tell me a lot of things.

they tell me he was a great person, he was kind, chivalrous, moral, everything a person could wish to be. they tell me he was trusting, much too kind, and seeing the good in everything--even it was bad. they tell me he was blind, almost foolishly stupid, but i dont think so. he wasn't foolish, he wasn't silly, he wasn't blindly trusting. he just decided other people had greater needs than he, and he just wanted to help.

they tell me he was talented, great at everything he did. they tell me he had a beautiful voice, sweet and strong, carrying across the air like the northern winds. they tell me his favorite singer was teresa tang, and that he sang her songs like they were his own. he could play the xiao, and the piano, and probably every other instrument if he tried, but time runs out too quickly for one to merely try. they tell me he loved classical music and would listen to it for hours, and they would stop talking, like it explained everything, like it defined his being. but i wonder, did he like chopin like i do? did he prefer his opus posthumous or the words he composed when he was alive? did he like mozart and beethoven, did he ever curse at beethoven for having much too large hands and at mozart for having a talent graced by god?

they tell me he was a great writer, that he wrote essay after essay, about history, about literature, about the contemporary politics. they tell me he wrote during the june 4th movement, that his was one of the best essays, that their minds were blown away whilst reading it. they tell me his writing was beautiful, and so was his calligraphy, and it was thanks to his mother, who was one of the best literature teachers. but i wonder, did he write more nonfiction or more fiction? did he ever contemplate whether the english scholars were bullting their knowledge, or did he believe them wholeheartedly? did he prefer fitzgerald over hemingway, like i do, and did he scorn shakespeare's plays?

they tell me he was a kind person, that he would put other people's needs before his. they tell me that even when he was renting a basement, he would let others live with him, at a low cost, much too low to even be acceptable. they tell me that he was a great cook, though he forgets to wash the chives, and his reason was always "the restaurants do it like that too!" they tell me that his dumplings were the best, but i would never know because i never ate them. they tell me that when he spoke, the whole room would stop to listen, because his voice was so soul-grabbing, so moving, that it was almost illegal to breathe too loudly when he was speaking.

they tell me he was a hardworking person, always pouring over books after work, and always urging others to study with him. they tell me that when he talked about history, his words would seem almost like a movie, a film that played before their eyes, bringing their souls to the past, though their bodies remained in the present. they told me that he was a raconteur, that his collections of anecdotes were almost the same size as his collections of memories, and only grew larger as time passed. but there's a limit to everything, is there not? even time.

they tell me so much, so much about him. they tell me he was amazing, that there are so few men that were like him, that they were honored to even be his friend and to be able to hear him, and that they mockingly called him professor when he was in the same room as them, that he personified gaiety and was a hedonist that never got in trouble, except for that one time that ed up his life forever.

they tell me that if i knew him, i would love him too, and i don't doubt that, because i already do. but i'm scared, i'm scared that one day, i will forget, and i will have no one to turn to, because no one else that remembers him will be here, and i will be lost once more. i'm scared that one day, i will not remember his face--i've already forgotten his voice--and i will not remember the good he's done for those around him. i'm scared that one day, i will not remember whether or not he really existed, or if my memories of him are just a figment of my imagination, because human minds are known to wander into crevices they're not supposed to.

and i'm scared that one day, everyone will forget him, and then he will die once more, because as people say,

you die twice. one time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time. -bansky