Notes of a Crocodile

by Qiu Miaojin

I knew I was capable of the monstrous sin of lusting after a woman’s body.

She was the one mirror that I was willing to see my own self-pity in.

To be desired ought to be a happy thing, but could it be that you remain ignorant of the fact that the torch has been passed to you?

It was an illicit love—a thing so dangerous it refused to be contained, yet made of nothing but sweetness.

To my horror, she insistently lived on inside of me.

I’d taken everyone I loved and killed them off in my heart, one by one. I’d long been tending their graves—secretly visiting and mourning during the day, going out and erecting a cross on starry nights, lying inside and awaiting my own death on starless nights.

You tore me open and exposed the man inside.

‘Only healthy people are capable of being in love. Using love to treat an illness just makes the illness even worse.’

During that time of intense bonding, it was their influence which made me realize that romantic love was not the only thing that brought an individual closer to others, nor was it a matter decided by fate. There are other, essential experiences that ought to come first, for one must be capable of being touched, of embodying the innocence that forms the basis of compassion . . . and of showing a heart that cries out in pain that genuine suffering deserves no less than the dignity to go on living.

Only much later, when I recalled the look in his eyes and the words he said, did I realize that no matter what his real motive was, he had tried to love me.

“I wish I could fall in love with a man, but there are too many beautiful women.”

Because of her despair, I loved her. Because of her despair, I was shaken. Because of her despair, I was overwhelmed, and because of her despair, I left her. Her despair was her beauty.

There’s a raw passion that still lives in my blood, still courses through my veins. The mere thought of her fills me with enough desire to send me into a mad frenzy. Yet this memory is also the saddest and most

painful of all, for I never really knew this woman’s heart, and I never would.

She was like someone who carried a gun everywhere she went, taking it to bed with her, even when someone was sleeping beside her.

On how to love well: Instead of embracing a romantic ideal, you must confront the meaning of every great love that has shattered, shard by shard.

In confronting my desires, I felt sorrow and regret over my former, unrealistic ways of thinking, but I was also moved and inspired. After having come so close to ending my life, I came back, my will to live completely reawakened. I faced reality, where I would learn to live again, this time boldly and fearlessly. My body was screaming at me, telling me that life was a gift.