Rose, Rose, thou art dead. I see your petals falling, each after each. There’s enough water in the vase, but it’s not where you belong. This transparent vase is not where you belong; you belong to a certain romantic garden in the suburb of Paris. I remember this passage by a Taiwanese writer, in which she throws an analogy between being a foreigner and a transplanted flower. It survives, but only merely. Being a stranger in a strange land is never easy. Where is this romantic garden you really belong to? I can imagine Augustine from La Maison du chat-qui-pelote bending down, plucking one of your sisters with her tempestuous smile. I saw her illustration in the Balzac house. She looks so content with herself, smiling in a way so femme fatale. That’s the kind of smile you see from a woman in love, or a woman courted by numerous gentlemen. Little does she know things would turn out all differently (but not surprisingly). Rose, or I should call you, Augustine? How are you holding up in this transparent vase filled with water with a couple of your equally unfortunate sisters?
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