Sometimes I think the  best way to get to know a person is through their writing. That is one of the reasons I enjoy reading. It is also why I have never read my grandfather’s books.

            Through my limited interactions with my grandfather, I came to know him as a man of few words. I suspect I inherited his taciturn nature, considering how the rest of my family is much more vocal  in comparison to the two of us. He was not particularly active either, which is another trait we share. It is hard to imagine a man as sporty and assured as my father being related to him. Whereas my dad enjoys practicing his golf swings, my grandfather preferred to sit at his desk and write. Over the years, his health condition fluctuated. At times, he would cheerfully walk out of his room and teach me ancient Chinese calligraphy. Other times, he had to be pushed around in a wheelchair by the housekeeper. Even with his graying hair, he could always be found writing in his study, surrounded by stacks of old books. Seeing him there gave me immense comfort; it seemed like, while the earth was constantly rotating on its axis, taking all of us with it, my grandfather sat unwavering, like a fixed star in the night sky.

I did not get to know him personally before he died when I was ten. Admittedly, I forced myself but failed to shed a tear during the wake when everyone else in the room, even my father, who rarely demonstrates any form of vulnerability, cried. As much as you can judge me on that, I was unsure of how I felt, standing next to the glass casket that contained his corpse. His skin looked even paler than usual. He looked so at peace I believed he was slumbering and would wake up at any moment. But he never did. I was too young then to understand what death means, especially for those left behind. 

Although I always knew my grandfather was a novelist, it was not until I held his books in my hands for the first time that I realized how impressive that was. I tried to read his books on multiple occasions, but I was always disappointed to find his language was too intricate for me to understand . Later in life, I have come to appreciate literature as one of the greatest inventions in the history of civilization, and have had the privilege to read works by a variety of authors on diverse genres. I have understood fully how much a book can reveal to us about the author. Despite that, I have still not read a single piece of work written by my own grandfather.

            As I have learned through the years of adolescence, staying under the same roof or eating at the same dinner table every night does not necessarily indicate an alignment in values and ideas. I’ve established that as a fact a long time ago. However, I don’t mean to say that it is a bad thing, per se, but at times I felt as though I was a misfit in my family. I was, and arguably still is, an extremely resilient and introverted child. I was drawn to abstract concepts and the realm of idealism. On the other hand, most of my family are outspoken and pragmatic in their approach to life. Therefore, conflicts were almost inevitable. I remember after a heated argument, my aunt told me that she read the essays I wrote and that my grandfather would have been really proud of me. I could feel the tears emerging from the inside of my body and building up in my eyes.

            I excused myself to go to the bathroom and cried.

            She was talking about the essays I had written about an author. It was nothing authentic. I did not want to write much about myself because I was afraid of judgment and rejection. I received many compliments from my family and friends because of that essay, but it did not seem very significant to me. 

            I was crying not because I regret being defiant and rude to my family. I was crying because I would never be able to know if my grandfather would’ve been proud of me or not. As many similarities I seem to share with him, he could never offer me any guidance on how I should endure the hardships in life or commiserate with me in any circumstances.

            My dad has told me that my grandfather was strict with him when he was young. I thought that contradicted the image I have of grandfather in my head – always in a state of undisturbed tranquility.

            Maybe he was nothing like the person I imagined him to be. Maybe my idealism distorted my perception again. Maybe I created a fictional character who resonated with me to derive some comfort.

            The thought haunted me every time I thought I’d mustered up enough courage for me to read his books. A few years ago, I came across and purchased one of his writing collections on a book-selling platform. It was a second-hand copy published in 1960, 5 years before my father was even born. I stared at the library label on the front cover and wondered how many people have once gotten to know him through his work. 

            I don’t think of my grandfather very often anymore. When I get a perfect score on my essay or am praised for writing, however, I’m always reminded of him. One night I had a dream in which he was smiling genially to greet me on his wheelchair with an orange beret on his head. I couldn’t tell if it was merely an invention of my imagination and blurred memories, but it didn’t matter anymore.