If recollecting were forgetting,
Then I remember not.
And if forgetting, recollecting,
How near I had forgot.
--------------Emily Dickinson

During any recollection, you are always fabricating, hence the forgetting, caused by the erosion of elapsed time and self-deception. And fabrication would somehow trigger recollection, where truth is gradually nibbled away by time and self-deception. Forgetting is all you've got in the end.

The fear of giving in to unconscious fabrication got the better of me; I thought I need to jot them down-the feelings of actually seeing Jeanette Winterson in person-before the forgetting, while the prospect of retelling the truth daunted me, since it might be a course of recollecting, i.e. forgetting in itself.

I didn't plan to go because I've got to do my digitally filled daily-work has nothing to do with literature. Winterson, indeed, a writer I can connect to, and a good one; so what ? Would any pockmark get off of my face after seeing her? Or, may her talent rub off on me? Probably neither. Under the dim halo of Friday night moonlight, tossed back and forth from the reboot of consideration to the start of reconsideration, I decided that this is not a chance everyone gets as easily as their monthly werewolf transformation. Resolution was made: a little white lie for my manager on absenteeism - f**k it (to quote Jeanette Winterson at her 'all about f**k-it age'), I'm going to see Jeanette Winterson !

It's quite a long journey, a journey I never really spend on meeting anyone except for relatives. Although, traveling started to equal fatal accidents one of these days, within one of several countries, which, unfortunately, means the one I'm living in (sorry about the verbose, but I have to detour around "sensitive words" could be censored), especially when it comes to High Speed Rail Way, I had a "high speed" trip to Shanghai anyway. I'm not trying to describe this as some sort of heroic deed overlooking the dread of the probability of being a martyr, but it's such a unprecedented pilgrimage that I have to accomplish. It would sound a little bit over the top if you do not know that I read books mostly by those who are: dead or exotic. It's impossible for me to surpass the chasm of life and dead/ foreign boarders to land a chance for proper communication with any author inspired me; finally, there she is - Winterson: alive and in Shanghai.

On the train, everything seemed perfectly normal, however I got this weird feelings as in 'Final Destination'. I might still be weighing this pilgrimage against its worth; is it important enough for me to travel without qualms about its outcome? The possible physical death in a cab, a total withdrawal from writing and literature, the emotional churn-up in my head, a job resignation and writer's dream revival.. I was so tired of thinking with "what...if...; do...don't.." and indulged myself in a sleep, hugging my backpack, a buff notebook in it, which kept notes of her South Bank Lecture; I listened to it the night before. The train must be save, I muttered to myself in thought, at least till I see her in person.