My dad had a PhD from Tsinghua, but he killed himself.
When Xia Zhi was thirty-two, he wrote a book about his father, Xia Yun.
When Xia Zhi was eighteen, Xia Yun was gone. He left no will, just a three-line letter: “Xiaozhi, you are not my continuation. You are your own person. Grow up well.”
Turning back isn't a matter of not wanting to. It's that I can't. If I go back, I won't be able to leave again.
