There are three kinds of love in the world.
One is square-shaped love. The two people are like squares together, each hard-edged self trying to smooth out the other's corners. You take a step, I follow; one wrong step, and we close in on each other. In the end, everything still stays within the lines.
Another is ball-shaped love. The two seem made for each other and never rub each other the wrong way. They hold hands at the right time, get married as they wish, and have children on schedule. You may not know if their love runs deep and steady, but you know it is calm and ordinary.
The third kind of love isn't the title of some movie. It's gear-shaped love. Even the most noble people reveal their flaws when faced with love. Then, by chance, they meet the person whose flaws fit theirs perfectly. Click, click, click, click. My gaps are just where your sharp edges fit; your dimness is exactly where my light shines. Everything is beautiful in just the right way.
I used to think this third kind of love existed only in the story of the couple San Mao and He Xi, as written in San Mao's books. But when I saw Chopin return once again, I suddenly realized that all those romantic fantasies aren't just sentimentality: true love really does exist.
The Chopin I know isn't the piano poet who lived in the nineteenth century, but he could be called a piano patient of the twenty-first century. The "Chopin" in the title really is Chopin, but "Liszt" isn't his real name. Still, after witnessing the two of them love and fight each other, I thought they were just like Chopin and Liszt.
Chopin and Liszt has no dramatic twists or heart-pounding action. It simply tells the story of a man held captive by the piano and a man who controls the black and white keys, brought together by musical notes.
If there is a most beautiful piano duet for four hands in the world, I only want to hear the two of them play it.
