我們的第一次拌嘴，發生在1989年1月19日之後。之所以把日子記得這麼準，是因為當時拌嘴時他冒出了一句「primitive」，我沒聽懂，便讓他寫下來。他順手摸出一張購物小票——那是1989年1月19日，他在日本忠實屋大根店花1,850日元買了一盒錄音磁帶留下的發票——翻過背面，一連寫下了一串英文：「Some ways-- primitive- undeveloped- uncivilized --friendship between the sexes.」他還在「Some」底下重重劃了兩道線，「sexes」下面劃了一道線，大概是為了加重語氣。
我連忙捧起字典一個個去查，還在每個單詞下面用鉛筆寫下釋義：primitive——不發達的、簡單的、上古的、原始的；undeveloped——沒發展的；uncivilized——不開化。對著這串詞我才明白，他是在說我在某些方面、尤其是在男女正常交往的觀念上太原始、太跟不上時代了。
說起這個「primitive」的由來，其實繞不開一個叫 YD 的上海女生。她是在我來日本之前就認識 J 的。我到日本後，J 特意請她去日本餐館吃飯，讓我們見個面。那天我們坐在長條吧桌前，裡面的廚師一邊做生魚片、壽司等食物一邊直接遞過來。YD 坐在左側，J 坐在中間，我坐在右側。整頓飯下來，多數時間 J 都是側身面向她的。坐在我邊上的是一位日本中年男人，他大概都有些看不過去了，用日語問我旁邊的是誰。我說是我的丈夫——日本人管丈夫叫「主人」（發音「ご主人」）。那位日本大叔聽完，竟對我搖搖頭說：「ご主人、よくない」（你那丈夫不好），同時做了一個拇指朝下的動作。
吃完飯在店門口告別時，那個女生站在 J 面前，距離近得很。男女之間站立的遠近，往往能看出關係的深淺，我心裡明白，但表面上沒有流露出一絲不滿，還客客氣氣地用上海話招呼她：「歡迎儂經常來阿拉窩裡白相。」她卻回了一句：「吾勿認得㑚窩裡額。」這話我聽了心裡不太舒服。畢竟剛來日本沒幾天，我就在冰箱冷凍室裡見過幾大塊巧克力，J 說是 YD 喜歡吃的；剛進門時，我還在臥室角落看見一本手掌心大小的漢英字典——我能不知道那意味著什麼嗎？只是我這人喜怒不形於色，不管是巧克力還是那句客套話，我都裝作若無其事。
後來的日子裡，YD 隔三差五就給 J 打電話。每次若是我接起，她連一聲招呼都不打，直接讓 J 聽電話；而每次掛電話前，我總能聽見 J 在那頭說一句「Same to you」或「Same here」。我的英語再差，也聽得懂這句話的分量。
平日我在日語班上課，從不去 J 的辦公樓。有一天心血來潮，中午吃飯時去了他辦公室，坐了不一會兒，YD 也來了。J 提議大家一起去吃午飯，讓 YD 帶我先去校園附近的一條食街（東海大學近道商店街），怕我不熟路，還特意報了店名，叮囑她怎麼走、怎麼拐才能找到。他自己騎著（scooter）去要繞遠路，因為那條食街地勢在坡下；若步行的話，出了校園過馬路不遠，順著一長段露天的石階走下去便是。結果 YD 熟門熟路地帶著我，一點彎路沒走，徑直就找到了那家店。那頓飯，我依舊禮禮貌貌地吃完了。
我這人像一面鏡子，有火才反光，沒光也不亮。表面不聲不響，心裡卻全給記住了——如今回想，大概也是自己心胸不夠豁達。我是理智型的人，凡事喜歡擺事實、講道理，不會大聲喧嘩或無理取鬧，自己的錯就認、就改，也不會得理不饒人。或許正是這種在他看來過於「穩重端莊」的性格，既讓他覺得「boring」（乏味），也成了他眼裡「primitive」的由來吧。
很快，J 在東海大學的合約要到期了，我們得搬出學校安排的住處。在找房時，我們發生了第二次拌嘴——這一次，是我嫌他沒有生活常識。
看房期間，有一套二樓的公寓朝西，他看著挺滿意。我卻說朝西的房子不好，夏天西曬，冬天又刮西北風，得找坐北朝南、有朝南門窗的房子才會冬暖夏涼。他偏不信，我納悶這麼簡單的生活常識他怎麼都不懂。回到家，我特意找來一根筷子，在筷子頭上綁了一條尼龍繩，拿到屋外舉在風裡讓他看風向——外面正呼呼刮著西北風，可他依然不信我說的這一套。當時我還沒意識到，我們倆生長的環境截然不同，他在美國生活的地理氣候大抵與我生長的大陸東南沿海不一樣，況且他們早已習慣了熱了開空調、冷了開暖氣的現代生活方式，自然體會不到中國人對「坐北朝南」的執念。
不巧的是，就在那段日子我流產住院了。J 一個人忙著找新住所、整理打包、裝箱，他的一位同事 K 也來搭了把手，匆匆忙忙把家搬了，退租的舊屋也打掃得乾乾淨淨。這一切我都未能幫上忙，出院後直接去了新家。
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| 幫忙搬家的朋友 K, who helped with the move |
那房子還真是坐北朝南的：前邊是一片菜地，後院和臥室東窗外被一片樹林環繞；客廳鋪著木地板，書房和臥室則是榻榻米。因為剛搬進來，家裡還亂糟糟的，想來原先是間空屋子，J 臨時買了幾件簡易桌凳湊合著用。第二天清晨，我是被窗外啾啾的鳥鳴喚醒的，拉開紙糊的格子窗，縷縷陽光瞬間探進屋子，空氣清新極了。可當 J 走去開門時，卻發現門是反鎖著的。他回頭問：「是你把門鎖上的？」我答：「是啊。」從小養成的習慣，晚上睡覺總要鎖門才踏實。這下他居然生氣了，衝我道：「日本是最安全的國度，你鎖啥門？」這便是我們之間發生的第三次不愉快。
記得還有一個小故事，我到日本後遇到的第一次 J 的生日。我只是晚上準備了煮麵條，弄幾個菜。我們家過去條件差，只有我父親的生日，母親會煮一鍋打滷麵，和一桌好菜，其他人的生日都不過的。所以我沒有多想，那天 J 回到家，看到家乾乾淨淨的和往常一樣，只是桌上多了一根常春藤枝條。他有點不高興了，脫口而出「What is that?」我也僵住了。
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| 當時的桌上只有一支常春藤 At the time, there was only a single sprig of ivy on the table. |
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| 不是生日那天的照片 This is not a photo from his birthday |
後來才知道人家美國人的生日很熱鬧的，又是派對又是禮物，又是蛋糕又是蠟燭，也許還會有什麼 surprise（驚喜）。這就是另外一個文化衝擊。
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| 1989 年夏天，TT 和她的丈夫來紐約 J 的母親家探望我們 TT and her husband came to visit us at J's mother's house in New York |
後來我的生日 J 都會帶我出去吃，當時那個大美女 TT 的生日跟我就差一天，我們四個就在我生日那天一起去吃韓式燒烤（把烤好的肉裹在生菜裡吃，很好吃的）。
從東方的節儉保守走進西方的開放隨性，本就需要一個漫長的適應期。兩個文化背景南轅北轍的人走到一起，生活習性上的磕磕碰碰，注定會給婚姻帶來磨合的陣痛。當初他在中國與我交往時，曾很努力地入鄉隨俗，我們的開始也像「冷水泡茶」，這種慢慢浸潤、漸入佳境的交往方式最合東方人的審美，我也曾暗自慶幸他擁有東方人含蓄穩重的氣質。可真到了共同生活的屋簷下，差異還是顯露無遺。
在新家只住了一個晚上，我們便動身去了美國。每次出入境辦簽證的繁瑣手續都極其消磨人的耐性，向來對政府部門效率缺乏耐心的 J，也只好耐著性子坐在電話前，聽著移民局冗長的語音提示，按了無數次數字鍵，才終於等來人工接聽。他諮詢了關於我申請美國公民身份的條件，得到的答覆是：從拿到綠卡那天算起，三年之內只要在美國住滿18個月即可申請；一旦打斷這個三年期限，日後就得重新計算，且必須住滿五年才能辦理。算下來，這幾年我來回進出美國已經攢了84天，到1993年7月底前，我還需在美國住滿464天。
權衡利弊後，J 獨自回了日本繼續工作，留下我和他母親同住，靜待入籍期限。臨回日本前，J 特意幫我聯繫了一所叫 FLCC（Finger Lakes Community College）的社區大學，報了每週兩個晚上的免費英語班；回到日本後，他還親口朗讀並錄製了好幾盒英國女作家艾米莉·勃朗特的《呼嘯山莊》，專門寄給我練聽力。只是那時的我不夠勤奮，總覺得沒有緊迫感、危機感，白白蹉跎了那段時光。
除此之外，我們在觀念上還有一層隱秘的隔閡。J 很喜歡談論時事政治，而我剛走出國門不久，許多看法在他眼中顯得片面甚至錯誤，為了減少摩擦，我總是盡量避開這類話題。
那段特殊時期，外面社會風波不斷，J 積極上街聲援、捐款。我因為瘸著腿、拄著拐杖沒去，他便顯出了老大不樂意。其實，除了腿腳不便，雖然我也同樣關切，但我有我深深的顧慮——那時海外還道聽途說，有眼線專門混在隊伍裡拍照。我實在害怕自己的行為，會給遠在國內的家人帶來傷害。
受連累的滋味，我是真真切切體驗過的。當年母親因為心直口快得罪了居委會女主任，在那個特殊的年代裡，母親被她趁機打擊報復、批鬥、關押。欲加之罪，何患無辭？一會兒說我們家出身不好，一會兒編造我舅舅是「境外特務」——其實我根本沒有舅舅；又說我姨嫁了地主，可我們跟北京的親戚早已沒有往來，直到如今我都沒見過姨夫。連家裡的小孩子也跟著受罪，大哥還特地囑咐我們幾個小的，在學校填表時「民族」一欄千萬別填滿族——毕竟祖上曾在清廷当差，在那个讲究「出身」的年代，填了满族只怕招来更多盘问与麻烦。
1966年，我那位「老三屆」的四哥原本是個躊躇滿志、在學校裡成績與人品俱佳的優異青年。那年秋天，他光榮地被學校批准成為去北京串聯的代表——若是去成，他就能在9月15日那天，站在數十萬人的大會上親眼見到領袖，這在當時可是至高無上的巨大榮譽。
然而，厄運驟然降臨。戴著袖箍的他興沖沖地跑回家，還沒來得及向家人報喜，就看見樓下家門口圍了一堆人；納悶著上樓推開門，只見我們幾個弟妹一溜靠牆低頭站著，一夥人正在屋裡翻箱倒櫃地抄家。母親突然遭難的消息，對他而言猶如當頭一棒。去北京的代表資格被瞬間取消，隨後他更是被無情地除名。四哥後來痛苦地回憶道：「我真是好像進了人間地獄一樣難受。」
噩夢並沒有就此結束。此後的歲月裡，四哥曾有兩次參軍和一次招警察的機會，每次的體檢和考核都順利通過了，可每到最後一關，都是被政治審查硬生生卡了下來。接二連三的沉重打擊，讓這位曾經意氣風發、待人熱忱的陽光青年從此一蹶不振，性格也變得沉默寡言、謹小慎微。
英語裡有個詞叫 traumatizing（創傷），指某件事給人一生帶來難以磨滅的負面烙印。四哥如此，我們全家也都在不同程度上留下了這樣的心理創傷，比如刻在骨子裡的膽小怕事。這種恐懼，在平靜順遂的環境中長大、向來習慣直抒胸臆的 J 很難真正感同身受。
倒是當時在現場做實況報道的哥倫比亞廣播公司（CBS）晚間新聞主播丹·拉瑟（Dan Rather），面對鏡頭隨口說的一句話，一直讓我感動至今。他說：「我們報道完這些具有歷史意義的事件，都將離開這裡。而這是他們的家園，他們、他們的親友還都將在這裡生存下去，所以有些話，我不能夠問，我不想給他們造成不便。」
我想，也許正是因為這份悲憫與清醒，丹·拉瑟才能跨越東西方文化的隔閡，真正把握住人性的實質。同樣是美國人，那位新聞主播懂得留在本土之人的生存不易，而 J 卻只看到我邁不出步子的退縮。
現在回頭看，我身上那些曾經深深吸引過 J 的「溫良恭儉讓」的東方品德，由於沒有隨著生活環境的變化及時豐富與充實，很快便成了他眼裡的單調乏味。對我個人和這段婚姻來說是如此；若放眼更大的時代，當東西方展開前所未有的政治、經濟與文化交匯時，一個不斷開放的社會所面臨的磨合與陣痛，只會比一個家庭內部更廣泛、也更尖銳。
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Growing Pains After Cold-Brewed Tea: 'Primitive' and the Imprints of an Era in a Cross-Cultural Marriage
Our first argument happened shortly after January 19, 1989. The reason I remember the date so precisely is that during our quarrel, he suddenly blurted out the word "primitive." I didn’t know what it meant, so I asked him to write it down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shopping receipt—dated January 19, 1989, from the Chujitsuya (Daikon) supermarket in Japan, where he had bought a blank cassette tape for 1,850 yen. Flipping it over, he scribbled a string of English words on the back: "Some ways-- primitive- undeveloped- uncivilized --friendship between the sexes." He underlined "Some" twice and "sexes" once, likely to emphasize his point.
I hurried to look up each word in my dictionary, carefully writing the Chinese definitions in pencil underneath: primitive—underdeveloped, simple, ancient, primeval; undeveloped—not developed; uncivilized—unenlightened. Staring at those definitions, it finally dawned on me: he was saying that in certain respects—especially when it came to views on normal friendships between men and women—I was backward and behind the times.
To understand where that "primitive" label came from, I have to mention a young woman from Shanghai named YD, whom J had known before I arrived in Japan. After I joined him there, J deliberately treated her to a meal at a Japanese restaurant so the two of us could meet. We sat at a long sushi bar where the chef prepared sashimi and sushi right in front of us and handed them over the counter. YD sat on the left, J in the middle, and I on the right. Throughout the meal, J spent most of his time turned sideways, facing her. Next to me sat a middle-aged Japanese man. Even he seemed unable to watch any longer; he asked me in Japanese who the man beside me was. I told him he was my husband—goshujin in Japanese. Hearing that, the Japanese man shook his head at me and said, "Goshujin, yokunai" ("Your husband is no good"), giving a thumbs-down gesture at the same time.
When we said goodbye outside the restaurant, YD stood remarkably close to J. You can always tell the closeness of a relationship between a man and a woman by the physical distance between them. I understood immediately, though I didn’t show a trace of displeasure on my face. Instead, I politely invited her in our native Shanghainese dialect: "You’re welcome to come visit our home often." She replied, "I don’t know where your home is." Her answer rubbed me the wrong way. After all, just days after arriving, I had found large bars of chocolate in the freezer, which J casually mentioned were YD’s favorites. When I first unpacked in the bedroom, I had also noticed a palm-sized Chinese-English dictionary sitting in the corner of the bedroom—how could I not guess what that meant? Still, I am someone who keeps emotions well hidden. Whether it was the chocolate or her polite brush-off, I acted as though nothing were amiss.
In the days that followed, YD called J every few days. Whenever I picked up the phone, she wouldn’t even greet me, asking straight away to speak to J. And before hanging up, I would inevitably hear J say, "Same to you" or "Same here." Poor as my English was, I knew the weight those words carried.
Usually, I attended my Japanese language classes and never visited J’s office building. One day, on a whim, I went to his office around lunchtime. Shortly after I sat down, YD walked in. J suggested we all grab lunch together and asked YD to lead me ahead to a nearby food street (Tokai University Chikamichi Shopping Street). Worried I wouldn't know the way, he told her the restaurant's name and gave detailed directions on how to find it, explaining that he had to take a longer detour on his scooter because the street lay down a steep slope. On foot, you simply crossed the road outside campus and walked down a long flight of open-air stone steps. Yet YD led me there effortlessly, without a single wrong turn, walking straight into the restaurant. I ate that meal with the same quiet courtesy.
I am like a mirror: I only reflect when there is fire, and without light, I do not shine. Outwardly, I stayed silent, yet I remembered everything in my heart—looking back, perhaps my mind wasn't broad enough. I am a rational person who prefers facts and reason. I don't raise my voice or throw tantrums; if I’m wrong, I admit it and change, and if I’m right, I don’t press the advantage. Perhaps it was precisely this composed, dignified temperament that made him find me "boring," and ultimately led him to call me "primitive."
Before long, J’s contract at Tokai University was coming to an end, and we had to move out of our university-provided housing. While house-hunting, we had our second argument—this time, because I thought he lacked basic common sense.
During our search, he took a liking to a second-floor apartment facing west. I told him west-facing apartments were terrible: scorching with afternoon sun in the summer and battered by northwest winds in the winter. You needed a north-south facing home with south-facing doors or windows to stay warm in winter and cool in summer. He refused to believe me, leaving me baffled as to how someone could miss such simple common sense. Back home, I tied a nylon string to the tip of a chopstick and held it outside in the breeze to show him the wind direction. A brisk northwest wind was blowing right then, yet he still dismissed my logic. At the time, I hadn't realized how vastly different our upbringings were. The climate where he grew up in the United States differed from China's southeastern coast, and accustomed as he was to turning on air conditioning in the heat and the heating in the cold, he naturally couldn't grasp the Chinese obsession with north-south orientation.
Unfortunately, I suffered a miscarriage and was hospitalized right around then. J had to handle everything on his own—finding a new place, packing boxes, and moving—with some help from his colleague K, even scrubbing our old apartment spotless before turning in the keys. I couldn't lift a finger to help, going straight from the hospital to our new home.
As it turned out, the new house actually faced south: a vegetable patch stretched out in front, while trees surrounded the backyard and the eastern bedroom window. The living room had wooden floors, and the study and bedroom had tatami mats. Because we had just moved in, the house was still cluttered; it must have been unfurnished, as J had bought a few temporary folding tables and stools to get by. The next morning, I woke to the chirping of birds outside. Sliding open the paper-latticed window, beams of sunlight poured in, filling the room with fresh air. Yet when J went to open the front door, he found it locked from the inside. Turning back, he asked, "Did you lock the door?" "Yes," I replied. Growing up, locking the door before bed was second nature for peace of mind. To my surprise, he grew angry and snapped, "Japan is the safest country in the world—why on earth would you lock the door?" That marked our third unpleasant clash.
I remember another little story—the first birthday of J’s that I experienced after arriving in Japan. For dinner that evening, I simply prepared boiled noodles and a few dishes. Back in my family, living conditions had been poor in the past; only on my father’s birthday would my mother cook a pot of noodles with thick gravy (da lu mian) and a table of good dishes, while no one else’s birthday was ever celebrated. So I didn't think much of it. When J came home that day and saw the house clean and tidy just like any ordinary day, except for a single sprig of ivy sitting on the table, he became a bit displeased and blurted out, "What is that?" I froze on the spot too. It was only later that I learned Americans celebrate birthdays with great fanfare—with parties and gifts, cakes and candles, and perhaps even a surprise. That was yet another cultural shock. Later on, J would always take me out to eat on my birthday. At the time, that great beauty TT’s birthday was just one day apart from mine, so the four of us went out together on my birthday for Korean barbecue (wrapping the grilled meat in fresh lettuce leaves—it was delicious).
Stepping from Eastern frugality and reserve into Western openness and spontaneity naturally requires a long period of adjustment. When two people from vastly different cultural backgrounds come together, clashes in daily habits inevitably bring growing pains to a marriage. Back when we first dated in China, he had made a genuine effort to adapt to local customs. Our relationship began like brewing tea in cold water—a slow, quiet infusion that matched traditional Eastern aesthetics—and I had secretly felt fortunate that he possessed such an understated, steady temperament. Yet once we lived under the same roof, our differences surfaced unmistakably.
After spending just one night in the new house, we left for the United States. The tedious visa and immigration paperwork at every border crossing always tested one's patience. Even J, who famously had zero tolerance for government bureaucracy, had to sit patiently by the phone, listening to endless automated prompts from the Immigration and Naturalization Service and pressing countless keys before finally reaching a live agent. He inquired about the requirements for me to apply for U.S. citizenship. The answer was clear: starting from the date I received my green card, I needed to reside in the U.S. for at least 18 months within a three-year window; if that three-year continuity were broken, the clock would reset, requiring a five-year residency instead. Tallying up my previous trips, I had already accumulated 84 days, meaning I needed to stay in the U.S. for 464 more days before the end of July 1993.
Weighing our options, J returned to Japan alone to continue working, leaving me to live with his mother while waiting out the residency requirement. Before flying back, he thoughtfully enrolled me in a free evening English class twice a week at a local community college called FLCC (Finger Lakes Community College). Once back in Japan, he even recorded himself reading several cassette tapes of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights and mailed them to me for listening practice. Looking back, I wasn't diligent enough; lacking a sense of urgency, I let much of that precious time slip away.
Beyond daily habits, there was also a subtle divide in our political outlooks. J loved discussing current events, whereas I had only recently left China, and many of my perspectives struck him as one-sided or mistaken. To avoid friction, I steered clear of politics whenever possible. During that turbulent spring and summer when major upheaval swept through China, J actively donated money and joined marches in support. Because I had injured my leg and was walking on crutches, I didn't go to the demonstrations, which left him visibly displeased.
In truth, beyond my physical injury, though I felt the same grief and indignation, I harbored deep fears of my own. At the time, rumors circulated among overseas Chinese that informants were mingling in the protest crowds taking photographs. I was terrified that my actions abroad might bring harm to my family back home.
I knew firsthand what it felt like to be implicated by association. Years earlier, my outspoken mother had offended the female director of our neighborhood committee. During that tumultuous era, the director seized the chance to retaliate, subjecting my mother to public denunciation and detention. When someone is determined to condemn you, any excuse will do: one day they claimed our family background was bad; the next, they fabricated a story that my maternal uncle was a "foreign spy"—even though I didn't have an uncle at all. They also accused my aunt of marrying a landlord, though we had long lost contact with our relatives in Beijing and I have never met my uncle-in-law to this day. Even the children suffered; my eldest brother specifically warned us younger ones never to write "Manchu" in the ethnicity column on school forms—after all, our ancestors had served in the Qing court, and in an era obsessed with family class origin, admitting to Manchu heritage only invited endless interrogation and trouble.
In 1966, my fourth brother, a high school student of the "Old Three Grades," was an ambitious, exemplary youth with outstanding grades and character. That autumn, he was honorably selected by his school as a representative to travel to Beijing—had he gone, he would have stood in Tiananmen Square on September 15 among hundreds of thousands of people, seeing the Chairman in person, an immense honor at the time.
Yet disaster struck without warning. Wearing his armband, he ran home excitedly, only to find a crowd gathered outside our building before he could even share the good news. Puzzled, he went upstairs and pushed open the door to see us younger siblings standing silently with our heads bowed against the wall while a group of people ransacked our home. The sudden news of our mother's downfall hit him like a thunderbolt. His qualification to go to Beijing was immediately revoked, and he was ruthlessly expelled from the organization. Years later, my fourth brother recalled painfully, "It truly felt like stepping into a living hell."
The nightmare didn't end there. In the years that followed, he had two opportunities to enlist in the military and one to join the police force. Each time, he passed all physical exams and assessments with flying colors, only to be rejected at the final hurdle by political background checks. Repeated blows crushed the spirit of a once-vibrant, warm-hearted young man, leaving him silent, withdrawn, and overly cautious for the rest of his life.
In English, there is a word: traumatizing—referring to an experience that leaves a lasting, negative scar on a person's life. It was true for my fourth brother, and it left varying degrees of psychological trauma on all of us, instilling a deep-seated timidity. Raised in a peaceful, stable society and accustomed to speaking his mind freely, J could scarcely comprehend that kind of fear.
Ironically, it was CBS Evening News anchor Dan Rather, reporting live from the square at the time, whose off-the-cuff remark on camera moved me deeply and stays with me to this day. He said: "After we finish covering these historic events, we will all leave here. But this is their home; they, and their loved ones, will continue to live here. So there are certain questions I cannot ask—I do not want to cause them any trouble."
Perhaps it was precisely this compassion and clarity that allowed Dan Rather to bridge the divide between Eastern and Western cultures and grasp the true essence of human nature. Both were Americans, yet the news anchor understood the fragile reality of those who had to remain behind, while J only saw my hesitation to step forward.
Looking back now, the traditional Eastern virtues I possessed—gentleness, kindness, courtesy, restraint, and modesty—had once deeply attracted J. Yet because I failed to continually enrich and adapt them as my life environment changed, they soon became monotonous and dull in his eyes. That was true for me and for our marriage; and on a broader scale, as East and West engage in unprecedented political, economic, and cultural exchange, the growing pains faced by an opening society are only wider and sharper than those within a single home.
特別感謝 Gemini AI 提供充滿活力的翻譯和文本潤色。
Special thanks to Gemini AI for providing the spirited translation and text refinement.
第四百四十八篇
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