In Nanchang, at the foot of the Tengwang Pavilion, I stepped into a second-hand bookstore and spent an hour and a half with its owner—an hour of which was pure conversation.

Most of his books came from libraries cleared during university mergers. “I collected more than fifty thousand volumes,” he said, then added with a smile, “Some other sources… better left unsaid.”

For more than thirty years, he has pursued this passion, not as a livelihood but as a calling. When I asked him why, he paused, thought carefully, and replied: “It builds a bridge—for young people like you, between past days and present life.” Yet I believe the truer answer is simpler: he genuinely loves books, and that love is the origin of it all.

“Every book here, I’ve turned through myself,” he explained. “Only those that are fine to read do I place on the shelves.” Behind the casual words lies painstaking care. He recommended to me Proof of the Human, recounting its story with dramatic detail. From the stacks he unearthed original editions of Chinese and foreign masters, and what he called “scattered pearls” of literature, telling their stories with warmth.

He also loves traveling. Hearing where I came from, he reminisced about visiting Liuzhou in the early 1990s—“Good mountains, good waters, a city on the rise.” He chuckled: “Perhaps it will flourish again.”

Now, beneath the Tengwang Pavilion, he lays out the treasures of a lifetime, watching the bustling crowds. For fleeting visitors like me, a brief encounter over books and stories is more than enough.

 

“Ask no more when you depart, for the white clouds drift on without end.”