I am in the book, I am in the world.

 　　Recently, I saw a WeChat article titled "Reading Can Not Only Heal, But Also Cause Depression," citing the example of Feng Xiaoqing's death from depression after reading *The Peony Pavilion* as evidence, highlighting the importance of choosing books carefully. I grieve for every lost soul in this world, but to give up certain books to escape a dark mood would be going too far.

　　Empathy is an innate psychological state in everyone. To feel melancholy because of a book is like feeling down because of gloomy weather, sad because of a stray cat, or yearning because of the heroine's silhouette. Because the atmosphere in the book is like that—a heavy twilight, wispy clouds—empathy only arises when you dare to enter the book's world. If I were to appreciate a play, I would rather be an invisible person on stage, running alongside the actors, than sit in the audience nodding elegantly.

　　Lately, I've been reading mostly depressing books: from Ryūichi Murakami's gradual accumulation of small events into a profound sadness to Oscar Wilde's mad and destructive worldview, from Milan Kundera's struggles and predicaments of genius to the upheavals brought about by the environment in *The Island* and *The Thread*. There's the madness of giants, and the desolation of ordinary people. Those who observe with detachment or engage in mockery may seem detached, but ultimately, they cannot internalize the stories. Reading those heart-wrenching or poignant words with a "what does it have to do with me?" attitude simply means not being truly engaged.

　　When you truly immerse yourself in a book, empathy and a sense of belonging naturally arise. We can understand the vast world through books, therefore empathy is essential. I accept the bad mood this book left me with; I don't want to only read comedies and avoid tragedies for the sake of daily "healing," and I certainly won't choose tragedy for the sake of a sense of superiority through comparison. Reading is pure; it simply adds another layer of understanding, another way of life. At least I've experienced the ups and downs of the stories within, leaving a lingering and profound aftertaste.

　　Of course, I won't forget that I'm still alive, experiencing the joys and sorrows of the real world just like everyone else. I focus on my own life, living it earnestly, but I also carve out a corner of my time and soul for the characters in books—isn't that also a way of life?! Empathize with the extraordinary characters in the books; this time, don't be a spectator or a passerby, but an participant.

　　Don't abandon those shadowy clouds in the books, don't always chase after that "beauty like jade." Listen to the "song" of the thornbird pierced by a rose, forget the sunshine and rain you're always so eagerly pursuing. Between the books and the real world, why not take another step?

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