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We continuously shift our mindset with experiences, and our mindset, in turn, constantly shapes our experiences. It’s a cycle of ups and downs, of stumbling and falling. The only constant is that endpoint.
We continuously shift our mindset with experiences, and our mindset, in turn, constantly shapes our experiences. It’s a cycle of ups and downs, of stumbling and falling. The only constant is that endpoint.
We continuously shift our mindset with experiences, and our mindset, in turn, constantly shapes our experiences. It’s a cycle of ups and downs, of stumbling and falling. The only constant is that endpoint.
A Solitary Pilgrimage is the Chinese edition name of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. I feel the former is better than the latter, as it more likely picture what the main character, Harold, suffered: a lonely journey.
A few days ago when the phrase A solitary pilgrimage came into my mind, I didn’t even know it was the title of a book. I just inexplicably recalled this phrase, feeling quite moved. Perhaps it was the subsequent influence of reading “Tokyo Lonely.” A solitary pilgrimage is almost fitting for each of us. Our lives are all a journey of solitary
However, this book, which came unexpectedly and was discovered by chance, turns out to have had a prestigious reputation. It was once the bestseller of the bestsellers in Europe a decade ago. Surprisedly, when I opened this book, I found it impossible to put down. I don’t understand what exactly is drawing me (the reader) to read tirelessly onward, until today, the third evening—usually at nine o’clock in the evening, I share half an hour of bedtime reading time with my eight-year-old son—when I have already finished half of the book, I seemingly figured out what made its magic.
I bet that this pilgrimage journey is likely the author’s own experience. There is no deliberate manipulation of the plot, no dramatic twists and turns, no rendering of religious insights and profundity, and no description of epic grandeur. It simply and truthfully depicts everything encountered by a person walking on foot for over eighty days and over six hundred miles and the natural changes that come along with this experience.
This reminds me of a story I read a long time ago. It’s about a wealthy man who, on his deathbed, asked his three sons to climb the highest mountain and bring back the findings of their journey which will determine to whom he will leave his heritage. In the end, only the youngest son inherits his assets, as the other two are deemed not to have completed their journey. The reason being, that only this son returns in tattered clothes and tells his father that at the mountaintop, he didn’t see the splendid scenery his eldest brother saw, nor the vast expanse of sky and sea his second elder brother saw. He only saw, amidst the vastness of the world, the endless feeling of his own insignificance that he discovered.
Harold’s journey also began with ambition, perhaps even blind impulsiveness. He experienced the expansiveness and comfort before walking through the wilderness, and he felt the excitement and anxiety of meeting various people along the way. However, as the journey progressed, so did the pain and illness. One day, he ultimately collapsed on the road and was rescued by a poor woman. When he resumed his journey and looked back at what he had gone through, he realized how his ignorance and recklessness had almost cost him his life. Pushing forward turned walking into a battle with his own body, and he found himself defeated speechlessly. The subsequent journey was evidently different from before, but he walked with greater determination and stability because of it…
I haven’t finished reading the story yet; I will continue reading. But I’m deeply drawn to this seemingly calm story—so did the other one million readers, I believe—because it is so genuine. It makes you almost imagine yourself as Harold, as the one walking on the road. There’s constant change both physically and emotionally —sometimes enjoy, sometimes despair; sometimes enjoy, and sometimes tired; sometimes regret, sometimes decisive; sometimes bracing romance, and sometimes lamenting the stark reality.
This is what it means to be a human being; this is life. We continuously shift our mindset with experiences, and our mindset, in turn, constantly shapes our experiences. It’s a cycle of ups and downs, of stumbling and falling. The only constant is that endpoint.
A Solitary Pilgrimage is the Chinese edition name of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. I feel the former is better than the latter, as it more likely picture what the main character, Harold, suffered: a lonely journey.
A few days ago when the phrase A solitary pilgrimage came into my mind, I didn’t even know it was the title of a book. I just inexplicably recalled this phrase, feeling quite moved. Perhaps it was the subsequent influence of reading “Tokyo Lonely.” A solitary pilgrimage is almost fitting for each of us. Our lives are all a journey of solitary
However, this book, which came unexpectedly and was discovered by chance, turns out to have had a prestigious reputation. It was once the bestseller of the bestsellers in Europe a decade ago. Surprisedly, when I opened this book, I found it impossible to put down. I don’t understand what exactly is drawing me (the reader) to read tirelessly onward, until today, the third evening—usually at nine o’clock in the evening, I share half an hour of bedtime reading time with my eight-year-old son—when I have already finished half of the book, I seemingly figured out what made its magic.
I bet that this pilgrimage journey is likely the author’s own experience. There is no deliberate manipulation of the plot, no dramatic twists and turns, no rendering of religious insights and profundity, and no description of epic grandeur. It simply and truthfully depicts everything encountered by a person walking on foot for over eighty days and over six hundred miles and the natural changes that come along with this experience.
This reminds me of a story I read a long time ago. It’s about a wealthy man who, on his deathbed, asked his three sons to climb the highest mountain and bring back the findings of their journey which will determine to whom he will leave his heritage. In the end, only the youngest son inherits his assets, as the other two are deemed not to have completed their journey. The reason being, that only this son returns in tattered clothes and tells his father that at the mountaintop, he didn’t see the splendid scenery his eldest brother saw, nor the vast expanse of sky and sea his second elder brother saw. He only saw, amidst the vastness of the world, the endless feeling of his own insignificance that he discovered.
Harold’s journey also began with ambition, perhaps even blind impulsiveness. He experienced the expansiveness and comfort before walking through the wilderness, and he felt the excitement and anxiety of meeting various people along the way. However, as the journey progressed, so did the pain and illness. One day, he ultimately collapsed on the road and was rescued by a poor woman. When he resumed his journey and looked back at what he had gone through, he realized how his ignorance and recklessness had almost cost him his life. Pushing forward turned walking into a battle with his own body, and he found himself defeated speechlessly. The subsequent journey was evidently different from before, but he walked with greater determination and stability because of it…
I haven’t finished reading the story yet; I will continue reading. But I’m deeply drawn to this seemingly calm story—so did the other one million readers, I believe—because it is so genuine. It makes you almost imagine yourself as Harold, as the one walking on the road. There’s constant change both physically and emotionally —sometimes enjoy, sometimes despair; sometimes enjoy, and sometimes tired; sometimes regret, sometimes decisive; sometimes bracing romance, and sometimes lamenting the stark reality.
This is what it means to be a human being; this is life. We continuously shift our mindset with experiences, and our mindset, in turn, constantly shapes our experiences. It’s a cycle of ups and downs, of stumbling and falling. The only constant is that endpoint.
A Solitary Pilgrimage is the Chinese edition name of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. I feel the former is better than the latter, as it more likely picture what the main character, Harold, suffered: a lonely journey.
A few days ago when the phrase A solitary pilgrimage came into my mind, I didn’t even know it was the title of a book. I just inexplicably recalled this phrase, feeling quite moved. Perhaps it was the subsequent influence of reading “Tokyo Lonely.” A solitary pilgrimage is almost fitting for each of us. Our lives are all a journey of solitary
However, this book, which came unexpectedly and was discovered by chance, turns out to have had a prestigious reputation. It was once the bestseller of the bestsellers in Europe a decade ago. Surprisedly, when I opened this book, I found it impossible to put down. I don’t understand what exactly is drawing me (the reader) to read tirelessly onward, until today, the third evening—usually at nine o’clock in the evening, I share half an hour of bedtime reading time with my eight-year-old son—when I have already finished half of the book, I seemingly figured out what made its magic.
I bet that this pilgrimage journey is likely the author’s own experience. There is no deliberate manipulation of the plot, no dramatic twists and turns, no rendering of religious insights and profundity, and no description of epic grandeur. It simply and truthfully depicts everything encountered by a person walking on foot for over eighty days and over six hundred miles and the natural changes that come along with this experience.
This reminds me of a story I read a long time ago. It’s about a wealthy man who, on his deathbed, asked his three sons to climb the highest mountain and bring back the findings of their journey which will determine to whom he will leave his heritage. In the end, only the youngest son inherits his assets, as the other two are deemed not to have completed their journey. The reason being, that only this son returns in tattered clothes and tells his father that at the mountaintop, he didn’t see the splendid scenery his eldest brother saw, nor the vast expanse of sky and sea his second elder brother saw. He only saw, amidst the vastness of the world, the endless feeling of his own insignificance that he discovered.
Harold’s journey also began with ambition, perhaps even blind impulsiveness. He experienced the expansiveness and comfort before walking through the wilderness, and he felt the excitement and anxiety of meeting various people along the way. However, as the journey progressed, so did the pain and illness. One day, he ultimately collapsed on the road and was rescued by a poor woman. When he resumed his journey and looked back at what he had gone through, he realized how his ignorance and recklessness had almost cost him his life. Pushing forward turned walking into a battle with his own body, and he found himself defeated speechlessly. The subsequent journey was evidently different from before, but he walked with greater determination and stability because of it…
I haven’t finished reading the story yet; I will continue reading. But I’m deeply drawn to this seemingly calm story—so did the other one million readers, I believe—because it is so genuine. It makes you almost imagine yourself as Harold, as the one walking on the road. There’s constant change both physically and emotionally —sometimes enjoy, sometimes despair; sometimes enjoy, and sometimes tired; sometimes regret, sometimes decisive; sometimes bracing romance, and sometimes lamenting the stark reality.
This is what it means to be a human being; this is life. We continuously shift our mindset with experiences, and our mindset, in turn, constantly shapes our experiences. It’s a cycle of ups and downs, of stumbling and falling. The only constant is that endpoint.