When Charles Lee handed me the small red notebook in 1974, he changed my life. “While you are traveling, you should keep notes of things you see and do,” he explained.

    I was 20 years old, a junior in college, spending a term at the University of London. Charles was a retired traveling salesman. I was staying with him in his cottage in Kendal, located in the Lake District of northern England. It was a one-week homestay the university arranged for us before classes began.

    I took his advice. I wrote in the notebook every day during the homestay. Back in London, I recorded weekend trips to Wales, Yorkshire, France, and Spain. I commented on my classes, professors, and classmates. I contrasted my life at a small college in the US with my wandering through the streets of London, my introduction to life in a big city, and my initial travels outside the US. I tracked ideas I had about my life and my future.

    When I wrote in the notebook, I struggled with a sense of my audience and purpose. Who would read this? Were these writings just for me, or did I want others to read them? Was I recording events and ideas just as a prompt(提示) to memory, or was there some larger purpose for this daily exercise?

    I knew I was recording events, thoughts, words that were important to my life. I imagined a future me sitting down to read the pages. I wondered what it would feel like to read those words later. I wondered where I would be and what my life would be like.

    I filled the notebook Charles gave me. I bought a new one and filled it. Then another and another. I continued writing in notebooks for four decades. By that time, they filled two boxes in my garage.

    I had reread some of the journals. Specific volumes had provided me with the background I needed for dozens of articles for magazines. But I had never read them all. Recently, I decided to bring my collection of notebooks into my office and replay my life. As I opened the first box, I suddenly became nervous would I like the former me described on those pages? There was a risk in opening that first notebook. I did it anyway.

    Charles had been right. I remembered the big events and the central happenings, but on each page were many details I hadn't retained(保留).

    The pages revealed highlights from college classes and stories about roommates and friends. I read anxious comments I'd written as I'd launched my teaching career, learned to write lesson plants, assigned grades for student work, and solved discipline problems. I reflected on my coming marriage, then the wedding, and eventually the proud moments when I held each of my three girls as a father. I recounted more trips—returning to Europe, teaching in South America, going on safari(游猎) in Africa, and exploring Greenland. I relived memories of trails hit, rivers crossed, and mountains climbed.

    The writings in those journals framed my life. I hadn't written every day. I often skipped a few days or even weeks, but I always picked up the writing when it felt important. Journals went with me when I traveled, and I often wrote in them at school when my own students were writing.

    It took several long evenings to read through the notebooks, taking me on tour spanning(持续) 42 years. As I read I could recall sitting on a bench in Trafalgar Square in London or in our apartment in Peru to write to the future me. It was then that I realized: I am now the person I was writing to throughout those years.

    Samuel Osmond is a 19-year-old law student from Cornwall, England. He never studied the piano. However, he can play very difficult musical pieces by musicians such as Chopin and Beethoven just a few minutes after he hears them. He learns a piece of music by listening to it in parts. Then he thinks about the notes in his head. Two years ago, he played his first piece Moonlight Sonata (奏鸣曲) by Beethoven. He surprised everyone around him.

    Amazed that he remembered this long and difficult piece of music and played it perfectly, his teachers say Samuel is unbelievable. They say his ability is very rare, but Samuel doesn't even realize that what he can do is special. Samuel wanted to become a lawyer as it was the wish of his parents, but music teachers told him he should study music instead. Now, he studies law and music.

    Samuel can't understand why everyone is so surprised. “I grew up with music. My mother played the piano and my father played the guitar. About two years ago, I suddenly decided to sun playing the piano, without being able to read music and without having any lessons. It comes easily to me — I hear the notes and can bear them in mind — each and every note,” says Samuel.

    Recently, Samuel performed a piece during a special event at his college. The piece had more than a thousand notes. The audience was impressed by his amazing performance. He is now learning a piece that is so difficult that many professional pianists can't play it. Samuel says confidently,” It's all about super memory — I guess I have that gift.”

    However, Samuel's ability to remember things doesn't slop with music. His family says that even when he was a young boy, Samuel heard someone read a story, and then he could retell the story word for word.

    Samuel is still only a teenager. He doesn't know what he wants to do in the future. For now, he is just happy to play beautiful music and continue his studies.

    Twelve years ago, Danny called me from a dark, damp subway station. “A baby!” he shouted. “Get down here, and flag down a police car or something.” By nature, Danny is a remarkably calm person, so when I felt his heart pounding through the phone line, I ran.

    When I got to the subway station, Danny was holding a light-brown-skinned baby, about a day old. The baby had been wrapped in an oversize black sweatshirt and left on the ground in a corner behind the gate.

    Three months later, Danny appeared in family court to give an account of finding the baby. Suddenly, the judge asked, “Would you be interested in adopting this baby?” The question stunned everyone in the courtroom, except Danny, who answered, simply, “Yes.”

    “But I know it's not that easy,” he said.

    “Well, it can be,” assured the judge before barking out orders to allow me to be a parent-to-be.

    My first reaction, when I heard, went something like: “Are you crazy? How could you say yes without consulting me?”

    In three years as a couple, we had never discussed adopting a child. I was an ambitious playwright working as a part-time word processor. Danny was a respected yet wildly underpaid social worker. We had a roommate, who slept in our living room, to help pay the rent.

    We knew how many challenges couples usually faced when they wanted to adopt. And while Danny had patience and selflessness, I didn't know how to change a diaper(尿布), let alone nurse a child. I didn't trust the system and was sure there would be obstacles. Also, I couldn't handle parenthood. So I promised myself I wouldn't get attached.

    The caretaker held him and then placed him in my arms. But when the baby stared up at me, with all the innocence and hope he represented, I, like Danny, was completely hooked.

    On a Friday night, a poor young artist stood at the gate of the New York railway station, playing his violin. The music was so great that many people stopped to put some money into the hat of the young man.

    The next day, the young artist came to the same place, and put his hat on the ground gracefully. Different from the day before, he took out a large piece of paper and laid it under his hat. Then he began to play the violin. It sounded more pleasant than ever.

       Soon he was surrounded with people who were attracted by the words on that paper. It said, “Last night, a gentleman named George Sang put an important thing into my hat by mistake. Please come to claim (认领) it soon.”

    After about half an hour, a middle-aged man rushed through the crowd to the violinist and said, “Yes, it's you. I knew that you were an honest man and would certainly come here.” The young violinist asked calmly, “Are you Mr George Sang?” The man nodded. The violinist asked, “Did you lose something?”“It's a lottery ticket,” said the man. The violinist took out a lottery ticket on which George Sang's name was seen. “Is it?” he asked. George nodded and took the lottery ticket and kissed it, then danced with the violinist.

    The violinist was a student at an arts college and had planned to attend advanced studies in Vienna. Later his classmate asked the violinist, “At that time you needed money to pay the tuition and you had to play the violin in the railway station every day to make money. Why didn't you keep the lottery ticket for yourself?”

    The violinist said, “Although I don't have much money, I live happily. But if I lose honesty I won't be happy forever.” Through our lives, we can gain a lot and lose so much. But being honest should always be with us.

    As the international demand for narrative(叙事的) film/TV content continues to increase with popular streaming services like Netflix and others the two questions then come: will the coming generations receive most of their entertainment through visual means rather than through the written word and will such an increase of narrative film/ TV reduce the importance of reading?

    Growing examples of this trend include the diminishment(减少) of fiction in the common core (核心的)curriculum, the ever－rising culture of computer games, the wave of streaming services of wide international reach, and movies filled with special effects made for children and teenagers. Nor must we ignore the economic dangers that lie ahead for the written word. The narrative film industry is a moneymaker that dwarfs(使相形见绌) the publishing industry.

    The other underlying question, of course, is "does it really matter if the written word bows to the world of film/TV?" From my point of view, any diminishment of fiction delivered by words is a loss for mankind.

    There is no greater human feature than the imagination. It lies at the very soul of the human species. It is the brain's most powerful engine. It is the essential muscle of life and like all muscles it must be exercised and strengthened.

    Writing and reading are the principal tools that inspire, create and empower our imagination. Anything that diminishes that power is the enemy of mankind.

    It should be known that I am not opposed to new media and technological advances. Instead, I have always felt it necessary to adapt to advancing technology. In fact, a number of my novels are in various stages of development for film, TV, and live stage productions. My hope is that the written word will only stand to be complemented(补充)by its visual counterparts(对应物), not pushed to the edge of extinction.

    Of course, there are those who will present arguments for the superiority of the moving image over the written word. Each has its place. My argument is for finding the right balance between it and the moving image.