Two years before his death, my father gave me a small suitcase filled with his manuscripts and notebooks. In his usual joking tone, he asked me to read it after he left, which meant that he passed away. 　　”Just take a look,” he said, looking a little embarrassed, “and see if there’s anything you can use in it. Maybe when I leave, you can pick something to publish.” 　　We are here in my In the study room, surrounded by books. My father was looking for a place to put his suitcase down, walking back and forth like a man eager to get rid of some painful baggage. Finally, he quietly…