It is exactly 2:00 p.m. Beijing time on April 21, 2022. Just a few minutes ago, I finished recording Lesson 40 of To the Unique You: 40 Lessons in Personality Psychology. That means the series, nearly half a year in the making, is officially complete.

It is hard to describe how I feel. Every student writing a thesis dreams of the happy moment when they can compose the acknowledgments. Through every late night of writer’s block that nearly made me bald, I used this moment to urge my suffering present self to keep going. But as we revealed in Episode 36, that is merely an evolutionary trick for pumping ourselves up. Now that the moment has arrived, alongside the sudden relief there is perhaps a stronger sense that something has been lost.

I am actually a rather lazy person. My WeChat signature is eight Chinese characters meaning: If I’m not asleep, I’m sleepy. Teaching and research already keep me extremely busy; given a choice, I spend the rest of my time lying down. Yet these six months have been an unusually industrious period, and the eight characters became twelve: If I’m not writing, I’m thinking about writing。

Why, despite countless urges to imitate Stephen King and suspend publication, did I make it all the way to the end? (Because I signed a contract with Vistopia—no, that’s not it!) Slowly I discovered that although this seemed like one-way communication across separate times and places, I, the speaker, was constantly receiving things I had never expected.

To be honest, I never understood the advantage of sharing knowledge through sound. For learning, I thought text and reading were obviously far more efficient. This experience overturned that belief. Listeners have said that my narration feels like a friend sitting beside them. If I truly gave you that feeling, perhaps it is because I really did imagine you as I spoke: on a crowded subway during the morning rush, on a bright and idle afternoon, on a rainy evening when you felt low, or awake at midnight with worries on your mind. Perhaps you smiled knowingly at one point, sank into thought at another, or looked puzzled and skeptical. Imagining those scenes and expressions revealed an unexpected form of exchange. Producing and hearing the audio happen at different times, but the moment communication truly occurs exists in both your world and mine. Whether resonating or colliding, our life energy meets and strikes a tiny spark. We cannot see it, but for me it is an immense honor.

I came to understand that in this turbulent and estranged age, when everything can be quantified, what cannot be priced becomes especially precious. When cold machines do everything, we long all the more for something tangible and felt: beside us, before our eyes, at our ears. Wrapping words in a voice allows ideas and warmth to be exchanged together. This far surpasses the popular-education function I originally imagined and expected.

During the series, discouraging news arrived from time to time. I often thought of so many people living in pain while I could do nothing direct to help. The show continued as usual, as though nothing had happened, and I felt guilty—as if others were suffering while I carried on singing and dancing. Eventually I realized that doing what each of us can do, sometimes conveying strength indirectly—comfort, steadiness, or hope—and preserving ordinary life amid disorder and chaos can also be a form of support. As long as we still think and feel, we have not surrendered our greatest weapon against an absurd and unpredictable world.

Finally, a great wave of thanks.

Thank you to everyone who listened. I received every encouragement, suggestion, and generous personal story, and they warmed me deeply. Every person sincerely working to live well is part of the gentle, tender force I keep describing—the force that can change the world, little by little.

Thank you to dy and Xiaxia, who planned the series: for finding me in the vast crowd, waiting patiently, and encouraging me whenever I wanted to run away. You gave me the courage to board this pirate ship—no, to set out on this road of no return—no, never mind. In any case, we became good friends. In them and the whole Vistopia team, I saw what young people can be: lucid and perceptive yet empathetic and loving, capable yet guided by ideals.

Thank you to editor Xiaxia and to Xiaopu, who joined later in post-production. They were the show’s miracle moisturizer, turning dryness into something supple. Hearing the song by Omnipotent Youth Society, or the piano music flowing through the Jung episode, moved me profoundly and let me experience the magic of sound all over again.

Thank you to my beloved Professor Xu Yan and to Daoshi for recording recommendations, and to the great predecessors in personality psychology. Their insight repeatedly stirred me as I wrote. It is a joy simply to carry their great ideas to others.

And now this truly is the end. I dedicate this series to companionship, waiting, and resonance; to late nights and early mornings; to weariness and comfort; to sincerity and love; to gentleness and tenderness; to change and acceptance; to unfettered brilliance and scattered moments of calm; to boundless imagination and the eternal order within; to unexpected meetings and inevitable farewells; to all things, to the universe, to incomparable humanity, and to every unique one of you. May light surround you, and may you be that light. I’m Wang Fang, sending you every gesture of cleverness, affection, and beauty in the world. Until fate brings us together again—bye!