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The site of the old absurdity of the future of new comedy
Fable satirizes fantasy jokes
Absurd black comedy realistic science fiction
The real irony is the senseless irony of life and death
Satire fiction is the art of draining the swamp
The Collector
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Author: Tan Yuesen
Publisher: Writers Press
Publication date: October 2021
Introduction: "The Collector" is a collection of Tan Yuesen's short stories, which, with its consistent spirit of adventure, embodies vast rebellion and the ability to show the comprehensive style. His novels are secular and anti-poetic: "The City That Doesn't Exist Like Snow" is a dystopian novel with science fiction overtones; "Bad Old Man" records the tragic past of a particular time and space with playful language and jokes; "The Boy" destroys the spiritual utopia and false poetic dwelling place through pungent irony.
At a time when bitter coffee literature was widely popular, Collector offered another literary horizon, a new possibility. Whether it is the pioneering nature of the text or the diversification of the novel style, from joke to satire, from grim to absurd, from the real world to soft science fiction, his language is humorous, cold and dark, as if looking for the real aesthetic dimension through the layers of maze.
Content trial reading
collector:
I stood in the desert and sprinkled a puddle of urine on the yellow sand pile. There was a small burst of steam in the sand, and the vast horizon shook, writhing, and was full of life, and I could clearly feel the smell of animals in my urine, which made me very excited. Not far away, a huge group of cemeteries built up by cars loomed out, and every time I took a step, I could get a wheel corridor of a cemetery group, which made me even more excited. It is home to a global concentration of polluted people. Gao Zhimin called the people who lived here a defiler, of course, including me, a heretic, an expelled person, who is now turning to the defiled people, and it is not a surrender, because I understand very well that I am no different from them, I am the same thing. Before I arrived, I had already made the choice of breaking up, and I had no basis in life and death, so I could only resign myself to fate.
"Dream drinker, Dan and cry; dream weep, Dan and field hunting." Fang Qi's dream is also, I don't know his dream also. In the dream, he occupies his dream, and then realizes his dream. And there is great awareness and then knows this and his great dream, and the fool thinks he is aware of it, and steals it. Junhu, Muhu, Guzai! Qiu also dreams with women; It is its words also, and its name is paradox. After all the ages, when he encounters the Great Sage, he who knows his solution is also the one who meets him in the twilight. ”
I had nothing, except for the broken book "Zhuangzi" in my arms, my hands were empty, and I walked alone for so many days, and my body stinked. I smelled a disgusting putrid smell ahead, as if it were secretly rhymed with the smell of my body. The smell was also mixed with some inexplicable smell like the burning of industrial plastics, choking people's noses.
"After all the ages, when you meet the Great Sage, the one who knows his understanding is also the one who meets him in the twilight." The sky was muddy, like stale urine, glowing yellow, and I read Zhuangzi's words because I was about to see Lao Zhang.
A green jeep carrying seven or eight people came to pass. Jumping out of the car was a medium-sized middle-aged man with a beard and an earthy yellow camouflage suit. As soon as he saw me, he showed a mouth full of black teeth. Yes, he is Lao Zhang, the leader of our filthy resistance army. I didn't expect that he would come to personally greet me as a tramp, and I was very excited.
Everything was forced by them to drive us to the land of the dead. There's no energy, no network, nothing but the dead, the bones of those ruined cars, where we and our loved ones are buried. Lao Zhang said.
We need more people to fight their tyranny. Those highly intelligent people, a group of beasts who change their genes at will to become powerful and cold-blooded.
What they have in their chests must not be human hearts, they must not be. If so, why don't they see us as human beings? Even if it's a little bit of people looking.
I listened to Lao Zhang talk as I looked out the car window. Pile after pile of car tombs, rusty, different brands, different body colors, one after another folded or welded and built up, you have me, I have you, or grotesque shape, or decent. Those who had carried people for a long time, who had traveled anywhere on the independent planet, were now completely silent, all turned into scrap, into urns, coffins containing the remains of the dead (complete or incomplete, several or one, mixed together, patchwork together), a magnificent system. Tombs range from thirty or fifty meters high to over 100 meters. I couldn't see the end, and this huge sight was simply unparalleled. But I could feel that the necromancers inside were like living creatures, and there was an indescribable horror, like entering the territory of the god of death. Despair or something else, or nothing else.
What they have in their chests must not be human hearts, they must not be. If so, why don't they see us as human beings? Even if it's a little bit of people looking. Lao Zhang repeated this sentence. I saw that his face was like the pain and pity of the depression that came out of the difficulty of defecation, and his eyes were scattered, like a child.
The speed of the car slowed down, and the tombs became more and more dense. There are streets, and many people are standing on the side of the street watching us. It seems that our car is probably one of the few vehicles in the cemetery that can drive—I don't see anything else that can move. Cars circle around, like they're shuttling through a dark metropolis. Occasionally you can see lights, but very few, and there are scattered small fires, as well as small children playing. When the car approached them, they shouted, "Old Zhang, old Zhang is coming." "Most of the buildings in the cemetery are black, tall, black, and smell of corpses. There was a thick smell of corpses everywhere, like excrement. When a person dies, it may be a kind of excretion.
The larger complex should be the car tomb group towering in front of you. I looked up, and it was pitch black. A hundred meters high? Two hundred meters high? Lao Zhang looked at me with my neck crooked, smiled and said, In our automobile cemetery, this is, it is five hundred meters high, and no one can count how many cars have built it up. "Isn't it?" Lao Zhang asked a "warrior" on his left, and the warrior quickly nodded and replied, "When I was a child, I counted here, and I kept counting, and I still haven't figured out how many cars super number one is built up." ”
About the Author
Book Author / Tan Yue Sen
Tan Yuesen, male, born in the 1970s. His novels sit somewhere between Beckett and Kafka, and are characterized by avant-garde characters as "the ruins of the old absurd and the future of the new comedy.".
|| Source: Network
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