Shen Congwen, Zhang Ailing, Abolished Name, Mu Xin...... The number of sands in the Ganges River, there are many "missing people" in the history of literature.
Now another writer named Nanxing has been "discovered", and the famous scholars Zhang Zhongxing, Lin Xianzhi, and Ding Fan are all amazed, and they all call him a "missing person" who has been forgotten by literary history. His few surviving works illustrate a different way of writing than the norm, according to Sun Yu, "not in the dust, creating a world of his own, but without any sense of boredom".
"Lonely Soul" Nanxing/Author: Wu Jiajun/ed
Nanxing was born in 1910 and died in 1996. Formerly known as Du Wencheng, he used the pen name Lin Qi, a native of Huairou, Hebei. He taught at the Confucius School in Beijing, Guizhou University, and in 1950 at the English Department of the School of International Relations. He is the author of a collection of essays, "Silverfish Collection", "Songtang Collection" and "Ganyu Hutong No. 6", poetry collections "Stone Statue Words", "Lost Collection", "March, April, May" and "Spring Grievance Collection", and translated "A Half-Understanding" (Wen Yuan), "Qing Chuan" (Gu Hongming), "Nicholas Nicholas Nickellbet" (Dickens).
□ meet Nanxing
Text/Wu Jiajun
A few years ago, I accidentally pulled Zhang Zhongxing's "Old Shadows of the Red Chamber" from the bookshelf and looked through it, and was attracted by one of the articles, which was titled "The Poet Nanxing". Suddenly, I fell in love with the person he wrote about who was full of "nerdy" and "childishness".
Mr. Zhang Zhongxing praised Nanxing not only for his good poetry and prose writing, but also for his excellent translation, saying that his writing is clear and beautiful, and his feelings are lingering, which often reminds people of Yuzishan and Yan, but his translation is graceful and fluent, such as his translation of "Jisin Essays" and "Wuthering Heights", which he loves to read.
Moreover, Mr. Zhang Zhongxing also used Zhang Hua's evaluation of Lu Ji to evaluate Nanxing, saying that he either suffered too much, or suffered too much poetry, so that there were too few things in the world, and he did not make achievements in literature, at least not to the height he should have.
That night, I searched the Internet for Nanxing's work to see it. It's a pity that there are almost nothing on the Internet, only a few of his poems and a few essays can be found sporadically. What impressed me the most was "The Visitor", which wrote about the visit of a little insect in the dark to a lonely soul. In just a short essay of more than 1,000 words, whether it is the sense of language and talent, or the style and artistic conception, it can be called superior.
After that night, I kept thinking about the name Nanxing, and I was impressed by his short essays.
I wondered how I could find more of Nanxing's works to read, but his works were too hard to find. I asked several professors in the Chinese department, and only one said that Nanxing seemed to be a writer in the occupied area. After searching for information everywhere, I learned that Nanxing was Mr. Zhang Zhongxing's classmate when he was studying at Peking University, and he also had a close relationship with Mr. Xin Di, Jin Kemu and other gentlemen.
After figuring out the basic situation of Nanxing, I thought that I could search them one by one according to the bibliography listed in its introduction. Unexpectedly, all the works published by Nanxing during his lifetime were almost not reprinted after his death. And the original books he has published, if not in the library, have also been put into the dark cabinet of the reference room.
Once I was talking to Mr. Lin Xianzhi about literature on the phone, and he accidentally mentioned a book, saying that it was well written, and the book was called "Ganyu Hutong No. 6", and suggested that I also find it and read it. I was shocked and asked him if it was the book "Ganyu Hutong No. 6" written by Nanxing, and Mr. Lin said yes.
After hanging up the phone, I immediately searched on the Internet, and found that Dolphin Publishing House had republished the book in August 2010, edited by Mr. Chan Tsz Shan. I immediately placed an order and bought a copy online. Under the exhibition, I can't put it down.
I contacted Mr. Chan to get more information about Nanxing from him, but Mr. Chan told me that he had only been invited to edit this collection of essays. As for Nanxing's other works, he didn't have them in his hands. Later, I checked the information and found that the bibliophile Mr. Jiang Deming had also written three articles about Nanxing and his works.
According to the clues provided by Mr. Jiang Deming, I entrusted Song Song, a young scholar who was still working in the Museum of Modern Chinese Literature at that time, to search the collection on his behalf to see if there were any works by Nanxing. With his help, he retrieved a copy of "Silverfish Collection", signed by Lin Qi.
"Silverfish Collection"
A week later, he sent me a scanned copy of the book. Soon after, I came across Nanxing's essay collection "Songtang Collection" at a second-hand bookstore. The book is in tatters, but the shopkeeper's bid price is tens of thousands of yuan, which is staggering. After repeated negotiations with the owner of the bookstore, I still paid a lot of money before the other party agreed to take a picture of the whole book with my mobile phone.
On another day, I was overjoyed to have purchased photocopies of Nanxing's poetry collections, "Stone Statues" and "Lost Collections", as well as scanned copies of the original publications of another poetry collection, March, April, and May, including several essays and poems by the author that had not been included in any collection.
"The Lost Collection"
So far, in addition to Nanxing's collection of poems "Spring Resentment" and translated works, I have collected all his original poems and prose.
After reading and inspecting, I came up with the idea of simply compiling the works of Nanxing that I had collected together with the reprint of "Ganyu Hutong No. 6" into a book for my own reading and cherishing.
For about half a year, I stopped my own creation, and every night after dark, I sat quietly and attentively at my desk, typing Nanxing's works into the computer word by word, and editing them. After the editing was completed, I specially invited a friend of mine who runs a printing house to bind several volumes. On the day I got the book, I couldn't calm down for a long time, and I was even more relieved than if I had published the book.
The next day, I called Mr. Hayashi to inform him of the incident and couriered a book to him. After Mr. Lin received Nanxing's book and read it, he also called me, and he said, "An excellent prose writer like Nanxing is rarely mentioned, and it is really buried. We communicated on the phone for a long time, and at the end of the conversation, Mr. Lin said, "It's better to find a way to publish this collection of Nanxing poems and essays compiled by you." ”
After two years, several discouragements, and several setbacks, "Lonely Soul - The Complete Works of Nanxing" has met with readers and friends.
□ the state of the extraordinary has a normal heart
Text/Sun Yu
When I was young, I listened to Zhang Zhongxing talk and knew a lot of old things. Once, when I went to my husband's house to pick up a manuscript, my son had just gotten up and left. Mr. Zhang said that the article on the abolition of the name is good, and it is not easy for future generations to learn that set of skills.
There is another person's article that is also interesting, but unfortunately people don't know him today. So he talked about his friend Nanxing. Mr. Zhang believes that Nanxing and the abolition of names are both knowledgeable, but the dictionaries have opened up a different way, which is worth watching.
The interest in Nanxing in the literary world is limited to a few people. Such a writer sinks into the depths of time, and it has something to do with the style of the world.
Zhang Zhongxing never forgot Nanxing, perhaps because of the strangeness of the article and the strangeness of the way of life, he did not enter the dust and made a world by himself, but he did not feel bored, and he turned the prose of the Beijing School from the miscellaneous interest of liberal arts to the simple and quiet inner cold thinking, and the reasons in it can be pondered.
For many years, I didn't get an eye on Nanxing's works, and I didn't know this old man who was far away. It wasn't until I recently saw the complete collection of Nanxing's works "Lonely Soul" edited by Wu Jiajun that I knew why Zhang Zhongxing said that he was a person who lived in dreams. Such a smart text does have a sense of emptiness away from the smoke and fire.
"Shodoshu"
His work, which is deeply influenced by Western prose but has no translated tone, is a typical whisper of the Beijing New Literati, bringing out the melancholy of modernity, the pain and the uneasiness of being unable to walk almost everywhere. Bingxin's short essays in the early days, Yu Pingbo's tone, had a similar sound, but it didn't seem to be as lingering as his.
His favorite writers have a similar flavor, such as Tagore's modern poems, Lawrence's sentences, and Koizumi Yakumo's writing, all of which stimulate his own thinking. It can be seen from the article that he usually has little interaction with people, as if he is a little autistic, and there is a mighty wind in his heart.
I don't know what the scope of his reading interest is, but the articles he left behind reveal a trace of traces, and he admires a few people such as Louis, Jin Kemu, Zhang Zhongxing, etc., these authors who go in and out of the study and have personalities, all attract him to listen, think, and torture the things of the ancient capital in the tempering of words, as if those mysterious, incredible shadows and tastes have a meaning that can be gazed at. And the fun of life is probably in a kind of gaze and conjecture.
Nanxing's poems and prose are consistent in rhyme, neither of them are in the vast world, but the description and understanding of the courtyard, peach forest, autumn light, rain and snow. Stories are scarce, and there are no clear traces of the times. What is expressed is only the image of "loneliness makes time stop", the lightness of life in nature, the code words in the voice of strangers, and the unrecognizable recognition, but there are many truths hidden.
His writing is not like ordinary writers of the Beijing School to reveal their knowledge and rarely express precise thoughts in words, but to appreciate the taste of all things and realize the implication in nature. Those can only be felt, difficult to concept, like the surging tide, telling us that only when we are alone, can we feel that there are other people in another world, and countless beings in the distance. The pattern of these words is not too large, and the artistic conception is not grand, but the spirit is far-reaching.
After the emergence of new literature, some writers were wrapped in various trends, and there were many reflections, but Nanxing unloaded everything and returned to his own world.
His writings pursue the expression of natural ethics, not only cutting off the meaning of the old literati, but also discarding the didactic spirit of the new writers. We smell the cold wind of the Middle Ages in the waste name, as well as the faint smell of incense in the Wuzu Temple, and see the Qingjun shadow of traveling far away in a foreign country from Feng Zhi's pen, and there is Rilke-style sadness in it.
Nanxing is different from them, it seems that he is always around his yard, stunned at the ancient trees, asking questions to the spring flowers, listening attentively, the wind and the sound of the wheels are leisurely, passing in front of him, and there is an immeasurable amount of sorrow flowing out. Sigh the vastness of the world, life is fleeting, under the lamp, the mystery of the far is also at the foot, the passage of time, only the traces of spring and autumn are the things to be found.
Reading Nanxing's article, I feel the richness of life. He is good at discovering things that ordinary people ignore, such as writing sounds, which are different from ordinary people, and what he appreciates is not the tune of the noisy market, nor the whispers of the teahouse, but the fluttering and colliding whispers in the wilderness.
The writers of the Beijing School were good at distancing themselves from popular aesthetics and creating a poetic kingdom of their own. Nanxing's writing is probably also happy to be in opposition to the current style, so it is inevitable that the subject matter is single, and sometimes there is a lot of repetition of ideas and poetry.
However, a close reading of his works shows that the pleasant places can be felt everywhere, and the important thing is that because of the poetic eye, the heart of heaven is close to the heart, and the results are naturally not realized by others. There is a normal heart in the abnormal state, and it is far away from the noise of the troubled times of the Republic of China, which is also commendable today.
□ a contemplative withered flower
Sentence / Ding Fan
A few days ago, my old friends Lin Xianzhi and Feng Qiuzi recommended me to read the new edition of Nanxing's collection of works "Lonely Soul" by Huacheng Publishing House.
The greatness of literature does not lie in the number of words, but in whether it can live in the context of the past, present and future, leaving readers with space for thinking and sighing for life, which is an important proposition of the "contemporaneity" of literature that I put forward.
For a long time, works like Nanxing, which express one's own emotions, can only be typed into a separate volume.
However, from the short introduction between the lines of his yellow, moldy vertical typesetting, I not only see his description and reflection on his own life, but also his glimmer of light is enough to illuminate our current general life situation, which is not a dream, this is a living reality, which allows us to see the faces of all kinds of people in modern society in the "completely faded ancient paintings", especially the "lonely soul" of the self at present.
These ancient dreams of 80 years ago are not "getting farther and farther away from this world day by day" because of the passage of time, but are getting closer and closer to this world day by day - this is the meaning of Nanxing's works must be "alive".
In the summer of 1975, Zhang Zhongxing wrote a good evaluation article for Nanxing, and in that era, it was a miracle in itself to be able to write such a Qingtong text far away from the hustle and bustle of the times, which was very much in line with the legacy of Nanxing's works. As a bright star in the night sky of modern literature obscured by clouds, although Nanxing is not the sound of an arrow in the forest of Lu Xun's works, it is also a withered flower that makes the world contemplative.
Nanxing did not leave us many words, and spent his life in poverty, so that he later gave up his literary affairs and disappeared into the circle of literati friends, which has been described in the article "The Poverty of Poets" by Nanxing's friend Ji Guo'an.
I think that Nan Xing is not just a poet; compared to his poetry, the heaviest weight is prose, to be precise, it should be "essays", or "beautiful essays", but its characteristics are no less than ordinary writers in the rest of Zhou Zuoren's lineage; he is also a translator, but unfortunately, I have not read his translations so far, and I must see a glimpse of his literary accomplishment from the language and rhetoric of his translations; he is also a literary critic, from which we can read unusual insights bubbling out of the text.
Ganyu Hutong No. 6
All this does not elevate him to the rank of quasi-first-class writer, the problem is that he is a writer of pathos, which was rare in the literary world of the thirties and forties of the last century. However, his pathos is not the kind of person who blindly tells the difficult times and acts as a spokesperson and accuser for the miserable lives of the middle and lower classes, but substitutes "I" into it and puts himself in a more insignificant figure.
The different aesthetic characteristics released by the compassion of human nature broke through the normal writing method of that era, turning that kind of sorrow and compassion into a kind of confession of life, allowing it to release the light of human beauty in the streets of the city and in the golden fields, and letting the beauty of philosophy be hidden in the auspicious light of Katayu in the description of daily life.
All of this was not only a solitary way of writing in that era, but even in our own time, it is not just works like Thoreau's Walden that can illustrate the exhaustive aesthetic connotation.
The reason why Nanxing is Nanxing is because his "lonely soul" is full of compassion, depression, low-key, wandering, humble, and introspection. Perhaps, this is what Zhang Zhongxing said is the pursuit of the highest state of the three poetic realms, "to live in the poetic realm".
In the 80s of the 20th century, I saw Wang Zengqi say that the writer he admired the most was Azuolin, and said that novels and essays are not a wall, but it was Nanxing who really understood Azuolin, because he had translated Azuolin's works, and in his creative practice, he broke the boundaries of prose, fiction, and even poetry to create a new stylistic form.
Reading his prose is reading prose poems; reading his poems and his descriptions of the scenes is extremely picturesque, just like watching oil paintings; reading his nostalgic articles is reading poems and novels.
Selected poems of the Southern Star
Night Food
Sitting in the house, the heating of the fire surrounds the whole body. If it's quiet outside, with no footsteps from passers-by and no branches hitting each other, I can keep my peace of mind and get ready to start reading a book. It was often at night, and the light was loving to me, and I thought that there was no agreement, and no one would knock on my door, so I silently tasted that tonight would be comfortable. Soon there was a hissing sound that surprised me slightly, and I needed to look back and see the kettle standing on the fire. It added to the sense of comfort in the room, and I often thought of eating something, as if there was a little pot on the fire, and the water was in it, and I would put what was ready to be cooked.
It was a long time ago that I had some snacks or something to eat at night, and every time I think about it, I dye them with fresh colors. I saw the low stove, its red flame stretching unquenched, and I sat so close that I felt the heat on my robe. I waited attentively for the water in the small pot, its cry rising, and the white mist filling the water. If it didn't boil, I wouldn't be able to sit still. Before that, I walked in the half-frozen snow, draped in a heavy cotton robe, defied the oncoming wind, and carried a bottle or bowl to a small shop. When I got back to the house, the cold was completely out of the door. I hurriedly set it up around the table. The last thing is conceivable, I satisfied my appetite and would still sleep with a satisfied heart until late at night. There is no time when it is undercooked or tastes out of place, and there is no time when a few people are fighting for food. I don't remember exactly what winter it was. After that, the night food became scarce, so that he did not want to think of it, lest he suffer the chagrin of disappointment. Yes, now I doubt how easy it was then. If tonight, will there be a vigorous flame in my hearth? Will I have a little pot and prepared food? Can I go out and buy a blend and find a small shop? Can I be so zealous to wait by the fireside? More importantly, the meal shortly before bedtime can make me insomnia or sick, but I remember that when I was a child, I had to wait late at night for my grandfather to come back from outside, and then I would accompany him to have a happy dinner.
Two years ago, I was living in a small alley, far away from the chaos of the market. There was a fire in the house, but it never seemed to be happy, only a yellowish light in the corner of the house. I often didn't pay attention to it until my feet were cold, and I stirred the embers in the furnace. I didn't dare to think it would have the ability to cook a little something. Every night, instead of the sound of water, there are several cries outside the door. It's strange for them to come to visit that remote place. Sometimes I go out and stand at the door and see the light on the burden, very bright, illuminating a section of the alley. I got to know a few vendors, especially the wonton seller, and I became his customer for a trial purchase. His voice and shouting are audible. I could sit in the room, and soon he came in with a bowl in his hand. I felt my gluttony, and there was nothing left in the bowl every time. In this way, when the warmth in my belly does not subside, I sleep comfortably, and my dreams will be very happy. But I finally got out of that alley. My stay there was short, four or five months at most. After the migration, I began to pass the season of snow melting and ice melting, so I didn't miss the small seller I knew too deeply, and gradually became indifferent. One night, I went to a small restaurant and asked for ravioli, but the taste was not at all what I remembered, and I didn't finish it, and went out into the street, feeling very sad, just as I was looking for something and finally disappeared.
There was another night, and I don't know how long it had been, and in what season. A bleak rain fell in the air. In the middle of the night, I looked for a man on a street I didn't know, so I wanted to stay with him. I found it. As I sat in his tired light, a sudden feeling of emptiness attacked me so forcefully that I could not try to sleep with the distress and uneasiness it gave me. I listened unconsciously, and the cry of "hard-faced bait" outside was like a snake crawling into my ears. Soon I was standing in front of another light and speaking to the person I had caught up with. Under the cover of the umbrella, he opened the lid of the basket, revealing a yellowish, yellowish, patterned, and small round or long cake with sesame seeds, which I snatched in my hand. In response to my inquiry, he told me that he had long been accustomed to nocturnal walks, and that after midnight the people who were doing strange things needed food, and would buy a lot of them. But he may have been surprised that I was his customer.
Lately, when I go out into the street or come back from the street, I often encounter burdens, lamps, and heat, and the vendors are either shouting or sitting there silently, but we don't know each other anymore. Why don't I go near them to have a look? Why do I lose my appetite? Why don't I look for another wonton seller? Is it a sign of improvement in life to be able to spend the night without anything to eat? I am a little indifferent to the matter of night food, and the voice, whether from the seller or the kettle, is still my prompter, making me stop my current thoughts and trace my memories for a while.
"The Visitor"
It's night. With a light that wasn't very bright and a chair that had been around for many years, I could sit in the house for a long time. Neither the starry sky outside, nor the moonlit courtyard can attract me. If you happen to go out for a while, you will need to wait a long time to return to the original quiet. But to my surprise, as soon as I approached the light alone, my guests came calmly, often with their long black bodies. It landed in front of my eyes without a sound, and I looked down at it, and it had two slender tentacles, wings on its body, and it seemed to be extremely honest and could not fly. I stretched out a finger and felt that the head and body were hard, especially the head, and when it was raised high and lowered hard, there was an almost crisp sound. I know it, it's the "kowtow" I've ever seen, I don't have the slightest dislike for it, its posture and voice are commendable. It crawled forward gently, slowly, raising its head from time to time to tap. If you put your finger on its body, it will knock hard, and I don't want to do that. But if I don't keep it, it will fly away very quickly, giving me a slight attachment.
There was also a smaller flying insect whose wings were covered with silver powder and shone with a silvery glow. I don't know its name. Some people say it's called "sandflies" and it bites at night, but I don't really believe it. I can't see anything like its mouth. It landed on the table, its wings trembling slightly, as if with some pitiful aura. Unfortunately, once many of them came to disturb me, and were not driven by me, I slew a few of them, and the silver dust on the wings was peeled off. They have since disappeared, and I have not encountered them until now, and I feel a little sorry for the deceased, because they were my least guests.
Never on the table and hovering over the wall forever are agile worms with many legs. It was grayish-white with some dark black patterns on its legs, but I didn't see it very clearly, because I noticed it a little scary. That many legs are enough to make people's eyes uncomfortable, but compared to a cedipede, it is much milder. I call it "Money Skewers", which is naturally not a common name everywhere. When it saw a person or a light, it didn't turn around, as if it was looking at something, until I hit the wall with a stick. It walked very quickly and was not found at all before long. The house was always damp, so it didn't want to leave easily, and I noticed that it had already given birth here. But what do they eat, lying in their damp holes all day long?
The second kind of worm crawling on the wall of my house has only eight legs, and walks very slowly, step by step, like a sick person or an old man. That's a spider. But it's not the same as the completely dark black body that is common in the courtyard, which looks a little bulky and lies on a large net. My spider has particularly long legs, a thin dark gray body, and an elegant and dignified attitude. Only when I saw it I felt like I had met an old acquaintance, and we didn't panic and looked at each other in friendship. Sometimes it walks up to my book, stops for a moment and then comes back to the wall. I haven't found its net or its dwelling, but I always felt that it wasn't a far-flung guest.
Many days ago, I was digging through a pile of old books on the shelves, and under one of them, I found two silverfish of different sizes, and before I could catch them, they went out of sight. At that time, I couldn't think of a way to catch them, and it seemed inappropriate to use my hands. Later, they gradually ran into the cracks of the books on the table, and without fear climbed the wall and ran around before my eyes. It's no less agile than that of a multi-legged worm. Or maybe they're also multi-legged because they're small and don't get my attention. I was particularly disgusted with them, but when I looked at my book and didn't find a few holes, I didn't care much.
Few other worms have come into this house. Some of the above mentioned are often seen, but they cannot break the silence of each night. I miss the stove worm, the soft, powerful singer, which begins to sing every day when it gets dark, almost all night. The tone of the voice, though not high or low, I will never get bored when I listen to it, it will lead me to my contemplation, give me a slight coolness, make me imagine that it is autumn, and it will not make my heart desolate or sad, only strangely peaceful. It likes the wind and dew in the courtyard, so the house does not have the honor of being its dwelling. I could see different insects, but none of them could play the music of the night, except for the kowtow that struck the table, dinging, and the sound was so dull and withered. Naturally, it was already noble among my visitors.
The Ranger
I'm a person who likes to cruise the alleys
I can tell you how many they are
Speak of the most solemn and ancient gate
The tall tree that is lazy and sleepy
and the good sounds in the alleys
I mean the watermill and the hawker
In the middle of the night, when the moon is not visible
I don't look for nasty lights
Only go and listen to the singing of pedestrians in the alley
Or the sound of a wooden tree that has become the music of nature
I felt like I fit in with the alley
It's their old tenants or old travelers
You've never been to any of these places
So they keep the simple history
But why am I afraid tonight?
I'm afraid of the darkness that has soothed me so much
And for the first time, I had the consciousness of walking alone
The music I love is making weird noises
I hurried to the window where the lights were shining
I knew it was the dwelling of the woman who sold groceries
I'm not going to be her client
Just feel like you're going to be there
Or she'll tell me what you bought
If she doesn't dislike my abrupt interrogation.
"Stone Statue Speech"
I can't remember exactly how many times you've been here
But I remember the number of your footprints
Whether left on blades of grass or on the land
Because when this garden welcomes you
I'm going to bow my head hard
How will you guess my experience?
Maybe you think I'm a newcomer
It's not as good as a red maple or an aspen
Maybe your thoughts or memories
It won't come to me, forever
If I have doubts about the past
I think back to some rainy days
Some heavy snowflakes sealed the earth for days
I've seen the transition of autumn and winter
I heard the wind singing like a shepherd
Don't come and see me
This is a scar all over the body
Will testify to my words above
You're too late for the first time
If there are no young flowers and plants in this garden
My hopes may be right and wrong:
May the sun be warm beyond that
Or the eyes of a living person
Or sounds that the bugs don't understand
It makes me forget my past and present
Lost
"What have you lost?"
I cannot answer this sympathetic inquiry
Let him listen to the sleet in the courtyard
Listen to the alternating chanting and chanting
Look at this strange-looking man again
He would have known why I didn't answer
He can imagine what I'm missing
Silence yourself and keep your lips shut
Only my mind does not listen
It's back to early summer night cruises
It knew the long street
There was so much refreshment, how much calm
How much tranquility, comfort, softness
And made my lost place
I've always been an idiot
I think I'll still find it there
I know I was completely wrong
One year from now, two years from now, three years from now
At that time, the description of Long Street also changed
尘沙认得我么，列树认得我么
Do the houses that stand still on either side recognize me?
I can't be a brave wanderer
My years will be neither new nor old
But what I'm missing is a seed
It will grow into a leafy tree
If it's a worm, it will leave the young behind
So my loss is permanent
Spend thousands of years without a trace
This article was originally published in the A6 wide-angle edition of Yangcheng Evening News on December 24, 2023