The past is false, memory is a road without a way back, all the springs of the past cannot be restored, even the most fanatical and firm love, in the final analysis, is only a fleeting reality, only loneliness is eternal.
—García Márquez
Philip Dick has a short story, "The Minority Report," about Washington in 2054, when the justice system has been able to predict crimes through a "psychological technology" and arrest murderers before they commit crimes, until a police officer himself suddenly becomes a wanted criminal who is "about to commit a crime"... The novel was later made into a science fiction film by the great Hollywood director Spielberg.
Philip Dick was a genius who had provided fictional books to many Hollywood films, and won a Hugo Award for his 1962 political fantasy novel The High Castle. But what I'm going to say today has nothing to do with this story, perhaps with Philip Dick, but only the five words "minority report."
I was born a minority, a minority in life, and a minority in literature.
"The Antidote"
Last year, I went back to my former home, looking for a ten-year-old contract, rummaging through boxes and cabinets, and accidentally finding a "black-faced copy." A notebook covered in black cardboard, the paper is simply yellowed, as if it were unearthed. At that time, the computer was not used, and many of the original ideas that flashed in my mind were written down on paper.
The black-faced copy contained many small notes, full of words that were illegible to myself, and some of them later became my novels. These faded ballpoint handwritings come from the year at the end of the century—brightening up in an instant, little by little, in every detail. People say that they don't forget their original intentions, and I want to thank myself at that time, because I found an "antidote" to save myself.
Literature is my "antidote."
I started learning to draw in elementary school, very simple sketches and watercolors. In the third year of junior high school, I suddenly wanted to enter the Shanghai Art College, the school founded by Liu Haisu, the place where China first painted mannequins. I bought many textbooks and sketch pencils myself, from HB to 12B. My dad helped me carry a plaster cast home—it was a long-haired, flowing foreign man called Marseillaise, an 1836 work by the French sculptor Ludd, originally in a high relief on the Arc de Triomphe in Paris.
I painted for a semester, almost once a day, without any teacher guidance. I made progress every time, and finally I drew to the point of faking the real. I went to the United States to register, but I didn't dare to go out on the day of the professional exam - I was afraid of failure, I was just a three-legged cat, and everyone had studied art from a teacher for many years, which was not better than ah. So, I didn't even have the courage to try it, so I gave up my dream of being a painter.
Later, I kept thinking, if I really went to take the exam that day, what would the result be? Honestly, I thought about it scientifically, and with my basic skills, I was almost certain to be returned. But at least, this will make me completely dead hearted and not regret my cowardice.
I worked very early, working at Shanghai Post at the age of nineteen. At first, state-owned enterprises were still considered good units, at least without worrying about losing their jobs. Later, many colleagues jumped to private companies, or went to China Telecom or China Mobile. One night, I had dinner with a few of my friends who wrote novels and casually asked about each other's income, and my salary was so low that they couldn't believe it.
In the unit, I do mundane and boring work, and I simply repeat myself every day to and from work. I rarely speak to my colleagues because there is little common language. There are also a few colleagues of similar age who can talk about computers and film and television, and that's it.
As for my colleagues who love literature as much as I do, I've only met one, a dozen years older than me, because I found her classical poems on a public computer. Therefore, I often secretly type a few classical poems.
During those years of gloomy mood, I probably stimulated the desire to talk, not to anyone around me—only to myself. From the age of eighteen to twenty, I stayed at home as long as I didn't go to work, quietly writing three poems a week, which still seem childish and clumsy, but it is really a special adolescence.
I often go to the library, Shanghai Library, Jing'an District Library, etc., I do not land on the ground to read "Poetry Journal", read "Harvest" and "Contemporary". To this day, I still clearly remember Mo Yan's novella "A Long-Distance Running Race Thirty Years Ago" in the literary journal at that time, and found that the novel brought people endless fun.
I read Kafka's "The Trial", "In exile", "The Cave in the Ground", "The Country Doctor", "The Lawsuit"... This thin man is tantamount to opening up another world for me. I was amazed that on the first reading of Litigation I could understand his pain. Because I am also in a "unit" where I go to work, I don't know where I'm going tomorrow?
At that time, I bought The Script Collection of Ben Wang Xiaobo's Novels, "The Earth Is Long and Long". At the beginning of "Lixin Street A and Kunlunnu", I read that Wang Er and Kunlunnu "began to eat, drink, talk and laugh, and spend this long night." When the pear blossoms fly outdoors and the snow shines like day, people don't want to fall asleep. This feeling is no different from ancient to modern times." The next part is amazing, and it turns out that there are still such novels written in the world.
This book is still on my bookshelf, turning it over without any trouble, and it is often read and updated. I love his Tang Dynasty story even more, "Night Travel" is the manchu of the novel language, "Uncle Lover" is tender like water and remembers the snow-white skeleton under the South Mountain. Later, there were novels and plays of "East Palace west palace". Twenty years later, no one can write like Wang Xiaobo anymore. When will the next golden age come? To this day, I still love the phrase "there is no difference between ancient and modern".
In 2000, I started surfing the Internet and tried to post my original novels on the "Under the Banyan Tree" website of that year. I remember the first one, which imitates Wang Xiaobo's Tang Dynasty story style, "The Fall of Tianbao Stadium", which is also half ancient and half modern.
Since then, my "antidote" has begun to work.
"Not loudly"
In the words of "Blossoms", I am a "silent" person.
At the end of 2002, I was transferred to an almost idle unit to write the company's history and yearbook. Most of the people who work there are middle-aged and elderly people, and the building where they work is more than eighty years old, facing many moldy archives every day, and there are official documents accumulated for an unknown number of years, from the fall of the Qing Dynasty until the 21st century.
Although most people regard it as a mecca for retirement, I love history very much, especially when confronted with a large number of words from decades ago. I even found many literary works that were first published during the May Fourth period (perhaps orphaned copies that cannot be seen anywhere else).
During this time, I met Fu Xing, the teacher of "Sprout", was able to publish many novels, and became a best-selling author without hesitation. I suddenly found that the royalties I earned from writing novels in a year exceeded dozens of times the salary paid to me by the unit.
But I didn't choose to leave and continued to last for about two years. For me, going to work is no longer about surviving, it's just about fulfilling an obligation. Or, going to work has become a habit, and it seems like I'll never be able to adjust to the living state of a freelance writer who stays at home every day.
After another two years, I decided to start my first magazine, registered my own company, and finally left my original unit. I don't feel like I'm leaving early or late, it's the right time. For everyone, there is an appropriate time for each.
In the autumn of 2005, I met Mr. Kim Woo-sung for the first time. At that time, Shanghai Literature magazine published a novel of mine, "Xiao Bai Buy", and it happened that Mr. Jin was my responsible editor. Participating in the activities of the Writers' Association together, Teacher Jin and I also chatted a few words. I am an introvert, and I rarely speak during the whole activity, but Teacher Jin said to everyone: "Don't look at Xiao Cai silently, he has a lot of ideas in his heart." ”
Later, I watched "Blossoms", first in the lane forum, and then bought a physical book, full of joy. Not only because the novel is well written, but also because of the two main areas, Sinan Road is where I have worked, and Longevity Road and the Big Chiming Bell are the places where I grew up and still live. Watching "Blossoms", there is a feeling of near-homesickness. And I remembered his evaluation of my two words of "no sound", the essence of "Blossoms", not all in the "no sound"?
"One Night"
My collection of short stories, The Longest Night, says the most about memory.
Time has countless series, Borges says, with divergent, converging, and parallel times weaving into a growing, intricate web. A web of time that draws closer, diverges, intertwines, or never interferes with each other encompasses all possibilities. Time is forever bifurcated, leading to countless futures.
Looking back at my eighteen or nineteen years old, I still feel some regrets - I have not enjoyed the carefree carefree of adolescence at that age, and I am vaguely worried about my future, worried that I may have to spend an ordinary life in an ordinary place for the rest of my life.
I am afraid that like the adults around me, I will gradually lose all the innocence and enthusiasm I had when I was a teenager, gradually assimilated by the insensitive life, gradually quarrel over a few hundred yuan or a few bags of new year goods, and gradually drift in the life channel arranged by others for you.
When we were little, in fact, we had grown up. At that time, everyone had their own dreams, my dream was to be an archaeologist in elementary school, to become a painter in middle school, and finally to become a writer by mistake. To this day, I am still ashamed of the word "writer".
"One Night" has brought me a lot of honors, brought me many surprises, and even many literary awards. But I still feel like a full-fledged minority.
Some people say that I have a lot of popular readers, and I am really a majority.
But I think about it carefully, in the circle of genre literature, I am too literary; in the circle of pure literature (perhaps just hanging out at the door), I am too genre, and even considered to be "a bold intrusion into the traditional literary world" (Yudaf Novel Award).
Enter the comments of the judge Yuan Min - "The author was originally a best-selling author who wrote suspense novels, and he introduced the best-selling elements of the Internet into traditional literature, and this collision and attempt is very meaningful, especially rare." "Okay, but I have to admit that I'm so lucky to be a minority!"
"Lonely"
I am a minority, and minorities are destined to be lonely.
By nature, I don't like to get together and I don't like to socialize with people. I don't drink or smoke, so I don't have access to various wine table gatherings. I have a lot of friends in the writer's circle, but I never call friends, and I regret that I can't interact as boldly as the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Forest, let alone be as high as Márquez's living room.
Last year, I went to Beijing to hold the Ninth Congress of the Chinese Writers Association. Of course, I met many people at the meeting. Chi Zijian, for example, I've always liked her novels and what she said at an awards ceremony. Just stayed in the same hotel, once, we met in the elevator, I said softly "Teacher Chi is good", she smiled at me and nodded. A few days later, I saw her going into the elevator again, and I waited a moment before coming in together.
There were a lot of people in the elevator, and Chi Zi built to the sixteenth floor, and I went to the eighteenth floor. Finally, there was no one else in the elevator, and I said a word to her: "Teacher Chi, I like your works very much." She was very happy, but unfortunately the floor arrived, and she could only say goodbye in a hurry. However, saying this sentence itself makes me feel very simple and happy.
There was also Shu Ting, when I voted for the election, I found that the lady sitting in the row in front of me had the word "Shu Ting" on the name board. Isn't this the goddess of obscure poetry? I didn't bother her, I just sat in the back, trying to recall her To the Oak Tree and The Goddess Peak. After the meeting, I pretended to pass by her casually and said, "Hello Teacher Shu Ting." This is the only thing I have ever said to her, I don't know if I will have a chance in the future? I think it's like the language of poetry, concise and concise, enough.
I think, true writers, the flesh is never lonely, but the heart is lonely, lonely to the point of having no friends. The friends that a person can make in a lifetime are infinite, even if they look back and forget; but the words that people can write in a lifetime are very limited, that is, words of quality. Each is alone, each is brilliant. If you really feel good, saying "hello" can make you very happy.
And I, who am in the minority, prefer to write in loneliness like Kafka and Wang Xiaobo, whether you read it or not, the novel is here, blooming silently, and then quietly withering.
Hello, yourself.
(To be continued, "Like Yesterday" is about to be released)