Chapter 2 Section 2

In the morning, I came out of the hospital, entered the Wanshou Temple, and walked into the side hall stepping on the withered and yellow pine needles all over the ground.I really want to take off my shoes and get close to these pine needles with bare feet.The old elms, the dwarf holly bushes, all seemed familiar to me; unfortunately, there was a suspicious smell, similar to a latrine, which one didn't want to smell much.There is a small partitioned room in the side hall, and there is a table in the room, and on the table are piles of manuscripts written on old manuscript paper.These things came towards me with a familiar atmosphere──the past me was floating in the air with overlapping figures.I don't need anyone to tell me that this is my room, my desk, my manuscript.This is because, apart from the gray clothes I wear, there should always be something in this world that belongs to me—besides some things, there must be a place to eat and a place to sleep, and these are all right now.The most important thing right now is to have a place to stay.Sitting behind the desk, I felt much more at ease.I also had a story in front of me.I had no choice but to start reading.

"In the late Tang Dynasty, Xue Song served as a Jiedu envoy in western Hunan. When he went to the station, he took his iron spear with him."This is how the story begins.The story was written in black ink on the manuscript paper in front of me, in a strong hand.The seed paper is made of straw and is brownish yellow. It will break if it is slightly folded, and it exudes a slight musty smell.On the table in front of me were many such papers, rolled into bundles and tied with rubber bands.Opening a volume at random is just the beginning of the story.Before I walked into Wanshou Temple, I didn't expect so many stories.You can write a few words to compare, and then you can determine whether I wrote these stories.But I don't think it's necessary.When I woke up in the hospital, I had black ink stains on the index and middle fingers of my left hand.This means that I have been writing in black ink.On my desk, there is a pen holder full of dip pens, nib up, like a bush of agaves; next to the holder is a bottle of Zhonghua drawing ink.Sitting at this table, I thought: If I were not the author of this story, no one else is; although I don't remember the story at all.These manuscripts are placed here, just like on the windowsill of a hospital.If I don't claim it, no one will ever claim it.The reason why there are unowned things in this world is because some people have lost their memories.

The manuscript reads: In midsummer, on the red soil hills in western Hunan, there is a scene of desolation; the vegetation is withered, not because of the ravages of the autumn wind, but because of the scorching heat.At this time, the weeds on the hillside were all yellow, and even the three leaves of the wild taro by the water fell in three directions; the air seemed to be poured head-on with hot water.There was still a hot, dry wind blowing on the hillside.Spread salt on the skin of a chicken that has been slaughtered and de-haired, pick it up with a bamboo pole and blow it in the wind for half a day, and then roast it in the cow dung fire at night, and it is ready to eat.This chicken has a stinky aroma.In addition to the wind, carrion birds also fly in the sky, because the stench of dead bodies rises in the heat and can be smelled at high altitude.In addition to the birds, there are dung-eating dung beetles, which, uncharacteristically, buzz and fly, looking for the smell on the hillside.Besides the dung beetles, there was also Xue Song, who came out to pick firewood with an iron gun in his hand.Other creatures are hiding in the woods to enjoy the cool air.Seen from a distance, the heated air is churning, like a pot of transparent porridge, and this hillside is cooking in the porridge—this is how the story began.

In the hospital, my bed was very hot, I was cooking in the pot all day long, but I don't remember anything, so I don't complain about anything, I can't even say a hot word, I just feel very happy .I don't understand, what's the heat to complain about.This manuscript has an alien smell.I encountered many things this morning: Beijing City, Wanshou Temple, work permit, office, I accepted them all.Now here is the manuscript - I am determined to reject it.I want it because I wrote it, I didn’t write it—what do you want it for? The manuscript continued: Xue Song wore sandals made of bamboo shoot shells, with loose hair, carried an iron gun on his shoulder, tied it around his waist with a fresh bamboo strip, and hung the glans head. I have nothing on me.It's the height of summer now.If it is severe winter, the scene will be different: At this time, there is a white frost on the grass slope in western Hunan. The frost doesn't start to melt until noon, and it starts to freeze again after four o'clock in the afternoon, so that the whole hillside is frozen. A piece of ice, the green grass is frozen under the ice, as if covered in a transparent film—this is how the original manuscript is, but I always suspect that subtropical places will be so cold—Xue Song came out wearing a cotton robe, carrying a An iron gun wrapped with a grass rope──If it is not wrapped with a grass rope, it will stick to your hands.He still came out to pick firewood.In spring and autumn, he would also come out to pick up firewood—because you have to pick firewood if you want to eat—and always carried his big iron gun.

I vaguely remember that when I wrote about Xue Song, I always started from the noon of the red earth hills, because the red earth hills and noon had an ancient atmosphere, which fascinated me.The terrain here is rugged, empty and uninhabited. When you go out alone, you will feel lonely: walking on the hillside, you suddenly feel that the sky is low, and even the blue sky and white clouds are buckled from the zenith, so the sky and the earth become flat.After a while, the world will become a big bowl, and Xue Song will walk on the bottom of the bowl alone.He felt that he was like an ant in an inverted mortar, about to be crushed, so he couldn't help throwing away the firewood, fell to the ground and rolled.After rolling, pick up firewood to walk, walk into the lush grass and trees, and get into the empty and dark bamboo building.At this point loneliness no longer resembles an ambiguous madness, but becomes a tingling pain in the body.Later, Xue Song couldn't bear it, so he went to grab the red thread as his wife.In this way he will not be penetrated by loneliness and will not be crushed by it.If you feel lonely, hold the red thread in your arms, just like a person with a stomachache needs a warm water bag.If Xue Song is explained in this way, everything goes very quickly.But this way of writing is too direct, and it is too early for the red line to appear at this time.This is the disadvantage of only writing about Red Earth Hills and Xue Song.So this story ends here, and starts on the next page, with another way of writing.

When I read that Xue Song was walking on the red soil hills, I seemed to see him standing under the sky, with the blue sky and white clouds hanging down around him, like a big protruding eyeball.The sight was dear to me, as if I had seen it before.It's a pity that I can't think of anything else from this.Therefore, Xue Song quickly walked over with the firewood, just like the tip of a spear pierced on a hard stone, and slid past lightly... As you can see, this vague memory is in harmony with the manuscript.It seems that this manuscript was written by me. Now that I already have a story that belongs to me, it is not a pity to give it to others.But I don't know who Xue Song is, and I don't know who Red Line is; just as I don't know who Modiano is and who Guy Laurent is.I don't even know who I am.