Chapter 44 Section 44

It was another long day, and he was sitting on a fire bucket made by a villager, which was bought for two yuan. In the bucket, there was a pottery pot, charcoal fire simmering in the ashes, and a cover made of wire. Tea.It was a long night, and it was getting dark early.During the slack season, the villagers can do their own work during the day, but at night it is dark, and only his house is still lit.The villagers talked about his quarrel with his newly married wife for ten days and a half, but no one asked about it, and everything returned to calm. Even now, he knocked on the door of this house without shouting, and came in to look around, chatting and drinking tea. He used to entertain and socialize like this, and he would just light a cigarette when he came.He is already familiar with the cadres in the same village, and he has to establish his own living habits, and let people get used to him as a scholar who does not mix the right and wrong in the village.The few books of Marx and Lenin always placed on the table made the village cadres who could read little respect a little.Sister Mao knocked on his door and asked him if he had any nice houses. He handed her a copy of Lenin's *State and Revolution*. ah?"

Even though Mei Mao had gone to elementary school, she didn't dare to pick it up.Another time, when the woman saw the door was open, he boiled a pot of hot water to wash the sheets.Mao Mei came in and leaned against the door frame, and said to help him take it to the pond and wash it with a mallet, it would be cleaner, but he declined the kindness.The little girl stood for a while, then asked again, "Aren't you going?" He asked, "Where are you going?" Mei Mao curled her lips to express her disbelief, and then asked, "The one in your room, why did you leave?"

The woman asked about Qian, so as not to mention his woman or his wife, those watery phoenix eyes hooked up to him, then twisted the corners of her clothes and looked down at her shoes.He couldn't be satisfied with this woman, he no longer trusted women, he was no longer tempted, he didn't talk anymore, he just kept scrubbing the sheets in the basin, making Mei Mao's stay boring, and he just left. He can only resort to paper and pen to talk to himself to relieve this loneliness.I have thought carefully before I start writing. I can roll up the thin letter paper and stuff it into the bamboo handle of the broom behind the door, and use an iron stick to break through the bamboo joints!If there are too many manuscripts, they will be put into a pickle coin, put lime on the bottom, tie the mouth with plastic, dig a hole in the house and put it in the ground, and then move it to the big water tank.He didn't want to write any book, and the famous mountain of Tibet will be passed down to future generations.He didn't think so much, he couldn't imagine the future, and he didn't have extravagant hopes.

A few dogs barked in the distance, and all the dogs in the village barked, and then gradually calmed down.The night was long, and he was alone under the lamp. The joy of pouring out made him feel palpitations, and he was also vaguely worried, feeling that there were eyes in the darkness of the front and rear windows.He thought about whether the cracks in the door were tight. He had inspected the door many times, but he always felt footsteps outside the window. He stood up from the fire barrel and held his breath to listen again, but there was no movement again. The moonlight was misty on the papered glass inside the window, and the moonlight appeared in the middle of the night.He seemed to sense movement outside the window again, he quietly moved to the head of the bed holding his breath, and lightly pulled the pull switch tied to the head of the bed, a vague shadow was reflected on the window, "The movement is fleeting. He clearly heard the grass outside the window. Noise, did not turn on the light again, carefully tidied up the manuscripts on the table without making a sound, went to bed, and secretly looked at the window covered with white paper and illuminated by moonlight.

Under this clear moonlight, there are still eyes around, spying, watching, and watching you.There are traps everywhere in the misty moonlight, just waiting for you to make a mistake.You don't dare to open the door or open the window, don't dare to make any noise, don't look at this quiet moonlit night when everyone is asleep and panicked, the ambushing people around may rush to arrest you and bring you to justice. You can't think, you can't feel, you can't talk, you can't be alone!If it is not hard work, it will snore and sleep;What nonsense are you writing?Forgot your living environment?What's the matter, want to rebel again?To be a hero or a martyr?What you wrote is enough to get you shot!How did you shoot counter-revolutionary criminals when the County Revolutionary Committee was established?Criticism by the masses can only be regarded as petty trouble in comparison.All of them are tied up, with the surname and crime written in black pen on the sign hanging on the chest, and the red pen crossed the name-the throat is tightly strangled with wire, and the eyeballs are bulging. It is also a new invention of the new red regime. If you stop shouting complaints before execution, you will never be a martyr in the underworld.Two trucks, armed with armed police and live ammunition, were escorted to various communes to demonstrate to the public.A jeep ahead cleared the way, and the loudspeaker on the roof was shouting slogans, causing dust to fly along the road and flying around.All the old women and girls came to the roadside at the entrance of the village, and the children ran behind the truck one after another.The family members who collect the corpse have to pay a grid fee of 50 cents in advance. You will not have someone to collect the corpse. Your wife will have exposed you as an enemy by then. You are not wronged if you are killed by these.You still have no grievances to complain about, put down your pen and rein in your horse!

But you said that you are not an idiot, you have a brain and you can’t help but think, you can’t be a hero if you are not a revolution, or a counter-revolutionary if you are a martyr, okay?You are just thinking outside the rules of this society.You are crazy, it is clearly you, not Qian, who is crazy.Look at this man, he actually wants to think about it!It's a big joke, all the old sisters-in-law and little girls in the village came to see it, this lunatic who deserves to be shot!two You said that what you pursue is the truth of literature?Don't be ridiculous, what kind of truth is this person pursuing?Is it really a joke?Fifty cents a gun—.Come on, is this really going to cost you your life to write?The moldy part buried in the soil is real, don’t worry about it if it’s rotten or not, just go to hell first!

You said that what you want is a kind of transparent reality, like photographing a pile of garbage through the lens, and the garbage returns to the garbage, but you can bring your sadness through the lens.It is your sadness that is real.You feel sorry for yourself, and you must find a spirit that can allow you to bear the pain so that you can continue to live, and to fabricate a realm that is purely yours outside this pigsty-like reality.Or, it is better to say that it is "a myth of the modern age, which puts reality in the myth, and gets fun from writing, so as to achieve the balance of survival and spirit.

He transcribed the myth he wrote in a notebook left by his mother before he died, wrote Alexpedes, made up a foreigner's name, Greek or any country, and wrote Guo Moruo's translation, the old poet As soon as the Cultural Revolution broke out, the newspaper declared that all his previous works should be destroyed, so he survived with Mao’s special grace. He can say that it was translated by Guo Laoren half a century ago, and he copied it when he was in college. Even in the county, who can verify one. The first half of the notebook was the diary of his mother working on the farm before she drowned.Seven or eight years ago, it was the time of the great famine caused by the "Great Leap Forward". His mother, like him, went to the "May 7th Cadre School" and went to the farm to be reformed. She worked hard and saved a few dollars. Monthly meat tickets and egg tickets are waiting for her son to go home to take care of her, but what she looks at is still a chicken farm, and she is already swollen from hunger.After getting off the night shift at dawn, she went to the river to wash, but she fell into the river due to exhaustion or hunger.At dawn, the duck farmer found the floating corpse. The hospital's autopsy concluded that it was temporary cerebral anemia.He did not see his mother's body.The only thing he kept with him was this diary, which contained some experience in labor reform, and it was also mentioned that she would take the vacation days to go home and spend a few more days with her son who came back from college for the summer vacation.He copied the myth, signed by Alepedes, and later put it in a mantra of pickles on a bed of lime, and buried it in the earth at the bottom of the water tank in the house.