Chapter 16 sixteen

16 They say now that my novel has a life.They also say there is a shortage of novels about student life.As I said, the word life is used in a strange way: within companies, we have organized life, collective life.Outside of the company, we have a family life, a married life.In addition, you can also experience life.In fact, life is what happens when you don't want it to happen...it has nothing to do with being real or not.When I first wrote this novel, they always said that my novel has no life, which does not mean anything else, it just means that this novel was outside of life at that time, and that I really wanted to write this novel; but now they say that there is life, This doesn't mean anything else, it just means that it has been completely integrated into the track of life, and it also means that I don't want to write this novel now.

The life of the teacher is living in a tube building, dozing off in recitation classes every night, and meeting an exhibitionist on campus; falling in love with a big student is not in her life.She signed off on my first draft and said that what I wrote about was her life precisely because it wasn't her life that I wrote about—that's how it started.As a result, things went downhill: I wrote it over and over again, and she signed it over and over again, and this novel became her life.So she left school and walked away. Before I go to work in the morning, I spend a lot of time grooming, shaving, applying cold cream, and painting my eyebrows.This is very necessary, my face is pale and green, I look a little ghostly, and my eyebrows are too thin.Then spray perfume on your underarms to cover up your recent body odor.My physique consultant advised me to wear padded underwear because I'm not muscular enough.He also advised me to use a padded bodyguard, but I don't need it now, it's grown quite large.Then I go out and stop by the florist on the way to work to buy a bouquet of red roses for the brown ones.In the flower shop, a girl in a short black leather skirt winked at me, but I ignored her.Then she walked with me all the way to the parking lot, saying crazy provocative things behind me... Finally, she finally stopped my car door and said: Uncle, stop being prudish—are you duck?I shouted in a muffled voice: Get out!Chase her away.This kind of girl didn't learn well since she was a child, she got zero marks in her homework, and started working after graduating from middle school; she is not the same as us.Then I sat behind the wheel coughing and sighing, thinking "brown" never paid attention to me.If she pays attention to me and chats with me, at least she can save a few math problems.She was solving problems so fast that the existing math problems were not enough.

Regarding Brown's female colleagues writing real novels, I now have the following conclusion: Regardless of whether they are written well or not, fiction does not matter whether it is true or not.As you know, fiction is allowed in fiction, so there is no real fiction.But it can be divided into novels you really want to write and novels you don't want to write.There's another distinction that makes more sense: Sometimes you're actually writing a novel, but more often you're living a life. It's similar to making love: a man and a woman are really making love if they both want to do it.If they don't want to, but others ask them to do it, then it's not making love, but living a married life.We sit in offices, not writing novels, but living writing lives.She was tired of living in this kind of life, and went out to experience life-this should be said to be a mistake.There is really no difference between the life you experience and the life you live.I knew what Brown was going to do: actually write fiction.To do this, one must escape from what is called life.To really write, one has to go outside of life.But I dare not tell her this conclusion.I am very timid and dare not make mistakes.

Now "Brown" comes to class early every day, sits behind the desk, knits a sweater and does exercises at the same time.She looked like a cunning spiderman, manipulating dozens of sweater needles while looking at a workbook—a workbook in the hands of a colleague.She had a toothpick in her mouth, bit it to pieces, spat it out again, and yelled: "Turn over the piece!"She quickly finished flipping through an exercise book before she began dictating the answers.The terrible thing is that there is no wrong one.I mobilized all my colleagues, some went out to find exercises, and some turned over the films for her.After I arrived in class, I presented this bouquet of roses to her. She just sniffed it, threw it into the wastebasket, and then yelled: "Big brother, these questions are meaningless!"I want to write a novel!She can do a problem set in an hour, but can't figure out how to write a real novel, let me tell her.It stands to reason that I should slap her, but I just sighed and comforted her: Don't worry, don't worry, let's figure out a way; then I sat down in my seat.

In her "brown" writing life, she was writing a more boring story than "Teacher-Student Love".The difference between her and us is that she doesn't make up stories to vent her anger.So she went to experience life and got gang raped.This shows that she is stupid and can't live.Since life is so boring, there must be a way to get through it.This matter is not so easy... At least it is much more difficult than solving exercises. "Brown" told me that after that incident, sitting on the dirt floor, she suddenly became terrified.For some reason, she thought that these people might kill her to silence her... She was right. Raping a woman is a death penalty, and those country boys definitely don't want to be identified by her.Although it was dark, she said she saw the men gesturing behind their backs.It was a surprising thing: I knew she was as blind as a bat and couldn't see in the dark.But I was usually like a eunuch, and when I was set on fire by the point of a knife, I also became like a cannon; so this incident is believable.A guy asked her: Don't you recognize us?She replied bluntly: I can't recognize it.I don't recognize any of you eight.After those people heard this, they immediately left and let her go.This answer is very clever: there are obviously four people, but she said it was eight.If it were me, I couldn't think of such a good way out.But she became so neurotic because of it, let me guess why she is so afraid of death.As you know, I'm good at guessing riddles, but I didn't solve this one.The answer to this riddle is: I am so afraid of death, which means I am alive.What a Solomon answer!Now I am afraid I can no longer say that she is a fool.In fact, it was rewarding for her to experience life.First, she discovered that she did not want to die, that is to say, she was alive.Since she is alive, she has her own will.Now that you have your own will, you should know what it means to really write a novel.But she would rather be a female locust who ate a lot of exercises than think in this direction.I also don't want to point out this point: I just write it at home and don't tell anyone.That's how you're really writing a novel.I dare not make mistakes, and even if I make mistakes, I won't let you know.I noticed that the "brown" was always biting the toothpick, biting the gap between the teeth very wide.She should be told not to bite the toothpick, but to eat apples instead—with her crazy appearance, she can definitely eat two sacks of apples a day, and the shit she comes out is all applesauce... I am in the company now, and I have nothing but "life" things to do.So, I can only go back to the thermodynamics classroom in the second year of college, planning to fall in love with the teacher there again.