Chapter 183 In memory of Lao She's eighty-fifth birthday

If Lao She was still alive, he would be eighty-five years old this year. I imagined that some of our old friends would hold a small celebration party for him, and the place would be in the reception room of the Writers Association.Lao She came in from the outside with a walking stick. As soon as he entered, he looked around with a smile on his face. What else can I say about joy, thanks, and humor, I, a clumsy person, won't say it for him! How could we lack such a friend as him? He was a loving and funny friend, a hardworking and prolific writer, and a devoted and patriotic citizen. I had a close relationship with him in Chongqing, Sichuan in the early 1940s.At that time, he was the main person in charge of the "All-China Association of Literature and Art Against the Enemy".In the midst of poverty and illness, he supported the unity work of the literary and art circles during the Anti-Japanese War.He often came to the Gele Mountain where we lived. His face was pale and his health was obviously not good, but he never complained. He expressed all difficult and difficult situations in a humorous and relaxed tone.After drinking a few cups of Daqu and sitting on the porch looking at the Jialing River, he often told me that there is a certain young and promising writer, if I can see him or her, I should give him or her good encouragement and support.

After the victory of the Anti-Japanese War, he went to the United States, and we went to Japan, and we often corresponded.When he wrote letters to our children, he often used the most vivid and humorous words to express his depression of worrying about the country and homesickness. In the early 1950s, when we returned to Beijing, he was one of the first friends who came to see us.At that time, he was really in high spirits and radiant. The founding of New China and the liberation of the people gave him "ecstasy".He danced and talked to me about many new people and new things that happened in the whole country, especially in Beijing, under the leadership of the Communist Party.

After that, he lived and worked contentedly.He grows flowers, he raises cats, and he writes at least 500 words every day. Prose, poetry, and drama full of local color and national style are poured out from his pen one by one. In the early days of ten years of turmoil, a gust of violent wind swept away Lao She from his "ecstasy". It is such a respectable and lovely friend. If he is still here today, I don’t know how many more profound and moving novels he will write in the seven or eight years after the rain, but it is a pity that he is gone! However, he will always live in our hearts, his voice and smile will always linger in our ears, and he has not left!As long as we live, we will always remember his birthday every year on this day. Early morning of February 10, 1984