Chapter 8 Doom (excerpt)

An alley for two.He never looked back but knew that I was walking behind him. He scolded, and he recited: "You must rein in the precipice, your fragile body cannot bear the anger." He turned around and saw purple air rising above my head.He shook his head, and the sun moved quickly behind the tree. He said he saw a ghost behind me. (Such people must have seen the smile of almonds and heard the singing of rhododendrons.) "August, you have to avoid the crows. September, you have to get up early every day." He predicted that I would have a great future, but right now I am being criticized by villains.

A third person appeared in the alley, and the stranger before me disappeared without a trace.I was uneasy, guessing that what was coming was my fate. I have brushed against my fate; in this labyrinth of decay he will come after me again. A crow flies across my August forehead. I closed my eyes, but I heard the crow say: "Don't be afraid, you are not yourself, there are many lives using your body." The gossiping woman under the telephone pole suddenly fell silent. The ears of the subterranean flames are catching her words. The man who shaved underground had a bloody shave. The vanished among us are trudging underground right now.

The searchlight of my spirit sees the secret, orange-red flesh beneath the ground, and also the vanished among us: He climbed up to the top of the wall by chance and saw the innocent flower, and the scream of the flower made him fall. He didn't know whether he had returned to his childhood, he didn't know if this was the place of death or eternal life. Lost in a foreign land, wind and rain in the distance, ran into the former creditor head-on, he couldn't hide his panic with a smile on his face. But the common hunger makes them embrace, but the common language they would rather not speak.

Past the opera house, past the laundromat, like two spies they sneaked into other people's dinner parties, they couldn't find a toilet in a foreign land underground. Three policemen arrested them and eighteen women accused them of sordidness. He saw his old creditors present a forged pass, and all he could produce was a small box of cooling oil. "Please accept this modest gift," he said.But the cells are ready.He was blindfolded and pushed into the cell, he yelled I was so and so. When he took off the blindfold, his anger disappeared: he stood on the Sunshine Avenue in his hometown.

There is a lotus flower floating in the sky, a drop of bird droppings is caught by the earth, a fist is pierced into his ear hole, and he will be transparent on the Sunshine Avenue. The fire in the sky has been extinguished, how many lives are the dust on the ground?He heard his baby name being called, a child kept walking into his heart. There is only one chair in the Dawn Walled City in his heart, and a chess game is played on the bloody battlefield in his heart. He has experienced nine submissions, ten resistances, three times of being killed, and four times of murder. The moonlight falls on the dirty river, and the dew washes away the romantic ghosts.

At the carnival, the ghost stomps off his heel.Bad luck began: he was pushed out of the queue by the guy with thick eyebrows and big eyes. Years later he lit the first match. "That's it," he whispered to a butterfly. On both sides of the road swept by the butterfly, on both sides of the road that used to be a field ridge, every courtyard is like the family he betrayed back then, and every magpie is falling. The old world was dismantled at his feet, and he felt himself becoming transparent. Sorrow welled up in his temples like the Big Dipper on a roof... A cough, a fit of dizziness, made him forget all the lines of his life.

He used to be the overlord of Chu, and he burned down Afang Palace. He used to be a black whirlwind who tore up the imperial court's recruitment order. And now he sits between the wine bottle and the birdcage, close to the old age of the landowner in his heart.His sons have agricultural faces, and his grandchildren travel to the countryside singing pop songs. After night, mist, thunder and lightning, his brain was flooded.He says the same thing in different rooms, and his last territory is limited to the family. He used to be Li Houzhu, and he used poetry to balance his crime of subjugation.

He used to be Song Huizong, allowing peacocks into his grand living room. But he was unable to tell his past: the bad harvest, the good harvest, the morality among the beggars, the legend among the gamblers.He was unable to talk about his past, and hiccups began in spring. Countless evenings he walked through the streets reeking of alcohol.He cursed himself, and others thought he was cursing the heaven of this age.His poor, ashamed father was waiting in the dead-end street, ready to slap him in the face. He had been a son, and now he is a father; he was a father, and now he plays with a pair of old walnuts.

A life full of typos is like an unpublishable memoir; there are large gaps in his heart like white horrors that need to be made up to fill. When the birds in his cage fell asleep, he imitated the birdsong to wake them up.He walked out of the house with an empty wine bottle for the last time, but forgot to bring the key. Confucius said: "Thirty to stand." At the age of thirty, he was declared infertile by a doctor.This indicates that his huge family can no longer continue.He smashed china, he burned books, he cried, and then fell asleep. Confucius said: "Forty without confusion."

At the age of forty, he was trembling from the sound of Shengge, and his strong sense of guilt made him return the ancestral golden Buddha to the people.He moved out of the mansion and changed his mind: how weak people long for peace. Confucius said: "At fifty, one knows the destiny." His fifty-year-old wife was covered in porridge.When he returned from the primary school he taught, he brought back melon seeds, vegetables and a small yellow croaker for his wife.Late love is like oil in an iron pan. The Master said: "Sixty and ears are smooth." And he was completely deaf in his deaf years: only strange expressions remained in a noisy world.He stared out of the window for a long time, as if someone would come from a long distance to visit him, to drink his tea, and to stare out of the window with him.

The Master said: "At seventy, follow your heart's desire, without exceeding the rules." In a musty room, his seventy-year-old soul fell in love with writing poetry.The last tooth reminded him of the feeling of pain.The last two tears fell into his mouth. "Mount Tai is decaying! Beams are decaying! Philosophers are wilting!" When Confucius died, he was seventy-three, and he lived to the age where he could not die. He spread the paper, ground the ink, and dipped the brush.But every attempt he made to praise life was in vain. Other people's laughter: someone else is in his room.The first word flashed in his mind: Deeds!The second word flashed in his mind: crime! He pushed the door hard, but it wouldn't open.He yelled desperately: "Get out!" But he was clearly begging: he had sung too many obscenities. Can't get into his own door, like a talking radio: everything seems to be on the air, he even hears someone in his stomach drinking. There were tailors all over the street, and nannies all over the street, and they advised him to "be patient." But he insisted on digging his fingers into his throat and ordered the guy in his stomach: "Get out!" A bout of vomiting cleared him up, and a dead rat made him circle around.He overtook the joyous crowd, and entered the garden of flowers.He heard everyone yelling: "Get out!" (Oh, whoever can get out in his place, he will die in his place.) The sky is full of other people's clouds, and his face is covered with other people's lime.The shepherd in the city gate had eaten up his flock, so he handed him a handkerchief to wipe his mouth. He returned to the door of his house again, and heard the laughter in the room still incessant.He shouted again: "Get out!" The answer was also "Get out!" "Get out - get out - get out -" the voice repeated three times and it sounded like a poem. Born half-educated, he clings to the established social order, and his soul disagrees. If he dies suddenly, there will be confusion among the crowd.And that was exactly what his soul was curious about. In a crowd he had the final say, and his soul knew his cowardice. He bites the teeth marks of the executive on the apple, he signs the hyphen of the earthworm on the document, and his soul is more concerned with the game. In the mansion of profit he shut himself up, and his soul whirled impatiently. The little beauties flowing out of the water pipe made him dazed, the too beautiful ones made him impotent, and his soul pounced on it. He must carefully conceal his heartbeat, his enemies will expose him to the ground, and establish a friendship between the two souls. He learned to be lyrical from weighing the pros and cons, he led the crowd to sing the praises of a better tomorrow, while his soul just wanted to go back to the past, Back to the boat on the river at nine o'clock at night, back to the mountain trail at six o'clock in the morning, and he can't do it A burst of rapid phone ringing ruined his afternoon of good mood.He put down the phone and looked at the rolling mountains at sunset, a group of beasts he suddenly thought of made him break out in a cold sweat, and his soul was growing sharp canine teeth. A paper figurine soaked in blue ink. A paper figure, dizzy in the morning light. He has a shadow, a name, and he is determined to do something big.He learned to bend over and yawn. He looks for out-of-body sensations: "It might be like a piece of paper flying through the air." Curious, he lit a fire and burned an arm in one fell swoop. He must be good at self-preservation, he must grasp fate with the other hand. Dogma and custom held him back, and the idle crowd crushed him.He tried swinging the Prophet's whip, and Time stuck his ass in front of him. He shines his shoes after the first girl presents him with flowers.But every night, the static sparks from his shirts rattled him. He hid in the pages in a panic, he fell into the wastebasket in a panic; he talked in the wastebasket, and he turned the panic into a challenge. Challenge those flesh and blood, and paste a paper man's easy chair with paper. He imitates the voice of man, he imitates the ambition of man. If you prick his finger with a needle, he won't bleed; if you hit him, you hit someone else. Humility is the only virtue that does not win love. Patience ends up turning itself into an uninhabited edifice. For example, this person kept his mouth shut to avoid political punishment.For decades, in the red capital, he needs freedom in order to love a woman. He sees the boring women walking around while the great women lead others up. Great women are like phantoms.He climbed up the phantom's stairs, and he hesitated to visit the phantom's family. The little girl who opened the door said, "You knocked on the wrong door." Walking between the two families, the scenery of the four seasons becomes more and more dull.Only the lewd fantasies in the wind and rain are getting brighter and brighter.A lonely son-in-law swings on a swing in hell. The tea in the cup became cold, and the old photo album disappeared.His heart made a strange sound, and his dream came to an end.He died beside his wife: a corpse that was our old Meng. He turned into a crooked phantom, and did not hand over the black box of love until his death. Now he could float into the tall window of the great woman.This is the love affair of the older generation, and only a fool would be heartbroken by it. This little man who was born as a cowherd boy wobbled and wobbled when he walked. The little man, who later died lyrically, filled his office with flowers. He had to make up for everything he didn't get in the early years; the humiliation in the early years became the most moving chapter in his gaudy life. The times need cleverness: when the glass is lighted, he bows to its fullness; but wisdom is of no use; wisdom is only applicable to those barren hills and mountains. He shuttled between dignitaries and women, his romantic nose was slightly red.His only enemy is his wife, and an old-fashioned marriage stands in the way of his future. He put on his tie, put on his perfume, waited, and planned to monopolize the thinly clad prom queen at the 100,000-person ball in Tiananmen Square. The summer is scorching, and the night is shining with shooting stars.He kills one mosquito, another flies in; a man comes up to him and announces the organization's decision. Luck came to an end.At forty, he saw death.The organization is aware: the woman he has just molested is mediocre in appearance. He climbed up the 100-meter-high chimney to dissipate the depression in his chest, and almost turned into a puff of smoke and flew into the sky.He swore to God never to deny himself. But in the end it was denied by the sky in a flight. Small is beautiful, small is clean, small is safe. As small as an egg, as small as a button, smaller, smaller, preferably as an insect in transparent amber. His sweat stains remained on the towel, and his footprints remained on the blades of grass.It's not that he can't make trash, he just doesn't want to be trash; he does so by shrinking himself. Dust hit him all over his face, and he shrunk. Walking on the road, he remembered a joke, he laughed at the big pen, and he shrunk it. The children gathered the sun's rays with magnifying glasses, and he dodged away from the scorching focus.But there was still green smoke rising from his body. He has lost direction, he has lost objects.He climbed onto the forehead of the train, luckily the daredevil didn't budge. The whole world lies in his small body.The closer he is to the earth, the more he fears the sky. He ventured to hold on to the rusty springs, and he contentedly hid from the rain under fallen leaves. With no friends, no enemies, he ate his lonely cake in small bites. There is no forbidden zone he cannot enter, no secret he cannot share.But he was too young to even fall in love with a girl, to cause even the slightest trouble. The province where he was born is full of criss-cross rivers and green rice fields.The agricultural winds cooled his ass.He asked the gods in the temple to take care of him more. He studied hard until the female ghost washed his feet in the middle of the night; he worked hard until the field no longer had any harvest. The Chang Gung star was shining in the sky, and his downwind boat sailed under the Chang Gung star.With the thrill of elopement he knocks on Nero's door, but wandering the majestic square, his bad breath annoys Nero. The gods of the other hemisphere heard his follies, and the fools of the other hemisphere served him crumbs. But in the eyes of the people in his hometown, he has succeeded: as soon as he returned to the motherland, he practiced a small tyranny within a limited range. He locked the drawers one by one. He holds a mouthful of poisonous blood in his mouth. He imagined all the girls submitting to his ravages. He wrote a check to the night. In the era of turning point, the little people are full of wine and food.He let go of his belt and exchanged small favors for applause. He lay dead at his country house one winter morning, some say murder, others suicide. The library is like a huge atrium.In the library there is the silence of the depths of the ocean.But he heard a woman crying, but he never found the crying woman. Every book he pulled from the shelf had been smeared beyond recognition.He wanted to find the answer to the question, but found that the question had escaped from the sewer. The days of creation were long gone, and there was nothing left of him but emptiness.Everything he wanted to say was said; everything he wanted to do was like throwing water into the rain. "The negation of negation is not necessarily affirmation, just like a masked blind man is still blind..." As soon as he wrote that line on paper, a guy in dark glasses accused him of plagiarism. He copied non-existent sages, and his eyes were red and swollen. He doubts his own existence: Has his life been canceled beforehand? He gave up his seat to the spider.He dipped his head in cold water.How much of what can be heard, seen, and touched belongs to him?What fits both his imagination and his reasoning? He wrote: "A bird was born in the night, like any other bird, which sang in eighteen ways, and it was nothing more than a bird's cry." He wrote: "No matter how beautiful it is, how righteous it is, how brave it is, how holy it is, the unicorn does not exist." He gradually understood his mission: to use his life that had been canceled in advance to fight a lawsuit about reputation. Shaded water droplets.Covered lips.A sheltered castle in the air.Shaded Monday. After Homer, after Milton, he will see it with his blind eyes, he will walk down the stairs with his feeble feet. There was the sound of paper being torn from behind, and he turned his face.There was a sound of glass being wiped behind him, and he called out the man's name accurately. It's autumn.The friends took away their time, and the autumn wind concentrated on him alone. And his dreamland is expanding: the heroic spirits all over the sky only leave some resumes in the world. Whoever he dreamed of lived again. With sympathy he sees another reality: fire and sorrow, ray and avenue.He joins the ranks of history, which means rejecting the scenery around him; It means rejecting the grayness in front of his eyes and the frantic knocking on the door in the grayness.In a world of the blind, he is allowed to see another reality. He kicked the bucket, he bumped into the wall, every step of his might have stepped into an abyss, but he had already turned himself into another abyss, containing milky pathways and brightly lit banquet halls. This land that bears him, this land that bears his ancestors, his relatives, his friends, needs his birth as much as his death.He has only a short time to be himself. The sound of decoction reminded him of the fragility of human beings.A blind man's smile can only be seen by the blind man. He forgives the cock crowing in the country, the darkness that does not subside when the cock crows.He forgives primitive stone mills and plate-making techniques in architecture that have not been improved since the Qin Dynasty.He even misses it all. He forgives pens that don't work and donkeys that don't understand.He forgives the high school teacher who punished the students, forgives the empty-headed woman who locked him in a dark classroom. But he does not forgive human folly, although he forgives closed courtyard walls, crowded streets, flying flies, although he forgives the person who has goosebumps in a warm room. He forgives the swooping of crows and the chattering of flamingos.But he does not forgive the rain of stones and tiles from the sky.Although he has long since overcome his violent temper. He forgives the army lying on the ground, the judge drinking milk, the files, rumors, and decisions about him, but he does not forgive typos in slogans, documents, books, and instructions. He forgave his sons and daughters who had betrayed him, and his wife who said goodbye to him, and his weeping was never written.Today we learn that he had good reason to smash his only valuable radio. But he didn't do that.He forgives faith in electricity, faith in water, how melancholy the shining rivers are!But he does not forgive the sky without faith.Where will he go?Who will he meet? He forgives his cancer, his bad funeral, and the clouds that came over his funeral the way he forgives a spoiled meal.But do not forgive the paper money burned for him. Twenty years after his death, we posthumously recognize him as a person.