Explore Chapter 8 of 'Sinking' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
Waking from a drunken stupor, he found himself lying under a red silk quilt that emitted a peculiar fragrance. The room was not particularly large, but it was no longer the one from daytime. A ten-candlepower electric lamp hung from the ceiling, and by the pillow sat a pot of tea with two cups. He poured himself two or three cups, drank them, and then stumbled out of the room.
He opened the door, and coincidentally, the maid from daytime came running over. She asked him, "You! Are you awake?"
He followed her. As he passed through the narrow corridor from daytime, the electric lights shone brightly. From near and far, sounds of singing, the music of the sanxian, and hearty laughter reached his ears. The events of the day flooded back to him. Recalling the words he had spoken to the maid in his drunken state, he felt his face flush with heat again.
He knew she thought it was too little. His face flushed red again. Fumbling in his pocket, he found only one more banknote. He took it out and said to her, "Don't think it's too little. Please take it."
It was bitterly cold outside. That day was probably around the eighth or ninth of the lunar month. A half-cold moon hung high in the left half of the sky. Under the pale blue dome, a few scattered stars twinkled here and there.
He walked along the seashore for a while, gazing at the distant fishing lights that beckoned him like will-o'-the-wisps. Among the gentle waves, the reflection of silver moonlight shimmered like the blinking eyes of mountain spirits. For some reason, he suddenly felt the urge to jump into the sea and end his life. He felt in his pockets-he didn't even have money for the tram. Thinking back on the day's events, he couldn't help but curse himself bitterly.
"How did I end up in such a place? I have become the lowest of the low. It's too late for regrets, too late. Let me die here. The love I seek is probably beyond reach. A life without love-isn't it just like dead ashes? Ah, this dry existence, this dry existence. Everyone in the world despises and bullies me. Even my own brothers, my own flesh and blood, are pushing me out of this world. How can I make a living? Why should I even exist in this bitter world?"
At this thought, tears streamed down his face. His ashen complexion was indistinguishable from that of a dead man. He didn't even raise a hand to wipe his tears. The moonlight shone on his face, turning the twin trails of tears into glistening dewdrops on leaves. He turned and looked at his own thin, elongated shadow, feeling a pang in his heart. "Poor shadow, you've followed me for twenty-one years. Now this sea will be your burial ground. Although my body has been humiliated by others, I shouldn't have let you grow so frail. Shadow, oh shadow, forgive me!"
He looked to the west. The lighthouse beacon flickered red and green, performing its duty. When the green light struck the sea, it revealed a pale blue path on the water's surface. Looking further west, he saw a bright star trembling under the azure sky.
"Beneath that trembling star lies my homeland, the land of my birth. Under that star, I spent eighteen autumns and winters. Oh, my native soil, I can never see you again."
As he walked, he immersed himself in these sorrowful, self-pitying thoughts. After a while, he glanced again at the western star, and tears fell like a sudden downpour. The surroundings blurred before his eyes. Wiping his tears, he stood still, let out a long sigh, and spoke haltingly: