Explore Chapter 9 of '彷徨' with the original Chinese text, English translation, detailed Chinese vocabulary explanations, and audio of the Chinese original. Listen and improve your reading skills.
This derelict room, forgotten in a secluded corner of the lodging house, was so silent and empty. How swiftly time had flown! It was already a full year since I fell in love with Zijun and, relying on her, made my escape from this silence and emptiness. And now, with such cruel coincidence, upon my return, this very room was again the only one vacant. The same broken window, the same half-withered locust tree and old wisteria outside it, the same square table before the window, the same crumbling wall, the same plank bed leaning against it. Lying alone on the bed late at night, it was as if I had never lived with Zijun. The past year had been utterly erased, had never happened at all. I had never moved out of this broken room to establish, on Auspicious Lane, that small household brimming with hope.
Nor was that all. A year ago, this silence and emptiness were not like this; they were often filled with expectation-the expectation of Zijun's arrival. In the fretful anxiety of a long wait, the sharp, crisp tap of leather soles on the brick path would send a sudden surge of life through me! Then I would see her pale, round face with its dimpled smile, her pale, slender arms, her striped cloth blouse, her black skirt. She would bring in fresh leaves from the half-withered locust tree outside the window for me to see, and clusters of pale purple wisteria blossoms hanging like little rooms from its iron-hard old branches.
When Zijun was not in this broken room of mine, I saw nothing. In utter boredom, I would snatch up any book at hand-science or literature, it made no difference. I read on and on, until suddenly I realized I had turned a dozen pages or more, yet could not recall a single thing written there. Only my ears grew preternaturally sharp, seeming to catch every footfall coming and going outside the main gate, among them surely Zijun's, tapping ever closer-but then often fading gradually away, finally lost in the confusion of other steps. I detested the janitor's son in his cloth-soled shoes, whose footsteps were nothing like Zijun's. I detested that painted little creature from the neighboring house, who always wore new leather shoes and whose footsteps were all too like Zijun's!
Suddenly, her footsteps were near, each step louder than the last. When I went out to greet her, she had already passed under the wisteria arbor, a dimpled smile on her face. It seemed she had not suffered much at her uncle's house; my heart grew calm. After gazing silently at each other for a while, the broken room gradually filled with my voice as I talked of domestic tyranny, of breaking with old habits, of equality between men and women, of Ibsen, Tagore, Shelley… She always smiled and nodded, her eyes misted with a childlike curiosity. A copperplate portrait of Shelley was pinned to the wall, cut from a magazine-his most handsome likeness. But when I pointed it out to her, she only glanced at it briefly before lowering her head, as if embarrassed. In such matters, Zijun had probably not entirely shed the shackles of old ideas. Later it occurred to me that I should perhaps have replaced it with a commemorative print of Shelley drowned at sea, or one of Ibsen; but in the end, I never did. And now even this one had disappeared, heaven knows where.
This was what she said, clearly, firmly, and calmly, after a moment of silent reflection when we had been acquainted for half a year and the conversation turned once more to her uncle here in the city and her father back home. By then, I had already laid out all my views, my background, and my shortcomings, with little concealment; she understood completely. These words of hers shook my soul profoundly. For many days afterward they echoed in my ears, filling me with an inexpressible elation, for I knew that Chinese women were not beyond redemption as misanthropes claimed, and that a glorious dawn would soon be seen on the horizon.
When seeing her off, we kept the usual ten paces or more between us. As usual, the face of that old fellow with the catfish whiskers was pressed against the grimy windowpane, the tip of his nose flattened into a little plane. In the outer courtyard, as usual, was the little creature's face behind the gleaming glass, slathered with extra face cream. She walked proudly, her eyes fixed ahead, seeing none of it. I returned home, proud.
"I belong to myself. No one has any right to interfere with me!" This radical idea was in her mind, clearer and stronger than in mine. What were half a jar of face cream and a flattened nose tip to her?
I can no longer recall clearly how I expressed my pure and ardent love to her then. Not just now; even soon after the event, my memory grew hazy. Thinking back at night, only fragments remained. After we began living together for a month or two, even these fragments dissolved into untraceable dream-shadows. I only remember that more than ten days beforehand, I had carefully studied how to make my declaration, the order of my words, and what to do if I were rejected. But when the moment came, none of it seemed of any use. In my fluster, I acted against my will, using a method I had seen in a movie. Later, whenever I thought of it, it made me burn with shame, yet this is the sole scene that remains forever etched in my memory, shining like a solitary lamp in a dark room upon the image of myself, tears in my eyes, grasping her hand, one knee bent to the ground….
Not only my own words and actions, but even Zijun's at that time I failed to see clearly. I only knew she had consented. Yet I still seem to remember her face turning ashen, then gradually flushing crimson-a crimson I had never seen before, and have never seen since. Her childlike eyes shone with a mingled light of joy and sorrow, tinged with alarm. Though she tried desperately to avoid my gaze, she looked about nervously as if wanting to fly out the window. Yet I knew she had consented, though I did not know what she had said, or if she had said anything at all.
She, however, remembered everything. My words, as if memorized, she could recite fluently; my actions, as if an invisible film were playing before her eyes, she could describe with vivid, minute detail-naturally including that shallow, movie-like gesture I wished never to recall again. Late at night, when all was still, was the time for review. I was often questioned, tested, and ordered to repeat what I had said then, though she often had to supplement and correct me, like a poor student.
These reviews gradually became less frequent. But whenever I saw her eyes fixed on empty space, lost in deep thought, her expression growing gentler and her dimples deepening, I knew she was revising the old lesson again. I only feared she would see that laughable movie-like flash. Yet I also knew she would certainly see it, and was bound to see it.
But she did not find it laughable. Even what I myself considered ridiculous, or even contemptible, she did not find laughable in the least. I knew this very well, for she loved me with such passion, such purity.
The late spring of last year was our happiest, and also our busiest, time. My heart grew calm, yet another part of me grew busy along with my body. We now walked together on the street, visited parks a few times, but most often searched for a place to live. I constantly felt probing, sneering, lascivious, and contemptuous eyes upon me on the road. A single careless moment would make me shrink inwardly, and I had to immediately summon my pride and defiance to support myself. She, however, was utterly fearless, paying no heed to these things, walking on calmly and steadily, serenely as if entering an uninhabited realm.
Finding a place to live was truly not easy. Mostly, we were refused with excuses; in a few cases, we ourselves found the places unsuitable. At first, our standards were very strict-not excessively so, because most places simply did not look like a home for us. Later, we only required that they would have us. After looking at over twenty places, we finally found one that would barely suffice: two south-facing rooms in a small house on Auspicious Lane. The owner was a minor official, but a sensible man; he occupied the main and side rooms himself. He had only a wife and a baby girl less than a year old, and kept a country girl as maid. As long as the child did not cry, it was exceedingly quiet and peaceful.
Our furniture was simple, but it had already used up most of the money I had scraped together. Zijun also sold her only gold ring and earrings. I tried to stop her, but she was determined to sell them, so I did not press the matter. I knew that unless she contributed a share, she would not feel comfortable living there.
She had long since quarreled with her uncle, to the point where he was so angry he refused to recognize her as his niece. I, too, gradually broke off with several friends who claimed to offer loyal advice but were in fact timid on my behalf, or even jealous. Yet this brought a welcome tranquility. After office hours each day, though it was nearly dusk and the rickshaw puller inevitably walked so slowly, there was still time for the two of us to be together. At first we would gaze silently at each other, then talk intimately and unrestrainedly, later falling silent again. We would both bow our heads in thought, though not really thinking of anything in particular. I gradually came to a clear understanding of her body and her soul. In less than three weeks, I seemed to know her even better, stripping away many things I had previously thought I understood but now saw as barriers, the so-called true estrangement.
Zijun grew livelier day by day. But she did not care for flowers. The two potted flowering plants I had bought at the temple fair died in a corner after four days without watering; I had no leisure to attend to everything. Yet she loved animals, perhaps a habit picked up from the official's wife. Within a month, our household suddenly expanded greatly: four little hens began strutting about the small courtyard along with the landlord's dozen or so. But they could distinguish the chickens' appearances, each knowing which ones were their own. There was also a spotted white Pekinese, bought from the temple fair. I remembered it seemed to have had a name originally, but Zijun gave it a new one: Ah Sui. I called it Ah Sui too, though I did not like the name.
Peace and happiness tend to solidify, to remain forever thus. When we were at the lodging house, we still occasionally had arguments and misunderstandings. Since moving to Auspicious Lane, even these disappeared. We only reminisced by the lamplight, savoring the renewed joy of reconciliation after past conflicts.
Zijun actually gained weight, and her face grew rosy and lively; the pity was she was so busy. Managing the household left no time even for chatting, let alone for reading or taking walks. We often said we really ought to hire a maid.
This also made me unhappy. Returning in the evening, I often saw her concealing a look of unhappiness. What particularly displeased me was the forced smile she would put on. Fortunately, I found out it was still due to her covert struggle with the minor official's wife, sparked by the two families' little hens. But why couldn't she just tell me? One ought to have an independent household. A place like this was not fit to live in.
My own routine was now fixed: six days a week, from home to the bureau and back again. At the bureau, I sat at my desk copying, copying, copying documents and letters. At home, I sat with her or helped her light the white porcelain stove, cook rice, steam bread. It was during this time that I learned to cook.
But my meals were much better than they had been at the lodging house. Though cooking was not Zijun's forte, she poured all her energy into it. Her constant day-and-night anxiety made me anxious too, as we shared both sweetness and bitterness. Besides, she sweated profusely all day, her short hair sticking to her forehead, and her hands grew rough from the work.
The blow I had anticipated finally arrived. On the evening before Double Tenth, I was sitting in a daze while she washed the bowls. Hearing a knock, I went to open the door. It was the bureau messenger, who handed me a mimeographed slip. I had a premonition. I went to look at it under the lamp and, sure enough, it read:
By order of the Director: Shi Juansheng is hereby relieved from bureau duties. Secretariat, October 9.
I had foreseen this back at the lodging house. That face-cream dandy was the gambling companion of the director's son; he would certainly spread rumors and find a way to report me. That it took effect only now was actually rather late. To me, this was hardly a blow, for I had long decided I could do copying work for others, or teach, or, though it was more taxing, translate some books. Besides, the editor of The Friend of Freedom was an acquaintance I had met several times; we had corresponded just two months before. Yet my heart was pounding. That once fearless Zijun had also turned pale, which pained me especially; she seemed to have grown rather timid of late.
Her words were left unfinished; somehow, her voice sounded hollow to my ears. The lamplight also seemed unusually dim. People are truly laughable creatures, so deeply affected by the most trivial of matters. At first we gazed silently at each other, then gradually began to discuss things, finally deciding to practice the strictest economy with the money we had, while placing 'small ads' to seek copying and teaching work, and writing to the editor of The Friend of Freedom, explaining my present predicament and asking him to accept my translations to help me through this difficult time.
I immediately turned to the desk, pushing aside the sesame oil bottle and the vinegar dish. Zijun brought over the dim lamp. I first drafted the advertisement; next, I selected books to translate-I hadn't opened them since moving, and each volume was thick with dust; finally, I wrote the letter.
I hesitated greatly over the wording. When I paused in thought and glanced at her face, in the gloomy lamplight it looked utterly forlorn. I had not expected such insignificant matters to cause so marked a change in the resolute, fearless Zijun. She had indeed grown quite timid lately, though it hadn't begun just that night. My heart grew more troubled. Suddenly an image of a tranquil life-the silence of the broken room in the lodging house-flashed before my eyes. Just as I tried to focus on it, I saw the dim lamplight again.
A long time later, the letter was finished-a rather lengthy one. I felt very tired, as if I too had grown somewhat timid of late. So we decided to post the advertisement and mail the letter together the next day. Unconsciously, we both straightened our backs. In the silence, we seemed to feel each other's stubborn, persevering spirit, and to see new shoots of hope for the future.
In fact, external blows served to rouse our new spirit. Life at the bureau had been like a bird in a dealer's hand: sustained on a few grains of millet, it would never grow fat; as time passed, its wings would only grow numb, so that even if released from the cage, it could no longer fly. Now, at last free from that cage, I would soar in the newly opened vastness of the sky, while I still had not forgotten how to flap my wings.
The small ad naturally would not yield immediate results. But translating was no easy task either. What I had read before and thought I understood presented countless difficulties when I actually set to work, and progress was slow. Yet I was determined to work hard. In less than half a month, a half-new dictionary bore large, dark smudges along its edges-proof of my conscientious labor. The editor of The Friend of Freedom had once said his journal would never let good manuscripts go to waste.
Unfortunately, I had no quiet room. Zijun was no longer as serene and considerate as before. The room was always littered with dishes and permeated with the smell of coal smoke, making it impossible to concentrate. But of course, I could only blame myself for not having the means to set up a study. And then there was Ah Sui, and the little hens. And the little hens were growing bigger, becoming even more of a spark for quarrels between the two households.
And then there was the daily, 'ceaseless' business of eating. Zijun's entire achievement, it seemed, was built upon this eating. We ate to save money, saved money to eat, and still had to feed Ah Sui and tend the little hens. She appeared to have forgotten all she once knew, and never considered that my train of thought was constantly interrupted by her urging me to eat. Even when I showed a trace of displeasure, she remained unchanged, chewing away as if utterly insensible.
It took five weeks to make her understand that my work could not be bound by fixed meal times. Once she understood, she was probably quite displeased, though she said nothing. My work did indeed proceed more swiftly thereafter. Before long, I had translated fifty thousand words; all it needed was polishing, and then it could be sent, along with two short essays I had completed, to The Friend of Freedom. But eating still plagued me. Cold dishes did not matter, but there often wasn't enough; sometimes there wasn't even enough rice, though my appetite had diminished greatly from sitting at home using my brain all day. This was because she had fed Ah Sui first, sometimes even with the mutton that she herself seldom ate nowadays. She said Ah Sui had grown too pitifully thin, and the landlady had laughed at us over it; she could not bear such ridicule.
Later, after much contention and urging, the little hens gradually became dishes on our table. We and Ah Sui enjoyed more than ten days of fresh, fatty meat. But actually they were quite thin, for they had long been receiving only a few grains of sorghum each day. After that, it became much quieter. Only Zijun was despondent, often seeming miserable and bored, to the point of hardly wanting to speak. How easily people change!
But Ah Sui could not be kept much longer either. We could no longer hope for letters from anywhere. Zijun had long since run out of tidbits to entice it to beg or stand up. Winter was approaching so quickly, and the stove would become a major problem. Its appetite was in fact already a very heavy burden, one we were acutely aware of. So it, too, could not be kept.
If we had stuck a straw tag on it and taken it to the temple market, we might have got a few coppers for it. But neither of us could, nor would, do such a thing. In the end, I covered its head with a cloth wrap, took it to the western outskirts and set it loose. When it tried to follow, I pushed it into a not-very-deep pit.
I finally gathered from her words and manner that she probably considered me a heartless person. Actually, living alone, I could manage easily enough. Although out of pride I had never associated with my family's social circle, and after moving had drifted apart from all my old acquaintances, still, if I could just get far away, the road of life was broad enough. Now, enduring the suffering of life's pressures was mostly for her sake; even releasing Ah Sui was no exception. But Zijun's understanding seemed to have grown shallow; she could not even grasp this point.
The cold weather and the coldness in her expression made it impossible for me to stay peacefully at home. But where could I go? On the main streets, in the parks, though there were no icy stares, the cold wind still cut to the bone. Finally, I found my paradise in the public library.
No ticket was required there; the reading room was equipped with two iron stoves. Even though the coal fire was barely alive, the mere sight of the stoves installed there gave one a sense of spiritual warmth. There were no books worth reading: the old ones were stale, and new ones were almost non-existent.
Fortunately, I did not go there to read books. There were usually a few other people there, sometimes over a dozen, all in thin clothes like myself, each reading his own book as a pretext for keeping warm. This suited me perfectly. On the street, one was likely to run into acquaintances and receive a contemptuous glance; here, there was no such danger, for they were always huddled around other iron stoves, or leaning against their own white porcelain braziers at home.
Though there were no books for me to read, there was peace that allowed me to think. Sitting there alone in stillness, recalling the past, I then realized that for over half a year, solely for the sake of love-blind love-I had neglected all the other vital aspects of life. First and foremost was living itself. One must have a life for love to have something to cling to. The world is not without a way out for those who strive; and I had not yet forgotten how to flap my wings, though I was much more despondent than before….
The room and the other readers gradually faded away. I saw fishermen in raging waves, soldiers in trenches, dignitaries in motorcars, speculators in the foreign concessions, heroes in deep mountains and dense forests, professors on lecture platforms, night activists and midnight thieves…. Zijun was not nearby. All her courage was gone; she was only grieving bitterly for Ah Sui, or lost in thought over cooking. Yet, strangely, she did not seem to have grown much thinner….
It grew colder. The few lifeless lumps of hard coal in the stove finally burned out. It was closing time. I had to return to Auspicious Lane to face the icy looks again. Lately I had occasionally encountered a warm expression, but this only increased my pain. I remember one night when a long-unseen childish light suddenly shone from Zijun's eyes, and she spoke laughingly of our time at the lodging house, though her expression was often tinged with terror. I knew that my recent excessive coldness had aroused her anxiety and suspicion, so I forced myself to chat and laugh, hoping to give her some comfort. But as soon as a smile appeared on my face or words left my lips, they instantly turned hollow. This hollowness immediately echoed back to my ears and eyes, giving me a cruel, vicious sneer.
Zijun seemed to sense it too. From then on, she lost her usual numbness-like calm. Though she tried hard to hide it, she often revealed anxious, suspicious looks. But towards me, she became much gentler.
I wanted to tell her plainly, but I did not dare. When I had resolved to speak and saw her childlike eyes, I had to change at once to a forced smile of joy. But this immediately turned to mock me, and made me lose my cold composure.
She then began reviewing the past and subjecting me to new tests, forcing me to give many hypocritically tender answers. I showed tenderness to her, while writing the hypocritical drafts upon my own heart. My heart gradually filled with these drafts, often feeling stifled. In my distress, I often thought that speaking the truth naturally required great courage. Without this courage, and taking false comfort in hypocrisy, then one could never forge a new path in life. Not only that, such a person scarcely existed at all!
A look of resentment appeared on Zijun's face-in the morning, on an extremely cold morning. I had never seen it before, or perhaps it was only resentment from my point of view. I felt a cold anger and silent scorn then. The ideas she had cultivated and her bold, fearless talk had, after all, turned out to be empty, and she was not even aware of this emptiness. She had long since stopped reading any books and no longer understood that the first principle of human life is survival. To walk the path of survival, one must go forward hand in hand, or press on alone. If one only knows how to cling to another's coattails, then even a warrior would find it hard to fight, and both would perish together.
I felt that new hope lay only in our separation. She should resolutely leave me-I suddenly thought of her death, but immediately reproached myself and felt remorse. Fortunately, it was morning; there was plenty of time. I could speak my truth. The opening of our new road would depend on this one attempt.
I chatted with her, deliberately bringing up our past, mentioning literature and then touching upon foreign writers and their works: A Doll's House, The Lady from the Sea. I praised Nora's decisiveness…. They were the same words I had spoken last year in the broken room of the lodging house, but now they had turned hollow, passing from my mouth into my own ears, and I constantly suspected an invisible, malicious child behind me, venomously mimicking my speech.
"Yes." After another silence, she said, "But… Juansheng, I feel you've changed a lot lately. Haven't you? You-you must tell me honestly."
I simultaneously anticipated a great upheaval, but there was only silence. Her face suddenly turned ashen, deathly. In an instant it revived, and a childish sparkle shone in her eyes. This gaze darted about in all directions, like a child seeking a loving mother in hunger and thirst, but seeking only in the empty air, fearfully avoiding my eyes.
In the public library I would sometimes catch a flash of light; a new path of life lay ahead. She bravely awoke, resolutely walked out of this icy home, and-without a trace of resentment. Then I would become light as a floating cloud, drifting in the void, beneath a blue sky, above deep mountains and vast seas, towering buildings, battlefields, motorcars, foreign concessions, mansions, bright bustling markets, dark nights….
We had, after all, survived an extremely harsh winter, this Beijing winter. Like a dragonfly fallen into the hands of a mischievous boy, tied with a thin thread, played with and tormented at will. Though we were fortunate not to have lost our lives, in the end we still lay on the ground, the only question being sooner or later.
I had written three letters to the editor of The Friend of Freedom before finally receiving a reply. The envelope contained only two book vouchers: for twenty cents and thirty cents. I had done nothing but urge him, using nine cents' worth of stamps and enduring a day of hunger, all in vain, gained nothing but emptiness.
It was the time between winter and spring. The wind was no longer so cold, and I lingered outside even longer. By the time I returned home, it was probably already dark. One such dark evening, I came back as listless as ever. Seeing the door of my lodging, I felt even more dejected than usual, and slowed my steps. But I finally entered my room. No light was on. When I felt for matches and lit the lamp, an unaccustomed loneliness and emptiness!
I did not believe it; but the room was uncommonly lonely and empty. I looked everywhere, searching for Zijun. All I saw were a few shabby, dull pieces of furniture, looking extremely sparse, proving they were incapable of hiding a single person or thing. I turned my thoughts to looking for a letter or some words she might have left behind; there were none. Only some salt and dried chili peppers, flour, half a head of cabbage were gathered together, and beside them several dozen coppers. This was the complete stock of our living materials. Now she had solemnly left it all to me alone, wordlessly teaching me to use it to sustain a somewhat longer life.
I seemed to be squeezed out by my surroundings, and rushed to the middle of the courtyard. Darkness surrounded me. Bright lamplight shone from the paper window of the main room; they were amusing themselves playing with the child. My heart grew calm, and I felt that amid the heavy pressure, the path of escape was gradually becoming indistinctly visible: deep mountains and great marshes, foreign concessions, feasts under electric lights, trenches, the blackest depths of night, the stab of a sharp blade, soundless footsteps….
Lying down, the envisioned future passed before my closed eyes; before midnight, it had all appeared. In the darkness, I suddenly seemed to see a pile of food, and after that, Zijun's ashen face floated up, opening childish eyes, looking at me beseechingly. When I collected myself, there was nothing.
But then my heart felt heavy again. Why couldn't I have endured a few more days? Why did I have to tell her the truth so hastily? Now she knew. All she had left was her father-that creditor to his children-with his scorching, sun-like severity, and the icy stares of others, colder than frost. Beyond that, there was only emptiness. To bear the burden of this emptiness, to walk the so-called road of life beneath severity and cold stares-what a terrifying thing! And what's more, the end of this road is merely-a grave without even a tombstone.
I thought that by telling Zijun the truth, she could proceed without misgivings, resolutely and determinedly, just as when we were about to live together. But this was probably my mistake. Her courage and fearlessness then had stemmed from love.
I want to leave Auspicious Lane. Here there is an unaccustomed emptiness and loneliness. I think that if only I leave this place, Zijun will still be as if by my side; at the very least, she will still be as if in the city, and one day, she will visit me unexpectedly, as when she lived at the lodging house.
Yet all my requests and letters met with no response. Having no alternative, I went to visit a family friend with whom I had long ceased to have any contact. He was my uncle's childhood schoolmate, a Senior Licentiate famous for his uprightness, who had lived in the capital a long time and had wide social connections.
"Really?" I finally asked involuntarily.
I have forgotten how I took my leave of him and returned to my own lodging. I knew he was not a liar. Zijun would never come again, never as she had last year. Though she had wanted to bear the burden of emptiness and walk the so-called road of life beneath severity and cold stares, she could no longer do so. Her fate had been decided: she had died in the loveless world of the truth I had given her.
I went out less than before, merely sitting or lying in that vast emptiness, letting the silence of death eat away at my soul. Sometimes the silence of death itself would tremble and withdraw, and in that interval between cessation and renewal, a nameless, unexpected, new expectation would flash forth.
One gloomy morning, the sun still struggling to break through the clouds, even the air seemed weary. Hearing light, shuffling footsteps and panting breath, I opened my eyes. At a glance, the room was still empty. But looking accidentally at the floor, I saw a small creature circling there, thin, half-dead, covered in dust….
My reason for leaving Auspicious Lane was not solely due to the cold looks of the landlord's family and their maid; it was largely because of this Ah Sui. But, "Where can I go?" New paths in life were naturally many. I knew roughly of them, and occasionally glimpsed them vaguely; I felt they were right before me. Yet I still did not know how to take the first step forward.
After much deliberation and comparison, the only place that would still have me was the lodging house. It was still the same broken room, the same plank bed, the same half-withered locust tree and wisteria. But what had then filled me with hope, joy, love, and life had all vanished, leaving only an emptiness, an emptiness I had obtained in exchange for truth.
There are still many new paths in life; I must step onto one, for I am still alive. But I do not yet know how to take that first step. Sometimes, the path seems like a long, greyish-white snake, winding its way toward me. I wait and wait, see it draw near, but then it suddenly vanishes into darkness.
Early spring nights are still so long. During a long spell of idle sitting, I recalled a funeral procession I had seen on the street that morning: paper figures and horses in front, followed by wailing that sounded like singing. I now understand their wisdom. How simple and direct a solution!
I wish there truly were ghosts, truly were a hell. Then, even amid the howling of infernal winds, I would seek out Zijun, tell her to her face my remorse and sorrow, and beg her forgiveness. Otherwise, the poisonous flames of hell would surround me and fiercely consume my remorse and sorrow.
But this is even more empty than a new path in life. Now all that remains is the early spring night, still so long. As long as I live, I must step out toward a new path in life. The first step-is merely to write down my remorse and sorrow, for Zijun, and for myself.