School Anniversary
Friday. Xiao Li's friendly reminder. It's the anniversary celebration of my alma mater, which has a bad reputation but I love it. I experienced it five years ago. Looking through my diary. Sophomore year. After military training. We're preparing for the evaluation. I had breakfast with my younger sister this morning. Second year computer test. One of those stupid exams. The invigilator said there are central government leaders coming to the anniversary celebration today. Leave campus immediately after the exam or face the consequences. I lost my library card. I was waiting for the fireworks while playing piggyback. It's been like that all afternoon. The main entrance is packed. We're coming back from a performance. It's late. Going to CS. Not many people. Everyone's happy. On the black and white TV, a guy yells. "Win over Costa Rica, Turkey, draw with Brazil." This shit. Everyone laughs. The fun gets even better. The massacre gets even more brutal. There's a bang. Fireworks go off. The vagrants begin their charge. They run from the shooting range to the open space in front of the back stadium. 60 mph. 12.88 seconds. Suddenly, it's full. A new moon has just appeared in the sky, and all the people on earth look up. The flowers are drooping weakly. Halfway up the building, I can't climb any higher. I've fallen. My prostate is enlarged. The wind wets my shoes. More wind blows down. Stars fall like rain. The atmosphere is good. I miss people. I'm infected. I'm excited. Tears well up in my eyes. Everything is bright except the sheep. The distant moon, in the quiet autumn sky, bathes each other on the shore. I feel a sense of honor. I feel a sense of nothingness. My jaw aches. I brace myself for the climax. Wait a little longer. The school police say they won't let me go. Someone's injured. The universal celebration is canceled. Everyone disperses. Unhappy. Resentful. Damn it. I won't pass the make-up exam. My xx won't let me ejaculate. I'm panicking. Depressed. I'm going back to my dorm to lie still. Like every September 22nd. Most of our memories are gone. Only a few fragments remain. Mottled. A few characters. A few fragments. A few feelings. Unforgettable. Always fresh. Like the streetlights on either side of a night path. Very faint. Standing side by side. Illuminating the path we came from and the path ahead.
Red flags flying on the sports field
Wednesday. Woke up early. Headed to Jiangbei. Seas of people. Because I was the vanguard, I couldn't see the flags or bouquets. Second in line. Standing until the 115th entered. Shouting the "Big Earth" slogan. A mix of women and men playing cards. Good and bad alike. As the Meteorological Bureau walked past the rostrum, Heaven had its eyes. The clouds parted, revealing the sun. Exercises. The leader declared the conference open. Someone nearby waved a small flag. A mushroom cloud rose. The stadium roof engulfed the black smoke, suffocating the rostrum. A single arrow pierced the clouds. The vast army was frightened. Zhang Yide, the man from Yan, screamed his head off. The most pitiful people were the drum and bugle corps before the fireworks. Several girls crouched on the ground, covering their ears. The shock lasted a long time. I touched my ears for a moment, then returned to my seat to watch the group singing and dancing. Kindergarten teachers and students from various technical colleges. The view was wide. Good visibility. Let's eat. The eternal theme of sports meets. Much more civilized than them. They've pulled out all sorts of mass destruction tactics like bread and sausage. I'm just a little jerk. The competition was exciting. The first event was a leadership race. About 50 meters. The secretary led the way and crossed the finish line first. The deputy secretaries, mayors, and deputy mayors advanced in a scattered formation, all tied for second. Quite funny. At the end, each secretary slowly circled the field halfway, waving to the crowd. Typhoon was fantastic. The one draped with the national flag was Wang Junxia. A few young comrades from the Water Affairs Bureau took on all the sprints. They were fast. Faster than Kaka. My sister joined in, too. She didn't bring any clothes. She rolled up her trouser legs. Very cool. I have to admit, Fat Ka probably couldn't outrun her, let alone Yoyo. The two general offices of the Municipal Party Committee and the Municipal Government had been silent, simmering, keeping a low profile, and holding back until the final tug-of-war. The stone man with one eye has provoked rebellion. Everyone is getting furious. They can't wait any longer. The boss's lunch is too long. Hurry up. Light up. Let's all go. Unity is strength. Back from target practice. Become a microphone master. Hold the reins. Derby. Super Boy competition. The boss is unaware of the change. After collecting the cup, the moment I show my face, I'm flattered. I'm the one who stuck my head out. I'm so upset. Who are you? Let him show off. Next time, I'll throw you all to the opposite stands and check the background. It reminds me of a World War II film. A high-ranking German official said angrily on the phone. Send all these good-for-nothings to the Russian front. Thanks to Brother Dawei for the disc.
Light and Truth
"The Age of Enlightenment." I started reading it before an exam. I gave up about two-thirds of the way through. Then I started again. It was incredibly difficult. Wang Anyi must have killed the dreams of many young literary figures, including Pangka. Its style is typical: dense sentences, prose-like, minimal dialogue, and a gorgeous yet restrained tone. Reviews compared it to "Animal Fierceness." "Moving" focuses on the lower body. "Enlightenment" emphasizes the upper body. Unlike the vicissitudes of life in "The Song of Everlasting Regret" or the femininity of "Peach Blossoms," this book focuses on the growth of teenagers in a monolithic, crazy world. It resonates more with Pangka. He deeply dislikes Nanchang and prefers Chen Zhuoran. But Pangka eventually discovers that Nanchang is the closest to his adolescent self: childish. Enthusiastic. Shy. Inferiority and vanity. Ignorant. Rebellious. A distance from his parents. Showy. Sexually aroused. Indecisive. Fragile. All the symptoms that precede the formation of a worldview match so perfectly. None of us can skip that step. This book also has practical relevance, because our current era is similarly monistic, a mere slide from blind subjective fanaticism to pure materialism. Who can say which era is more terrifying? There's really no difference between the two. Human nature hasn't changed; it's just the forms of expression that differ. This type of author enjoys spreading their values through their works. Kundera and the like are also like this, even more nakedly. This is the petty sentimentality of most intellectuals. Nanchang's father, Little Boss, Doctor Gao, Principal Wang—all carried their petty emotions through their depression in that era. How would they fare in our own time? However, those under censorship, slowly dying of illness, being sent down to the countryside, and imprisoned—would rather choose to endure, to be confused, and even to self-destruct, than compromise with an out-of-control era, and never give up their pursuit of light and truth. Idealistic idiots. Even Fatka, like an idiot, relishes their persistence and loneliness. The petty-bourgeois intellectuals are always ignorant, misunderstood, and ridiculed. They can only communicate with each other in code. They rely on each other, doubt each other, admire each other, and hurt each other.
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