How do you make memories in a city of a thousand different places?

Day 1Luoyang

Shuang Xuetao, "The Age of Deafness"

The scary thing about people is that, no matter how much effort they have previously spent on another path, as soon as they find a shortcut, they will walk through it without hesitation.

After the announcement of the university president's arrest and departure, Mr. Chang reiterated three times in class, in a tone of hatred, "All the disciplinary items he has!" Sort of opened the floodgates of release for those who love brainstorming. The class taught by Mr. Zhang was my last subject in college, called Administrative Ethics, the content of which, to put it bluntly, is just to let people be a moral person in the future. I think this arrangement in the end is also quite deep meaning, the school drills these children's task has been completed, naturally do not want the children once they go out to repeat the mistakes of this principal.

This subject became the only one in our exam week, with no other subjects vying for favor, and it was also slotted into the Friday evening slot in the week we left school. Coupled with the fact that no one wanted to believe that anyone would get their graduation delayed due to this recitation-based subject, the circle of friends was still filled with classmates' updates from their trips around the world till Wednesday.

All the other schools had their vacations early, but because of this suffocating exam schedule, my departure date was delayed into the lunar month, and my travel plans with Birds were able to begin. I traveled to Zhengzhou to meet up with him, where he had been stranded for months. The night before we left, our old friend who was studying in Kaifeng learned of our plan and strongly expressed his desire to come to Zhengzhou to meet with us. He is a free-spirited person, but he has been stuck on campus for more than half a year because of the exams, so he is a loner and has suffered a nervous breakdown, and he probably hopes that the two outsiders will help him relieve some of his frustration. But Birds is clearly not happy, he is very impatient with me to follow the rules and regulations of the campus, and decidedly refused to help this friend, hoping that we will be on the road early.

On the first day of the trip, birds gave me a book he had already read, "Deaf and Dumb Times," the first full-length novel by the young writer Shuang Xuetao of Northeastern Province.

For a long time, we were quite prejudiced against young writers and seldom read their work. Publishers' gimmicks and shameless fanfares made it seem as if they had just brought out a magnificent talent. But once you fall into their trap, turn the pages of the book and read it carefully, you will see that most of them are playful and smiling, and some of them are painstakingly painstakingly painstakingly. Some can be read smoothly, but often there is still so close to the feeling of breath; some read a few can not help but frown, hate to tear the book (I really tore a few books). So for a while, he and I spontaneously set up a public service bad review duo, sending two dazzling bad reviews in the humane score rampant reading sites. But if you really don't understand how authors can write like this, find their creative blurb and read what a committed and focused creative journey it was! And you can't afford to be poisonous anymore. People who are still willing to write novels are at least not bad at heart. But sometimes I can't help but think pessimistically that the best genre of literature today should be the "paragraph" - keeping up with the times and using a great mouth to laugh and curse.

Later, when there was a book-sharing event for writer Shuang Xuetao in our respective cities, we all picked up his work, having rarely seen the creator in person. birds read one of his short stories, "My Friend Andre", and said he was struck by the powerful sadness of the story, which struck at the heart. He felt a kinship with the writer, and ruminated over a few of his poorly read short stories, trying to figure out what the writer was trying to say. birds trusted the writer, and it's not easy to trust someone through their work alone; you may admire someone's work, but it's hard to trust them with your heart and soul.

Shuang Xuetao, who has grown a beard to inspire his creativity, is a bit of a demi-immortal, and at the lecture he brought up his literary mentors, such as Tolstoy and Tuo in Russia, the reclusive Prince Salinger in the United States, and Wang Xiaobo and Haruki Murakami in Asia. In his works, experienced readers can also easily find traces of these masters' predecessors, and their characteristics reach a kind of shy talks here in Shuang Xuetao. Wang Xiaobo-style language makes it at least not boring to read, and Salinger's skill of laying out the straw line of snakes and ashes gives those stories a chewy texture; and influenced by Russian writers who also lived in the extremely cold north, his works have the temperature and power of a furnace in the icy cold, especially those vernacular stories with the Northeast as the soil.

Before Shuang Xuetao was a novelist, he was a bank clerk who dealt with money and greeted strangers with a smile. That was in the withering Northeast, where he was able to stick around, or to survive the golden iron rice bowl, breaking it is not easy. But that kind of glance at the end of the day may be too unbearable, and as a child he got unspeakable pleasure from novels, he went back to his old ways and wrote, and realized that it was the only thing left in life that was actually interesting. The slow pace of time shifts, too, passing more quickly, becoming a sharp weapon against mediocrity.

Life forced him to hold the pencil for help, and not only him. Novelist A Yi also found an organ for writing novels in the afternoon when he had nothing to do at work in a Zhengzhou newspaper; the green demon, who was unwilling to endure the rotating grind of small-town life, also lifted his luggage and went to Beijing to write. They used the power of writing to transcend the tedious life, but more people are destined to be with them for the rest of their lives.

The kind of people who can't live without writing are undoubtedly the best; while those like Shuang Xuetao, who took up the pen in order to live, write much better than those who haven't lost their pencils just because they are famous.

After the train arrived in Zhengzhou early this morning, Birds, who was waiting for me at the Texaco, prepared a hamburger and a Coke for me, and then he hooked his head and read his cell phone and giggled, or bragged about my hairstyle, which was more photogenic than his. On this day Zhengzhou was hidden in a white haze, and pedestrians were hurrying in the square outside the station where the cold wind was howling. "So where to go?" Birds asked after we walked out of the Texaco, "Get the hell out of here." Without any plan I shake my head blankly, "Look at the map then." To Xiangyang? Xian? Jincheng? I search the provincial maps, weighing which name is more appealing. Eventually we settled on the province's Luoyang, whose name sounded ancient and might have something worth seeing.

In fact, I've long since revealed an old-fashioned indifference to sight-seeing, bringing me down into the gutter of writing essays with longer and longer sentences and withdrawing from the material world of reasoning Strauss came up with in The Tropic of Melancholy, that is - I loathe traveling. Of course, it may be the reason for being alone, think of a few hours by car, with uncomfortable physical condition, wandering in the scenic area, can not be interpreted from the axioms, and most likely not hit the peach blossom luck, can not help but confuse the travel in the end what is the meaning of it? Look at all those people traveling together! They look so natural! But whether they are by the scenery in front of them, or because they are being watched by their companions, and perceived a hazy meaning, is really to be proved. In short, traveling is a big scam.

After checking online that there were no seats on the train, we had to take the passenger car. There were only seven or eight passengers on the three-hour ride, and halfway through the trip the driver selfishly tried to rush us to the next one. The passengers were annoyed and complained loudly, as did we. But on second thought, our trip was not urgent, and this kind of cooperation to save material resources is actually understandable. After a night of traveling, I was able to take advantage of the ample time to catch up on a nap.

Waking up, I began to think about giving meaning to the rest of the trip.

Arriving in Luoyang, we chose a restaurant for dinner, and while chatting with birds, I interjected, without taking the context back and forth, "We always mistakenly equate our own perceptions with those of others," to which birds, in a moment of realization, quipped, "You've made a remarkable remark . ." Spinning around, he took out his phone and wrote it down, and I recalled the ass-kissing moment with a cozy, answering heart.

After all, Birds and I lead two distinct lives, a semi-collegiate one in which I spend my days flipping through books, and a semi-working one in which he spends his days trying to be creative. A few years ago he went through the trouble of publishing his full-length novel, and I wrote ostentatiously that he was "the other me in the world". From my distance, I see my brother as a prick who still idealizes life with a stubborn core. This is definitely another side of me that I've been hiding deeper and deeper. But I'm aware that I'm actually a weak guy, and while I say I'm hiding it deeper and deeper, if I don't show it any more, it's the same as not showing it at all. So this journey should not be a soul tango with the "other me in the world", but more to discover the "other you in the world"?

No peonies bloomed in Luoyang in January, the haze drowned out the Longmen Grottoes, and the tall buildings that stood there were wiped out in the lower part of the waist. The dark and humid climate quickly set the tone of our inner perception of the city. Imagination was disintegrating at a rapid pace and we were sad that we couldn't find anything in the city that was worth seeing or could make you feel refreshed. Though it had the name of an ancient capital, and it did conjure up images of it, it was barely distinguishable from the inland cities we had traveled through.

The distinctive bus stops that match the attractions that lurk somewhere in the city, separate from everyday life, are the rare imagery that prevents your mind from jumping gears from one city to the next, or else, as birds says, "This feels like my neighborhood, you can imagine it, it works."

One of the best things about these similar cities is the number of vendors that operate next to train stations, selling "specialty items. In Luoyang, for example, the one specialty vendors can apparently sell is the world's best peony seeds, which tourists can buy packets of to take home. Before and after the travelers leave, this packet of seeds is responsible for the treatment of their pale memories of their time here - you do ...... really ...... believe it or not look at this packet of peony seeds! ...... came to this city.

One city can depict a thousand cities, cities that no longer have the imagination of Calvino. They **** the same pointing to the seven o'clock newswire flash, under construction subway shelter board framed a red posters, real estate advertising slogans. It's where we can ride bike cards reloaded elsewhere and watch Star Wars 8 that we want to see again in the theater.

We resent not wanting to describe the city any more, inwardly blaming their sameness. It's probably some kind of delusion, too, that each city truly has a unique architectural system, a vastly different internal identity. But it seems that these rapidly emerging new cities can't escape this awkward stage in their history, and are left with a legacy of disease in the future. Cities will continue to expand, traffic will have to be slowed down, and everyone will have to squeeze through. In the lonely spaces marked out by high-rise windows, no one can contemplate its destiny.

When traveling, travelers can't help but feel a strange sense of pride and novelty. Pride probably lies in the fact that they pass through the towns, where the indigenous inhabitants of the daily life and life and death, passers-by do not need to participate, a cursory glance can be withdrawn from; and the sense of novelty ...... is probably more the traveler's sense of time and rhythm of daily life has been disrupted, the previous time in the home to take a nap and do not have to think about anything, in the travel may be the time, the traveler's sense of time is disrupted. In traveling may be plagued by a bunch of doubts that need to be made in a timely manner.

We imagine that if we were thrown into such a city and settled down to live there for a long time, we wouldn't be able to escape from Liu Zhenyun's novels, where young people who have just joined the workforce and acted like they're fighting for their jobs are quickly bolted down by pots and pans and relationships with friends, and spend their days as if they're a chicken scratching on the ground. If they have any little fun - like the bank clerk who forgets his profession after work and imagines himself as God furiously writing novels. Even if they can't get it published, they feel inexplicably happy. In these times of great change stabilize their restless and unattainable ambitions and settle down for a few days of real life. It is not realistic to rely on grandiose and unattainable ideals to sustain life. The more you rely on, the more likely it is - "I wrote an article that has been read by a hundred people" virtual income.

A major background theme in Shuang Xuetao's novels is the decline of the Northeast. Our travels are also leaving the north and racing to the southwest. First, there is a new wave of cold air brewing in the north, and it is inconvenient to walk with too many clothes in the backpack; second, we feel that these cities, like the title of one of his novels - "the north has been reduced to nothing", and there is no need to visit them one by one.

In that land of nothingness, many of the stories that happened there seem to have been dropped into a pond of water many years ago, and the writer wants to be a salvager. Everything is facially corrupted, and the flavor of life has vanished along with the factory closures and layoffs.

Whether the city of Luoyang has to go through these, we do not know, but through the car window peeping out of the window of the street, the same is not seen the temperature of life. On the road is the roar of cars carrying unsafe elements, shopping malls shoulder-to-shoulder crowds to meet commercial sales pitches. If we are tired of this place, maybe we should go to the countryside, remembering that Zhang Aijia's "Love One Another" was set in the countryside of Luoyang. But we have no contact with the people there, and their lives are even less impressive than in the city.

We went along the map to the centuries-old Drum Tower, too many cities have a Drum Tower, but the Drum Tower in Luoyang, there is no new antique building, only a broken Drum Tower piles. Along an old street a few stores selling hemp leaves, a large pile of life clothes store, not attract passers-by barber store. Ruan Ji's former residence on the side, a fluttering red banner striking this information, but people can not find the entrance, that wild and unruly soul here really do not know how to rest.

In fact, it is not quite as old as the Drum Tower, outside the old city center, piercing blue glass office buildings stand up, trying to invite those who do not want to go to the coast of a foreign land of the original townspeople, where to enjoy the years of quiet life of the office workers. You can conveniently order takeout, watch movies and karaoke. The third and fourth tier cities are slow-paced and prices are slightly lower, so it doesn't feel bad to put down roots and live here. I sometimes think realistically and chicken thief - in the big city to earn enough money want to have, back here.

August birds accidentally in a bad reputation of a southern city in the province for a short period of time, he described the city is the same, the new city surrounded by the old city, white-collar workers early in the morning to squeeze bus elevator to work. But it was basically all girls, and the atmosphere was lethargic and sterile. Those girls don't really want to stay in their hometowns, it's just that after they get married and have children, their range of activities gets narrower and narrower, and it's hard for them to get out of their hometowns anymore. Hearing him say this, I realized that the original first-tier big cities are not only extracting vitality from the countryside, but also slowly but comprehensively diluting a city's energy from the third- and fourth-tier cities.

Birds and I left the sparsely visited Longmen Grottoes site, ready to bid farewell to Luoyang. All in all, it was a rambling failure to pick a spot, showing us that we can't just figure out the city's name has flavor before we leave. The peonies should be beautiful in April, and it's a good thing that travelers leaving then will be able to tell others about a completely different city of Luoyang. The end result is that you can't trust anyone but yourself to see it and say your own "nice" or "shit", and that's what traveling is all about.

The author of Deaf Times, which I read with sleepy eyes, tells the story of his elementary and middle school classmates, once and now. In the novel, those of his classmates, grew up after the fate of how saddening. Once a genius teenager, the pursuit of truth, the upwardly mobile female classmates, to later kill his wife, divorce, obesity, suicide ......birds like a supervisor to discuss the book with me, clumsy I stammered and failed to pop out a few words.

I was on the train combing through our day of traveling and remembered that I had asked for a bowl of Henan chow mein in the morning. I hadn't had Henan chow mein in a really long time, and as expected, my tastebuds hadn't awakened my fond memories; it had turned into lumps of noodles soaking in soup. I remembered the bowl of not-so-tasty chow mein, in fact, to write these following readings.

The classmates portrayed in Deaf Times, before stepping into adulthood, no matter how much they acted heaven and earth, always still gave me hope that life wasn't completely screwed up. In reality, we've all seen teenagers who can't socialize, who steal things from home and bring them to school for attention, who hide in the bathroom and fight in groups, but we always feel that there's still hope for them; we've also seen teenagers who always get good grades, who treat people well, and who come from well-off families, and we feel that their lives will be smooth sailing all the time.

But that may just be because the child has not been "used" to have the illusion, like the novel of the science knowledge of the extremely talented but finally killed his wife Liu Yida, burned his face and called it "charcoal", and later entered a prestigious university in foreign countries can also achieve excellent research results. Later on, he entered a prestigious university and achieved excellent research results abroad, good, very good, and at that stage, it seemed to be good enough. However, up to this point, he had not made any connection with life and practicality. How should a genius live? It doesn't seem right how to answer that.

The noodles have changed in flavor, perhaps because "I" have become complex, eating noodles is no longer entirely for the sake of food, making friends began to consider whether it is worthwhile to spend energy with them, I chose to "use" them more explicitly, and they are inevitably no longer pure.

Everyone's initial loss begins to spread from the moment they are "used", and what is simply good will one day be bad. Simply bad will one day become an indelible stamp.

What we can't hide is the fact that the spiritually self-sufficient life we set out to live, often to the satisfaction of Birds and me, because of a certain anxiety, is getting fuller and fuller and deviating more and more from the norm. When confronted with a simple query from someone I had just met: what do you want? I was at a loss for an answer and realized that I had stopped thinking about this question for a long time. And whether I want to answer or not, I know that I am about to be "used" and that there will always be judgments imposed on me to determine whether I am useful or not, and I don't know if I want to listen to those judgments yet.