After much thought, nothing describes my recent state of mind more aptly than Liang Yuchun’s description of “Qing.” Reading it repeatedly, I’m filled with emotion but don’t know where to begin, so I can only attach the full text for self-comfort. One thing after another, one name after another, I think carefully and then carefully put them down. Thus I gradually become uncertain of what to say, and can only smile and shake my head, saying “oh well, oh well, fine fine.” It’s truly delightful that Liang Yuchun’s collected works are available on WeChat Reading. The thought of physical books crossing oceans from China to reach my hands also makes me laugh with joy.

The Sorrow of “Losing Sorrow”

It was spring three years ago. I was walking in a park in Shanghai when I suddenly heard a familiar voice calling to me. I saw a young man with an ethereal bearing standing before me, smiling and calling my name, asking: “Do you remember Qing?” I truly didn’t recognize him as my good friend from university preparatory days, because I never would have imagined that after ten years, Qing would still look so young, that time would leave no trace on him. In these ten years, I hadn’t met him once. At first we exchanged a few letters, but later each had his own life, and our environments couldn’t fully understand each other. The letters gradually talked more about current events and weather, and less about other things. My few meaningless complaints, written several times in succession, seemed so pointless to me that I was embarrassed to repeat them, yet I couldn’t find other fresh things to say. Thus letters became increasingly rare until all correspondence had been completely cut off for seven years.

Qing’s eyes still moved restlessly as before, his cheeks still glowed with a rosy tint, his face bore no traces of wind and frost, and he still couldn’t shake off that immature childish air from before. There was one new addition, however - that vague smile he never had before, and which was deliberately put on his face. Facing this smile, I felt somewhat displeased.

“Qing,” I said, “how strange! When we parted, you were only eighteen. From eighteen to twenty-eight is when people age fastest, because it’s when they awaken from golden dreams and encounter stubborn reality. Yet you haven’t been affected by circumstances at all, still filled with youthful glory, truly not a bit different from ten years ago. I think you must have lived very happily these ten years. Am I right?”

He maintained that vague smile while looking at me, then after a while asked indifferently: “How have you been these years?”

I sighed and said, “Don’t ask. Many aspirations and countless hopes have all been worn away in these years. Having to maintain life and extend existence, busy all day, I’ve actually lost the meaning of life. So many things I wanted to do could never be realized. Sometimes when I think of this meaningless existence, this way of secretly sending away precious time, my heart is truly infinitely sad. These years I’ve encountered misfortunes one after another, and I’m already tired from struggling. My recent life is truly filled with tragic emotions.”

Qing suddenly interjected excitedly: “A person who can have tragic emotions and feel various sorrows can no longer be considered pitiable.” He was about to continue when his eyelids lifted slightly, showing hesitation, then stopped speaking and smiled again with pursed lips.

Qing used to be the most straightforward and frank person, especially with me - we talked about everything, often until dawn, sometimes sleeping briefly, then skipping class the next day to chatter on. What we talked about, I can’t remember clearly now - who can remember the sweet dreams they had while sleeping in their mother’s arms? So I was very unhappy with his hesitant manner then. I said: “Qing, in ten years you’ve certainly learned worldly ways, so even with me you speak in riddles, only half-sentences. The child has indeed made some progress.”

Qing was usually the most impatient person, but now he didn’t react at all to my provocative words, as if a vague smile settled everything. After a long time, he said slowly: “Telling you some things for fun wouldn’t matter, though not telling would also be fine. After we parted, didn’t I transfer to a southern university? After graduating, like everyone else, I did some work, ate some meals. My past life was very ordinary, not worth detailing. Really speaking, whose life isn’t very ordinary? People sometimes laugh wildly, sometimes shed clear tears, sometimes feel proud, sometimes disappointed. Otherwise it’s just work, entertainment, those with families go home to see the children, those alone seek friends to chat when free. Besides that, today they like this person, tomorrow they might still like them, or be pleased with someone else. This year one or two people love us, next year they might still love us, or love others, or they might die and then cannot love anyone or be loved by anyone anymore. Generation after generation continues this way, each feeling at the time they’re the center of the universe, later they forget the universe, and the universe forgets them too. People’s lives can’t escape these things, and beyond these things there’s nothing else. The confusion and complexity of these things creates comedy and tragedy, giving people happiness and sorrow. But unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately), I’m someone who has completely lost sensitivity to both comedy and tragedy. This isn’t because I’ve become numb - no, I understand all people’s happiness and sorrow, but I myself have lost happiness and lost sorrow, because I’m someone who has lost value concepts. People must have some affirmation of life before they can have joys and sorrows. Someone who doesn’t feel there’s any good in being alive naturally won’t find death a sorrowful thing; if he has no longing for death either, then death isn’t any joyful pleasure. A person living in the world must have some purpose before life becomes interesting, whether sweet or bitter; whether his purpose is a lifelong aspiration or present enjoyment, whether so-called noble or so-called base, in any case, without some hope, his life cannot have any color. People’s purposes depend on their value concepts. If he can’t see what’s good or bad, he can’t affirm anything, and naturally can’t have any purpose or hope.”

Here he gave me a desolate cold laugh, and I suddenly felt that laugh somewhat resembled what I imagined to be the sinister grin of evil spirits. He continued: “Do you remember? When we were in university preparatory school, one evening you came across a line of Spenser’s poetry in a literary criticism book - ‘He could not rest, but did his stout heart eat.’ You didn’t know how to interpret it and came to ask me what ‘to eat one’s heart’ meant. I vaguely answered that it meant to eat one’s own heart. Now I can tell you what ‘eating one’s heart’ means. Taking the various emotions of love and hate in one’s heart and doubting them one by one with reason, breaking countless value concepts one by one - this is like biting and chewing one’s own heart bit by bit. When finally one doubts even this executioner reason, that’s when the entire heart has been consumed, leaving only an exquisite hollow. Once his heart is eaten and becomes excrement and urine, how can he feel the joys, angers, sorrows and pleasures of the human world? This is ‘to eat one’s heart.’ Eating one’s own heart is different from having a dead heart. When the heart dies, it still remains in the chest, just motionless, but people still feel heavy pressure inside, so even the most vicious people still react with pain and pleasure to life. Only those who eat their own hearts lose sorrow. I hear that sorrow is the most lovable thing, and only those with an extremely strong appetite for life will weep blood and tears - each drop of tears is life’s sweet dew. If life weren’t worth lingering over, worth our attention, we wouldn’t need to mourn life’s failures so. So in sorrow, we secretly praise life; lamenting life means affirming life’s value. Some say life is a dream, Shakespeare said the world is a stage and life like a play. But dreams and plays are both parts of life; they seek something within life to symbolize life itself, showing how much they find life interesting, unable to jump outside the circle to find something beyond life for comparison, so they all affirm life. But I don’t know whether to affirm or deny, nor do I know if there’s any ‘should’ in the world. I doubt the existence of all values, yet don’t dare say value concepts are absolutely wrong. In short, I’ve lost all compass for action, naturally forgotten what hope means. I won’t have satisfying things happen, nor disappointing things, for I no longer have opinions. So I always remain this young - my heart has severed relations with my body and won’t come to disturb me. I’ve lost my heart but have nowhere to find it, because I ate it myself. I remember four years ago I finished eating my heart clean. When I first started eating it was quite tasty - removing one value concept made me feel lighter. Later as my heart was gradually devoured, my chest often felt uncomfortably empty, but my appetite grew stronger daily, eating faster until it was all consumed. The last bite was the most flavorful. Doesn’t Shakespeare say: ‘Last taste is the sweetest.’ Now there’s no heart left to eat. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

He completely dropped that mask of vague smiles and honestly grinned fiercely. His face was pale, his eyes bright. Seeing the alarmed expression on my face, he immediately calmed down and said quietly: “Oscar Wilde said in his ‘Ballad of Reading Gaol’: ‘The man who had never wept now weeps.’ But I’m someone who used to love weeping and now doesn’t weep anymore. You should preserve your sorrow well, often shed some pleasant tears. I really don’t want you to also lose sorrow like me, wolfishly devouring your own heart completely. Ha! Ha! It’s good we met today - I can clearly answer your English question from ten years ago. Let’s go eat!”

We went to a restaurant together. I ate in a dazed stupor while Qing didn’t talk much, only saying a few very meaningless platitudes. When we left the restaurant, he gave me his hotel address. I didn’t sleep well all night, and the next morning I went early to find him, but the hotel desk clerk said there was no such person. Thinking he might be using a false name, I secretly looked at each room door but couldn’t find any trace of him. I sat at the hotel entrance waiting all day, watching guests come and go, but never saw Qing. I wandered home disappointedly, and since then have never encountered Qing again. Is he still that young? This question often occurs to me. Sometimes I think perhaps he’ll never die, just live on, living with that fierce grin, living with that vague smile.