You remember clearly that there was such a girl, and that you sat at the same desk, on the same wooden bench, and that she had a fair complexion. He once broke his pencil during a test, and when the girl noticed, she pushed the pencil box full of sharpened pencils she had on the desk to him. From then on, he began to take an interest in the girl, and would look out for her on his way to and from school. He once picked up a perfumed card that had dropped out of her textbook, and, after school, the girl gave it to him. When the boys from the class saw this, they started chanting, "The two of them are in love! The two of them are in love!" It made him blush, and, probably because of that, thereafter, warmth, fragrance, and femininity all came to be associated for him.

You also remember a dream from your teenage years. It was in a garden with long uncut grass, and among the clumps of grass lay the pure, white, naked body of a woman, a cold statue of carved marble. This was a dream he had after reading Merimee's novel The Venus of Ille. He slept close to the statue, and how he had sex with it was unclear, but there was a cold puddle around his thighs. It was a winter's night, and he woke up terrified.

You think about Bergman's old black-and-white film Wild Strawberries, which captures in detail an old man's anxiety about death; probably you've gradually moved into the phase of old age. In another of his films, Cries and Whispers, you feel sympathy for the three sisters and their buxom maid, who are all tortured by loneliness, sexual desire, illness, and fear of death. Can literature and art communicate? It is, in fact, pointless discussing this, but there are people who do believe that this is impossible. And can Chinese literature communicate? Communicate with whom, the West? Or communicate with the Chinese on the Mainland, or with the Chinese living abroad? And what is Chinese literature? Does literature have national boundaries? And do Chinese writers belong to a specific location? Do people living on the Mainland, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and the Chinese-Americans all count as Chinese people? This, again, brings in politics, so let's talk just about pure literature. But does pure literature really exist? Then let's talk about literature. But what is literature? These issues are all of relevance to the conference and are all endlessly contested.

You're tired of the debate over literature and politics. China is already so remote from you; moreover, you were expelled from the country long ago, and you do not need to bear that country's label. You simply write in the Chinese language, and that's all.

38

Buses were parked in front of the building from which five persons had jumped to their deaths less than a month ago. The first batch of about a hundred people to go to the countryside had assembled for final instructions from the army officer. As ordered by Officer Zhang, pinned on each person's chest was a red paper flower hurriedly made by office personnel before the buses were to be boarded.

This detachment of fighters was mostly elderly. There were also women, people of retirement age who hadn't been permitted to retire, as well as people on sick leave with high blood pressure. Among their numbers were old cadres from the Yan'an base area and old guerrilla fighters who had fought local battles on the plains of central Hebei province. In accordance with Mao's newly promulgated May Seventh Directive, these people were all off to cultivate the land, and wearing this paper flower on the chest signified that reform through labor was glorious.

Officer Zhang came out of the building, touched the brim of his cap with his fingers in a salute, then stood at attention before everyone, "Comrades, from now on you are glorious May Seventh fighters! You are the advance detachment and have the important mission of establishing the Communist university called for by our Great Leader, Chairman Mao. I wish all of you a rich harvest in both your labor and thinking!"

He was regular army personnel and didn't waste time talking. Having said this, he raised his arm and signaled for the buses to be boarded. In front of the building were family members, as well as colleagues who had come to see them off. People were waving from all the windows of every floor of the building. There had been enough fighting between factions, and those leaving all counted as comrades. It was an emotional situation, some of the women were wiping tears from their eyes, but on the whole, there was a cheery atmosphere.

He was secretly pleased. He had organized his belongings, even scrubbed the enamel chamber pot in his room, and packed everything into the wooden boxes they had provided him. People sent to the country were provided with two boxes at no cost, but additional ones were charged. All this came from documents issued by the May Seventh Office, which the State Council had newly established. He nailed up his boxes of books. Just when he would be able to open the books again, he didn't know, but they would accompany him in life, they were his last bit of mental sustenance.

When he delivered his application to be sent to the country, Officer Zhang was hesitant and said, "The ferret-out work hasn't been completed, then there will be many difficult tasks-"

Without waiting for the officer to finish talking, he started a barrage of pratde, explaining in a single breath his resolve and his need to undertake labor and reform. He added, "Officer Zhang, I want to report that my girlfriend was allocated work in the country after graduating from university. When the cadre school is fully established, I can get my girlfriend to come, then I will be able to carry out a lifetime of revolution in the countryside!"

He had made it clear that he was not hiding anything and that he had given thought to practical matters. Officer Zhang rolled his eyes. His fate had been decided.

"All right!" Officer Zhang took his application.

He heaved a sigh of relief.

Only one person said, "You shouldn't go!"

It was Big Li, and he knew that he was reproaching him. Comrade Wang Qi, whom he had protected, also came to see him off, her eyes were red and she looked away. Big Li had turned up to say good-bye and shook hands with him. His puffy eyes made him look even more sincere, yet somehow the two of them had found it hard to become friends. He detected Big Li's loneliness. Among the disbanded rebel faction, there had been fighting companions, but no real friends. And now he was abandoning all of them.

Before going downstairs to assemble, he went to the room of his former superior Old Liu and shook hands with him. Old Liu tightly clasped his hand, as if he was clutching a piece of straw to save himself, but this piece of straw wanted to escape sinking. They each held the other's hand for a while without saying anything, but both knew that clinging together meant sinking together, and Old Liu was the first to let go. He had finally succeeded in escaping from this beehive of insanity, this building that manufactured death.

At Qianmenwai, the railway station was as usual crowded with milling people, and on the platform and in die carriages, only the heads of those leaving and those seeing them off could be seen moving around. University students had already been sent to the country and border areas earlier on. This time, those being sent to the country to work were mostly middle-school students, who were being sent to settle permanently, as well as workplace staff and cadres. Boys and girls on board the train crammed around the windows, and their parents stood outside the windows, giving numerous instructions. On the platform, there was a loud burst of gongs and drums as a worker propaganda team, leading a band of children who were too young to be sent, transformed the farewell scene into a festive occasion.