Chinese Prose Treasury: The Zhang Chengzhi Volume

Author: Zhang Chengzhi
Editor-in-Chief: Liu Huijun
Publisher:
Publishing Date: 1997-12-01
Features: Preface to the Publication
Contemporary Chinese prose creation, on the basis of inheriting and developing the fine aesthetic traditions of ancient and modern literature, has continued to flourish and grow. Especially since the new era, the innovative consciousness of prose writing has become more open and intense, aesthetic pursuits more simple and natural, and expressive forms more rich and diverse. To showcase the achievements of contemporary prose creation and promote the development of socialist literature, our press will successively compile and publish the "Series of Treasured Anthologies of Chinese Prose." Given that a number of prose collections by contemporary renowned writers have already been compiled and published, the new series of treasured anthologies primarily selects the finest works of outstanding prose masters since the new era. The editorial format is organized by volume, with each volume dedicated to a single author, approximately 150,000 words in length. Readers can appreciate the creative styles of different writers and gain an overview of the true development of contemporary prose. Editorial Department of People's Literature Publishing House, March 30, 1995
Excerpt: Impressions of Northern Women
Since three years ago, when I first ventured into this mountain gully, I have come here countless times without realizing it. In this barren and desolate red sand gully, what could possibly attract a city dweller like me? In the trance of movement as if passing through a magnetic field, I never took the time to think about it. But I am not here to describe the charm I feel. Perhaps it is because middle age favors desolate and solemn landscapes—this naked mountain gully, with its heart-wrenching scenes and landscapes, may resonate with something deep within me. Here lies a fierce world, where generations have repeatedly ignited smoke signals and in the face of predetermined failure. Since the late Qing Dynasty and the Republic of China, there have been numerous uprisings and rebellions that shocked the world. Every night, after finishing a bowl of jiangshui noodles, I would lie on a earthen stove covered with a black, soiled cotton quilt in a mud house, marveling in the dim, flickering candlelight—here I sat among the descendants of martyrs of the Tongzhi peasant uprising, and here I was revered by heroes of the Kuomintang army who had fallen one after another. I sat right in the center of the kang.
Spring turned to winter, and whether by coincidence or by fate, whenever I stepped down from the snowy mountain cliff and saw this familiar gully quietly lying amidst a vast sea of snow, as if waiting for me with tranquility, I would realize it was winter once again. The winter landscape of the Muslim mountain gully resembles a sea of towering peaks. Even the endless snow could not hide the destitution and sorrow, as the mottled villages scattered across this unknown world like dark trees piercing the snow layer. They were like ships that had given up but not sunk, carrying the heavy history that pressed the yellow soil into indentations, drifting with the changing weather, with the ebb and flow of snow, as if sailing motionlessly in the sea.
My (down-to-earth experience) was simple. I came; unlike others who left and never returned, I returned again. They treated me differently from others. I would spend nights talking with them on the dark earthen stoves, and the next day I would sleep in the mud house until the sun rose high. I neither conducted archaeological research nor engaged in literary visits. I spent a few days breathing among a group of rough, burly men who sat still as yellow soil but turned over like earth when they moved. By the time I left, I had gained a genuine sense of resilience.
One day, I casually remarked, "You can really handle it. To have lived in such a dry gully for so many generations, it's almost as if no one else in the world could manage this bunch of men." Unexpectantly, they laughed and said, "The rules for harvesting garlic have long been exhausted." There were only women and children left in this place. I asked, "Isn't this mountain the ancestral homeland, the hot earth of our ancestors?"