Selected Works of Zhang Xianliang - 60th Century Literary Masters

Author: Zhang Xianliang
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-05-01
Features: When it comes to Zhang Xianliang, anyone with some knowledge of Chinese literature would not be unfamiliar with him. In the 1980s, this unconventional writer published works such as Spirit and Flesh, Greening the Trees, and Half a Man Is a Woman, which stirred up great waves in the reading of the Chinese people with their heartwarming human stories and cutting-edge ideas. In the 1990s, during the wave of "intellectuals going into business," Zhang Xianliang founded a film and television entertainment city in Ningxia, known for "selling desolation," becoming a unique sight in the literary world today. Today, Zhang Xianliang has combined the dual identities of a writer and an entrepreneur. This book selects five of his best works, allowing you to experience the extraordinary charm of this "writer and entrepreneur." The 20th century was an extraordinary century. The social life of the 20th century was turbulent and underwent profound changes, while the Chinese literature of the 20th century was also vast and dynamic. With its ups and downs and grand development, it wrote a brilliant page in the five-thousand-year colorful symphony of the Chinese nation. In the form of renowned writers collaborating with renowned works, this book reviews and showcases the abundant achievements and significant progress made in Chinese literature during the 20th century. This book is one of the "60 Outstanding Writers of the Century" series. The selected writers in the "60 Outstanding Writers of the Century" series have their representative works included in the form of selected collections. In addition to the works, experts have written research introductions, and bibliographies of the writers' creative works have been compiled, aiming to provide readers with necessary guidance and more information to understand the writers' works, their creative characteristics, and their status in literary history. The cart struggled to cross the groaning arched wooden bridge and arrived at the farm where we came to work. Below the bridge was a dry channel in winter. Yellow, withered ice grass stood motionless on both sides of the embankment. A few lizards, startled by the cart, scrambled frantically through the grass. The bridge was rudimentary, its surface paved with yellow soil, which had been ground into fine powder by passing vehicles. Beneath the yellow soil, the reed stalks serving as a base had uneven ends, almost drooping to the muddy bottom of the channel, making the bridge appear much wider than it actually was. However, the driver still did not get off. Although the three horses were staggering, snorting, rolling their eyes in pleading, and spewing cloudy white steam from their nostrils, he sat upright on the shafts, skillfully and steadily guiding the cart across the trap-like bridge. The animals were not stronger than I was. I was already thin enough—tall at 1.78 meters, weighing only 44 kilograms, almost skin and bones. The prison doctor clicked his tongue as I stepped off the scale, praising me thus: "Not bad! You're still alive." He believed that my survival was nothing short of a miracle; he had every right to share my pride. But no one cared about these animals. The gaunt heads, perched on wooden-stick necks with deep hollows above their eyes, showed worn-out, incomplete yellow teeth when they strained. One of the chestnut horses had a split lip from the halter, with a trickle of fresh blood seeping down and dripping onto the road, standing out vividly against the yellow dust. Yet the driver still sat upright, gazing at the endless distance with a cold, slightly melancholic gaze. Sometimes, he mechanically swung the whip in his hand. Every time he did, the thin horses would nervously twitch their ears. The chestnut horse with the split lip was particularly nervous, even though the driver had no intention of whipping it. I understood the driver's indifference and apathy: Are you hungry? Yes, I'm starving! Are you going to die of hunger? Hmm, not yet. Not yet, good. Then you have to work! Hunger was far more powerful than the whip in his hand, having already driven pity and compassion out of people's hearts completely. But I couldn't help myself. Watching the horses, thinner than I was, I asked him in the kindest tone possible for the times, "Master Hai, is the farm still far away?" He clearly heard me, but he ignored me, showing not even the slightest hint of contempt on his face, which in itself was the greatest contempt. He wore a half-new black cotton pants and jacket, with very close buttons, about a dozen neat rows from top to bottom, resembling the chest ornaments of 18th-century European aristocrats. Although he was pulling only three poor, thin horses, he still exuded a heroic and majestic air. I couldn't help but feel ashamed of myself. Contempt—I had long been accustomed to it and no longer felt it when people looked down on me. I was still full of enthusiasm. Today was the day I left the labor camp and embarked on a new life, as the disciplinary officers would say, I had become "self-sufficient"