Selected Works of Wang Anyi - 60th Century Literary Masters

Author: Wang Anyi
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-05-01
Features: The 20th century was an extraordinary century. The social life of the 20th century was turbulent and underwent profound changes, while the Chinese-language literature of the 20th century was also vast and dynamic. With its own ups and downs and grand development, it wrote a brilliant page in the five-thousand-year splendid symphony of the Chinese nation. Through the collaboration of renowned writers and their masterpieces, it reviewed and showcased the abundant achievements and significant progress made in Chinese literature during the 20th century. This book is part of the "60 Masters of Century Literature" series, where the selected writers have their representative works included in "Selected Works." In addition to the works, experts have written research-oriented prefaces, and bibliographies of the writers' creative works have been compiled, aiming to provide readers with necessary guidance and more information to understand the writers, their works, and their characteristics as well as their positions in literary history.
When it comes to Wang Anyi, those familiar with Chinese literature would not be unfamiliar with her. Wang Anyi is a unique and rich presence in contemporary Chinese literature. From her 1981 work "Rain, Rain, Rain" to her 2000 novel "Fuping," over the past 20 years, Wang Anyi has consistently written with resilience and joy about her life experiences, spiritual adventures, and aspirations for life. Her prose is filled with the authenticity and simplicity of life, devoid of ornate or deliberately exaggerated language. Each prose piece is a life in itself, a of a real life, plain and simple, so much so that one can almost smell the earthy simplicity and kindness in it. This book selects several of her short stories and novellas.
The self-playing clock in the next room struck four o'clock—"Dong, dong, dong"—and Ouyang Duanli opened her eyes in the dark, no longer daring to sleep. The quilt was warm, and even staying an extra minute would be good, she lingered. The back door of someone else's house opened, and it hit the lock of Sibo Ling—"Bang"—followed by a burst of hurried and scattered footsteps in the lane. Duanli gritted her teeth and turned over, sitting up, pushing the quilt all the way to her feet, as if to resist the temptation of the warm quilt. A chill wrapped around her, and she shivered, quickly putting on her sweater, cotton coat, and woolen pants—the woolen pants were soft and difficult to put on. Five minutes later, she had wrapped a black long scarf around her neck, slung a basket over her shoulder, unlocked the back door, and slammed it shut, rushing out, leaving behind a trail of hurried footsteps.
It was very dark. The streetlights trembled in the cold mist. Several bicycles sped past, with three or two people hunching their shoulders, walking quickly. A trolleybus passed by. Duanli wrapped her scarf haphazardly, only revealing her eyes, looking like an elderly northern Chinese woman. The wind came, sharp as a knife, piercing right through her woolen pants and felt pants. She felt as if she were wearing nothing but a single pair of pants. As the saying goes, "Cold starts from the feet." Her legs grew cold, and her whole body began to shiver. She thought, "I should make a thin cotton pants." She had never imagined that Shanghai would have such a biting north wind. Because she had never woken up this early and gone out, nor had she ever thought that going out early was difficult. Sometimes, when Aunt Abo couldn’t buy fresh vegetables, she would say, "Can’t you wake up a bit earlier?" Now that Aunt Abo has left, it’s her turn to wake up early. She sighed.
Crossing the street, she hurried toward the old woman with a vegetable basket ahead, only to be passed by two little girls from behind. Doors of the buildings on the street occasionally opened, people coming out with bamboo baskets, yawning, locking the doors, and walking forward with their arms folded. The line to the vegetable market gradually grew larger. At the intersection, she turned, and ahead was the vegetable market. The dim yellow light was like a thick, murky mist, enveloping the bustling crowd. The ground was damp and sticky, as if it had just rained lightly, with bits of vegetable peels and fish scales scattered around. The voices were noisy, with everyone talking, but nothing was clearly audible. A yellow fish cart crashed through, splitting the crowd in two. A group of children and women squeezed in front of the yellow fish stall, shouting and shoving, with a fight seemingly about to break out. Duanli quickly stepped back. Places like this are usually monopolized by these wild children and the aunties who make a living by buying vegetables for others—no one else can get in. They seem to have some kind of joint alliance. If you want to buy fresh or popular vegetables, you should go early, standing in line third or even second place. However, once the weighing begins, in no time, you’ll find yourself at the back of the line, seventeenth or eighteenth place—even if there’s just a brick in front of you, it will suddenly appear as if by magic. They pull and push each other, vouching for one another, forming an unbreakable fortress. Duanli found herself helplessly walking through the crowd, calculating and planning, but still couldn’t figure out how to arrange the eight jiao vegetable money. Her father-in-law’s fixed interest and salary had been stopped entirely, leaving only twelve yuan in living expenses for each person—not including her husband, Wen Yao, who had already started working. Naturally, he was