Wang Anyi Works Series -- Thirty Chapters of Running Water

Author: Wang Anyi
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-10-01
Features: The female protagonist, Zhang Daling, is the descendant of a common small business owner in Shanghai. When Zhang Daling's mother was young, she was a spoiled lady. Zhang Daling's father always gave in to her and protected her. They lived their lives on, constantly having children. When Zhang Daling was born, her mother could no longer support her, so she was sent to the countryside to be raised. After she grew up, Zhang Daling was brought back to Shanghai to study. After finishing middle school, she went to the village of Jingangkou for eight years of the Cultural Revolution and then returned to the city. This book reflects the life journey of a woman from infancy to adulthood, as if flowing like water. It is the third novel written by female author Wang Anyi. Wang Anyi's writing style is considered versatile, and this novel once again demonstrates that. The story is not complicated, and the life and personality of the female protagonist are also very simple. Compared to the women in her original works, Zhang Daling is too ordinary and unremarkable, like an ant that crawls before us and then disappears into the dense grass. The author uses a detached tone and a silent narrative style, yet it deeply touches the hearts of those who grew up in specific historical eras. Love and hatred flash in the mundane.
There has never been a more tragic Chinese New Year for Zhang Daling. Her grandmother was happily eating New Year's Eve dinner at her daughter's house on the last day of the year. Early on New Year's Day, a page call came to inform them that their grandmother had passed away and they needed to go quickly. The mother, like a child, refused to get up and couldn't be moved. The father tried to lift her, but she struggled wildly, hitting his head and face, even biting his hand with her teeth. The siblings, who were usually the most outspoken, were stunned and hid in the corner, crying softly. The father lost his composure and couldn't help but tear up. At that moment, the mother stopped struggling but suddenly fainted. The father kept calling her, using a childish nickname that was very funny, "Maomei." This was a name the children had never heard before, but now there was no humor in it. They kept shouting, "Mom!" For a moment, it felt as if the sky had fallen and the earth had cracked. The father looked around the room, seeking help, among a group of tearful children. Only the older sister didn't cry; her eyes were wide with fear, almost filling her thin face. She looked at her father, and he looked at her. They had never met each other's eyes before; in the few years they lived together, they never had. They always passed each other like strangers, even more so than strangers. Sometimes, strangers might unintentionally communicate, but they deliberately avoided it, as communication made them uncomfortable and embarrassed. But at that moment, they met each other's eyes. She saw the plea in her father's eyes, and her father knew that now, he could only rely on her. With the instinct of a father and the instinct of a stranger, he knew he could only rely on her. And so, their gazes met. The father and daughter's eyes met like lightning, and she immediately took steps, pushed open the door, and shouted loudly, "Third-floor grandmother, living room mother, come quickly!" "Third-floor grandmother, living room mother, come quickly!" she shouted. Her sharp, mournful voice pierced through the cheerful explosions of New Year's Day fireworks, shaking the entire house. A series of door slams followed, and someone peeked out. She stamped her feet and shouted even louder, "Third-floor grandmother, living room mother, come quickly!" Her sharp voice became a harsh, screeching wail. Her voice was so piercing and mournful that it tore through the cheerful morning of New Year's Day. She heard her own voice tearing through the cheerful morning of New Year's Day, as if it were someone else's voice. A malicious sense of pleasure rose in her heart, and she squeezed her voice even more sharply and mournfully, calling again and again, as if her frustration was gradually flowing out with her cries. She almost called joyfully and mournfully on a cheerful morning of New Year's Day. People rushed upstairs or downstairs, entering their room. The mother had slowly woken up, too weak to struggle, lying in her father's arms like an infant. Seeing someone come, the children also gained courage and gradually stopped crying. The third-floor grandmother instructed her to go to the alleyway to call for two...