Whose youth was as wild as mine - Commemorative Edition

Author: Zi You
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2007-01-01
Features: In February 2004, while crossing an overpass with my mother, I suddenly told her that I hoped to have a legendary life. Who would have thought that just a month later, the words I spoke on that overpass under the sky would come true. I was diagnosed with cancer and admitted to the hospital, where I remain until now. The air was fresh and cool after a recent rain, and lying on my hospital bed, I browsed through the preliminary selections compiled by the editor. From the age of 8 to now, a remarkable journey from innocence to maturity unfolds, and facing me at every stage, I wonder what kind of preface I should write? I am a lucky child, raised in a rare environment with a broad perspective from a young age, and countless wonderful paths to choose from. Back then, I was only fascinated by things that interested me and was extremely unskilled in many areas. I went through primary school in a daze, but I had a knack for imitating jokes and Charlie Chaplin walks, which deeply influenced me later. For example, I write about Chaplin every year, experiencing something new each time; as for jokes, I leave traces of humor throughout my books. I once tried writing a joke, titled The Comic, but by the end, I was so frustrated that I almost cried—it wasn’t funny at all. I have my own spiritual world where I happily tell stories, using building blocks as characters to perform them. Life to me is like a grand play, and my novel, Children’s Brigade in Russia During World War I, was written under such circumstances. Its creation was inspired by Saving Private Ryan. I am well-versed in films to the point where I even doubt whether I still have any favorite aspects of them. Compared to the number of films I know, I don’t watch as many because I’m familiar with most plots in advance, which is extremely painful. At first, I wrote classical Chinese poetry. Back then, my mother read poems to me, and I learned whatever I saw, so whenever I read a poetic form, I wrote in that form. My first poem was about the Titanic, which is still “frequently discussed” today. Of course, my classical poetry is similar to children’s songs in nature, but it served to express my feelings (e.g., “Parents force me to play the piano; it’s so boring, it’s so boring”). When I was nine, I visited Zhongshan Park and, inspired, quickly wrote my first free verse, Untitled. Free verse is something I consider capable of being published, and strangely, I had never read any before, yet I didn’t know how to write it. I made up a definition and began writing—poetic-sounding colloquialisms with rhymes. The early poems were all written in one go, like Snow, which I composed while holding a pen and paper outside as snow fell. The snow melted on the paper, blurring my handwriting, and in the wind and snow, a little person was writing poetry—how moving a scene that is! Films often helped me too. For example, the plot of Truth Symphony is very similar to that of the great American film Citizen Kane. I take storytelling very seriously, researching anything I don’t understand, or some works were inspired by books I read. My long-form works before the age of 11 were all dictated by me, with my grandmother or other family members recording them, because I write slowly and clumsily, while my spiritual world is too rich. On weekends in primary school, whenever I returned to my grandmother’s house, I would start talking nonstop. My grandmother would type furiously on the computer, while I ran around the bed, rolling around, but my mouth never stopped. So, I am a person who never stops talking. My mother’s friends once asked my mother if I was truly happy, as my writings often revealed sorrow and grief. In truth, I have always been happy, but because I think deeply, I just write down my thoughts, which may be overly extreme in some places. For example, looking back at Reflections on Recent Events, the title is so long that it must mean the author’s mind is broken. Reading the content, I even doubt what was wrong with me back then. But it was still included in the book as a record of that period. Now, I no longer write such things—not because I’ve forgotten, but because I now use different methods (like satire and irony) to express them, so I shortened the title to Reflections. If you think of me as just a machine spewing out words, that would be terrible. Writing is self-entertainment for me; it is one of my many hobbies, but it is also so important to me, inseparable from me, even. Publishing so many immature and rushed works makes me extremely uneasy, as many of them are personal. Are they worth sharing? They are, and they hold meaning—they accompany my growth. What I experience, see, and think about is reflected in my words. During the SARS epidemic, when we were out of school, it was a period of frenzied writing for me, naturally producing many works related to SARS. I used satire to express my views on the post-80s generation (Interview on Great Tang Reading Program); I love films, and there are so many books about them on the market—let’s see what’s different about what I write. At this age, it’s no big deal if boys and girls develop feelings for each other. Please read through my scattered words to see how I like girls! I write about whatever I read, and recently, after reading Li Ao’s works, I wrote many “Li Ao-style” pieces, exploring and pointing out issues. Between the ages of 13 and 14, Hu Lanqing and Eileen Chang influenced me the most, and their shadows can be seen in my writings about Xiao Yun. Such examples are countless. And yet, I’ve been struck with such a serious illness—truly, the best gift the heavens could give me! There are many writers, but few who are ill and write about illness; there are many patients, but few who are writers among them. I have experienced illness, and in the process, I’ve written countless words, which I now dedicate to readers. I show you my life, my death, my love, my pain, sharing those feelings, because life, death, love, and pain are experiences we all go through. How rare an opportunity it is to have the chance to record and share such experiences! Today, my blood test revealed that my platelets are only 2,000, while the normal range is 100,000–300,000, and below 20,000 means there’s a risk of spontaneous bleeding. I am someone who has touched death’s temperature; if I’ve experienced death, what else have I got to fear? The journey ahead is long, and there is still much for me to do. Hemingway once expressed something similar when he won the Nobel Prize—that writers express themselves through writing, not through speech. I often write such words to my friends, and now I want to say them to my readers: Please see my grand and tumultuous life! The reason I’ve been able to persist in writing until now and even publish a book is because of the support of many kind people. They can forgive my insensitivity to the real world and capture the flashes of inspiration in my mind, affirming and encouraging me. Because there are so many good people, I cannot thank them all individually. I can only work hard and repay them.