Chinese Literature

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Let the devil come, instead! What... what a dead place this is! Absolutely without any life! And so grey! .. ral

The two of them got back to the school after nine o’clock in the evening. All the shops had closed their doors. The street lamps shed such a feeble, dim light that it made one feel gloomier than if there had not been any light at all.

Mr. Li thought of the house he was occupying, and his heart sank.

The little house stood all alone. It seemed to Mr. Li that, aside from himself, there were no other creatures in the world. The walls of this place were painted lemon colour. They were clean but their cleanliness only increased the monotony of the room in which there were no decorations of any kind, just a few simple pieces of furniture, the necessary utensils for writing and his two small suitcases. When the bright electric light was on, it made one feel only colder and more lonely.

And in such surroundings, he had to begin his “new life.”

He felt suddenly sick at heart, all alone, without any relative or friend. Nobody was concerned about him. Nobody looked after him. This was really the first time he was in such a strange situation. When he was small, there were his mother and elder sister, and later, his wife, who had always known his wishes and desires simply by looking at him. And his friends had gathered around him, making him their centre. But now. .

‘Perhaps it’s all just a dream .. .” he muttered to himself wretchedly. He hoped he was only dreaming and would wake up to find himself still at home, lying on his own soft, warm bed; and on the table beside his bed, there would be a pot of strong black tea which his wife had prepared for him, a tin of the “Three Castles” cigarettes he liked and a volume of Wu Mei-tsun, his favourite poet. His daughter would put a cigarette between his lips, light it for him and then say, with her childish smile:

“What a long time you’ve slept, daddy!”

Everything would be exactly the same as it used to be every morning. The curtain on the window would be halfdrawn to let in the sunshine. The bamboo outside the window would be scattering a slanting pattern across the floor, giving the room a hint of fresh greenery. He would, as usual, remain in bed until he finished smoking, reading a few of Wu Mei-tsun’s poems. Then he would get up leisurely.

The world, just like himself, would all be peaceful and undisturbed.

“How unthinkable that war should break out in such a tranquil

world! .. .” he thought. ‘This is indeed a very long dream. ... But then, Chunyu Fung in the story Governor of the Southern Tributary State ... passed several scores of years in his dream... and yet it actually ... actually ... was only a short while... .”

He belched, drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped his

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