On the night of the millennium, I curled up alone in my study, taking stock of the twentieth century that was about to pass. At the moment when the Millennium Clock rang, I inexplicably remembered what my grandmother said: "In the days, the panic is like a madly growing straw!" Such a profound and elegant sentence. Having read the farewell texts written by the media, I feel that my grandmother's words are the most accurate description of the 20th century. In a flash, the new century is almost twenty years past. Because of writing, I went back to my boyhood and picked up the history of my hometown. Every time I enter a story in my memory, I can't help but think of this sentence from my grandmother, and all kinds of panic and panic in those days emerge: the abolition of old customs and the establishment of new regulations, the demise of old scenes and the growth of new things, The exhaustion of aesthetics and the determination to survive, the perversion of obedience and the madness of disobedience... The original intention and the result are completely different, the declaration and the action are contrary to each other, the good and the evil are cause and effect, and the victory and defeat are the same. In this century, which looks like a frantic pursuit and a frantic flight, the years have been smashed into a pile of empty days, and the days have been squeezed into a string of dry years, just like the wild rice growing in the fields.

I don't write these personnel stories to give an abstract judgment of the twentieth century, or to confirm what my grandmother said decades ago. For me, the times are just the days, and the history is just an individual. No matter what era you are in, there will always be bitterness and sweetness every day; there will always be sorrow and joy for each individual. Each individual in it, its bitterness and its sweetness, its sadness and its joy, is a real life that is connected to the bones and emotionally moved. Of course, I understand that the years described in the article are destined to be heavily inscribed in history. Whether it is Zang Qi or not will be debated for a long time for future generations. No matter what future historians may judge, the people I write about will live beyond judgment. Among them, those who have a good fate may not be in the right place, and those who have a bad fate may not be blamed for themselves. Whether or not the logic of history ignores these people, for them, the times have passed and the days have remained. I have always questioned the so-called grand view of history. It is the privilege of historians to see history and not see people. To a writer, any history is an irreplaceable and irreproducible personal history. The gloomy years judged by historians must have had glorious days; the lucky crowd envied by later generations must have tragic individuals. In the meaning of life, a glorious day, even one day, cannot be ignored; a sad individual, even one, cannot be discarded.

This is, of course, only a personal literary attitude. Among the star-studded group of writers, there are also some who are hailed as chroniclers. Perhaps it is because I am sensitive to the weak and lonely life, or the weak and lonely life has created my aesthetic nature. Therefore, this writing position of mine is not based on some sociological cognition, but is derived from personal Aesthetic nature: On the top of the mountains, I pay more attention to the hills; on the banks of the floods, I will linger on the trickle. Walking alone in the middle of the night, for the sleepless lights in the distance, I will burst into tears; when the geese are emptied, I will feel uneasy for the lonely wild goose in the sky; for the New Year’s feast, for a begging beggar outside the door, I will I will be dejected; spring flowers are in full bloom, and I will be ecstatic for a late sprout on the roadside...

On the night of the millennium, I curled up alone in my study, taking stock of the twentieth century that was about to pass. At the moment when the Millennium Clock rang, I inexplicably remembered what my grandmother said: "In the days, the panic is like a madly growing straw!" Such a profound and elegant sentence. Having read the farewell texts written by the media, I feel that my grandmother's words are the most accurate description of the 20th century. In a flash, the new century is almost twenty years past. Because of writing, I went back to my boyhood and picked up the history of my hometown. Every time I enter a story in my memory, I can't help but think of this sentence from my grandmother, and all kinds of panic and panic in those days emerge: the abolition of old customs and the establishment of new regulations, the demise of old scenes and the growth of new things, The exhaustion of aesthetics and the determination to survive, the perversion of obedience and the madness of disobedience... The original intention and the result are completely different, the declaration and the action are contrary to each other, the good and the evil are cause and effect, and the victory and defeat are the same. In this century, which looks like a frantic pursuit and a frantic flight, the years have been smashed into a pile of empty days, and the days have been squeezed into a string of dry years, just like the wild rice growing in the fields.

I don't write these personnel stories to give an abstract judgment of the twentieth century, or to confirm what my grandmother said decades ago. For me, the times are just the days, and the history is just an individual. No matter what era you are in, there will always be bitterness and sweetness every day; there will always be sorrow and joy for each individual. Each individual in it, its bitterness and its sweetness, its sadness and its joy, is a real life that is connected to the bones and emotionally moved. Of course, I understand that the years described in the article are destined to be heavily inscribed in history. Whether it is Zang Qi or not will be debated for a long time for future generations. No matter what future historians may judge, the people I write about will live beyond judgment. Among them, those who have a good fate may not be in the right place, and those who have a bad fate may not be blamed for themselves. Whether or not the logic of history ignores these people, for them, the times have passed and the days have remained. I have always questioned the so-called grand view of history. It is the privilege of historians to see history and not see people. To a writer, any history is an irreplaceable and irreproducible personal history. The gloomy years judged by historians must have had glorious days; the lucky crowd envied by later generations must have tragic individuals. In the meaning of life, a glorious day, even one day, cannot be ignored; a sad individual, even one, cannot be discarded.

This is, of course, only a personal literary attitude. Among the star-studded group of writers, there are also some who are hailed as chroniclers. Perhaps it is because I am sensitive to the weak and lonely life, or the weak and lonely life has created my aesthetic nature. Therefore, this writing position of mine is not based on some sociological cognition, but is derived from personal Aesthetic nature: On the top of the mountains, I pay more attention to the hills; on the banks of the floods, I will linger on the trickle. Walking alone in the middle of the night, for the sleepless lights in the distance, I will burst into tears; when the geese are emptied, I will feel uneasy for the lonely wild goose in the sky; for the New Year’s feast, for a begging beggar outside the door, I will I will be dejected; spring flowers are in full bloom, and I will be ecstatic for a late sprout on the roadside...