If an explorer comes back from his adventure and tells us that there are people of other genders looking up at another sky from different branches and leaves, then I'm afraid nothing will contribute more to mankind than this news. If we happen to see a professor rushing to find his ruler in order to prove his "superiority", we will be overjoyed. My mind is still wandering in the upper part of the page. I think Mary Kamikel will only modify her works as a spectator. I'm afraid that she will indeed become a naturalistic novelist - in my opinion, this kind of novel is not very interesting - rather than a thinker. With so many new things to observe, she didn't have to confine herself to the luxury houses of the upper middle class. She didn't have to feel pity or wronged. She walked into those fragrant cottages, where there were socialites, prostitutes and wives holding pugs. They sat there, still dressed in rough ready-made clothes. If a male writer entered the room, he would inevitably pat them on the shoulder. But Mary Kamikel will certainly take out the scissors in her hands and cut the corners of the clothes to fit them. When we can see the true face of these women, it must be a different scene. However, we must wait a little longer, because Mary Kamikel is still tired of the "evil" she realizes, which is our heritage from the barbarous sexual tradition. Her feet will still be tied with the rusty shackles of the class.c However, most women are neither prostitutes nor socialites, and they will not sit there and wrap their pugs in dusty velvet tightly in their arms, thus killing off the whole summer afternoon. What do they do? I can see a long lane in my mind. Somewhere on the south bank of Henan, there are such streets and alleys, which are densely populated with people. In this long lane, I seem to see an elderly woman walking slowly. A middle-aged woman beside her is holding her. That may be her daughter. They are both well dressed, with leather boots on their feet and fur coats on their bodies. It must be a ceremony to dress up like this in the afternoon. Their clothes, year after year, are stacked neatly every summer and month, and are kept in the wardrobe together with camphor. When they crossed the street, the roadside lights lit up one by one (because their favorite time was at dusk), presumably year after year. The elder is almost eighty years old, but if someone asks what her life means to her, she will tell you that she remembers that the streets were ablaze with lights for the Battle of Balaclava, or that she heard the gunfire in Hyde Park for Edward VII's birthday. But if someone asked her what she was doing on April 15, 1868, or November 2, 1875, hoping to find out what month it was, spring, summer, autumn, and winter, she would probably answer blankly, saying she didn't remember anything. Because the food was ready, the pots and pans were cleaned, and the children were sent to school, one by one. Nothing remains, everything disappears. Biography or history is not a word about it. The novel, though not intended, has lied about it without exception. All these unknown lives still need to be recorded. I said to Mary Kamikel, as if she were here. My thoughts are still walking through the streets and alleys of London, feeling the pressure of silence, and the life that can not be recorded is accumulating day by day. This may come from the women who cross their waist at the corner of the street. Their rings are stuck in swollen fingers, and their talking is more like hand painting feet, just like the rhythm of words in Shakespeare's plays; Or maybe it comes from the girl selling violets, the girl selling matches, and the old woman sitting under the door; Or maybe they come from the girls who are wandering around. Their faces are like the waves under the sun and dark clouds. People can see the men and women coming and going, and the flashing lights in the shop windows. All these things you need to explore, I said to Mary Kamikel, hold the torch in your hand. But first of all, you must illuminate your soul, see its profundity and superficiality, vanity and generosity, and tell what your beauty or mediocrity means to you, as well as what your relationship with the world of endless rotation and change of shoes, socks, gloves and other colorful objects hanging in the faint fragrance from the medicine bottle in the cloth corridor market that permeates the artificial marble floor.

If an explorer comes back from his adventure and tells us that there are people of other genders looking up at another sky from different branches and leaves, then I'm afraid nothing will contribute more to mankind than this news. If we happen to see a professor rushing to find his ruler in order to prove his "superiority", we will be overjoyed. My mind is still wandering in the upper part of the page. I think Mary Kamikel will only modify her works as a spectator. I'm afraid that she will indeed become a naturalistic novelist - in my opinion, this kind of novel is not very interesting - rather than a thinker. With so many new things to observe, she didn't have to confine herself to the luxury houses of the upper middle class. She didn't have to feel pity or wronged. She walked into those fragrant cottages, where there were socialites, prostitutes and wives holding pugs. They sat there, still dressed in rough ready-made clothes. If a male writer entered the room, he would inevitably pat them on the shoulder. But Mary Kamikel will certainly take out the scissors in her hands and cut the corners of the clothes to fit them. When we can see the true face of these women, it must be a different scene. However, we must wait a little longer, because Mary Kamikel is still tired of the "evil" she realizes, which is our heritage from the barbarous sexual tradition. Her feet will still be tied with the rusty shackles of the class.c However, most women are neither prostitutes nor socialites, and they will not sit there and wrap their pugs in dusty velvet tightly in their arms, thus killing off the whole summer afternoon. What do they do? I can see a long lane in my mind. Somewhere on the south bank of Henan, there are such streets and alleys, which are densely populated with people. In this long lane, I seem to see an elderly woman walking slowly. A middle-aged woman beside her is holding her. That may be her daughter. They are both well dressed, with leather boots on their feet and fur coats on their bodies. It must be a ceremony to dress up like this in the afternoon. Their clothes, year after year, are stacked neatly every summer and month, and are kept in the wardrobe together with camphor. When they crossed the street, the roadside lights lit up one by one (because their favorite time was at dusk), presumably year after year. The elder is almost eighty years old, but if someone asks what her life means to her, she will tell you that she remembers that the streets were ablaze with lights for the Battle of Balaclava, or that she heard the gunfire in Hyde Park for Edward VII's birthday. But if someone asked her what she was doing on April 15, 1868, or November 2, 1875, hoping to find out what month it was, spring, summer, autumn, and winter, she would probably answer blankly, saying she didn't remember anything. Because the food was ready, the pots and pans were cleaned, and the children were sent to school, one by one. Nothing remains, everything disappears. Biography or history is not a word about it. The novel, though not intended, has lied about it without exception. All these unknown lives still need to be recorded. I said to Mary Kamikel, as if she were here. My thoughts are still walking through the streets and alleys of London, feeling the pressure of silence, and the life that can not be recorded is accumulating day by day. This may come from the women who cross their waist at the corner of the street. Their rings are stuck in swollen fingers, and their talking is more like hand painting feet, just like the rhythm of words in Shakespeare's plays; Or maybe it comes from the girl selling violets, the girl selling matches, and the old woman sitting under the door; Or maybe they come from the girls who are wandering around. Their faces are like the waves under the sun and dark clouds. People can see the men and women coming and going, and the flashing lights in the shop windows. All these things you need to explore, I said to Mary Kamikel, hold the torch in your hand. But first of all, you must illuminate your soul, see its profundity and superficiality, vanity and generosity, and tell what your beauty or mediocrity means to you, as well as what your relationship with the world of endless rotation and change of shoes, socks, gloves and other colorful objects hanging in the faint fragrance from the medicine bottle in the cloth corridor market that permeates the artificial marble floor.