That's what I'm like now, I've traveled all the way from the southern tip of Spain to the northern tip of England, experiencing a variety of climates until I've become apathetic to the elements. I'm now sitting in a medieval castle turned hotel, writing an article for my readers. The day is just dawning. In Central Scotland, there lies under the grey wet clouds a wild wooded region, beyond which a green mountain stands faintly visible. In the chilly air of the early morning, I have to be dressed in a woolen sweater while sitting on a stone wall one foot in thickness. But I need, in addition, an outer garment to keep me warm in case I come down the spiral staircase, the intestines of the castle, to take a stroll along an unfrequented path down the mountain slope in search of secluded places of quiet beauty.

The climate of Paris in summer is like that of Taipei at night. When you go out on an early morning or late evening, your woolen sweater will be hardly warm enough to keep out the nip in the air. When you walk along the Seine, where it is even chillier due to the strong wind coupled with the cold waters, you have to wear a windcheater. Then, all you need is just an unlined garment in the afternoon when it is warm, but you'll feel like putting on more when you are under the shade of buildings or trees. That's all for things above ground. Now things underground. The subway of Paris is better than that of New York, London or Madrid, but it is so hot and stuffy that you feel like taking off your woolen sweater. Consequently, you'll be annoyed by having to don or doff your clothes now and then, depending on whether you're above ground or underground. In July, Parisians in the open are seen dressed in the clothes of all seasons, ranging from young girls’ vests and short skirts to elderly women's thick overcoats. In July, Paris has sunny weather almost every day. Sometimes the sky is blue and cloudless for days on end and, when night comes, it never turns pitch dark, but remains a deep blue. There are no mountains in its vicinity and few high-rises in the city proper. Montmartre in the north of the city is a mere hillock. As the sun never sinks below the horizon until 9:30 pm, the days seem even longer and the nights even shorter. And the afternoons seem to last endlessly. Nevertheless, sometimes a thunderbolt also comes from the clear sky. On the morning of July 14, French National Day, when President Mitterrand was presiding over the review of a massive military parade on Champs Elysées, it suddenly started raining in torrents. The President and the military band, caught in the downpour, found themselves in a very awkward situation. TV viewers even saw the bandmaster bend down quickly to pick up the baton he had dropped onto the ground in a flurry. 

II. The "Liangshan School of Poetry": An Academic Concept and Analysis Entering the History of Chinese Literature Overseas

In the field of overseas Chinese literature studies, the academic concept of the "Liangshan School of Poetry" was first proposed by Mark Bender and has entered the academic history of overseas Chinese literature studies. The contemporary Yi poetry group studied primarily refers to a large number of bilingual Yi-Han poets who emerged in the Yi ethnic region of Southwest China (especially the Greater and Lesser Liangshan areas) since the 1980s. They all had government-provided higher education experiences in ethnic minority areas and possessed a deep affection for the folk customs and traditions of the Liangshan region. In fact, when Mark Bender first set foot on Chinese soil, the Yi literary creation of the "Liangshan School of Poetry" was already brewing and developing at the Southwest University for Nationalities. At this time, China had reinstated the college entrance examination system, and inspired by the atmosphere of the times, poetry became one of the tools for young university students to express their thoughts and cultural consciousness. Furthermore, in Chengdu, where the Southwest University for Nationalities was located, various poetry clubs and poetry societies were active on the literary stage at the time, which was equally attractive to ethnic minority university students in the early 1980s. As a pioneer of the early Yi poetry movement, Jidi Majia, a student at Southwest University for Nationalities, expressed the vitality of Yi culture in his poem "Childhood Dream," published in the journal Stars Poetry in 1981, through reminiscing about his childhood: "My childhood dream cannot be severed / It falls drop by drop like autumn rain / The past reappears, like a dream yet so real." Jidi Majia graduated in 1985, the same year that Yi students in the Department of Minority Languages ​​and Literature at Southwest University for Nationalities spontaneously formed a literary society and published a mimeographed journal, That's Me. The following year, the journal was renamed Mountain Eagle Soul, and the Mountain Eagle Soul Literary Society was established, with Yi poet Asu Yue'er serving as its first editor-in-chief. Funded by the Department of Minority Languages ​​and Literature, the mimeographed journal became a relatively formal campus publication, gaining considerable fame and praise. Yi poet Aku Wuwu also founded Black Land, a journal publishing literary works written in standard Yi script. Against this backdrop of literary society development and a stable mechanism for higher education for ethnic minorities, an increasing number of Yi university students devoted themselves to poetry writing. They played a crucial role in the later "Liangshan Poetry School" creative group.

If we attempt to trace the various works by Mark Bender that coined the term "Liangshan Poetry School," we can see a relatively clear trajectory into the history of overseas Chinese literature studies. This concept first appeared in a speech at the 2007 International Symposium on "Inter-Civilizational Dialogue, Vision Integration, and Cultural Interaction" and the 7th Annual Meeting of the Sichuan Comparative Literature Association. In his speech, Mark Bender summarized the themes and stylistic features of the "Liangshan School of Poetry": "(1) Themes of national dignity and identity—including concerns about cultural loss, confusion, and legacy; (2) A general and sometimes symbolic use of various local knowledge, including dietary habits, traditional customs, and material culture; (3) Involvement in fables, legends, stories, folk songs, and folk performances; (4) References to traditional rituals and the image of priests and elders, especially well-educated professional ritual practitioners called Bimo, and occasionally shamans called Suni; (5) Idealized images of young men and women, possessing a traditional gender-based aesthetic and heroic spirit; (6) Images of hunters, herdsmen, and villagers; (7) Themes of ethnicity, family, and parents (especially mothers); (8) The vastness of the natural world of the Liangshan Mountains." Concern and identification; (9) Many poets are aware that the natural world (like Yi culture) is changing due to the pressure of economic development; (10) Creating a metaphorical voice of the individual, where “I” tends to explore the vision of a tribe or ethnic group rather than an independent individual, which is different from the mainstream poets of today; (11) When talking about their creative process, a common idea is that creation comes from experience, which can be daily life, oral history, or momentary meditation, or dream. "Later, in 2009, Mark Bender published this view in the article "The Dying Hunter, the Poisonous Plant, the Silent Slave: Nature and Tradition in Contemporary Nuosu Yi Poetry"; in 2012, he sorted out this view and published it in the article "The Cry of the Silver Pheasant: Contemporary Ethnic Minority Poetry in Sichuan and Yunnan". In these two papers, Mark Bender further deepens his discussion of the "Liangshan School of Poetry" and analyzes the ecology of Yi poetry creation. He focuses on the poetry and poetics of the Nuosu Yi people in Liangshan, Sichuan. Nuosu is the self-designation of the Liangshan Yi people, and throughout his academic career, Mark Bender has consistently used the concept of "nuosu" to refer to the Liangshan Yi people. Mark Bender proposes that the poets of the "Liangshan School of Poetry" are a group of Nuosu Yi poets rooted in the Greater and Lesser Liangshan Yi areas of Sichuan and Yunnan. Most of these poets work in universities, publishing houses, and government cultural institutions in Liangshan, Sichuan. He also believes that the works of these poets usually share some common characteristics, such as a sense of identity with the Nuosu Yi people, sensitivity to the impact of cultural and social changes on the rural natural environment, and identification with the natural world of Liangshan. Mark Bender calls this literary phenomenon ethnographic poetics, believing that it has the characteristics of oral tradition and combines them with the characteristics of folk art, from clothing and musical instruments to folk songs. Subsequently, in 2016, the academic concept of the "Liangshan Poetry School" entered the map of world literary studies, marking progress in the "going global" of Chinese literature and the overseas dissemination of Chinese ethnic minority literature. With the continued increase in interest in overseas Chinese studies, 2016 saw a flourishing of research and numerous outstanding works in North American Chinese literature studies. Three important works on Chinese literature emerged that year: A Companion to Modern Chinese Literature, edited by Yingjin Zhang of the University of California, San Diego; The Oxford Handbook of Modern Chinese Literatures, edited by Carlos Rojas of Duke University and Andrea Bachner of Cornell University; and The Columbia Companion to Modern Chinese Literature, edited by Kirk Denton of Ohio State University. The concentrated emergence of these three influential academic works on Chinese literature is closely related to the recent "going global" of Chinese literature. Of particular note is that two of these three works innovatively added sections on the literature of Chinese ethnic minorities in their chapter structure. Mark Bender is the only author responsible for the sections on ethnic minority literature criticism in both A Guide to Modern Chinese Literature and The Oxford Guide to Modern Chinese Literature. The "Liangshan School of Poetry" has also emerged as a representative academic concept of Yi literature in the history of overseas Chinese literature studies, highlighting the richness and diversity of Chinese multi-ethnic literature. In existing Yi literature research, many researchers merely analyze the ethnic traditions contained in the poems, starting from the text itself; Mark Bender's analysis clearly breaks through this limitation. Through detailed fieldwork data and his precise grasp of the folk epic poems of the Yi people in Yunnan, Sichuan, and Guizhou, he provides a very pertinent and objective analysis of the development of contemporary Yi literature. This is also a path frequently adopted by overseas Chinese scholars and related sinologists. It can be said that the study of the "Liangshan Poetry School" marks Mark Bender's shift from folk literature research to a composite study of "folk literature-writer literature" among ethnic minorities. His series of studies has significant academic value, pushing contemporary Yi literature into the world literary research landscape and holding great academic significance for the dissemination of Chinese ethnic minority literature.

III. Translation, Exchange, and the Spread of Yi Literature in North America In the process of the overseas dissemination of Yi literature, the exchange and translation between Chinese and foreign scholars is one of the core links. As Xie Tianzhen stated in Chinese Literature and Culture Going Global: Problems and Reflections: "How can Chinese literature and culture go global? How can it be accepted and understood by the world? How can it generate a wide influence worldwide? This involves the issue of translation: translation is not only a conversion of language and text, but also enables communication and exchange between the two parties. When discussing translation, we must place the translator, the translated work, or the act of translation within the vast context of two or more ethnic cultures or societies, and examine how these different ethnic cultures exchange ideas." This line of thinking provided by Xie Tianzhen coincides with the methods of overseas dissemination of Yi literature. How is the conversion and reception of texts between Yi, Chinese, and English accomplished? To examine this challenging yet significant area of ​​academic growth, it is essential to return to the text itself. In the case of Yi literature, its most important literary genre is poetry. From an ethnographic perspective, Yi poetics stems from the transmission of Yi culture. The traditional written form of Yi culture and literature is poetry. As Bamo Qubumo's research points out, "The traditional written forms of the Yi people are all rhymed verse. This raises a huge question in our minds: why are there no prose works in the ancient Yi writing tradition?" In fact...

Based on the Chinese classic novel 'Journey to the West ' written in the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644), the film does not focus on the original protagonist – the mighty Monkey King. Instead, it spotlights the countless puny yaoguais (Chinese monsters) that appear in the novel. In the film, a group of four underdog yaoguais  a boar, a toad, an ape and a weasel decide to embark on their journey to the west by dressing up as the team of Monk Tang and Monkey King. The journey sees the impostors save human villagers from evil yaoguais and be eventually remembered by other nameless, ordinary people as great heroes.  

The success of this film lies in the fact that while it is rooted in Chinese mythology, it tells a universal tale of survival, dignity, courage and life, striking a strong chord with audiences nationwide. Nobody tells the story of a little pig monster who dreams of getting a stable job in the stifling hierarchy of the Cave of Kings. He thought that hard work would earn him recognition, but he accidentally offends the Monster King due to his lack of tact and is "fired." Thus, he gathers three other nameless little demons to form a grassroots pilgrimage group. They pretend to be the famous monk Tang San zang and his three disciples from Journey to the West to break out of Langlang Mountain and embark on a hilarious "pilgrimage" that leads to self-growth. 

Their path to go on a pilgrimage to become Buddhas, saints and attain immortality is paved with ridicule. Other demons sneer that not everyone is meant for the pilgrimage. The Monkey King, one of Tang Sanzang's disciples, knew the Buddha personally centuries earlier, while the others have become reborn gods. Only those with such official backgrounds are eligible for the pilgrimage. Yet, the little pig monster and his companions are not discouraged and continue to slay demons and eliminate monsters. Facing an adversary 100 times stronger than them, they still choose to fight because they want to live life on their own terms. Just like in reality, not everyone can be the protagonist. But these little monsters dare to venture out with all their earthly qualities and give it a try. Their story seems to say that embarking on the pilgrimage matters far more than reaching the destination itself. Everyone who has the courage to step out of their "Langlang Mountain" is already on a journey to obtain their own true scripture. 

On China's social media, many movie-goers are impressed by the animation's sarcastic portrayal of modern-day work culture. In one subplot, for example, a rooster is tasked with painting portraits of Tang Monk and his disciples — without a reference. Drafts are rejected with vague feedback, such as “make it feel right.” After countless revisions, it’s the most casual, scribbled sketch that finally gets approved. The scene especially struck a chord among designers, who saw it as a satirical reflection of their own exhaustion in dealing with endless, ambiguous demands from higher-ups.

This is not just a movie, but more like a mirror. No matter where you are from or what industry you struggle in, if you have ever felt powerless in a huge system, been ignored, had your dreams put on hold, or even just wanted to escape. then, the little monster on Langlang Mountain is you. Just like the film's title Nobody, these little demons are so common that they don't even need names. Even by the end of the film, no one knows their names, and the film handles this with great restraint. This film reminds us that beneath the fantastical surface, the greatest stories are always about the "nobodies" yearning to be somebody, somewhere else. And in that yearning, we all find a piece of ourselves. 

As French novelist Romain Rolland once said, "There is only one true heroism in the world: to see the world as it is, and to love it." May this little pig demon inspire you to find yours.

Some southern cities always pride themselves on their lakes. Fuzhou's West Lake, while not as famous as Hangzhou's, has its own unique charm. In the early morning, the lake shimmered, willows swayed gently, and a few egrets stood on the water's edge. Occasionally, a morning breeze would stir up ripples. Early risers strolled along the lakeside paths, some dancing, some playing badminton, some practicing qigong—waves of people with different interests, each occupying their own territory without disturbing others. But what attracted me most at that time was a group practicing Tai Chi.

Usually, they would line up in an open space by the lake. The master leading them, with dark skin, dressed simply, even in winter wearing only a thin outer garment. Behind him, a group of people followed, imitating or practicing—young, middle-aged, and even elderly with white hair. I observed for several days, captivated by the flowing grace of Tai Chi. Finally, my hands and feet itched to try it myself, and I quietly joined the last in the group, practicing along. Although my movements were stiff, I gradually caught my master's attention. He didn't say much, only nodding during breaks and occasionally offering guidance. For newcomers wanting to learn Tai Chi, he only had one requirement: don't be inconsistent in your practice. A couple of days later, he pulled a stack of photocopied books—Tai Chi manuals and some supplementary materials—from his pocket and gave them to me, instructing me to study them diligently. Eventually, I became a member of his Tai Chi circle.

Later I learned that my master, Old Wang, was originally from the north. Before retiring, he was a cadre in the Security Section of the Provincial Materials Department. In his youth, he followed the army south and stayed in Fuzhou after liberation. Every day, he would rise at cockcrow, warm up by circling the vast West Lake twice before heading to his practice area. He wasn't a Tai Chi master; he simply taught the art of fitness and health free of charge, based on decades of martial arts practice.

There was a significant age gap between us, and we didn't have much personal interaction. We would chat occasionally, but we weren't close friends. However, our daily meetings by the lake, practicing our routines diligently, became a source of comfort for me. Once, he didn't show up for several days. Realizing something was wrong, I called his workplace and learned that he was hospitalized—in the VIP ward of the Provincial Hospital. So, I rode my bike to visit him, carrying a bag of bananas. He didn't talk much about his illness, only smiling and saying, "It's an old ailment; I need to take care of it." He had only recently retired.

Time flows like a lake, ripples outwards. After leaving Fuzhou, I went to Southeast Asia to develop my career and settled down; thirty years have passed in a flash. This time back home, my time was short, only a few hours in Fuzhou, yet I suddenly thought of those distant people and events.

After exiting the high-speed rail station, I took a taxi straight to West Lake. The street scene outside the window had changed drastically; high-rise buildings stood tall, and the cityscape was modern. The car drove to the lakeside, and I got out to walk. West Lake was still West Lake, but the buildings around it were now full of modernity; the small teahouses and snack shops of the past were gone. Only along a few narrow alleys could one still see a few old shops selling scattered secondhand items, such as thermos stoppers, bamboo clothespins, and whetstones—like fragments that had slipped out of a bygone era.

Following my memory, I stopped and looked around, eventually reaching the Logistics Department dormitory community. Several buildings remained, their exteriors weathered and worn, seemingly on the verge of obsolescence compared to the surrounding high-rises. I approached the gatekeeper and inquired about Old Wang. He hesitated, then shook his head, saying, "He was from the older generation; he hasn't lived here for many years." I asked a few older people, and some remembered him, saying he had moved in with his children.

"Is he still alive?" I asked. "Yes, he's alive. I heard he's ninety-two." A surge of joy rose within me, but I quickly calmed down. I don't have Old Wang's children's contact information, and I can't just disturb them. Besides, we're only casual acquaintances; the so-called "master and apprentice" is just a term we use when we exercise by the lake in the morning. Whether he still remembers me is unknown. Standing in front of those old buildings, I felt a pang of melancholy. I came to fulfill a wish—to confirm the present tense of things from the past; if he's still in this world, that would be enough.

The pain of losing an egg being magnified to the point of losing a chicken farm seems absurd to most, but such people are common in life. A sick child, a worried mother, while caring for her child, also worries about the disruption to her child's studies, which in turn affects their chances of getting into a good school and eventually employment. This mother would be tormented by anxiety, like a cat on a hot tin roof. This magnified pain could potentially destroy the family.

We often feel burdened by life, always burdened by unresolved pain. Why is this? There are many reasons, but one common mistake is magnifying our pain.