He and his uncle sat on the curb by the park gate, about thirty paces from the main group. His uncle pulled a steamed bun from his coat, tore it in half, and handed him one half.
“Uncle, you eat it. I’m not hungry,” he said.
“Oh, just take it.” His uncle roughly shoved the half-bun into his arms. He quickly freed a hand to catch the bun before it fell and got dirty.
They sat side by side, eating in silence.
Suddenly, there was a commotion from where the main troop stood. He turned his head and saw some men in uniforms herding the group to the side of the road.
“What’s going on?” he muttered, standing up and walking toward the crowd. His uncle followed a step behind.
And then, for the first time in his life, he saw the emperor.
Well, not quite the emperor—just the emperor’s entourage. Two lines of imperial guards, spears in hand, flanked the grand procession, moving slowly down the road.
It was also the first time he had seen such an impressive carriage and such mighty horses. One glance was enough to make anyone think, “This must be expensive and important.”
He was truly awe-struck. As a country boy who had barely been in the city, he had never seen such grandeur. His face flushed red with excitement.
His uncle’s reaction was more subdued. Catching a glimpse of his nephew’s dumbstruck face, he snorted: “Tsk, a country bumpkin who’s never seen the world,” he thought.
But the boy was too absorbed in the scene to notice his uncle’s expression or thoughts. Lost in the moment, he blurted out without thinking, “I could take his place!”
The words nearly caused his uncle to faint. In an instant, his uncle clamped a large hand over his mouth and shoved his head down.
Luckily, no one else heard. The carriage continued to move, slowly fading into the distance.
His uncle’s face darkened as he dragged him away from the group, only releasing him when they were in a secluded spot.
“Are you crazy? Do you know you could lose your head for saying that?” his uncle barked, raising his hand and slapping him hard across the face.
He took the slap squarely, without resistance, without protest, as if it didn’t matter at all.
In truth, he had already snapped out of his awe and was thinking about deeper questions.
“Uncle,” he said, “I’m sorry. I really wasn’t thinking. I put us both in danger, and that was wrong.”
Hearing the apology, his uncle’s anger began to subside. Feeling a bit regretful for hitting him so hard, he decided to drop the matter.
“Yu, I’ve told you many times to read more books. You never listen. The more you read, the more you understand the world. If you knew more, this wouldn’t have happened today,” his uncle said, his anger flaring up again. “Our ancestors were nobles in Chu, but look at us now, reduced to carrying loads in the city—all because no one studied.”
“You’re right, Uncle,” he agreed.
After that incident, Xiang Yu sat by the roadside every day, lost in thought, ignoring food and drink. Xiang Liang called him several times for help, but he acted as if he didn’t hear and didn’t respond.
“I don’t know what’s going on in his head, but at least he’s learning to think. That’s progress in its own way,” Xiang Liang thought.
Why are some people emperors, some generals, some park attendants, and some laborers?
Why are some men, some women, and some eunuchs?
Why are some horses fine, some ugly, some wild, and some warhorses?
Why do some carriages seem so luxurious, and why do others have to be called “ju”?
Why can a single misspoken word get you killed? Why is a stone not grass, and why is grass not a bun?
Why can a bun be torn in half, and how can it be done in a single motion? If you slowed down, could it be torn into three parts, five parts, uneven parts?
Should it be called “flaps” or “halves”?
...
Xiang Yu couldn’t make sense of these questions, but he kept asking them, searching for answers.
What would it feel like to sit in that grand carriage? If I became emperor, would I have nothing to do? Would I eat whatever I wanted, kill whoever I wanted, slap whoever I wanted?
Could I, Xiang Yu, become emperor?
Probably not. There’s no causal link. But if I hold a sincere desire to become emperor, does that count as planting a seed?
Does an emperor see the world the same way as common folk? Does an emperor see the world in different colors?
Can emperors tell the future?
If I can’t be emperor, then being rich wouldn’t be bad. Do the rich secretly count their money at home? Do they play games with their gold ingots? Do they laugh just thinking about how much they have? Do they sit in their gardens and watch ants carry food? If I were rich, I’d do that.
But heaven won’t let my soul leave my body to possess a rich man’s. Heaven and earth are indifferent, treating me like straw dogs. Damn it. It won’t let me change my fate without working for it. It lets others be emperors, others be rich, but me—it only lets my fate flow smoothly when I’m falling. My family, once noble, has fallen to the bottom, with no resistance, no ripples, just like that.
But who really knows what emperors and tycoons feel? Philosophically speaking, no one can truly understand another. How could I, Xiang Yu, know what a woman thinks when she looks at me? Am I ugly, crude, or filthy? Even if two women looked at me at the same time, one might feel different from the other. What even am I? Could I explain it?
Xiang Yu grew tired of thinking and let his mind drift. His head swayed, his gaze wandering aimlessly. The sunlight, diffused and refracted by the atmosphere, landed on different objects, with some rays reaching his pupils. But it meant nothing to him. His vacant mind processed none of this passive input. It was no different from being in darkness. He had no awareness of the outside world, neither subjective nor objective. He wasn’t here, nor anywhere.
When he regained some energy, his eyes refocused, and he noticed a scene in the road. It was a small group—not on the same scale as the emperor’s entourage, of course. Three men: two soldiers, escorting a man in the middle, his neck locked in a wooden pillory.
Damn, I’ve never worn a pillory, Xiang Yu thought.
Is it heavy? Tight? Are his hands tired, locked into the small holes in the front? Does he have to lift it, or can he let it hang? If he lets it hang, will the back end of the pillory, according to the law of leverage, hit him in the head?
Xiang Yu’s eyes brightened. He snapped out of his thoughts, and his gaze locked with the man in the pillory. The man clearly understood what Xiang Yu was thinking. His eyes said it plainly: “If you want to experience this, then come.”
Xiang Yu shuddered. A nameless fear rose from his feet. He immediately recognized it as an ill omen. He wanted to break free, but it was too late.
Two souls, like specters, crossed in the air, each headed for a new body.
Xiang Yu’s earlier thoughts proved true. His fate, like water, could only flow downward, always slipping smoothly, without resistance.
And that, in the end, was his only consolation.
他和他叔叔坐在公园大门旁边的马路牙子上，离大部队大概有三十步的距离。他叔叔从怀里掏出一个馒头，掰成两半，递给他一半。
“叔你吃吧，我不饿。”他说。
“哎呀，给你就接着。”他叔叔粗暴地把半个馒头往他怀里一塞。他赶紧腾出一只手抓住馒头，免得掉落在地上沾上灰。
两人排排坐吃馒头，也没啥多余的话要讲。
忽然大部队那边一阵喧哗，他偏头一看，好像是来了几个穿制服的人，在把大部队往路边上赶。
“啥子事？”他嘀咕着站起来，朝大部队那边走。他叔叔落后一步，跟着他。
然后他就平生第一次看见了皇帝。
其实不算是看见了皇帝，是看见了皇帝的车马——由两队扛着长矛的御林军夹着，在马路上缓慢前进。
这也是他平生第一次看见如此气派的大车和如此威猛的马匹，只需一眼，就能给任何目击者一种“肯定很贵很高级”的感受。
他确确实实地被震撼到了。一个乡下半大孩子，进城都还没多久，哪见过这样的大场面？他的脸都被震撼得通红。
他叔叔的反应就没这么大。斜眼瞄到侄子的那副呆样，他叔叔不禁从鼻孔里喷出一股短暂又急促的气：切，真是个没见过世面的瓜娃子。他叔叔心想。
而他被眼前所见完全摄住了魂魄，没有注意到他叔叔细微的表情变化和心理活动。他深陷此情此景，无法自拔，话不过脑，脱口而出：“彼可取而代之！”
这句话差点把他叔叔吓晕。电光火石间，他叔叔伸出大手，一把捂住他的嘴，同时把他的头往下按。
好在没有旁人听到这句话，车马渐渐远去。
他叔叔黑着脸，把他拽离大部队，见四周无人才松开。
“狗日的，你嘴巴乱讲啥子？晓不晓得那是要砍脑壳的话？”说着这话，他叔叔气上来了，抬手重重地抽了他一耳光。
他用脸结结实实地接下了这一记耳光，没有反抗和反驳，好像根本就没在乎这事。
事实上他早已从震撼中回过了神来，在思考更深层次的问题。
“叔，”他说，“对不起，我刚才确实脑壳遭糊起了，让我们陷入危险之中，太不应该了。”
他叔叔听他认错，气也消了一半，加上也有点后悔刚才出手太重，就不打算跟他继续纠缠这事了。
“羽儿啊，喊你平时多读点书，你不听，多读书就是多见世面，世面见多了就不会发生今天这样的事。”说着说着，他的气又上来了，“我们祖上是楚国贵族，现在沦落到进城当棒棒，就是因为不好好读书。”
“嗯嗯，叔说的是。”
那事以后，项羽成天呆坐在路边，茶饭不思。项梁有几次喊他去做活路，他也总是一副没听见的样子，也没有给出任何反应。
“也不知他脑壳里在想些啥子，不过能学会思考也是进步的一种体现，由他去吧。”项梁想。
为什么有的人是皇帝有的人是将军有的人是公园售票员有的人是棒棒？
为什么有的人是男人有的人是女人有的人是太监？
为什么有的马是骏马有的马是丑马有的马是野马有的马是战马？
为什么有的车一看就很贵为什么有的车偏偏要读成ju？
为什么说错一句话就要遭砍脑壳？为什么石头不是草而草又不是馒头？
为什么一个馒头可以掰成两半？而且是只用一个动作一瞬间就被掰成两半？如果慢一点掰是不是就可以掰成三半五半奇数半？
此处是该用“瓣”还是用“半”？
……
项羽想不清楚的事情越来越多，但仍坚持发问，上下求索。
坐在那辆大车里是什么感觉？当皇帝是不是就啥事都不用干了？想吃啥吃啥想杀谁杀谁想打谁耳光就打谁耳光？老天爷，我项羽能当皇帝吗？
应该不能。因果关系没有建立。那如果我有一颗虔诚的想当皇帝的心，这算是种下了因吗？
皇帝看待世界的方式与草民是一样的吗？是不是皇帝眼中的世界是截然不同的颜色？
皇帝会不会算命？
退一步来说，这辈子当不了皇帝当个富豪也不错。富豪会不会悄悄在家数钱？会不会玩双手抛接三个元宝的把戏？会不会想到自己巨有钱就忍不住笑出声来？会不会蹲在花园里看蚂蚁搬家？如果我是富豪我就会。
但老天爷绝不会帮我让我灵魂出窍去占据一个富豪的躯壳。天地不仁，把我当作刍狗打发。王八蛋老天爷，不可能让我不劳而获，改变命运。它让别人当皇帝当富豪，让无数人轻而易举地过上好日子，它偏偏针对我专门针对我，只有在向下滑落时才让我的命运畅通无阻。我老项家，从贵族一步步中落到棒棒，丝滑得没有一丝波澜。
不过，谁又知道皇帝、富豪们具体的感受呢？从哲学上来说，人是不可能对另一个人有深层次的体会的。试问我项羽，怎么会知道一个女人如何看待我？是丑还是莽还是粗鄙肮脏？即使是同时看见我，这个女人和那个女人的感受也是不一样的。我又是个什么东西？我自己能说清吗？
项羽想得有些累了，就暂时停止了思考。他的脑袋自然晃动，东张西望，任眼神涣散游离。太阳发出的光被大气层吸收折射后，弥漫在不同的物体上，最后有一部分进入了他的瞳孔。但这对他毫无意义，他放空的脑袋没有对这些被动进入的光线进行任何信息处理。此刻与处于伸手不见五指的黑暗中有什么两样？他对外界没有任何主观或客观的意识。他根本就不在这里，也不在任何地方。
等他回复了些许精力，瞳孔重新开始聚焦，立刻被马路中间的情景吸引住了。这是一个最基本的小团队单元，当然，与皇帝的阵仗不是一个量级，没法比。三个人，左右各是一名军人，护送着处于C位的脖子上戴着木枷的汉子。
靠，我还没戴过木枷，项羽想。
重不重？紧不紧？木枷前面两个小洞里锁着的双手累不累？要一直往上托举着吗还是可以放松地挂在上面？如果挂着的话，按杠杆原理，后半截木枷会不会打脑壳？
项羽忽然感觉到眼前一亮，从思考中回过神来，正与戴木枷的汉子四目相对。那汉子明显读懂了项羽的心思，两道目光明白地对项羽说，既然你想来体验，那就来吧。
项羽不由得身子一震，莫名的恐惧从脚底板位置腾空升起，他立刻辨认出这是不祥之兆。他想拼命挣脱，但已经晚了。
两道出窍的灵魂在空中交错，各自奔赴新的岗位。
项羽之前的思考被证明是对的。他的命运确实如水，只会向下滑落，而且总是如此的顺畅。
这是他最后的一点安慰。
Through someone's introduction, I met myself—an artist and a collector.
I said to myself, "Let's be straightforward. I'm an artist, and life is tough. So through that person's introduction, I thought you might buy something to help me get through this."
"Understood. I'm well aware of your financial situation. Have you ever sold anything?" I asked.
"No, none of my works have ever sold. Well, not exactly. I sold a hundred poetry collections, but it was a losing deal. I sold them for 59 yuan each, but this winter, I'll have to buy them back for 100 yuan each. However, that act is only part of the work; I don't consider the poetry collection the entire piece. So, to put it another way, I've never really sold anything."
"So how do you plan to sell your work? Generally, for an artist with no sales record, it's hard to set a high price for the first piece."
"I understand that, but I believe my work deserves a good price. They are almost all masterpieces, and I hope you can treat them fairly," I said.
I looked at myself and fell silent.
"I'm certain that one day they will be fairly valued," I added.
"But as for me, I'm not so sure. It takes luck. I'm not saying your stuff isn't good; I find them interesting and different from others I've seen. What I mean is, you're not famous, and there's no sign that you're about to make a breakthrough, with all due respect."
"Yes."
"Well then, tell me, how do you plan to sell your work? You have to name a price," I said.
"In fact, I don't know what the appropriate price is. But in Duchamp's biography, I saw that Duchamp sold a work titled 'Why Not Sneeze?' Someone came to him to buy a piece, and he first took the money—$300—and the condition was that he would decide what to make. I really liked that concept. Duchamp himself was quite proud of it."
"So, you're saying your work also sells for $300?"
"Of course not; that was in the 1920s. I think my first work should sell for $3,000."
"$3,000?"
"Yes, $3,000," I said.
"You're not Duchamp, and even in the '20s, Duchamp had some recognition."
I said nothing.
"But that work was made in 1921, nearly 100 years ago. Okay, $3,000 it is. Which piece are you going to sell me?"
"Pay first, and I'll decide which piece you'll get."
"Like Duchamp?"
"Like Duchamp."
"Alright, that sounds interesting. Deal," I said.
I counted out $3,000 and handed it to myself. "So, which piece are you going to give me?"
"I think 'Three Possible Rotations' is good. $3,000 is a fair price for it," I said.
"Oh? Tell me about it."
"This piece was made with an IKEA STOMMA wall clock. I used scissors to cut off the hour, minute, and second hands, leaving only the three small dots at the ends. Then, I inserted an AA battery and titled it 'Three Possible Rotations.' It's an installation piece that now hangs on my room's wall," I said.
"Oh? How did you come up with this idea?" I asked.
"This clock has been hanging on the left wall of my bed ever since I bought it and installed the battery. But I always ignored it. Every time I woke up and wanted to check the time, I would still look around for my phone. To me, it didn't exist as a real clock; it was more like an installation, just hanging there. Even as an installation, it was still neglected. So I thought, why not strip it of its function entirely and turn it into a purely aesthetic piece?" I said.
"It sounds interesting and cool. I already like it. That's $3,000 well spent."
"Of course, it's worth it. It's worth every penny. It has completely lost its function as a timepiece, but the battery still keeps it running. You have to look at it closely, within 30 centimeters, to confirm if it's actually rotating. It's silent, so you can't tell by sound."
"Wow, that's cool," I praised.
"It can also be interpreted more deeply, for example, as time quietly and imperceptibly flows away, just like the rotations of this piece. Later, whenever you think about this work—like I think of it now, hanging on my wall, existing—I realize that my life is also quietly slipping away with time, which makes me feel melancholy." I sighed.
"I sighed too. That's the charm of art. This truly is a masterpiece," I said.
"Also, I should remind you, if one day you find that it's really not rotating, it's probably because the battery is dead. Just replace the battery. During the time it's out of power and you haven't noticed, it shouldn't have been rotating. That's why this work is called 'Three Possible Rotations.'"
"Got it," I said. "Let's go get it from your place. I'm kind of impatient."
I walked ahead to lead the way, with me closely following behind, to my residence—the exact address is Caochangdi No. 8, opposite the Honghuo Supermarket. I used my key card to open the door, went five meters to the right, turned right through a passageway lined with charging electric bikes and dusty bicycles, then turned right up the jingling iron staircase to the third floor, then left through a hallway on the right with broken furniture and mattresses, then turned right four meters to open the door. The room isn't big, about 15 square meters, with a bathroom; for cooking, you have to go out and turn right.
"Three Possible Rotations" is hanging on the wall. The dial is milky white, the shell is beige, and in the middle is a small blue dot about the size of a button, covering two small circles inside, so it's impossible to tell if they're rotating. Between five o'clock and the blue button on the dial is the artist's signature, "Wang Langgou W.L.G."
I took it down and handed it to myself, saying, "It's yours now."
I took the clock, checked the material—plastic shell throughout, very light. I turned it over to see the back, where a protruding black plastic piece probably housed a plastic movement, with an AA battery exposed.
"Is this it? How much did you buy it for?" I asked.
"9.9 yuan," I replied.
"You're selling me this piece of junk for $3,000? Are you out of your mind? I'm furious! What a fraud of an artist!"
I was stunned, then came to my senses and was equally furious, burning with rage: "Watch your mouth, idiot! This is Chinese contemporary art. If you can't appreciate it, don't pretend to be cultured. Get out, and don't come back!"
"Alright, alright. So you're trying to scam me, huh? Now that it's mine, I'll show you what your so-called Chinese contemporary art is worth." With one hand, I lifted the clock high and smashed it on the ground—pieces flew everywhere, making a few crisp sounds. An AA battery flew out, hit the corner, bounced back, turned a few times, and stopped moving.
I continued to fume, but quickly calmed down. I had nothing to say.
In front of me, I pulled out the $3,000, placed it on the floor, and lit two bills with a lighter. The room was small, so it burned slowly, slowly until it was all gone.
I lost a masterpiece.
I lost $3,000.
We gained nothing.
通过谁的介绍，我与我碰面了。一个艺术家，一个收藏家。
我对我说，咱们开门见山吧。我是一个艺术家，生活难以为继，所以通过那个谁介绍，我想你或许可以买一些东西，帮我度过难关。
了解，对你的经济状况我再了解不过了。你卖出过东西吗？我问。
没有，我的作品从来没卖出去过。哦其实也不是，我卖出过一百本诗集，但那是笔赔本买卖，59元每本售出，今年冬天要以100元每本回收的。但这个行为也只是作品的一部分，我并不将诗集看作作品的全部。所以，可以说，我从没卖出过任何作品。
那你作品打算咋卖呢，一般情况下一个没有销售记录的艺术家，第一个作品很难卖出价格吧。
嗯我知道这种状况，但我觉得我的作品值得一个好价钱，它们几乎都是杰作，我希望你能公正的对待它们。我说。
我看着我，陷入了沉默。
我确信有一天它们会获得公正的评价的 。我补充道。
但对我而言我并不确信，这事需要运气。我不是说你的东西不好，我也认为它们有意思，与我看到的别人的不同。我是说，你并没有名气，而且，也没有将要崭露头角的迹象，恕我直言。
是的。
嗯，那你说说吧，你的东西咋个卖，总得说个价格吧。我说。
其实我也不知道该咋个卖合适，不过在《杜尚传》里我看到杜尚卖过的一个作品，叫《为什么不打喷嚏》，是别人来找他买作品，他先收了钱，300美元，条件是做什么由他自己来决定。我挺喜欢这个作品，杜尚自己也挺得意的。
那么，意思是你的作品也卖300美元吗。
当然不是，那已经是上世纪20年代的事了，我想，我的第一个作品就卖3000美元吧。
3000美元？
嗯，3000美元。我说。
你又不是杜尚，而且杜尚在20年代已经小有名气了好吧。
我没有说话。
不过，那件作品是1921年做的，到现在快100年了。就3000美元吧，你要卖给我哪个作品呢？
你先付钱吧，给你哪个作品由我来决定。
像杜尚一样？
像杜尚一样。
好吧，这样也挺有意思的，成交。我说。
我数出3000美元递给我。那你打算给我哪个作品呢？
我觉得《三个可能的转动》不错，3000美元对它来说也是个不错的价格。我说。
哦？讲讲。
这个作品是我用宜家STOMMA挂钟做的，我用剪刀把时针分针秒针剪掉，只留下端部的三个小圆块，再给它装了一节AA电池，取名为《三个可能的转动》。它是一个装置，现在挂在我房间的墙上。我说。
哦？那你怎么想到这个方案的呢？我问。
这个挂钟买回来装上电池就一直挂在我床左边的墙上，但它总是被我忽略，每次睡醒想要看时间的时候我仍旧会四处翻找手机。对我来说它并不像一个真正的挂钟一样存在着，它像一个装置，就挂在那里，而且即使作为装置，它也仍然处于被忽视的地位。所以我就想，干嘛不让它彻底的失去功能，成为一个真正的纯粹的装置呢？我说。
听起来挺有意思的，很酷，我已经开始喜欢它了。我说，这3000美元花得挺值的。
当然值，简直太值了。它现在彻底的失去了指示时间的功能，但电池依然使它转动。这个你要仔细盯着它，而且要靠得非常近--30厘米范围以内吧，才能确认它到底有没有转动。它是静音的，所以无法通过听声音来确认。
哇哦，酷。我赞道。
它还可以有更深的解读，比如，时间在永不停歇的流逝，就像它的转动一样无声无息，不引人注意。往后只要你想到这个作品--比如我现在想到它挂在我的墙上，存在着，我就会意识到我的生命也在随时间悄无声息的流逝，伤感顿生。说到这里，我叹了口气，唉~。
唉~，我也叹了口气。这就是艺术的魅力吧，这真是一个杰作。我说。
还有，我要提醒你的就是，如果哪天你发现它真的没有转动了，那是电池没电了，就给它换一节电池。在它没电又没有被你注意到的这段时间里，它应该是没有转动的。所以，这个作品的名字叫《三个可能的转动》。
明白。我说，走吧，去你家里取，我有点迫不及待了。
我走在前面引领着我，我紧跟在我的后面，去我的住处--准确地址是草场地8号红火超市对面。我用门禁卡开了门，前行五米右拐，穿过一条两边停满正在充电的电瓶车和满是灰尘的自行车的通道，然后右转上叮叮咚咚的铁楼梯到三楼，再左拐穿过右手边堆着破烂家具和床垫的走廊，再右拐，往前四米，开门进屋。房间不大，15平米左右，有一个卫生间，做饭要出门右拐。
《三个可能的转动》就挂在墙上。钟盘是乳白色的外壳是米白色的，中间有一个纽扣般大小的蓝色小圆，挡住了里面的两个小圆，看不出它们是否在转动。在五点与蓝色纽扣之间的钟盘上签着艺术家“王狼狗W.L.G”的大名。
我把它取下来，递给我。说，现在它是你的了。
我接过挂钟，看了看材质，通体塑料壳，很轻。翻过来看背后，中间是一块凸出的黑色塑料，里面大概也装着塑料的机芯，一节AA电池裸露在外。
就这玩意？你买成多少钱？我问。
9.9元。我答。
就这破鸡巴玩意你卖我3000美元？你他妈想钱想疯了吧？我大怒，什么狗屁艺术家！
我一愣，回过神来也大怒，火冒三丈：你嘴巴放干净点，傻逼，这是中国当代艺术，欣赏不来就别附庸风雅。你给老子滚出去，滚远点。
好，好，骗老子的钱是吧，现在这玩意是我的了吧？老子让你看看你所谓的中国当代艺术的下场。我单手擎天把挂钟高高地举起，再狠狠地砸在地上——碎片四溅，发出几声清脆的声音。一节AA电池飞了出来，撞到墙角又弹回，转动了几下就不动了。
我继续火冒三丈，但又立即冷静了下来。我没有说话，无话可说。
当着我的面，我掏出那3000美元。放在地上，抽出两张用打火机点燃。房间小，要慢慢的烧，慢慢的烧得精光。
我失去了一个杰作。
我失去了3000美元。
我们什么都没有得到。
There was no warning before he came.
I didn't hear a sound, I didn't smell a smell, and what I saw in front of me was no different than before. Afterward I examined my heart in my memories, and there was no sudden thud-thud-thud acceleration of the heart, or thud-thud-thud deceleration, or anything like that, before he came. He pushed open the door, calmly walked in, and stood before me with a bloodstained axe in his left hand.
I held out my hand and gestured for him to sit down, and he did so in a chair across the table. He then placed his hands on the countertop. The axe, which I guessed was head down, wooden handle up, rested lightly against the legs of the chair.
“I apologize for the intrusion.” He said.
I flipped over a cup that was upside down on one of the tea trays, added tea, and gestured for him to drink. He picked up the teacup, took a small sip, and began to tell.
“You're the sixteenth person I've visited on this trip - I've visited fifteen people already, with nothing to show for it. I came late, not because I think less of you than the others, but because I was afraid that after coming to you, I would have no more motivation to continue my journey.
“I am an artist, unknown. Or rather, people who know my name don't know I'm an artist. You can understand when I say that, right?” He lifted his teacup, but only touched his lips symbolically.
“Understood.” I replied hurriedly.
He put down his teacup and continued the story.
“The first person I went to see was so-and-so, and I was kicked out just as I walked in the door.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, ”who is so-and-so?”
“I don't want to say his name, because he's a thousand times the dork he is, and his name doesn't deserve to be in our conversation.” He grunted through his nostrils to show his contempt for so-and-so. “Then I had to go to the hardware store and buy an axe to hold for twenty-five dollars. This time he didn't kick me out.”
“So you killed him?” I regretted the words as soon as they left my mouth. For if that were true, I was clearly in danger, and could no longer see the slightest chance of surviving.
He tilted his head a little and stared straight at me, looking rather surprised by my question.
“What makes you think that? I've never killed anyone, and I'm not going to. I'm an artist.”
“And where did the blood on the axe come from?”
“It's my own,” he said, rolling up the sleeve of his right hand.
I saw that his right hand, from the wrist to the arm covered by the sleeve downward, was covered with circles and circles of stitches, roughly arranged in an equidistant pattern, and overall fairly regular except for a few of them that looked as if they had been hardened later on right in the middle of two neighboring stitches.
“I'll talk about this later,” he said as he lowered his sleeves and rested his hands on the countertop, resuming his previous stance, ”Anyway, please believe me, I'm not a murderer.”
He seemed very subdued and I chose to believe him. “OK, I believe you,” I said, ”and then what? About so-and-so.”
“He's a thousand times a dullard,” he said, picking up where he left off, ”I carried an axe and told him about my work - starting with my best work, and after one and then a second, and after three of them he still After three works he still didn't respond, he was dumbfounded. I was extremely disappointed and realized that he was a pseudo-artist with a false reputation. I stood there at the time, speechless.”
“Why? If you thought he was a prodigal dweeb, why were you groundless instead?” I said.
“It's simple. Isn't it enough to be ashamed that I thought a dullard would be my confidant, would point me out in a second from a crowd of mediocrities? I rambled on with hope, but it turned out that every word I uttered was nothing but a pile of shame. At that moment I lost the courage to live.”
He stood his elbows on the table and covered his cheeks with his ten fingers. Tearing open old scars caused him visible pain.
I took advantage of the silence to fill my teacup. “And then what?” I couldn't help myself and asked him carefully.
He raises the hands over his face smoothly up to his forehead and smoothes his hair back toward his head. He let out a breath, looked at me with two straight eyes and said, “And then - I chopped off my right hand with an axe.”
I was too stunned to believe it.
“Not just the right hand, but both feet.” He said, stood up, walked two meters behind his chair, turned around, faced me, and with both hands tugged up both pantaloons, revealing dense loops of stitching on his feet that mirrored the stitching on his right hand. Harmonious insertions in regularity, minimalist, striking.
My mind stopped spinning and my expression froze, half in shock, half in horror.
“That dork had the exact same expression on his face then as you do now, haha.”
He said that, immediately yanking me out of my disorientation and into embarrassment. I took a sip of tea to cover it up and said, “That's really unbelievable. And then what happened?”
“Then he squealed at the top of his lungs, like it was his hand, his foot, that had been chopped off with an axe, and he squealed like a pig in the process of being slaughtered.”
“I mean, how did you survive. Just like that, how can a man cut off his own hands and feet, and sixteen times, survive?” I asked him.
“Correction, it was fifteen times, and you're the sixteenth person I've come to see. As for how I survived, I'll get to that later.”
With that, he returned to his chair and sat down, resetting his hands on the countertop, “Do you know why I said that you this would be my last stop?”
“I don't know, and I'm curious as to why you said that. Besides, I'm obviously as thoroughly unknown as you are.”
“No, you're different, you're a true artist and you can't deny it because I've seen your work and I can point to that without a doubt. Trust me.” He said with conviction.
I could hear his sincerity in it, and I couldn't help but secretly think that this guy had outstanding judgment, and his work should be good too.
“Then, tell me about your work, I'm looking forward to it.”
Instead, he was motionless and silent. Maybe he was calming down and organizing his words. I had to wait in silence too.
“Better tell you first, how I survived.” He went on to tell an equally unbelievable story.
“This axe, in fact, was not bought at a store. It's a magical axe, and although it's incredibly sharp, it will never cause fatal injuries to humans, and if stitched up in time, the wounds will heal within half an hour, and will only end up leaving scars on the surface of the human body. Let's put it this way, it can only exaggerate the appearance of things, or it can amplify the viewer's deep-rooted and shallow perceptions, but in essence it will only produce a negligible effect. As a legendary artifact, this is its inherent magic. Do you understand?”
“Seems like I can understand it a little,” I said, ”Sounds like the realm of the kind of artist who plays with materials. It looks gorgeous, but once you see through it and talk about it, it's bullshit.”
“Haha, I knew you'd get it,” he looked excited, ”You really are a true artist, I wasn't wrong about anyone.”
“I say, if you ......,” I suddenly had a flash of insight and thought of something, but he cut me off as soon as the words left my mouth, his excitement obviously still fresh.
“Do you know what those fifteen dullards, who had no sense of my work, thought of the sacred axe? When they snapped out of their piggishness and watched me quickly stitch up my wounds to return to normalcy, and then listened to my account of the magical axe. Without exception, they all looked at this god-axe with worshipful faces, so much for giving up their roots and buying pearls, but abandoning true art as if it were their own.”
“I mean, you can ......,” I said, seeing the wood for the trees, but still he interrupted me mercilessly.
“They said the same thing to me at different times and in different places. They said, 'What a magical axe, you can use it to make jitterbugs and you'll be rich. ' They only had money in their eyes, not art.”
His forlorn expression resonated with me, making me forget what I'd just tried to say, and we fell silent once again.
After a while, he said quietly, “After talking for most of the day, it's time for you to critique my art, my idol artist, I hope I won't disappoint you.”
“No, no, just talking to each other, looking forward to it.” I said.
He, however, didn't say anything else.
He got up from his chair and took a few steps back before I saw the axe in his hand. He flew to the ground and lay down in a strange position, chopping the axe to his right arm, then to his left leg right leg. The legendary magical axe, as expected, did not drag its feet and cleanly cleaved through his body, all the way to the floor with three thuds and three crashes.
His right hand and legs were completely separated from his body, and blood slowly dripped on the floor - a scene not unlike what he had just recounted.
“Why is there so much blood, didn't they say it wouldn't cause any major damage?” I jumped to my feet in panic, not knowing what to do. “Sew it up ah sew it up, there's too much blood, sew it up.”
He lay back, his frazzled face smiling ruefully, “The story of the magical axe is a lie, this is the age of science, how could there be such a thing as a magical axe in the world? True art has nothing at all to do with materials.”
Although he was doing his best to maintain a calm tone, the pain was obviously hard to suppress, “I could survive fifteen injuries because of what God gave me, my own talent, not some cockamamie magical axe.”
“Then sew yourself up, come on, show me your talent, let me witness your art for once. How else can I make a fair assessment?” I shook the chunkiest part of his body, “Please, at the very least you can't die here to harm me my friend.”
His white face laughed again, softly, and he said, “Art is magic, but it is a curse on the artist. I have made up my mind to give it up completely henceforth. I don't care if you ever see my art again; let it be a failed performance; I was meant to be a failed artist. As for how you will explain to the police, I couldn't care less.”
After saying that, he tilted his head and died. The black blood continued to trickle away, and was about to stain the soles of my shoes.
I half-squatted, slowly straightened my upper body, slowly opened my mouth, mobilized my internal energy from the dantian*, and did my best to unleash a squeal like that of a killer pig at the ceiling.
* dantian: a concept in Chinese martial arts
他来之前没有任何预兆。
我没有听到声音，没有闻到味道，眼前所见与往日无异。事后我在回忆中审视内心，在他来之前也并没有发生心突然咚咚咚加速，或者咚——咚——咚减速之类的状况。他推开门，平静地走进来，站在我的面前，左手拎着一把血迹斑斑的斧头。
我伸出手，示意他坐下，他就在桌子对面的椅子上坐下了。随后他把双手放在台面上。那把斧头，我猜是头朝下，木柄朝上，轻靠在椅子腿上。
“冒昧打扰，见谅。”他说。
我翻开一只茶盘上倒扣着的杯子，添上茶，示意他喝茶。他端起茶杯，小喝了一口，开始讲述。
“你是我这趟所拜访的第十六个人——我已经拜访过十五个人了，一无所获。我之所以姗姗来迟，不是因为把你看得比其他人低，而是我怕来了你这里后，我就再没有动力继续我的旅程。
“我是个艺术家，籍籍无名。或者说，知道我名字的人都不知道我是个艺术家。我这么说，你能明白吧？”他端起茶杯，但只是象征性的碰了一下嘴唇。
“明白。”我赶紧回答。
他放下茶杯，接着讲述。
“我第一个去见的是某某某，结果刚进门就被赶了出来。”
“等一下，”我说，“某某某是谁？”
“我不想说他的名字，因为他是个千真万确的呆瓜，他的名字不配出现在我们的谈话中。”他用鼻孔哼了一下，以示对某某某的轻蔑。“然后我只好去五金店，花二十五元买了一把斧头拿着。这回他就没有再赶我出去。”
“于是你就杀了他吗？”话一出口我就后悔了。因为如果真是那样，我就明显置身于危险之中了，而且再看不到一点幸存的机会。
他偏了一下头，直直的盯着我，看起来对我的问题颇感意外。
“你怎么这样想？我从没杀过人，也不会杀人。我是个艺术家啊。”
“那斧头上的血迹是从哪里来的？”
“是我自己的，”他说着，把右手的袖子撸了起来。
我看到他的右手，从手腕到被衣袖遮住的胳膊往下，布满了一圈一圈的缝线，粗略看呈等距排列，除了其中有几段缝线像是后来硬塞在相邻的两段缝线正中间，整体还算规整。
“这个我等会儿再说，”他把袖子放下来，双手放在台面上，恢复了之前的姿态，“总之，请你相信我，我不是个杀人犯。”
他看起来非常从容，我选择相信他。“OK，我相信你，”我说，“然后呢？关于某某某。”
“他是个千真万确的呆瓜，”他接上刚才的话，“我提着斧头，跟他讲述我的作品——从我最得意的作品开始，讲完一个又讲第二个，讲完了三个作品后他仍然没有一丝反应，呆若木鸡。我失望至极，也明白了他就是个浪得虚名的伪艺术家。当时我站在那里，无地自容。”
“为什么？既然你觉得他是个浪得虚名的呆瓜，为什么你反倒无地自容了？”我说。
“很简单。我以为一个呆瓜会是我的知音，会一秒钟将我从一众庸碌之辈中指认出来，难道这还不够让人羞愧难当吗？我满怀希望滔滔不绝，但结果是，我讲出每一个字都不过是耻辱的堆积。那一刻我丧失了活下去的勇气。”
他把手肘立在桌子上，用十指遮挡住脸颊。撕开旧伤疤让他痛苦。
我趁这沉默的空当把茶杯填满。“然后呢？”我忍不住，小心翼翼问他。
他把捂在脸上的双手顺畅的举高至前额，再往脑后捋了一下头发。他呼出一口气，两眼直勾勾地看着我说：“然后——我就用斧头把我的右手砍了下来。”
我大吃一惊，无法相信。
“不止右手，还有双脚。”他说着，站起来，走到他椅子背后两米的位置，转过身，面朝着我，双手扯起两只裤管，露出脚上密密麻麻的环状缝线，与他右手上的缝线如出一辙。规整中带着和谐的插入，极简，醒目。
我的脑子停止转动，表情呆滞，一半是震惊，一半是恐惧。
“那个呆瓜当时的表情就跟你现在一模一样，哈哈。”
他这么一说，立刻把我从失神中拽向了尴尬的境地。我喝了口茶，掩饰了一下，说：“这确实让人难以置信啊。然后呢？”
“然后他高声叫了起来，就像被斧头砍掉的是他的手，他的脚，他像一头正在被宰杀的猪那样尖叫。”
“我是说，你是怎么活下来的。就那样，一个人砍掉自己的手脚，还砍掉了十六次，怎么可能活下来？”我问他。
“纠正一下，是十五次，你是我来见的第十六人。至于我怎么活下来的，我等会儿会说的。”
说着，他回到椅子上坐下，重新把双手摆在台面上，“你知道，为什么我说，你这将是我的最后一站吗？”
“我不知道，我也很好奇你为什么这么说。而且，我明明与你一样，彻底的籍籍无名。”
“不，你不一样，你是个真正的艺术家，你无法否认，因为我看过你的作品，我毫无疑问地能指认出这点。相信我。”他言之凿凿地说道。
我能从中听出他的真诚，也不由得暗想，这个家伙有出众的判断力，他的作品应该也不错。
“那，跟我讲讲你的作品吧，我很期待。”
他却一动不动的沉默了。也许他在平复心情，组织语言。我也只好沉默地等待着。
“还是先跟你说，我是如何活下来的吧。”他接着又说出了一个同样让人难以置信的故事。
“其实这把斧头，并不是在商店买的。这是一把神斧，它虽然锋利无比，却绝不会对人类造成致命的伤害，如果缝合及时的话，伤口在半个时辰内就会痊愈，最后只会在人体表面留下疤痕。这么说吧，它只能夸大事物的表象，或者说它能放大观者的根深蒂固的粗浅认知，但在本质上却只会产生微乎其微的作用。作为传说中的神器，这是它固有的魔力。你明白吗？”
“好像能明白一点，”我说，“听起来就像是那种玩材料的艺术家的范畴。看起来华丽，但一旦看透了说透了，就会发现屁都不是。”
“哈哈，我就知道你能明白，”他显得很兴奋，“你果然是个真正的艺术家，我没有看错人。”
“我说，如果你……”我忽然灵光一闪，想到一件事情，但话一出口就被他打断了，他的兴奋劲显然还没过。
“你知道那十五个对我的作品毫无感知的呆瓜们，是怎么看待这把神斧的吗？当他们从猪叫中回过神来，眼看着我快速缝合伤口恢复常态，再听完我对神斧的讲述。他们无一例外的对这把神斧面露膜拜之情，如此地舍本逐末，买椟还珠，却将真正的艺术弃如敝履。”
“我是说，你可以……”我见缝插针，却仍然被他无情的打断。
“他们在不同的时间、不同的地点对我说出了相同的一句话。他们说：‘好一把神斧，你可以用它来拍抖音，一定会发财的。‘他们的眼中只有钱，而没有艺术。”
他落寞的表情引起了我的共鸣，让我忘记了我刚才想说的话，我们再度陷入了沉默。
过了好一会儿，他幽幽地说：“聊了大半天了，也该请你点评一下我的艺术了，我的偶像艺术家，希望我不会让你失望。”
“哪里哪里，互相交流而已，期待。”我说。
他却没有再说什么。
他从椅子上站起来，退后了几步，我才看见那把斧头被他拎在手上。他飞速的躺倒在地，以一种奇怪的姿势，用斧头劈向右手臂，再劈向左腿右腿。传说中的神斧，果然没有拖泥带水，干脆利落地劈开身体，一直劈到地板上，发出了咚咚咚三次撞击声。
他的右手和双腿与身体完全分离，鲜血在地上缓慢淌开——这场景与他刚才所讲述的不一样。
“怎么会这么多血，不是说不会造成大的伤害吗？”我慌乱地跳脚，不知所措。“快缝起来啊快缝起来，血流得太多了，快缝起来。”
他躺着，煞白的脸凄惨一笑：“神斧的故事是骗你的，这是科学的时代，世上怎么会有神斧这种东西？真正的艺术与材料一点毛关系都没有。”
他虽然在尽力地维持着平静的语气，但痛苦明显难以抑制，“我能从十五次伤害中幸存，是因为上天赐予我的，我自身的天赋，而不是什么鸡吧神斧。”
“那你倒是把自己缝起来啊，来，向我展示一下你的天赋，让我亲眼目睹一次你的艺术。不然我怎么能做出公正地评价呢？”我摇晃着他身体中块头最大的那部分，“求求你了，最起码你不能死在这里害我啊朋友。”
他煞白的脸再次笑了，笑得很轻，他说：“艺术是魔力，却是对艺术家的诅咒。我决心已定，从此彻底放弃它。我也不在乎你能不能看到我的艺术了，就当这是一次失败的表演吧，我本来就是一个失败的艺术家。至于你如何向警察交代，我也管不了那么多了。”
说完，他就头一歪，死掉了。黑色的血还在继续淌开，眼看就要沾到我的鞋底了。
我半蹲着，缓缓挺直上半身，缓缓张开嘴，调集丹田之气，竭尽全力，对着天花板，释放出了像杀猪一般的尖叫。
The pilot’s back was drenched, and his white T-shirt had turned the color of damp concrete. He had probably just landed and was briskly walking to dissipate the energy stirred up from flying. I know this is common sense—suddenly stopping isn’t in line with the principles of mechanical movement; it could lead to losing control or causing local congestion in the body. The human body and machinery share the same logic. My physical education teacher once emphasized this point: after intense exercise, you should avoid sitting down immediately to rest. If you do, he said, your buttocks could irreversibly expand.
The pilot didn’t slow his pace; in fact, he maintained a steady, quick walk, even showing signs of accelerating. This detail filled me with excitement, so I abandoned the thought of overtaking him. I gently pedaled my bicycle, keeping a distance of five meters behind him. The pilot in front of me seemed to be preparing to take off again, and I was fortunate enough to witness this entire process firsthand.
Minutes passed, but he continued to walk briskly at a constant pace. I gradually grew tired, then suddenly realized he must have noticed me following him and was deliberately toying with me. Anger made me lose all patience, so I accelerated and passed him on my bicycle. Although I was still reluctant, I resisted the urge to look back and see if he had taken off. I reminded myself that doing so would only make me lose face and bring further humiliation. The obvious truth was that trying to outsmart a pilot in a psychological game was beyond my capability.
The river embankment was as crowded as ever with people walking, jogging, skateboarding, and cycling. The luminous floats from night fishing occasionally flickered below the embankment, and the stalls selling lemon tea were all the same. I rode the shared bicycle, my mood gradually calming down.
A bright point of light suddenly shot across the sky above me, flying swiftly forward. Could this be the pilot from before? Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t—I guess it is. He flew high, like an eagle. I stopped and looked up at him, hoping he would greet me in some way. If he sent a signal, I was sure I would understand it, and I would recognize that it was meant only for me. I would forgive him completely for what had happened and proudly tell everyone about our friendship. I believed he could do it because an eagle soaring high in the sky can easily spot the tiniest movements of a mouse. Unless, of course, the eagle is flying so high that people on the ground look no more significant than ants.
这个飞行员的后背湿透了，白色的T恤现在是清水水泥墙的颜色。他大概是刚刚着陆，正在用快走散去之前被飞行所调动的身体能量。这个常识我知道，猛然的终止不符合机械运动保养原则，可能会失控栽跟头，或者引起躯体局部充血。人体与机械是一个道理，我的体育老师曾经强调过这一点：剧烈运动后最忌立刻坐下歇息，那样的话，他说，屁股会不可逆转的变大。
飞行员的脚步却并没有变慢，而是匀速快走，甚至，有加速的迹象。这个细节让我内心一阵狂喜，放弃了超过他的打算。我轻轻的踩着自行车脚踏板，保持在他身后五米的位置。我眼前的这位飞行员，恐怕是准备再次起飞啦。而我，何其幸运，将会亲眼见证这一全过程。
时间一分一秒过去，但他始终只是匀速快走。我渐渐感觉到厌倦，随即恍然大悟，他一定是早就发现了我的尾随，而故意在戏弄我。愤怒使我彻底失去了耐性，加速蹬自行车超过了他。虽然我仍心有不甘，但好在还是强忍住了假装不经意回头去偷看他起飞的冲动。我告诫自己，那样做的话只会让我当面丧失尊严，带来更多的屈辱。明摆着的事实是，以我的实力，要想在心理战上打败一个飞行员，完全是自不量力。
河堤上散步的人跑步的人玩滑板的人骑车的人像往常一样多，河堤下夜钓的发光浮漂偶尔闪烁，卖暴打柠檬茶的摊位千遍一律。我踩着共享单车，心情逐渐平复。
一个光点从我的脑门上方突现天空，向前疾飞。这是不是刚才的那个飞行员？也许是也许不是，我猜是。他飞得很高，像一只老鹰。我停下来，抬头看他，期待他能以某种方式跟我打个招呼。只要他发出信号，我就一定能心领神会，并确定无疑的辨认出那是只给我一个人的信号。我会因此而彻底原谅他，并四处宣扬我们的友谊。我相信他是可以做到的，因为高空中的老鹰能轻易的看清一只老鼠最细微的举动。除非老鹰实在是飞得太高，让地上的人看起来，不过是一只只微不足道的蚂蚁。
Of course, I knew I was going to win. Why else would I be here? To be humiliated? I’m not that pathetic. When the host announced my name as the winner, I was genuinely surprised. You all actually understand art? My anger surged, burning my cheeks. The ridiculous part was the host kept asking if I was excited or shy, as if his "professionalism" could cover it. If I were the shy type, I wouldn’t have signed up repeatedly. Besides, shyness isn’t aggressive—it only hurts yourself.
To ensure I got the prize money, I followed the host’s cue and walked to the stage. Everywhere I went, the audience stood up one by one, clapping with that fake approval plastered across their faces. They looked like a bunch of meerkats from Animal Planet, stretching their necks as if trying to appear taller. You could almost imagine—I just needed to stomp my foot, and they’d scatter back into their holes.
The host spewed some nonsense about how my "performance was so natural, I truly deserved the award." But what truly caught me off guard were the weak, vacant eyes standing beside him.
Those eyes had no focus, scattering from some origin. They passed right through me, through the walls of the room, shooting toward the edge of the universe at 300,000 kilometers per second. If you’ve ever shone a flashlight into the night sky, you’ll understand—you’ll never forget that cone of light disappearing, as if it left you and vanished somewhere unknown.
I just happened to walk into the path of those eyes. A chill ran down my spine; the fire in my heart was gone, and the blush on my cheeks was now out of guilt. This should’ve been my unique talent, yet Mr. Runner-Up had unintentionally activated it.
He stood there with his silver-plated trophy, beside the babbling host, looking desolate and defeated, still lost in the art I had presented. He had no hope of surpassing me. Yet society, from birth, has drilled into him the need to act with class and grace. Muscle memory forced his mouth into a smile, lifting the skin of his face to his cheekbones, while his empty eyes reflected the very art I had displayed today—the art of "piercing the human soul" (in the words of the host).
I turned to face the meerkats and made a decision. I would announce my immediate retirement from the stage. Predictably, the foolish host would say something sentimental about me "gracefully stepping aside for the younger generation." That part didn’t matter. All I hoped for was that Mr. Runner-Up would soon realize the gift he had accidentally unlocked within himself, that he would persevere through hardship, eating rice and swallowing bitterness, never bowing to adversity. One day, the gold-plated “Laughing is Uglier than Crying Grand Prize” in my hands will be handed to him.
But as for today’s prize money—I’ll take that with a smile. Good luck, Mr. Runner-Up.
我当然知道我能得奖。不然我来干嘛？来受辱吗？我没那么贱。当主持人所宣布的优胜者正是我的大名时，我也确实感到意外，非常意外。你们他妈的也懂艺术？我心中的怒火瞬间上头，烤红了我的脸颊。可笑的是主持人还自以为业务水平过硬，不停地问我是因为激动还是害羞。我要真是个害羞的人，就不会一而再再而三来报名参赛了。再说，害羞不具有外部攻击性，只会伤着自己。
为了顺利拿到奖金，我听从了主持人的召唤，向舞台走去。所到之处，摧枯拉朽，看客们逐个从座位上起立，脸上挂着赞许的表情，齐刷刷对着我鼓掌。这是一群《动物世界》里的猫鼬，竭力挺直腰板伸长脖子，可以想像，我只需要跺一下脚，它们就会肝胆俱裂立刻缩回洞口。
主持人说我“表演浑然天成获奖实至名归”之类的屁话，不值一哂。他旁边的两道软弱无力空洞的眼神却让我骤然一颤。
这是两道没有焦点，从原点就开始散射的眼神。它穿过我，穿过我身后的会场的墙壁，正以每秒三十万公里的速度向宇宙边缘深入。如果你曾在黑夜里用手电筒照射过天空，你就永远不会忘记那个场景。那束圆锥形的光，离开了你，就不知去了哪里。
我只是恰好走上台，闯入了这两道眼神构筑的场域。我脊背发凉，心头火已荡然无存，脸红只因心虚。这原本是独属我的天赋技能，亚军先生却已经在无意间，把它给激活了。
他正捧着镀银奖杯，站在呱呱叫的主持人旁边。落寞、挫败，仍沦陷于我之前呈现的艺术中，心服口服，看不到战胜我的希望，万念俱灰。但文明社会从他出生以来，就一直在教育他规训他强迫他，要有教养，要有风度的行事。肌肉记忆牵动着他的嘴角上扬，脸上的皮肉也同时提升至颧骨下沿，展示出一个微笑。加上无光的眼神，他已完美复刻了我今日所呈现的“直击人类灵魂”（主持人语）的艺术。
我在台上转过身，面对着猫鼬们，做出了一个决定。我将要当众宣布即刻归隐，退出舞台。可以预见的是，傻瓜主持人会接着讲出我“风格高尚为年轻人主动让位”这样煽情的话语。这都不重要。我只希望，亚军先生能早日意识到自己已被激活的天赋，百折不挠，吃糠咽菜，不向困苦低头。终有一日，我手中的这个“笑得比哭还要难看-大奖赛”镀金奖杯，他们也会颁给你。
但今日的奖金我就先笑纳了。加油，亚军先生。
There was a man who appeared burly and rough, looking like a bandit. In truth, he was shy and as light-hearted as a feather; just a whiff of a beauty’s scent could send him soaring far away. Before a date, he once stole a basket of love phrases to carry on his back, thinking it would add weight to him and make him feel grounded. But he was really quite foolish—the basket was filled with nothing but nonsense, and it grew lighter and lighter. Before he could say "I love you," I watched as he floated away, over the hills and disappeared into the horizon.
有一个轻飘飘的人，长得五大三粗，看起来就像一个强盗。事实上，他很害羞，内心也是轻飘飘的，美人的一口香气就能使他飞出好远。后来在与姑娘约会之前，他先去偷了一筐子情话背着，使自己分量更重，显得踏实。但是他真的很笨啊，筐子上面放的尽是废话，最后筐子越来越轻。他还没说出我爱你，我就看见他飞了起来，越过山头，消失在天边。
My shadow and I are good friends. Over the years, we have traveled to many places together. Sometimes he walks ahead, and sometimes I do. As we both grew, I began to fall in love with other shadows—especially the shadows of girls, those fragrant and enchanting shadows. Whenever I followed, approached, or walked beside them, my shadow remained silent. He was a silent shadow, one I could never fully understand. On dark nights, my shadow often disappeared, and I imagined he must have gone off to meet with those lovely shadows. At such times, I would lie in bed, peacefully dreaming one sweet dream after another.
我与我的影子是好朋友，这些年我们一起去过很多地方，有时他走在前面，有时我走在前面。后来我和我的影子都长大了，我开始爱上其它的影子——一些姑娘的影子，那些散发香味的影子总是让我着迷。每当我跟随、靠近或与那些影子并肩而行，我的影子就一直沉默着，他是个沉默的影子，我猜不透他。在漆黑的夜里，我的影子也经常失踪，我猜他一定与那些美好的影子约会去了，那时我就会躺在被窝里，安心地做上一个又一个甜蜜的梦。
In a film or television series, particularly the dubbed productions from national TV stations, dubbing often exists in a realm detached from reality—if we consider the filming scene as reality, that is. The filming set and the script's depicted scene are inherently different, which may be a hallmark of dramatic works. Various independent elements, like wood, nails, and paint coming together to form a table, when examined closely, often seem slightly absurd. Here, we focus on dubbing.
I once saw clips of voice actors in entertainment news, throwing themselves into the scenes they voiced. During an intense moment, they’d grasp their headphones, bend their knees, and exaggerate their expressions as if living the scene themselves. Perhaps that’s what makes a good voice actor—complete immersion in the plot.
But if we strip away these absurd combinations and return to a simpler state, like a log or a nail, lying in bed on the edge of sleep with sadness welling up, voices float incoherently in the mind, without essence. No narration or dubbing can capture their true spirit.
一场电影，或者说连续剧之类的，（尤其是国家电视台的译制片），配音常常是独立存在于现实之外，如果把拍摄现场当成一个现实的话。当然拍摄现场与它所表达的剧本剧情现场也不一样，这是戏剧类的特征吧大概。几种独立的场景或技术划分组合在一起成为一个东西，包括木头钉子油漆组成桌子，细想之下，这些组合或多或少带有荒诞的味道。这里我们只说配音。
我在一些娱乐新闻里短暂的看过一些配音演员工作的片段，剧情紧迫时，配音演员双手握在耳机上，双腿弯曲，表情夸张，如身临其境。大概好的配音演员就是这样的，全身心投入到剧情中。
如果抛开这些荒诞的组合，回到一根木头或一颗钉子的状态，一个人躺回到床上，将睡未睡，悲哀涌上心头。一些声音飘在脑中，并不连贯和切实，没有灵魂，任何旁白和配音都无法把握其精髓。
No one is truly alone. Even if I walk by myself through the dark night, there are always countless wandering souls trailing behind me—spirits who have loved me through many lifetimes. To them, I am like an emperor, surrounded by a harem of souls from different ages and races. They love me, and gladly lift me up high. Some love with contentment, others with sorrow, their laughter and tears known only to them.
They want me to be happy, but they also long for my death, believing that once I lie in my coffin, they will finally find peace. This cycle of deception has played out through countless reincarnations, yet they remain deluded, hoping I will change my mind. But I share the same tragic fate as them. They are doomed to watch my soul rise from the dirt again and again, to suffer joy and sorrow for other women.
任何人都不是孤独的。即使我一个人在黑夜里行走，身后也会跟着很多孤魂野鬼，那些孤魂野鬼，都是若干世爱着我的灵魂。在她们的认识里，我像一个帝王，享受着年代各异肤色各异的后宫簇拥。她们爱我，乐意把我捧上高位。一些灵魂爱得心满意足，一些灵魂爱得哀怨，她们的哭与笑，也只有她们自己才能听见。她们希望我能过得快乐，却又盼望我死，以为我一躺进棺材，她们就都有了归宿。其实类似的骗局已上演了无数个轮回，她们仍执迷不悔，指望我回心转意。但我和她们，有着同样悲催的命运。她们注定将一次次看着我的灵魂爬出泥土，去为别的女人欢喜哀愁。
Anyone who leaves home should live on a boat. If they’re lucky, they might hear the midnight bell or, while masturbating, the sound of rain hitting the river. A man lives on a boat forever; in flood season, wherever the water takes him, that’s where he stays.
离开家乡的人，都应该住在船上。运气好的，能听到夜半钟声，或者在手淫时，听那雨水打在江面。一个人永远住在船上，洪水季节，水把他冲到哪里，他就住在哪里。
Everyone has the skill to fly, like birds spreading their arms wide and soaring through the air—this is a fact. But landing is a technical art, and few have mastered it. Imagine yourself flying high in the sky, looking down on the earth. If you go high enough, you can even see the curve of the earth’s edge.
Humans have always been timid and afraid of falling to their death, so they slowly forgot how to fly. They say humans belong on the ground, that flying is for birds. A few managed to fly but, not knowing how to land and unwilling to fall to their deaths in public, kept flying until they ascended to heaven, becoming immortals. Even fewer people are aware that humans can fly and have mastered the art of landing safely. But being inherently lazy, they would rather roll over and keep sleeping.
每个人都有飞翔的技能，像鸟儿一样张开双臂在空中飞翔，这是事实。但降落是一门技术活，掌握这个的人几乎没有。你可以想象，你飞在高空，俯瞰大地，如果你飞得足够高，你甚至可以看见地球弧形的边缘。人类从来都是胆小懦弱，害怕摔死自己，所以慢慢地忘记了飞翔这种本领。他们说人就应该待在地面，飞翔是鸟的事情。少数一些人飞了起来，由于不知道该怎么降落，又为了不当众摔死出丑只好不停的飞，最后飞上天堂得道升仙。更少的人知道人类会飞的这个事实，也掌握安全降落的本领，但他们天性懒惰，不愿去飞，翻个身就又继续睡去了。
The man who made a small hole in the iron fence has disappeared, and no one knows exactly when he did it. In the entire world, only God caught a glimpse of him at the moment he first peered through the hole.
Later, countless passers-by stood where he once stood, peering through the small hole, only to leave disappointed. Inside, there wasn’t the mutilated body they had hoped to see—and, of course, no God either.
那个在铁皮围栏上抠了个小孔的人已不知去向，开孔的具体时日也不可考证。全世界只有上帝曾瞥见过他一眼，在他第一次往小孔里窥视的时刻。
后来又有无数个路人站在他曾经站立的位置往小孔里窥探，皆失望离开。里面并没有他们所期待的残缺的肢体——当然了，也没有上帝。
Their backpacks revealed the handles of badminton rackets, like swords. The man with two swords, the woman with one. They are the “Condor Heroes” of the city, always together: playing badminton, taking the subway, making love. Sometimes, on weekends, they walk along the riverbank behind the neighborhood, taking their condor with them.
他们背后的双肩包露出了羽毛球拍的手柄，像背着剑。男的两把，是双剑，女的是单剑。他们就是这座城市里的神雕侠侣，总是在一起活动，一起打羽毛球一起坐地铁一起做爱。有时候，周末，他们也会一起去小区后面的河堤上散步，带着他们的神雕。
I have a friend who once cried uncontrollably late at night. He couldn’t stop and eventually scared himself. He called a friend, asking her to come over. When she asked why he was crying, he said he felt guilty, that he didn’t deserve to live and had wronged everyone he knew.
I know this feeling well, I told him, because I was once like that too.
Later, this friend became wealthy, and from then on, I was the only one left feeling guilty.
我有一个朋友，有一次他在深夜大哭，止都止不住，后来哭到自己都害怕了，他就打电话给一个朋友，叫她过来。她问他为什么哭泣，他说他很愧疚，觉得对不起他认识的每一个人，不配活在世界上。
我很了解这种感受，我说，因为有一次我也是这样。
后来这个朋友发了财，从此感到愧疚的人就只剩下我一个了。
It's raining lightly, I didn’t bring an umbrella, but the person in front of me had a large one—impossible to miss. To avoid the rain, I walked faster and caught up with him on the stairs of the overpass. He was folding his umbrella when we glanced at each other. He showed no expression and said nothing, but I had a feeling—somehow, I knew—he was aware of how special his big umbrella was.
小雨，我没有带伞，前面的人有一把大伞，一望便会留意到。为了避雨，我走得要快一点，在过街天桥的楼梯上追上了他。他正把大伞收好，侧过头我们刚好互相看到。他面无表情，没有提供任何信息，但某种感觉让我确信，他知道自己有一把与众不同的大伞。
We’re walking along the road. This is the road, definitely. But no one knows if we’ll reach a place to rest before the storm comes.
— This was my diary from the day before yesterday.
Now we’re walking in the snowstorm.
我们在路上走，路是这条路，肯定没有错。只是没人知道在暴风雪来临前能不能抵达某处可供喘息的地点。
--以上是前天的日记，
现在我们在暴风雪里走。
Passing by a patch of grass, I saw a middle-aged woman practicing her punches across the street. I hesitated, but eventually walked in an arc around the green belt to stand in front of her.
“Are you practicing boxing?” I asked.
“Ah, I’m just working out,” she replied.
“You’re not punching correctly,” I said. “You’re sending your shoulder too early, so your punch looks flat and loses its power.”
“You have to push the shoulder forward,” she said.
“That’s right, but you’re pushing too fast. You should slow down and let the fist and shoulder arrive at the same time. Watch me.”
I took position and threw six punches, left-right-left-right, with both strength and grace.
She stuck out her tongue playfully to show she understood.
“Ok, see you.” I turned away, wearing my new slippers, and headed home to cook dinner.
路过一片绿地，看到对面有一个中年人在练习出拳。我犹豫了一下，最后沿着绿化带绕了个弧形站到她面前。
你在练打拳吗？我问。
啊，我在锻炼身体，她说。
你出拳的方式不对，肩部送得太早，所以最后拳头看起来就是平伸出去的，没有了力量，我说。
是要往前送肩啊，她说。
送肩是对的，但是你的肩部送得太快，你应该慢一点，等一等拳头，最好是肩部跟拳头同时到位。我说，你注意看我。
我摆好姿势，左右左右左右顺序挥出了六拳，兼具力量与美感。
她吐了一下舌头，表示知道了。
Ok，再见。我趿着新拖鞋，转身离开，回家做晚饭。
Cycling under Dashanzi Bridge, I turned left to join the crowd riding along the airport road towards Caochangdi. Someone ahead said to their companion, “Hurry up, it’s going to rain.” Everyone seemed to hear them. I could feel the coolness in the air, and the light had dimmed significantly. I sped up along with the crowd, but, unfortunately, riding a bike meant I couldn’t tilt my head 90 degrees to see which dark cloud I was racing against.
骑车穿过大山子桥底，左拐汇入机场辅路往草场地方向骑行的人群。有人在跟他的同伴说，快一点，要下雨了。明显所有人都听到了他的话。我感觉到空气传来阵阵凉意，光线也确实比刚才暗了很多。我跟人群一起加快了骑行速度，遗憾的是骑在车上完全没法90°仰头看，所以不知道自己究竟是在跟哪一朵乌云赛跑。
Lying flat, typing on my phone, my right pinky started to feel uncomfortable, like a tendon was twisted. This must be because I don’t know how to do Tai Chi. I’ve never heard of a Tai Chi practitioner twisting a tendon in their right pinky.
躺平了举着手机打字，右手小手指感到不适，有股筋被扭到了。这大概是因为我不会打太极拳，从来没听说过一个打太极拳的人右手小手指手筋被扭到的事。
Air conditioning and an oscillating fan—a two-pronged approach. The first person to ever do this was an alien living a billion light years away. One day, it was too hot, so he turned on the air conditioner and the fan, and then pressed the protruding cylinder at the back of the fan to make it oscillate. The light cone recording this event traveled for a billion years, just now reaching Earth and my room. Ha! So, alien, you did this long before me—we really are kindred spirits. It felt like we were clinking glasses in a toast.
空调加摇头电扇，双管齐下。第一个这样干的人是一个外星人，他住在十亿光年之外。那天天太热，他打开空调，打开电扇，然后按了一下电扇后脑勺的那个突出的圆柱，电扇就开始摇头。记录这个事件的光锥在路上走了十亿年，刚刚抵达地球，来到我的房间。哈，老外，原来你早就这么干过，我们真是有缘啊。那感觉就像是我和他面对面一起碰了一杯。
A nectarine had a soft spot. The skin wasn’t broken, but you could tell it had rotted, not ripened. I rinsed it under the faucet and took a small bite from the back. The taste wasn’t quite right, but it didn’t seem too bad. I chewed, hesitating, a bit distracted. After swallowing, I realized something was wrong, rinsing my mouth immediately, but there was nothing I could do about what I had already eaten.
Before I died, a story came to mind:
Shishuo Xinyu
Virtue, First Eleven: Splitting Seats
(Original text) Guan Ning and Hua Xin were hoeing vegetables in the garden when they found a piece of gold. Guan swung his hoe at it, treating it like any other stone, but Hua picked it up and threw it away. Later, they were reading side by side when a nobleman’s carriage passed by. Guan continued reading, unaffected, but Hua stopped to look. Guan then cut the mat, separating their seats.
一只油桃有一处软了，皮没破，但还是能判断软的地方是坏掉了，而不是熟透了。我在水龙头下洗了洗它，咬了背面一小口，味道不太对但又好像问题不大。嚼着嚼着，犹豫着，有点走神和恍惚。吞下去后，我才反应过来，马上用清水漱口，但对落肚的部分已经没有办法了。
临死前我想起一个典故：
《世说新语》
德行第一之十一、割席分座
（原文）管宁、华歆共园中锄菜，见地有片金，管挥锄与瓦石不异，华捉而掷去之。又尝同席读书，有乘轩冕过门者，宁读如故，歆废书出看。宁割席分坐。
I tapped the table three times with my index finger, and the table woke from its slumber.
“What is it?” the table asked.
我用食指轻轻敲击桌面三下，桌子就从沉睡中被唤醒了。
什么事？桌子说。