[This is another translation of Li Yinhe’s blog. She’s quickly becoming one of our favorite sources and while this entry has little to do with China directly, we thought it was worth sharing anyway. Some food for thought for your weekend travels.]
Today I was flipping through the written memorial for the tenth anniversary of Xiaobo’s death, and suddenly realized, it’s been another two years. Time grows old. People have always said, once you get to forty it’s like sitting on a direct train to your final destination, never again will the train stop. After fifty, this feeling is even more intensely clear. Day by day, year by year, at lightning speed there’s not even time to look back, life just fades into nothingness.
Little Zhuangzhuang is already eight. He’s in the second grade, and although on tests it’s always tens and twenties [lower grades than others], he already has a special aptitude: he remembers more characters than others, and once he remembers he doesn’t forget. In his class a hundred kids have all told me: he can read characters I don’t recognize. This is probably because he often reads Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Automan; he loves buying books more than anything, whenever he comes to a book stall he can’t keep walking down the street anymore. Today, he wrote an ungrammatical and incoherent letter to Wang Xiaobo, and at the end of the letter he used his terrible handwriting to earnestly sign his name, and write the date. Afterwards, he was muttering incantantions under his breath, and suddenly chanted a decent bit of poetry:
Does he know what life is?
As far as I can tell from a brief internet search, the kid [I assume it’s her grandson] actually came up with that on his own. Simple though it is, it’s kind of pretty, and also, I think, rather poignant for an eight year old. I have no wisdom to dispense on the topic one way or the other though. Just passing along something pretty; we now return to your regularly scheduled “big picture” stuff…