Endless War: Fiction and Essays by Wang Wen-hsing

Conclusion

133 Conclusion May 1961. Fearful that his experiments would not be accepted by readers, Wang returned to a more conventional writing style after “Midsummer on the Prairie.” This story about university student life and a unique friendship was the first product of his stylistic shift. v A shy smile hangs on his long, thin face. He has a head of black hair, as fine as silk, combed right to left. Usually, he does not go to class. Most of the time he is the departmental library, his face raised to scan the books on the shelves. If he happens to discover a modern author—a Thomas Mann or André Gide—like lightning his hand flashes out, pulls the volume down and ruthlessly, passionately, turns the pages. Typically, a massive book bag hangs from his right shoulder. It is a converted U.S. army gas-mask bag with a strap that he winds around his waist and attaches to a copper ring on the right side. So many things are stuffed inside: a dictionary with several loose pages, a stack of manuscript paper, a novel he has designated as “must read within a month.” There are two other books, also novels , which he holds in reserve. After he has finished his current reading, maybe he will move on to them, although in practice it is not like that. When the time comes, he will covet a book he has not designated as part of his reading plan. Nevertheless, whatever the future brings, at this moment he loves these books, carries them with him and has to turn their pages every day in the tenderest, most loving manner. Besides these, the book bag contains a volume of modern American poems, among them, no doubt, several he is not very clear about, although speculating about them only adds to his delight. All these things swell the book bag like a pair of olives 134 v SHORT FICTION stuffed in someone’s cheeks. In his own opinion, he is going to be a great author, which means he too will write one thick, heavy book after another, just as great as the dust-covered, worm-eaten volumes on the shelves. What’s more, he even has the opportunity to realize his aspirations: every day, from morning till night, he sits hunched in the departmental library, head down, his absolute concentration just like that of a Tibetan lama crawling through a pilgrimage. The departmental library is located at the very end of the hall in the Faculty of Arts building. Someone visiting for the first time would think it is an exit, but after entering would realize there is no way out. Not long after the start of his fourth year, he suddenly fell in love with a girl in his class. You could say this was an unfortunate event. She was a conceited girl who held herself as straight as a pencil when she walked and never looked sideways. Even in conversation with someone walking beside her, those eyes of hers retained their fixed, soldier-like, eyes-front position. Love, though, is like a miracle cure. Every morning he was up before six, in sharp contrast to his usual lazy routine of sleeping in until nine. He became a spirited, beaming child. What’s more, he had his hair cut once a week, that fine silk-like hair, which he still combed from right to left. He also bought a notebook to keep a diary. Every night he waited until it was late and everyone was quiet, then took it from a locked drawer and wrote every sentence they had said that day, including “good morning” and “good-bye.” He often mentioned names like Ricoeur, Kafka, Sartre and Kierkegaard to her. But misfortune arrived! One evening—it was during the intermission of a piano concert—he unexpectedly discovered her sitting together with “him.” This “him”— his name was Liu Dafeng—was from a different department. Although he and “him” did not know one another that well, they did know each other’s name. She was looking deeply into “his” eyes, and “he” had a kind of complacent smile on his lips. That sort of smile, it definitely was not a good sign—she was talking and laughing with “him” in a very warm manner. No further explanation was required. Everything was clear: Liu Dafeng was the winner. He did not wait for the performance by the foreign pianist—now sweating profusely, [18.118.126...