Afterword

This fall, when I finished writing The Woman Yang, I was exhausted, body and soul. I stayed at the seaside for three days. The sky was clear as far as the eye could see, and between sea and sky lay a great and lovely tranquility. Fine waves slowly scoured the sandy shore. At dusk, I saw the setting sun, and the golden rays of light flashing from the sea. It was as if I were bathed in divine light . . . I wished I could stand there forever and feel such eternal holiness. Little by little, the sun sank and became a crescent on the horizon. The crescent turned into a gleam, and hurriedly disappeared, taking all the light with it. Later that night, the waves in the distance roared incessantly, as if in despair. Looking at the dark sea, I felt disillusionment rise from the bottom of my heart. Everything else had vanished, and only sadness filled the vast space between the water and the clouds. I couldn’t rid my mind of Ho Wuji and Yang Fenfang. Weren’t they the same? They had had a moment of splendor, like a setting sun, and then their lives had changed into a mound of bones, then into a tear in my eye.

Writing is the only thing that keeps me in this world. I have to hurry because I’m seventy years old. There won’t be a second chance for me.

October 2011, Beijing