How great it is

It was seven years ago that I first read Wang Xiaobo. The title "Golden Age", Huaxia Publishing House published, vulgar cover, paper shit yellow. At that time, the editors of the publishing house seemed to have this imagination, the book called "The Golden Age" had to cover with bird shit yellow, the book called "A Clinique Story" had to cover with chicken shit green. A man named Wang Xiaobo was printed on the title page, the same picture you would see in bookstores and streets: He was standing in front of Shakespeare's house in the sun, frowning, grinning, hunched over, wearing a turd yellow T-shirt. Introduce said this Wang Xiaobo is a literary world outside the article master, said also got a Taiwan what award. One of my senior sisters, who had a good taste for literature, threw me a novel and said, "It's worth reading. It's funny. She introduced me to Kurt Vonnig and Philip Roth, and she thought Yu Hua was a good guy when he first started out. I was going to the bathroom, and I had dry bowel movements, and my mom said God made my bowel movements dry because I gave her a hard labor. It was in this unpleasant dryness that I read The Golden Age in one sitting. I was so happy with discovery, like Archimedes discovering the law of buoyancy in the bathhouse, that I almost pulled up my pants and ran out into the street.

The benefits of wavelets are obvious.

First, it's fun. This very basic reading requirement has long been a luxury for us. Good words challenge our brains, touch our emotions, and subvert our morals. Since we were children, uncles and aunts who wrote novels and essays and poems suffered from permanent euphoria. In their eyes, the night does not exist, the sky is always blue, the sun smiled kindly. The girl was always strong, and had she not been a direct descendant of a Kuomintang spy, she would have been found on her wedding night. Popular science books walk "one hundred thousand why", "brain grandpa" all the way, will only tell you what is PI after the decimal point two hundred, will not tell you why peeping into the next door girl take a bath will beat faster, sweaty palms. Wang Xiaobo announced that the moon also has a dark side, whore charming death. Reading Wavelet's text proves my point once again: women can't be lewd without a nose, and men can't be without brains without a penis. A man's wisdom flash, as if the diamond light, spring flowers with dew, brilliant, demagogic.

Second, tell the truth. This very basic requirement for human composition has long been a luxury for us. It didn't take me long to realize that if we ever wrote about real life, it would only be described as obscene, and thank goodness we have the codex, the underground, the Internet and other forms of mass communication. If we make movies about real life, the hapless filmmakers will lose their money, but we have film festivals and niche film markets and art houses all over the world. The Chinese masters of article design career for their descendants, without exception, stressed that they should not pursue their career in writing, but learn some science knowledge that benefits the people through the world. I do what I say, I resist temptation, I don't listen to my heart, I don't eat words. So I can speak freely. The editor wants fifteen hundred words, and I pour down two thousand words. When I finish, I throw them to the editor to cut, and I stand by myself, looking around for them and feeling smug. Hey, buddy, Po, why don't you listen? Otherwise, why die young and give the rats less to hear?

Third, the fringe attitude of pure individualism. This very basic achievement article master requirement has long been rarely seen. The article needs to be lonely, the article since ancient times hate life. Living in the low, living in the edge, to the present world, not to help do not forget, keep sane. Being a propaganda minister, writing biographies for Gorillas, not a literary master. Being banished to the border, writing biographies for street escorts, one step closer to the literary master. He reappeared on the streets of New York only when he retreated into the mountains, bought a Tier 3 magazine at a newsstand and phoned the famous beauty on the cover: "This is Salinger, who wrote 'Catcher in the Rye,' and I want to sleep with you." Xiao Bo is also the originator of the turtle school, returned to China in the 1980s, he does not engage in the Internet company circle money, not into foreign companies as compradors, he only in the streets of Beijing dirty wandering. One of his best essays was "Why I Write", in which he explained how to be human from the perspective of thermodynamics and entropy: do what you don't do, and do what you must.

April 11 this year, is the fifth anniversary of the death of Wang Xiaobo. Po was lonely in life and noisy in death. In recent years, newspapers, magazines and the Internet have been all over the place, with pictures of Xiao Bo appearing on the cover of Sanlian Weekly like celebrities, businessmen and politicians, and a group of people forming a "Wang Xiaobo's lackey alliance". I, who used to like Po, began to wonder: How great is Po?

The disadvantages of wavelet are obvious.

First, the writing is poor. Even if I am beaten, I must point this out, otherwise the standard will be confused, and future generations of art lovers will not know what to do. Wavelet's writing reads, at best, like a Victorian moonlegend, at best, like a schoolboy essay or a manuscript. Writing, just like Beijing Opera or acrobatics or women with breasts, needs young work. It lacks influence and development when young, and it is not much use to study hard when growing up. Those crazy Kua Wang Xiaobo text good, I do not know is ignorance or ulterior motives. Xiao Bo is a person who tells the truth. We should tell the truth. For example, we can praise the true feelings of Beijing Story, but we can't praise its good writing. Our great Chinese language could be more textured, richer and more flexible.

Second, the structure is bloated. Even Mr Wavelet's best novel, "The Golden Age", is uncharacteristically bloated. By the end, the pointless repetition had become the harbinger of the author's insanity. As Xiao Bo himself said, he started writing novels early, but he often wrote them intermittently and repeatedly. Wavelet repetition is like the old lady who helps police the street and the old lady who talks about the neighbor's bedroom. It has no connection with the comparison technique of the Book of Songs. Were it not for the peculiar and interesting imagery of Wavelet and the short length of the article, it would be impossible to read. Decades from now, I will be ashamed if I take out Wavelet's book and show it to my descendants and say it is one of the great masterpieces of our time.

Third, be fun. Wavelets start and end with fun. "I think fun is like a historical stage that is being transcended," he said in the preface to "Running through the Night." This is Po's wishful thinking. Besides fun, there's not much left in Po. Except for the occasional outpouring of emotion in "The Golden Age" and "The Green Hairy Water Monster", he does not see the compassion that a master should have. As for ideas, Posada and the characters he admires, Russell, Foucault, Calvino, and so on, there is a gap in level. Lacking weight, only three or four of Wavelet's books survive, and most of them are midterms. While quantity does not equal greatness, quantity reflects power. When I found out about Wavelet, I stopped watching pretty quickly. Thirty thousand words, only enough for one Chen Ching-yang, I prefer Trinket with seven wives.

In short, Xiaobo's emergence is a miracle. He is worthy of literature, but not great. That should not change because of Posada's untimely death. We must not form a bad stereotype. If we want to be noisy, women writers must bare their bottoms and men must die. We have red Wei Hui red nine Dan, we have died Xiao Po dead Haizi, these four things, none of them is good.

Modern Chinese literature has just had a real beginning, and Wavelet is a very good beginning.