Morning Glory, Noon Blossom — Chapter 6

In 2007, while on my way back to visit my alma mater in Vancouver, I received word that my father had suffered a sudden major hemorrhage and was hospitalized for emergency surgery. I was on the other side of the world — helpless, unable to be at his bedside, unable to face the storm together with him. I was consumed by guilt.

My father was the pillar of our family, a man who had weathered every storm life threw at him with remarkable grace. He worked tirelessly his entire life, never truly retiring, sustained by his robust constitution and unshakeable optimism.

Dad always looked remarkably young for his age. I remember when I was starting university, he insisted on escorting me all the way to Anqing. We were the Class of '77, the first cohort admitted after the Cultural Revolution — society had accumulated nearly a decade of aspiring college entrants, so the incoming students spanned a wide age range, including the "old high school graduates" from before the turmoil, some 10+ years my senior. Dad accompanied me to the campus clinic for the new-student physical examination. The nurse pointed at Dad and said to me: "One at a time — wait until he's done, then it's your turn." She had mistaken Dad for a freshman, my peer LOL. That was how youthful and spirited he appeared.

Four years later when I graduated, Dad still couldn't rest easy and chose to come to Anqing to pick me up. He stayed on campus for a week, spending his idle hours playing Chinese chess with my "subordinate" — my lower bunkmate Lao Ding, who always called me his "superior." This bunkmate was from the pre-Cultural Revolution cohort, born in 1949, the same year as New China was born. Watching from the sidelines, Dad — who had graduated in the 1950s — truly seemed like one of our classmates, as if he were simply another member of our generation.

With Dad taking care of everything, I didn't have to worry about a thing. He helped pack my luggage, and after bidding farewell to our classmates and teachers one by one, we said goodbye to Anqing, crossing the Yangtze to catch a long-distance bus home. The ferry was delayed, and a quick calculation told us we were cutting it dangerously close. Miss this bus, and we'd have to return to Anqing for another day. Without a word, Dad hoisted every piece of luggage onto his shoulders the moment we stepped off the ferry and sprinted toward the bus station, half a mile away — charging ahead like a young man. And there I was, a strapping 21-year-old, empty-handed, gasping for breath, left far behind by Dad.

Dad never had the chance to attend a full medical college — he studied at a vocational medical school — yet the heights he reached over four decades of surgical practice are achievements few can rival. His secret? Boldness paired with meticulous care, relentless practice, and an unyielding devotion to study. I remember as children, whenever we came home to find our parents gone, we would always head to the operating room. Dad worked over ten hours a day, and at home he would immediately bury himself in medical texts — I rarely saw him rest. Over the years his reputation spread far and wide, and patients came seeking his care in an unending stream. Even when the relatives of the surgery department head at the next higher level of hospital needed an operation, they would come looking for Dad — only his "knife" gave them true peace of mind.

Doctors were respected, but they were also poor. In the Mao era, wages and prices remained frozen for decades. Dad earned 46 yuan a month, Mother 43 — a family income of 89 yuan supporting six people (including my maternal grandmother), enough for subsistence but little else. Life was hard, but we never thought of it that way. To be honest, we never felt hardship — even though at every meal, a household of that size would have just one or two small dishes to share. Everyone was poor, after all, and plenty of people couldn't even get enough rice to eat, surviving on gruel or dried sweet potato. Father's real dilemma was: where could he find the money to buy books? Those hefty medical tomes — Surgery, Orthopedics, and the like — were frightfully expensive, yet absolutely essential for his work. Who could have guessed that many of those books were purchased with blood Dad sold in secret? Three hundred cc of plasma at a time, at 30 yuan per draw — money that ordinarily would have taken six months to scrape together. One time Mom found out and was furious. Dad was so lean; she feared selling blood would ruin his health. But Dad would always say: the human body has its own hematopoietic mechanism — losing a little blood does no harm. And yet, what other option was there? No matter how refined his surgical skill, it couldn't be converted into cash. I remember that for a missed-meal allowance during surgery, the subsidy was just twenty cents — or sometimes they would provide a free bowl of shredded-pork noodle soup instead, which our parents couldn't bear to eat themselves and would bring home for us children.

Every era has its own way of living. Still, the thought of a celebrated physician, a man who pursued surgical excellence with unrelenting dedication, having no means to own medical books except by selling his own blood — such a thing, in all of history and across all nations, could probably only have happened under Mao. But I cannot say Father missed his era. Measured by professional fulfillment and spiritual satisfaction, that particular time and its particular circumstances gave Dad a rare canvas on which to work. A county-level hospital was like a blank sheet of paper, facing an endless stream of rural patients — people who had always lacked access to medical care and who possessed no financial means. Most such patients, if a county hospital could not treat them, would simply be left to live or die at heaven's mercy. Dad was one of the hospital's founders; he had full autonomy, and as much energy as he could muster translated directly into work — for decades, he performed several surgeries almost every day. I once knew a young rural doctor who, unable to find an outlet for his abilities, grew weary of medicine and switched to studying English education. Yet when the topic of Father's surgical skill came up, he was full of admiration: "Do you know? Your father is the most remarkable surgeon in the world. He can perform major operations that many provincial-level hospitals haven't even begun to offer." He explained some cases to me, which I didn't fully understand, but I knew in my heart that Dad was forever surpassing himself, climbing toward ever more complex surgeries. Later, when I asked Dad about it — which difficult operations he still wanted to attempt but couldn't — he said he had basically done everything within reach, but certain procedures, like microsurgery and limb reattachment, required equipment far beyond what a county hospital could provide. That, he could only regret.

Unlike the old bureaucratic establishments where "without money, don't bother entering," back then even impoverished farmers could afford surgery at the grassroots hospitals. As I recall, minor operations (like appendectomies) cost less than 10 yuan, mid-level operations (gastrectomies and the like) a few dozen yuan, and major procedures (heart, brain) just over a hundred. Of course, scraping together even that sum wasn't easy, but most families managed — by tightening their belts or selling the family pots and pans. The truly destitute could apply for assistance at the civil affairs bureau. This aspect of the pre-reform era deserves recognition. The fundamental reason for such low fees, naturally, was rock-bottom costs: doctors were state cadres on fixed salaries, with no additional expenditures.

Speaking of surgery — my own body bears one of Father's "masterpieces." When I was about ten years old, one morning shortly after breakfast, my stomach suddenly began hurting intensely. Dad came to examine me, pressed on my lower right abdomen, and asked if it hurt. "A lot," I said. He suddenly withdrew his hand, and a searing pain shot through me — tears streamed down my face. Father told me this was called "rebound tenderness," the classic sign of acute appendicitis, and said to prepare for surgery. Before noon he was helping me into the operating room. Having grown up watching operations, I knew an appendectomy was minor surgery and I wasn't afraid at all. But when it actually came time to get on the operating table, I absolutely tried to refuse. I mainly suspected a misdiagnosis — that I'd be cut open for nothing. I'd been perfectly fine that morning, had drunk half a bowl of congee, and I often had stomachaches anyway. This time, without any blood tests or other examinations — just a touch of my abdomen — and that was the diagnosis? The outcome, of course, proved my worries unfounded: the removed appendix was swollen like a little carrot, and because the surgery had been timely, it hadn't yet suppurated. Many surgeons refuse to operate on their own family members, fearing they'll be too tense. But Dad didn't trust anyone else and naturally performed the surgery himself, with Mom assisting at his side.

Normally, using conventional spinal or epidural anesthesia would have allowed a relaxed, unhurried procedure, but Dad, wanting to minimize post-operative reactions, insisted on using only local anesthesia. I could clearly perceive every step of the operation. Most appendectomy incisions are several inches long, but Dad made an opening barely an inch or two on my abdomen — so small that after closing, it required only two stitches, just enough to admit a single finger. What's more, unlike most incisions, Dad used a transverse cut, which added considerably to the surgical difficulty. Dad explained that a transverse cut follows the natural grain of the abdominal muscles, so the scar would be barely visible after healing (he was right — I've seen the scars from vertical incisions, which remain thick, red, and prominent long after healing, sitting there quite unsightly). The operation was a complete success: I went home the same day, and by the next day I could get out of bed and walk about gently. That said, there was a stretch during the surgery that truly hurt — I cried and wailed, which put enormous pressure on Dad. That was when he inserted his finger to try to capture the inflamed appendix. Hardly my fault — an inflamed appendix hurts even when you don't touch it. Fortunately, the pain didn't last long before Dad seized hold of it and quickly administered another dose of anesthetic. Later, Dad admitted that despite all his care, the incision point was slightly off, causing me more suffering than necessary. Being slightly off was no big deal; he could have simply enlarged the incision to compensate. But Dad insisted on the smallest possible opening, unwilling to leave me with a permanent large scar. I told this story to my daughter, and when she found my nearly invisible scar, she exclaimed: "Grandpa did a terrific job!" From then on, whenever her stomach hurt, she would cry out in alarm, suspecting appendicitis, and wouldn't rest until I checked that there was no "rebound tenderness." She even said that if she ever got appendicitis, she'd fly back to find her grandpa — she didn't trust American doctors: how many operations could they possibly have done? Grandpa had performed tens of thousands over his lifetime!

(Family Portrait, 1962)

Dad frequently made house calls to rural clinics and farmers' homes (as an obstetrics department head, Mom did the same). When an emergency demanded surgery, no matter the conditions, he would proceed. No electricity? Gather some flashlights, improvise, set up the operating table — saving the life came first. During the factional fighting of the Cultural Revolution in 1967, the two factions held their separate domains, with frequent clashes and occasional face-to-face combat. In the early days of street brawling, the weapons were still steel bars and cleavers; later they escalated to real firearms. The hospital was semi-paralyzed, located in territory controlled by the "Sweep Faction" — a radical mass organization calling itself the "Sweep the Black Line" group. Ideologically, Dad and Mom probably belonged to the moderate loyalist camp ("loyalist" meaning they opposed the purge of veteran cadres) and leaned toward the "Critique Faction" (the "Critique Alliance Group"), which had a loyalist tilt — though they took no part in its ideological or political activities. The Critique Faction's commander-in-chief had once been our neighbor, a strapping man. I remember that after assuming command, he wore a broad belt around his waist with a Mauser pistol holstered at his side — an image of martial splendor. It was this commander who quietly sent men to bring our entire family into the faction's headquarters; they urgently needed skilled medical hands to treat the wounded from the fighting. And so Dad set up a wartime surgical theatre — not unlike Dr. Norman Bethune's field hospital — and saved many lives.

In peacetime, the county hospital's white ambulance carried Dad, Mom, and our childhood to every corner of the county. When destinations were close, they would walk or bicycle to their patients. I remember when I was six or seven, our entire family moved to Hewan, a remote rural town, to support the village hospital for a year. Dad often bicycled out on night calls, sometimes taking me along. The sky was always so dark, and the route invariably passed through one or two cemeteries, the cold wind whistling overhead. Entering a village, we would hear dogs barking in waves. I would hide in Dad's arms on the front seat, often too frightened to open my eyes. After the treatment, beneath the dim glow of an oil lamp, the host would always cook two eggs in brown-sugar water and serve them steaming hot as a token of gratitude. Then, lighting the way with a flashlight, they would see us off — and I would be sound asleep long before we got home.

I was never very robust as a child, but at home I was sensible beyond my years — I would often volunteer to sweep the floor and wash the dishes. At school my grades were good, and I was the delight of my parents' hearts. At every major step of my life, from being sent down to the countryside to the oral examination for college entrance, from university registration to graduation and then graduate school interviews — until I was married and had a family of my own — Dad was always there, escorting and protecting me. Now that Dad had fallen ill, I was in a foreign land, unable even to bring him a cup of tea or water, unable to fulfill the most basic filial duties. Whenever I dwell on this, grief wells up from deep within.

But misfortune can turn into blessing. Dad's sudden illness led to early diagnosis and timely treatment, which was in his favor. What gives me comfort is that Dad received the best possible medical care, and most of the family was at his side looking after him. He recovered swiftly after the surgery, and the strength in his voice reassured everyone.

Dad is now semi-retired at home, still living modestly. He shows none of the signs of a man in his eighties — his life is orderly, his health robust, and he retains an eager curiosity for new things, handling a computer more adeptly than many young people. Beyond effortlessly consulting English-language medical literature, he has built up an English vocabulary over the years through extensive reading that rivals my own, even though I'm a "trained linguist." That his children have each found their own successful path is his greatest comfort. And the little stories of his grandchildren's growing up bring him abundant joy.

爸爸保重

朝华午拾 · 第六章

2007年我正在回访温哥华母校的路上，得知老爸突然大出血住院，行大手术。我远在天边，爱莫能助。无从床前伺候，共同面对风雨，深感愧疚。

父亲是我们全家的主心骨，大风大浪闯过来，人生很精彩。父亲操劳一辈子，一直退而不休，仗的就是身体好和心态好。

父亲比同龄人显得年轻很多。记得我上大学的时候，父亲不放心，一路送我到安庆。我们77级是文革后第一届大学生，社会上积压了近10年的高考大军，所以新生的岁数相差很大，包括一批被文革耽误的老三届高中生，比我年长10岁左右。父亲陪我到学校医务处做新生体检，护士指着我跟父亲说：一个一个来，等他检查完了，你再来。她把父亲当作新生了，可见父亲的年轻精神。

四年以后我毕业了，父亲还是不放心，来安庆接我，在学院住了一周，没事就跟我的"老下级"（我的下铺，因此总叫我"老上级"）下象棋。老下级是老三届，49年生人，与新中国同岁。从旁观看，50年代就毕业的父亲真地象我们同学一样，仿佛我们中的一员。

有父亲照顾，我什么都不操心。父亲帮助把行李打包，我们与同学老师一一道别，就跟安庆说再见了，过江去赶长途公共汽车回家。轮渡误点了，一算时间非常紧张，一旦错过这班车，就不得不回安庆又耽搁一天。父亲二话不说，下了轮渡，把大小行李扛上，冲也似地往一两里外的汽车站赶，跟个小伙子一样。可怜我21岁正当年，空着手却气喘吁吁，被父亲远远抛在后面。

爸爸没有机会进入医学院，上的是医专，可他行医四十年所取得的成就，达到的高度，是常人难以企及的。靠的是，胆大心细，勤于实践，刻苦钻研。记得我们小时候，回家不见父母，总是到手术室去找。爸爸每天工作十多个小时，回家也是一头扎到医书里，很少见他休息。多年下来，名震四方，求医者络绎不绝。甚至上一级医院外科主任的亲属需要手术，也来找爸爸"这把刀"才觉得放心。

医生受人尊敬，但却是清贫的。在毛泽东时代，工资和物价均几十年不动。爸爸46元，妈妈43元，家庭收入89元一月，维持一家六口（加上外祖母）温饱，难有积余。生活苦点，倒也无所谓。其实我们从来也没有觉得苦，尽管每餐饭，一大家人才有一两碟小菜。反正大家都苦，还有很多人吃不饱饭，只能喝粥、吃红薯干呢。爸爸的难题是，到哪里去攒买书的钱呢？那些大厚本的专业书籍《外科学》、《骨科学》等，定价不菲，却是工作必不可少的。谁能想到，许多医书是爸爸瞒着家人卖血换来的。一次300cc血浆，当时的价格30元，这可是平时半年也难攒下的钱啊。有一次，妈妈发现以后非常生气。爸爸很清瘦，担心他卖血损害了身体。可爸爸总是说，人有造血机制，失点血无碍。不过，除此之外，还有别的办法么？医术再精湛，也变不了钱。记得手术误餐，当时的补贴也才两角，或者供应一碗免费肉丝面（爸爸妈妈舍不得吃，常常带回家给我们孩子吃）。

一个时代，一种活法。可是，一个享有盛誉、对医术精益求精的医生非卖血不能拥有医书，这样的事古今中外，大概也只有毛时代了。不能说，爸爸没有赶上好时代，从事业的追求和精神的满足看，那个特定的时代特定的条件，给爸爸一个难得的施展空间。基层县医院象一张白纸，面对的是源源不断的一向缺医少药、经济能力匮乏的农村患者。多数这样的患者基层医院不能救治，也就只好自生自灭，听天由命了。爸爸是医院的开创者之一，有充分自主权，有多大精力就有多少工作，几十年来几乎每天都有几台手术。我当年认识一位农村青年医生，由于不能施展，而厌倦行医，转报英文师专，当谈起爸爸的医术，却充满钦佩："你知道么？你爸爸是世界上最了不起的医生。许多省立大医院尚未开展或普及的大手术，你爸爸也能做。"他给我讲解一些案例，我也不懂，但是心里明白，爸爸一直在超越自己，向越来越复杂的手术攀登。后来，跟爸爸谈起来，还有哪些疑难手术，想做而做不成。爸爸说，能做的差不多都做了，但是有些手术，比如显微外科，断肢再植等，对于器械要求太高，县医院没有这种条件，只好遗憾了。

跟"有理无钱莫进来"的衙门不同，当年在基层医院贫苦农民也能开得起刀：印象中小手术（阑尾摘除等）收费不到10元，中等手术（胃切除等）收费几十元，大手术（心脏、脑等）也不过百元。当然，凑足这钱也不容易，但是为看病节衣缩食，或砸锅卖铁，多数人还是想出了办法。对于特困户，可以到民政局申请补助。改开前时代的这一点，还是值得称颂的。收费低廉的根本原因，当然是成本底：医生是国家干部，拿固定工资，没有额外支出。

说到手术，我的身上也留有爸爸的"杰作"。我十岁左右，有一天早饭不久，突然肚子疼得厉害。爸爸过来检查，按住右小腹，问疼不疼，我说，"很疼"。他突然把手抽回，我一阵剧痛，眼泪都出来了。爸爸告诉我，这叫"反跳痛"，是急性阑尾炎的典型症状，说准备开刀，不到中午就扶我进了手术室。从小看惯了开刀，知道阑尾摘除是小手术，我一点也不怕。可真要上手术台了，我却怎么也不愿意。主要是怀疑弄错了，白挨刀了。早上还是好好的，喝了半碗粥，我平时也常闹肚子疼，这次，也没有验血或做其他检查，摸摸小腹，就这样确诊了？结果自然是我多虑，割下的阑尾肿得象棵小胡萝卜头，因为手术及时，还没有化脓。不少外科大夫不给自己亲人开刀，怕太紧张。可爸爸不放心别人，理所当然亲自动手，妈妈在旁做助手。本来，如果使用常规腰麻或硬膜外麻醉，也可从容不迫，但爸爸为了术后反应小，坚持只使用局部麻醉，我能清楚知道手术的每一个过程。多数同类手术刀口总有几寸，可爸爸只给我开了一条一两公分的小口子（关腹后只缝了两针），刚够伸进一个手指。这还不算，跟多数刀口不同，爸爸用的是横切，这更增添了手术难度。爸爸说，横切符合人的腹部的自然纹路，愈合后刀疤不显（确实如此，我见过其他竖切手术的刀痕，愈合后很久仍然粗粗红红地立在那儿，很难看）。这次手术很成功，我当天回家，第二天就可下床轻微走动。不过，手术中有一阵确实很疼，我大哭大叫，给爸爸增加了很大压力。那是爸爸伸进手指试图捞取发炎的阑尾时。也不怪，阑尾发炎，不碰它尚且疼痛得很呢。好在疼得时间不长，爸爸就逮住了它，赶紧补上一针麻醉。后来，爸爸说，尽管费了心思，下刀之处还是略偏了点，使我多受了一些苦。偏一点没关系，如果把刀口加大点，也好办，可爸爸坚持尽可能小的口子，不愿意让我落下一个永久的大疤痕。我把这个故事讲给女儿听，她找到我的几乎看不见了的刀口，惊叹："Grandpa did a terrific job!"。从此，她肚子一疼，就大叫，怀疑得了阑尾炎，非让我检查发现没有"反跳痛"才安心。还说，她要是得了阑尾炎，就飞回去找爷爷，可信不过美国的大夫：他们才开过几个刀，我爷爷一辈子开刀何止成千上万！

爸爸常常出诊到农村医院和农民家中（作为妇产科主任，妈妈也一样）。遇到急诊需要手术，不管什么条件，也要进行。没有电，就集中一些手电筒，因陋就简，搭起手术台，救命要紧。文革武斗那年（1967年），两派割据，常有摩擦，亦有短兵相接的时候：初期街头械斗，用的还是钢钎菜刀之类，后期可用上了真枪真炮。医院处于半瘫痪状态，并且地处"扫派"（叫"扫黑线"，一激进派群众组织）掌控辖区。爸爸妈妈思想上大概属于温和保皇派（"保皇"即反对揪斗老干部），倾向有保皇色彩的"批派"（叫"批联部"），但并不参与其意识形态和政治生活。批派的总司令曾是我家的邻居叔叔，身材魁伟。印象中担任司令以后，他腰扎宽皮带，挎盒子枪，好不英武威风。是总司令派人悄悄把我们全家请到这一派的大本营里，他们急需医疗好手救治武斗中的伤员。于是爸爸搭起战时手术台，就跟白求恩的战地医院似的，也救了不少人的命。

和平岁月，县医院那辆白色救护车，载着爸爸妈妈和我们的童年跑遍了全县每一个角落。如果路近，也步行或骑自行车出诊。记得我六七岁的时候，全家去偏远乡镇河湾，支援农村医院一年。爸爸晚上经常骑车出诊，有时也带着我。天总是那样黑，也总要经过一两个墓地，头顶冷风飕飕。进入村子，总有此起彼伏的狗吠声。我躲在车前座爸爸怀中，常常不敢睁开眼睛。看完病，在昏黄的油灯下，主人总要用红糖水煮两个鸡蛋，热气腾腾端上来，款待我们。然后，照着手电，送我们上路，而我不等到家，就已经睡熟了。

我从小身体不大好，小时候在家很懂事的样子，常主动要求扫地洗碗，在学校成绩也好，很讨爸爸妈妈的欢心和疼爱。直到结婚成家前，我生活的每一大步，从下乡插队到高考口试，从大学报到到毕业离校再到研究生面试，都有父亲陪同呵护。如今父亲病倒了，我却远在异国他乡，不能端茶递水，略尽孝道。每念及此，不由得悲从中来。

坏事变好事，父亲这次急病倒下，对病情的早期诊断和及时治疗有利。得以宽心的是，父亲得到了最好的医疗条件，家人也多在身边照顾。父亲术后恢复很快，说话很有底气，全家人都松了口气。

爸爸现在半退休在家，依旧清贫。一点不象80多岁的老人，生活有条不紊，身体健康，仍保持对新事物的好学之心，电脑玩得比许多年轻人还熟。除了熟练查阅英文专业资料外，长年博文强识，普通词汇量跟我这英语"科班"出身的也有一比。子女各自发展，是他最大的安慰。孙儿辈的成长花絮，更给他带来欢乐。

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 爸爸保重.

Nearly half a century has passed since my grandmother left us, yet her gentle, kindly face still often comes to mind.

My parents, both doctors, were far too busy with their work. So when their first child was born, Grandmother came to help — and from that day forward, she looked after us three children for fifteen years, until the day she died. I'm told my elder brother was a restless infant. Grandma had to rock his cradle without a moment's pause, humming lullabies the whole time. If she nodded off for even a second and the rope to the cradle went slack, he would wail at the top of his lungs. She later said that child wore her out so thoroughly that she was still anxious when I arrived two years later. But to her surprise, I turned out to be a remarkably quiet baby — I never cried at all. The trouble with me was that I was pitifully frail, constantly falling ill. Every sickness brought vomiting, often with high fever. I had night blindness too, and worst of all, a rectal prolapse that made every trip to the toilet agonizing and messy. Grandma would have to carefully push the prolapse back in each time. She had given birth to ten children in her lifetime, more than half of whom had died young. Looking at me, she worried constantly that I wouldn't survive either. Fortunately, being born into a doctor's family meant I received prompt treatment whenever I fell ill, and with Grandma's devoted care, I slowly made it through my sickly childhood. A child blessed with a grandmother's care is a fortunate child. Grandma kept our home immaculate and orderly, with hot meals always ready. Our childhood was carefree, and our parents, freed from domestic worries, could pour themselves completely into their work, day and night.

Grandma was a woman of the old order — she had bound feet, had never been to school, spoke little, and possessed a gentle disposition. I never once saw her lose her temper. For over a decade, her life followed the same steady rhythm: she never left the house, diligent and unassuming, asking nothing of the world, and all our neighbors sang her praises. Every morning before dawn, Grandma would rise, wash, and dress herself with care — always neat and tidy as she began the day's work. Looking after the children, cooking, never a moment's rest. In her rare spare time, she would sit by the door and stitch shoe soles. She would paste together scraps of cloth, dry them in the sun, then sew them with endless stitches into firm, solid soles — every cloth shoe our whole family wore was made by her hands. After she passed, she left behind a large box of soles that we continued to wear for years, until eventually we began buying plastic-soled shoes instead.

Each month, my parents gave Grandma three yuan as pocket money for us children. She was tight-fisted with it — she had to make it last all three children to the end of the month. I remember I could coax two or three fen out of her each day, and I would often go to the street vendor to buy a small steaming hot sweet potato, then come home and share it with my little sister. I told this story to my daughter, and she loved it — she brings it up now and then with a laugh: "When you were my age, sweet potato was only two cents a piece, and you always asked Granny — that's my Great Granny — for two cents to buy one and share with my auntie GuGu, but never with my uncle DaBai."

I remember during the mass travel of the Cultural Revolution, my father and mother joined the tide and went to Shanghai and Hangzhou for over a week. When transportation broke down and they couldn't get home on time, Grandma was left alone with the three of us. Every day the loudspeakers in the street blared out chaotic news — it felt like the world was falling apart. In those days there was no way to get word of travelers' whereabouts, and the whole household waited with straining eyes. Grandma grew desperate and began to weep. When we children saw her crying, we all cried too — young and old alike, terrified of losing our anchor, weeping together in a heap. Even the neighbors wept with us.

The second year of the Cultural Revolution, because Grandma was classified as a "landlord" by origin, the hospital's Rebel faction ordered her to stand in the street every day, hanging a sign around her neck that read "Counter-Revolutionary Landlord Woman." Poor Grandma, trembling on her bound feet, forced to endure such humiliation. This left a deep wound on us children — we simply could not reconcile our kind, gentle grandma with the image of a hated landlord's wife. Fortunately, my parents sensed things were turning dangerous and quickly decided to send Grandma back to her home village to hide. They specially asked Uncle Xu, our family's most trusted friend and a three-generation "poor peasant", to escort her on the journey. When Uncle Xu returned, he told us that Grandma could not comprehend what was happening, and could not bear to leave the three grandchildren. Heartbroken and wronged, she wept the entire way. They traveled by bus, crossed a river by ferry, transferred to a train, then took a small steamer across Lake Chao — and finally had to walk ten li on foot to reach the village. That last walk took an entire day, and she nearly collapsed from exhaustion.

It was a blessing that Grandma was sent home when she was, because the situation soon deteriorated dramatically — armed factional fighting broke out. First, the young Red Guard factions — the "Criticize the Liaison Group" and the "Sweep Away the Black Line Group" — fought street battles with steel spikes and daggers. One clash took place right in front of our house. I remember we were terrified and fascinated at once. We children climbed up to the second story of one of the courtyard houses and watched through the street-facing window. I was timid; I only stole one glance — I saw the two sides facing off with steel pikes — then heard shouts of slogans and the sounds of combat. This was just the early phase of the armed struggle. Later, the two factions set up separate territories and began using real guns and cannons; we would often hear gunfire at night. Our whole family was secretly moved to the headquarters of the "Criticize the Liaison Group", and my parents became the core doctors at that faction's wartime hospital.

When the "Revolutionary Great Alliance" was formed and the factional fighting stopped, my mother brought Grandma back, and we resumed our daily life together. In the months Grandma had been gone, when we came home from school, the door was always locked. We wore keys around our necks and often had to go to the operating room to find our parents and wait until they finished surgery before we could go home. Only when Grandma returned did the house feel like a home again — life became settled and ordered.

Two photos capture this chapter in our family story. The first shows Grandma as I remember her — serene, dignified, in a traditional collar. The second is a family portrait from 1969: all of us, including Grandma and our young aunt, along with our dearest neighbors Mama He and Sister Xiaohui, gathered before the front door of our home.

I was thirteen when Grandmother developed oral cancer — a tumor the size of a goose egg swelled on her right cheek. When it first appeared, we children would often stroke it gently with our small hands, hoping it would slowly disappear. But the tumor only grew larger. Grandma herself said: "This is a poison tumor — I may not recover." In her final days, my uncle and cousin both came from the home village; it was my uncle who mainly tended her bedside. I heard Grandma murmur, "My children are all here now. It's time to go."

When Grandma died, the record said she was seventy-one, but her real age was probably sixty-nine. I remember she once told me she had added two years to her age, adopting my grandfather's age, as a way to remember him. My grandfather had died of starvation in the home village the year I was born, in 1960 — just like my paternal grandfather and my aunt on Dad's side, a victim of the Great Leap Forward. Grandmother never spoke of my grandfather's story, but you could see that she carried his memory with her, silently, in her heart, all those years.

— Written on September 22, 2007, on the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival

外婆的回忆

我的外婆去世已经快半个世纪年了，可她老人家的慈祥音容仍时常浮现在眼前。

作为医生的父母工作太忙，所以第一个孩子一出生外婆就来帮忙，从此看顾我们三个孩子15年，直到她去世。据说我哥哥小时候不老实，外婆只好摇着摇篮，哼着催眠曲，不敢稍有懈怠，有时候一个瞌睡过去，摇篮牵绳的手一停，他便大哭大闹。外婆说，这孩子带得太辛苦，到两年后我出生的时候，她还后怕。没想到，我小时候乖极了，从不哭闹。就是可怜兮兮的，老害病，每病必吐，常伴有高烧。还有夜盲症，最要命的是脱肛的毛病，每次如厕十分痛苦，一片狼藉，外婆要小心翼翼把脱肛顶回去。外婆一辈子生养过10个儿女，夭折过半，看我这样子，老担心我活不长。还好，因为是医生家庭，有病能及时处理，加上外婆的悉心照看，我慢慢度过了病孱的童年。有外婆照顾的孩子是幸福的，外婆总是把家整理得井井有条，热饭热菜，我们的童年无忧无虑，父母也因此可以没日没夜全力扑在工作上。

外婆是旧式妇女，小脚，没念过书，少言寡语，性情温和，从来没见过她发脾气。外婆的生活十几年如一日，足不出户，刻苦本分，与世无争，街坊邻居无不夸赞。每天一大早，天还没亮，外婆就起床，开始梳洗，她总是把自己收拾得干干净净，开始一天的劳作。看孩子，做饭菜，一刻不停。稍有空闲，她就坐在门前纳鞋底。她把碎布条用浆糊黏上晒干，一针一线纳成结结实实的鞋底，我们全家大小的布鞋都是她老人家做的。一直到她去世，留下的一大箱鞋底，我们还穿了好几年，后来才开始买塑料底的成品鞋穿。

父母每个月给外婆三块钱，作为我们孩子的零用钱。外婆手很紧，因为她要保证这零用钱维持三个孩子到月底。记得每天可以从外婆那里讨来两三分钱，我常常到街头买来一个热腾腾的小红薯头，回家跟小妹分享。这个故事我跟女儿讲，她很爱听，不时拿出来说笑一番：when you were my age, sweet patato was only two cents a piece and you always asked Granny, that is my Great Granny, for two cents to buy one and share with my antie GuGu, but never with my uncle DaBai.

记得文革初期大串联的时候，爸爸妈妈也随大流去上海杭州串联了一个多星期，由于交通堵塞不能按时回家。外婆带我们三个孩子在家，每天听高音喇叭传出各种消息，给人兵荒马乱的感觉。当年通讯不便，行踪无从打听，一家大小望眼欲穿久等父母不回。外婆急了，开始垂泪，我们孩子看见外婆哭了，也都哭了，一家老小怕失去依靠而哭成一团，连邻居也陪着掉泪。

文革第二年，外婆由于地主成分，被医院造反派勒令每天挂"反革命地主婆子"的牌子站街示众。可怜外婆小脚，哆哆嗦嗦，却要受此羞辱。这对我们孩子刺激很大，我们无论如何也无法把慈祥的外婆跟可恶的地主婆联系起来。还好，父母感觉形势不对，很快决定送外婆回乡下老家躲避，特地请我们家的至交三代老贫农的徐叔叔一路护送。徐叔叔回来说，外婆无法理解发生的一切，又舍不得三个孙儿，委屈伤心，走一路哭一路。乘汽车，过轮渡，转火车，再乘小轮穿过巢湖，最后要步行10里才到老家。最后那步行，走了一整天，人几乎瘫软。

幸亏送外婆回了老家，后来的情势越来越遭，武斗开始了。先是两派小将（"批联部"和"扫黑线"）拿钢钎匕首在街头械斗。有一场械斗就在我家门前，还记得我们又害怕又好奇，几个孩子爬到院子里一家的二楼上，透过临街的窗户观战。我胆子小，只瞄了一眼，看见双方手拿钢钎对峙的样子，然后听到口号声和厮杀声。这还是武斗初期，后来双方割据，拿起了真枪真炮，常常夜里听到枪响。我们全家也被秘密转移到批联部的司令部去了，我父母因此成了批派战时医院的核心医生。

革命大联合的时候，武斗停止，妈妈把外婆接回来了，我们恢复了跟外婆朝夕相处的日子。外婆没来的时候，我们放学回家，家里总是锁着门，我们脖子上挂着钥匙，常常要到手术室去找父母，等父母手术完回家。外婆来了，家才象个家，生活安定而有秩序。

全家包括外婆和老姨，以及邻居至友何妈妈小卉姐在家门前合影，1969

我13岁那年，外婆患口腔癌，右腮长出鹅蛋大一个瘤子。记得瘤子刚起的时候，我们经常用小手抚摸，希望它慢慢消失。可是，那瘤子还是越长越大，外婆自己也说：这是个毒瘤子，怕好不了了。外婆临终前，舅舅和表哥都从老家赶来，最后几天主要是舅舅在床前伺候。我听外婆喃喃说，儿女都在身边，该走了。

外婆去世那年说是71岁，可实际年龄应该是69。我记得外婆生前跟我说过，她虚报了两岁，用的是外公的年龄，为的是做个纪念。外公在我出生的1960年，在老家饿死，跟我爷爷和姑姑一样成为大跃进的殉葬品。外婆虽然从来没有提过外公的故事，可以看出她一直默默在心中纪念着他。

记于2007年九月二十二日中秋节前夕

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 《朝华之五：外婆的回忆》.

Morning Glory — Ch.3: The Little Red Guards

Before my career began, family and society shaped our character and worldview. 

**"Forever Be Chairman Mao's Little Red Guard"**

When the Cultural Revolution began in 1966, I was in the first grade, six years old. More than half a century later, some memories remain as vivid as yesterday.

The three of us siblings, wearing our Little Red Guard armbands, photographed in December 1966.

When the campaign to topple Liu Shaoqi began, the first thing I noticed was Liu's official portrait pasted upside down on the street-facing wall, marked with a red cross. Soon after, more and more long banners appeared across the main street: "Burn Liu Shaoqi!" "Deep-fry Liu Shaoqi!" Then, as negative teaching material, they screened the documentary *Liu Shaoqi Visits Indonesia*. The female narration was syrupy sweet, addressing him as "Chairman Liu" and "Jakarta" in every other breath — to my ears, she sounded like a female spy. Her voice was constantly drowned out by the slogans erupting from the audience: "Down with Liu Shaoqi, Defend Chairman Mao!" "Smash the arch-traitor, arch-spy, arch-scab Liu Shaoqi to the ground and trample him underfoot, never to rise again!" Wang Guangmei on screen was dressed conspicuously well, fitting the standard definition of a bourgeois stinking woman. Later, I saw several living newspaper dramas lampooning Liu — his features caricatured into a long horse face, a high-bridged nose, the classic villain's profile. I also remember a living newspaper piece called *Burning Down the British Chargé d'Affaires Office*, which portrayed the Capital Red Guards, righteous in their fury at British imperialism, acting with militant resolve to set fire to the British Embassy — an act of collective heroism (in reality, this was an extremely serious diplomatic incident that caused Zhou Enlai immense trouble and lasting fallout). I still recall the stage effect when they set the fire: they seemed to hurl a torch into the embassy, followed by a loud bang and a plume of thick smoke. I was in the front row and choked on the smoke, coughing hard, and I was genuinely startled. The artistic creativity of the revolutionary masses, producing such vivid stage realism, left a deep imprint on the mind of a six-year-old me.

Around this time came the campaign to "Destroy the Four Old's" (old ideas, old culture, old customs, old habits) and establish the Four New's. Every household voluntarily surrendered items suspected of being "Four Old's" — copper coins, bracelets, ornaments, even ceramic toys of cats and dogs — to be publicly destroyed. The stone lions beside the stone bridge were toppled into the ditch by the young Red Guards; since they couldn't be smashed, chisels were used to disfigure them. The influence spread far: by early 1967, a "Revolutionary Spring Festival" was mandated. Adults had no holiday — they must persist in "grasping revolution and promoting production" — while all New Year celebrations and entertainments were cancelled. Even the traditional four-corner red envelope money for children was voluntarily suspended.

Some elderly people, lifelong habits unbroken, still called matches "foreign fire" and iron nails "foreign nails." These old terms originated in the pre-revolutionary era when China could not even produce matches and nails domestically and had to import them. But by 1966, such old terms could bring trouble. I once saw a tiny-footed old woman totter into a small shop and ask for "foreign fire." The shop assistant replied coldly: "Don't have any." When the old woman pointed to the goods on the counter, the assistant erupted in fury.

Before armed struggle erupted, great debates — the weapon of literary struggle — became prevalent. Even elementary school students debated each other, often turning red in the face. I was too young to get a word in, but I loved listening. What they debated I mostly can't recall, except for one recurring topic: the dialectical relationship between family background and individual performance. The affirmative position was "Heroes beget heroes," while the opposition stressed "What matters is personal conduct." Both sides seemed righteous and indignant, both could quote Chairman Mao's quotations, both seemed to have good arguments. Later, my elder brother took the lead in forming a Little Red Guard revolutionary organization (with a fifth-grader serving as strategist behind the scenes), calling it the "Dagger Squad." Every grade had its representatives. Through this connection, I too was honorably swept up in the revolutionary movement — duties like carrying the paste bucket for the young fighters putting up big-character posters. I remember my brother and his comrades setting up a "Dagger Squad Office" at a table in the corridor of my father's hospital. The squad's most glorious exploit, the one I remember most clearly, was an assault on a school meeting. The squad learned that the school leadership was holding a faculty meeting at seven in the evening and decided on a surprise raid. I had the good fortune to follow my brother on this revolutionary action. I remember the meeting was in progress when the squad burst into the room, shouting: "What kind of black meeting are you holding here?" The leaders, seeing it was a bunch of children, didn't know whether to laugh or cry, and explained that this was a routine school affairs meeting. The squad leader declared: "Then we're attending too." Some leader apparently advised that a work meeting wasn't convenient for students. That set off an explosion. The young fighters, each more righteous than the last, delivered their rebuttals: We are Chairman Mao's Little Red Guards — if we don't attend, who will? You hold black meetings behind the backs of the revolutionary young fighters — how poisonous your intentions must be! Not only will we attend, we demand you honestly hand over all previous meeting records. If you dare not disclose your meeting records, you must have unspeakable criminal aims, and we will rebel against you. And so on. I remember the school leaders finally conceded, agreeing that young fighter representatives could attend all faculty meetings. I was as excited as everyone else, filled with the pride of this initial victory in struggle. Unfortunately, I suffered from night blindness at the time, and on the way back my vision went completely dark. An older girl from a higher grade held my hand and walked me home (my brother, as rebel leader, stayed behind to discuss the next phase of the struggle strategy). This revolutionary action enormously boosted the young fighters' morale and opened the prelude to rebellion against the elementary school leadership, soon followed by a flood of big-character posters exposing the schemes of the capitalist-roaders.

In the early days of the Great Revolution, the three of us siblings, led by our brother every day, would stand before the Precious Book platform for morning pledges and evening reports — earnest and ceremonial, and we kept it up for a long time.

朝华午拾 · 红小兵

职业生涯之前，家庭和社会塑造了我们性格和世界观。父母是天，兄妹是我的依靠和牵挂。

"永做毛主席的红小兵"

一九六六年文革开始的时候，我在小学一年级，六岁。半个多世纪了，有些记忆依然清晰如昨。

兄妹仨臂佩红小兵袖章摄于文革1966年12月8日。

打倒刘少奇的时候，最先是看到临街墙上把刘主席的标准像倒贴过来，打上红叉。后来，看到越来越多的长幅标语在大街上，"火烧刘少奇"，"油炸刘少奇"。接着，作为反面教材，放映了纪录片《刘少奇访问印度尼西亚》，片子里面的女音讲解，甜腻腻的，一口一个刘主席和雅加达，当时听起来觉得象女特务，不断被场内此起彼伏的口号声淹没："打倒刘少奇，保卫毛主席！""把大叛徒、大内奸、大工贼刘少奇打翻在地，并踏上一只脚，叫他永世不得翻身！"电影上的王光美，打扮得很光鲜，符合资产阶级臭婆娘的标准定义。再后来，看到过几个批判刘少奇的活报剧，刘的形象被脸谱化，马脸，高鼻子，一副奸臣像。记得同时还有一个活报剧《火烧英国代办处》，演的是首都红卫兵，对英帝国主义义愤填膺，同仇敌忾，机智果断纵火焚烧英国大使馆的光荣业绩（这是一起非常严重的外交事件，给周恩来的工作带来很多麻烦和后遗症）。还记得，舞台上演纵火时的场面，好像是把火把往使馆内一扔，砰一声炸响，一股浓烟就冒出来，我在前排，呛得直咳嗽，也吓了一大跳。革命群众的艺术创造力所造成的舞台逼真效果，在一个六岁孩子幼小的心灵里刻下了深深的印记。

这前后的破"四旧"（旧思想、旧文化、旧风俗、旧习惯），立四新，我们各家各户主动把涉嫌四旧的物品，比如，铜钱、手镯、装饰品，甚至小猫小狗的瓷玩具，统统缴公销毁。石桥旁的石头狮子也被红卫兵小将推倒在河沟，因为实在砸不烂，就用凿子破相。影响所及，67年初要求"过革命化的春节"，大人没有节假，坚持抓革命、促生产，同时取消了所有过年的庆祝和消遣活动，连四角压岁钱也自觉停止发放了。

当时有些老人一辈子的习惯改不了，仍然称火柴为"洋火"，铁钉为"洋钉"等。老称呼源于旧中国日常生活品连火柴和铁钉都无力生产，需要进口。可是到了66年，这些旧称呼会带来麻烦。我就看到过小脚老太太颤颤巍巍到小卖店要买"洋火"，营业员冷冷一句："没有"。当老人指着柜台里面的商品，营业员就大发雷霆。

武斗开始之前，用于文斗的大辩论开始盛行，连小学生也互相辩论，往往争得面红耳赤。我太小插不上嘴，但是很愿意旁听。辩论什么大多记不清了，但是有一个题目是反复辩论过的：家庭出身和自我表现的辩证关系。正方的论点是"老子英雄儿好汉"，反方强调"重在个人表现"。感觉双方都义正词严，都懂得引用毛主席语录，似乎哪一方都很有道理。

后来，我哥哥领头成立红小兵革命组织（背后有个五年级的孩子做军师），叫"匕首小分队"，其中各年级都有代表。由于这层关系，我也光荣卷入革命运动，比如给贴大字报的小将提浆糊筒之类。我印象我哥哥一伙还在我父亲的医院走廊尽头，摆了张桌子，设立了"匕首小分队"办事处。小分队的光荣事迹记得最清楚的，是一次大闹会场的事件。小分队得知晚上七点学校领导开教务会议，于是决定来个突然袭击。我有幸跟着哥哥参加了这一革命行动。记得会议进行中，小分队一行冲进屋内，叫道："你们这是开的什么黑会？"领导看是一帮孩子，哭笑不得，解释说，这是例行的校务工作会议。分队头头说："那我们也要参加"。好像是某领导劝告说，工作会议，学生参加不方便。这一下炸了窝，小将们个个义正词严予以驳斥：我们是毛主席的红小兵，我们不参加谁参加？你们背着革命小将开黑会，用心何其毒也。我们不但要参加，还要你们老实交出以前会议的所有记录。你们不敢公开会议记录，就肯定有不可告人的罪恶目的，我们就要造你们的反。诸如此类。记得校领导最后让步，同意小将可以派代表参加所有校务会议。我跟大家一样兴奋，充满了斗争初步胜利的豪情。不过，倒霉的是我当时患有夜盲症，回来路上，两眼一片漆黑，是由一位高年级大姐姐，牵着我手送我回家的（哥哥作为造反派头头留下来商量下一步的斗争策略）。这次革命行动极大地鼓舞了小将的斗志，拉开了向小学领导造反的序幕，紧接着是铺天盖地的揭露走资派阴谋的大字报。

大革命初期，我们兄妹三每天在哥哥带领下，在宝书台前，早请示，晚汇报，煞有介事，坚持了很久。

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 《朝华之三: 红小兵》.

A Scholarly Family

Ever since Qu Yuan, Chinese literati have been fond of tracing their ancestry to illustrious roots — "descendant of Gaoyang the Divine Emperor" and such declarations — to signal their noble bloodlines. When I was compiling and editing A Collection of Master Li's Posthumous Writings: Prefaces, I came across this passage in the first piece, "Preface to the Li Family Genealogy," explaining the origin of the family name Li:

"The forerunners of the Li clan, surnamed Ying, traced their descent from Gaoyang of the Zhuanxu lineage. One descendant, Gao Yao, served as Grand Justice (Dali) under Emperor Yao, and the family adopted 'Li' (理, meaning 'principle' or 'justice') as their surname from the title. During the reign of King Zhou of Shang, a descendant named Li Zhen fled with his mother to the lost land of Yihou. Starving, they survived by eating plums (李, li) from the trees. To evade King Zhou's persecution, they changed their surname from 理 (Justice) to the homophonous 李 (Plum), and their descendants have borne this name ever since."

In my earlier, more perfunctory readings of the Posthumous Writings, I had mostly skipped Master Li's abstruse classical prose, drawn instead to the more accessible "modern writings" of my two granduncles in the appendix. As a result, I never registered this origin story. But my daughter once asked me: "Dad, you said our family name Li means plum — how come? Does that mean we Li family like plums in particular?" I had no idea whether the surname Li was actually connected to the fruit, so I dodged the question and told little Tiantian instead that statistically, Li had risen to become the most common surname in China — and perhaps the world. Even in our tiny Buffalo office there were two Uncle Li's — one of Korean descent. But eight hundred years ago, we were all one family.

Master Li's own account of this family history — the fall from officialdom, the change from 理 to 李, the "pointing at the tree and taking its name" — struck me as too sparse. So I searched online and found a fuller treatise, On Gao Yao, Blood Ancestor of the Li Surname. It turned out that the primogenitor Gao Yao served Emperor Yao and Shun as Grand Justice — a minister of incorruptible integrity, whose achievements in statecraft were so esteemed that Emperor Shun personally named him his successor. Even Confucius honored him as one of the Four Sages of antiquity. In ancient China, officials took their office titles as surnames, hence 理氏 (the Li of Justice). Tragically, Sage Gao Yao died before ascending the throne. Generations later, under the depraved King Zhou of Shang, a descendant named Li Zheng served as Grand Justice with the same upright character — and for his honesty, the debauched king had him executed. His wife Qihe fled with their young son Lizhen to the lost land of Yihou (in present-day Henan). Starving, they spotted fruit on a tree and ate to survive. Afraid of the king's pursuers, Lizhen dared not keep the surname 理. In gratitude for the "wood-seed" (muzi, 木子 — the character parts that combine to form 李) that saved them, he changed the family name to Li. From this seed, the Li lineage — the largest family name under heaven — branched and flourished across generations.

I told my daughter: not only do we come from a scholarly family, we are the direct descendants of Sage Gao Tao himself.

Master Li — Li Xiansheng, courtesy name Xuexiang — was my great-grandfather. A Collection of Master Li's Posthumous Writings, compiled in vernacular classical Chinese (also called "modern classical style"), gathers his surviving works — poems, lyrics, celebratory couplets, elegies, prefaces, and miscellaneous essays — transcribed by his disciples and privately published in the 1930s.

The Posthumous Writings also includes works by my two granduncles: elder granduncle Li Yingwen and younger granduncle Li Yinghui. My great-grandfather was exceptionally open-minded about education, selling off family land to send his sons (my granduncles) to study in Japan. My own grandfather (Li Yingqi, the second son), however, was kept at home to manage the family estate, forfeiting the chance for overseas education. It's said that every year, my grandfather would travel to Nanjing to remit money from land sales to his two brothers in Japan. In the early 1920s, the two granduncles returned with law and political science degrees from Meiji University — rare credentials for that era, and a springboard for significant careers. That their subsequent achievements remained relatively modest (disproportionate to their education) and confined to the local sphere, I attribute to three factors: first, the times were harsh, with China in ceaseless turmoil from war and upheaval throughout the early 20th century; second, my great-grandfather was indifferent to fame and fortune, urging his children to carry on the family mission of local education rather than venture into the wider world; third, both granduncles suffered from poor health — they lacked the physical constitution for "revolution." Elder Granduncle Yingwen was bedridden for years, and it was country life that gradually restored his health. Younger Granduncle Yinghui died tragically young. Yet their writings reveal open minds deeply engaged with the issues of their day. Besides rustic pastoral pieces like "Li Yingwen — Elegy for a Dead Dove," they also produced fiery patriotic works, such as "Li Yinghui — Manifesto of the Anti-Japanese Association (Modeled on the Denunciation of Empress Wu)" and "Li Yingwen — Preface for Wang Joining the Volunteer Army."

My grandfather died in the great famine of my birth year — a calamity that was three-tenths natural disaster, seven-tenths man-made catastrophe. Among the three brothers, only Elder Granduncle Yingwen was fortunate: he passed away peacefully at home in 1965, surrounded by every Li family descendant who had gathered for a grand funeral (see the family photograph below). I still remember each of us grandchildren, after the coffin was lowered, taking turns to scoop up a handful of yellow earth. As an enlightened gentry figure and a "united front target," Granduncle Yingwen had been treated with courtesy by the local government and was even elected as a county representative to the People's Congress, thus escaping the reach of political campaigns. That he departed this world the year before the Cultural Revolution began was an even greater stroke of fortune — otherwise, given the complexity of his personal history, he would have suffered terribly in that great upheaval. My maternal grandmother, who raised us through those years, was dragged out and struggled against during the Cultural Revolution, forced to wear a "Landlord Element" placard every day, subjected to humiliation that cast a lasting shadow over our childhood.

The above accounts for my "scholarly family" background — except that by my father's generation, the family fortune had seriously declined. Beset by foreign invasion and civil war, the country was in chaos, and life grew harder each day. My father often went hungry and cold as a child. In its heyday, the Li family's Chongshi Academy had enjoyed wide renown, its students scattered across the land like peaches and plums filling the world. Yet this decline proved a hidden blessing: when the Land Reform came, our family was classified as "Small-Scale Land Lessors" rather than one of the "Four Categories" (landlords, rich peasants, counter-revolutionaries, and bad elements — later expanded to include "rightists" designated in 1957). This spared us, the younger generation, from the brunt of political persecution.

The matter of "Small-Scale Land Lessor" classification carried its own stories. When we were children, family class status was an all-important political label: children of "poor and lower-middle peasants" were considered born revolutionaries with "red roots and upright shoots," innately superior. Children of the "landlord, rich peasant, counter-revolutionary, bad element, and rightist" classes faced extreme social discrimination — denied opportunities for factory jobs, schooling, and more — and suffered constant bullying in daily life. I remember a girl in our elementary class who came from a landlord family; she cut such a pitiable figure, never able to hold her head up, yet classmates still taunted her relentlessly. In such an environment, we were all acutely sensitive about our family background. My own family situation was precarious: my mother was born into a landlord family — a pitiable sort of landlord, really; my maternal grandfather had saved every penny from a small business, denied himself fine food and clothing, tightened the whole family's belts, and poured everything into buying land in hopes of modest prosperity — and in return won a landlord label. This became a fiercely guarded family secret. Fortunately, a child's class status followed the father, so every time we filled out a form, the "family class" box read "Small-Scale Land Lessor." The problem was, for a long time, we had no idea what this obscure, tongue-twisting classification actually meant politically, which left us perpetually anxious. I remember classmates discussing our strange class label. One self-proclaimed authority declared: "Small-Scale Land Lessor — that means little landlord!" (It wasn't that far off, actually.) And with that, we were suddenly shoved into the camp of "class enemies," utterly mortified. My cousin suffered the same anxiety. Then one day, he announced triumphantly that, after deep research — studying Chairman Mao's works and relevant Party policy documents — he had discovered that "Small-Scale Land Lessor" was essentially equivalent to "Upper-Middle Peasant," which placed us squarely among the "united objects" of the revolutionary ranks. What's more, Chairman Mao himself came from an upper-middle-peasant family. These momentous findings brought us immense relief.

The old family home in Keshan — I visited it as a child, when my cousin led us up the mountain; it felt like the Mountain of Flowers and Fruit, remote and secluded. A few years ago, on a trip home to China, my brother drove us back there. It remains a forgotten corner to this day — a single mountain road, bumpy and dusty, narrowing to barely a car's width as you approach. My ancestors must have chosen this Jiangnan hillside deliberately, building their grand compound in a spirit of retreat from the world, carving out their own Peach Blossom Spring. My father's memoir, Decades Through Wind and Rain, contains a vivid description of the family school there:

A Glance Back at the Old Residence

A deep courtyard mansion, antique and elegant, nestled against the mountain and facing a stream, oriented east to west. Above the main gate, the couplet "The Nation's Grace, the Family's Joy / May Men Live Long, May Years Bring Harvest" stood steadfast through the seasons. The main quarters comprised five large rooms in the front row and five in the back, joined in the middle by three open-air courtyards flanked by two wings on either side. The three rows, each two stories high, formed an integrated whole. Upstairs, a continuous corridor circled the entire compound — a gallery on which one could stroll freely. To the left stood two "new rooms"; to the right and rear, a row of auxiliary quarters. The front courtyard, with its large and small gates, contained seven flower terraces, where pines and cypresses complemented one another, blossoms clustered in splendor, and fruit filled the air with fragrance. Among the flowers: plum, chrysanthemum, osmanthus, rose, briar, and sacred bamboo. Among the fruits: persimmon, peach, apricot, plum, and jujube. Every doorway was flanked by stone drums and lions; the courtyards were paved in marble. The bricks and tiles were custom-fired in the family's own kiln, of the highest quality; the timber, first-rate, was floated down the river from Jiangxi on rafts — a testament to the master-builder's meticulous vision. The upper floor of the main building served as classrooms and student dormitories; the lower floor and the "new rooms" were the family living quarters; the foot-house housed the wine-making workshop, kitchen, and firewood store.

书香门第

中国文人自屈原始，就喜欢炫耀自己的祖上，"帝高阳之苗裔兮"云云，以示自己根正苗红，血统高贵。早年整理校对《李老夫子遗墨：序类》，第一篇"李氏创修宗谱序"也提到"李氏"的来源如下：

"按李氏之先，自嬴姓顓頊高阳氏曰皋陶者，为堯大理官，始为理氏，至殷紂时有曰利贞者，偕母逃难于伊候之墟，食李实以全生，复改理为李，子孙因以为氏焉。"

以前读《李老夫子遗墨》比较偷懒，基本跳过晦涩难懂的李老夫子正文，而对《遗墨附录》中更贴近近現代生活的两位叔爷的"时文"感兴趣，因此对这段"李氏"来源的掌故没有印象。女儿小时候问我："Dad, you said our family name Li means plum, how come? Does that mean we Li family like plums in particular?" 我当时不知道"李氏"跟李子到底有沒有关联，只好顾左右而言他，告诉甜甜，据最新统计，"李氏"似乎已经上升到中国的（可能也是世界上的）第一大姓，就連小小的水牛城辦公室就有兩位 Uncle Li's, 其中一位還是朝鮮族裔，但八百年前都是一家人哪。

李老夫子對祖上家道中落、改"理"為"李"、"指树为姓"的歷史，撰述失之簡陋。于是上網進一步搜尋資料，查得《李姓血祖皋陶并李姓考》。原來，李家的始祖皋陶在堯舜時代就任國家重臣"大理官"（司法部長），清明正則，功勛卓著，經邦緯國，英名蓋世，舜帝親立為接班人，甚至孔夫子也拜其为上古"四圣"之一。古人以官为氏，因称理氏。所惜圣皋陶帝業未举而病亡。至商紂王朝，圣皋陶的后代理征仍繼任理官，正直清廉，为荒淫昏庸的纣王所不容，终遭殺身之祸。于是，"理征的妻子契和氏带着幼子利贞逃了出来，奔于伊候之墟（今河南境内），饥饿不堪，见一树上结有果实，便采了来吃，母子得以活命，其后，利贞畏于纣王的追捕而不敢姓理，于是以'木子'救命之恩，改称李氏"。天下第一大姓李氏由此而宗派繁衍，生生不息。

我告訴女儿：咱們非但出身書香門第，還是大圣人皋陶的传人呢。

李老夫子（李咸昇，號學香）是我的曾祖父。《李老夫子遺墨》（現代文言，又稱"時文"）收集了其徒子徒孫傳抄的李老夫子遺作，包括詩詞歌賦、喜壽輓聯、序傳雜文等，由他的門生編輯成冊，內部發行於上個世紀三十年代。

《遗墨》還收錄了我的兩位叔爺（伯祖父李應文和叔祖父李應會）的作品。曾祖父非常開明，重視教育，不惜變賣田產送孩子（我的叔爺）去日本留學深造。但我的爺爺（李應期，行二）被曾祖父留下來幫助理家，失去了留學機會。據說，我爺爺當年每年去南京一趟，將家產變賣的銀子匯款到日本，供給兩個兄弟的學業。兩位叔爺上個世紀二十年代初分別獲得明治大學法學士和政學士學位歸國。在那個年代，有這樣教育背景的人才很難得，本可做一番大事業。他們後來的建樹不大（與其教育水平不成比例），影響止於本地，我猜想原因有三：一是年代不濟，中國自上世紀初開始，兵荒馬亂不斷；二是曾祖父淡泊名利，進而要求孩子們繼承父業，在家鄉興辦教育，而不是鼓勵孩子們出去闖天下；三是兩位叔爺身體都不大好，沒有"革命"的本錢：伯祖父久卧病榻，是鄉間生活使他休養生息，逐漸康復；叔祖父更是不幸，英年早逝。但是從他們所著文字，可以看出，他們思想開明，關註時事。除了鄉居閑篇如"李應文－哀死鴿文"外，也不乏豪情熱血之作，如"李應會－抗日會宣言（仿討武曌檄）"，"李應文－王君加入義勇軍序"。

我爺爺在我出生那年死於三分天災、七分人禍的大飢荒。三兄弟中，就數伯祖父李應文比較幸運，1965年在老家壽終正寢。李家所有晚輩全部到齊，舉行隆重葬禮（李家合影見下）。還記得我們孫兒輩，在棺柩落地後，每人輪流掬一捧黃土。伯祖父生前作為開明紳士和"統戰對象"，受到當地政府的禮遇，曾經當選為縣人大代表，幸免於政治運動的波及。仙逝於文革前一年，更是大幸，否則，以他歷史上的複雜經歷，大革命中少吃不了苦頭。一直看顧我們長大的外祖母在文革中，就被揪鬥，每日掛著"地主分子"的牌子，受盡羞辱，給我們幼小心靈蒙上陰影。

以上可算是我的"書香門第"背景。只不過，到我父親這一輩，由於國家內憂外患（抗日和內戰），連年戰亂，家道中落，生活日漸艱難。我父親小時候忍飢挨凍的事常有。想當年，李家"崇實學校"在當地可是富有盛名，桃李滿天下。不過，家道衰落倒成為一件好事：土改的时候，家庭由此被定為"小土地出租"，而不是"地主"、"富農"這樣的"四類分子"（指的是地主、富農、反革命、壞分子四類，後來又加上57年劃分的"右派"），使得我們後輩少受政治運動的衝擊。

說到家庭成分"小土地出租"，還有一些故事。在我們小時候，家庭成分是一個很重要的政治標簽："貧下中農"子弟被認為天生革命，"根正苗紅"，高人一等；而"地、富、反、壞、右"子弟受到極端的社會歧視，被剝奪很多機會（招工、上學等），而且日常生活中也常常受欺侮。還記得我們小學時班上有一個女生，家庭出生地主，很可憐的樣子，總是抬不起頭。就這樣，還常常有同學羞辱她。在這樣的環境裡，我們每個人對家庭出身自然很敏感。我家情況不是很妙，母親出身地主（是個可憐的土地主：外祖父做小生意賺了點錢，捨不得吃和穿，一家人勒緊褲腰帶，卯足勁置辦田產，以期小康，換來了一個地主帽子），成了我們的一個死守的秘密。好在子女家庭出身隨父，所以我們每次填表，家庭成分欄都是"小土地出租"。問題出在，很長一段時間，我們搞不清這個比較偏僻拗口的成分的政治含義，心裡不免惴惴。記得在班上，有幾個同學議論我家這個奇怪的出身，其中一個自作聰明地說："小土地出租，就是小地主"（其實這個理解不算離譜），一下子把我們推到"階級敵人"陣營，讓我們無地自容。我的堂兄也有同樣的煩惱。有一天，他很高興地宣佈，經過深入研究，學習毛主席著作和有關黨的政策文件，發現"小土地出租"大體相當於"上中農"，屬於革命隊伍的團結對象。而且黨的主席毛澤東也出身於上中農家庭。這些偉大發現使我們大大松了一口氣。

磕山老家，小时候去过，堂兄还领着爬山，感觉是个花果山，僻静偏远。几年前回国探亲，哥哥开车带我们又去了趟老家，至今仍是被遗忘的角落，一条山区小路，颠簸起伏，尘土飞扬。临近老家，山路狭窄到勉强可以过一辆车。当年，先辈择此江南山地而居，大兴土木，大约很有些躲避尘世，开辟桃园的想法。老爸的回忆录《风雨几春秋》中对老家的李家学堂有生动记述：

故居回眸

深宅大院，古色古香，依山面溪，坐东朝西。大门上"国恩家庆，人寿年丰"对联经年常在。正房是前后各五大间，中间一排由三个天井和两边二个厢房组成。这样前后三排，上下两层，构成一体。楼上形成环状贯通的走马楼，左边有两间"新屋"，右边及后面是一排裙屋。前面院子，有大小院门，院内七个花台，松柏相衬，花簇绵秀，果实飘香。花有梅、菊、桂、及玫瑰、蔷薇、天竹；果有柿、桃、杏、李、枣等。所有大门均有石鼓、石狮，天井是大理石铺成。建房的砖瓦是自家建窑特制，质量堪称上乘；木材取自江西，放排顺江而下，更是一流，足见主事者之匠心。正屋楼上是教学场所和学生宿舍，楼下和"新屋"是家人生活区，脚屋是酿酒作坊和厨房、柴库。

From 朝华午拾 (Morning Flowers Collected at Dusk). Original Chinese: 《朝华之二：书香门第》.

For many young people, leaving one's homeland or staying behind can be an entangled, irresolvable contradiction — much like the dilemma in Qian Zhongshu's Fortress Besieged: those inside the walls gaze out at the dazzling world beyond; no matter how comfortable life within may be, they can never shake the regret of not having tasted the outside firsthand. Those who venture far, having endured every hardship, come at last to understand: homesickness cannot be filled with material things. That was exactly how I felt back then. After graduate school I dug in for five years — my work and life were on a steady upward climb, the future bright. Yet watching my classmates and friends leave for abroad one group after another, I felt an inexplicable emptiness. In the end I caught the last train out. But the sky over a foreign land was so strange — the constellations I knew from childhood summer nights, the fairy tales and daydreams that attended them, could never again be pieced together whole.

I recall those first days in England. Though I was already past thirty, though I'd come to Manchester alongside many friends, though I'd long since weathered in Beijing years of wandering far from home town — leaving my native land still carried an indescribable anguish: like a blade of grass torn out by the roots, battered by wind and rain, a vast bottomless emptiness and disorientation welling up within. At the start of term, in front of the student union building, every kind of student club was recruiting — bustling crowds, peals of laughter — yet I seemed to inhabit another dimension altogether, displaced from reality, unable to grasp the commotion around me, powerless to dispel a nameless melancholy.

Then came a decade of severance. Save for the companionship of Huaxia Wenzhai (China News Digest), and the occasional holiday phone calls or greeting cards to family, I had lost all contact with the motherland. Little did I know that this was precisely the decade in which China underwent its most earth-shaking transformation. Not until my first trip home in 2001 did I realize, with a jolt, that I had once again been displaced in time and space. Standing on the familiar yet alien streets of Beijing, watching the endless streams of people, I felt with an incurable certainty that this world no longer had anything to do with me. Was this the city that had left me so many warm memories? The Beijing I'd yearned for in my dreams now stood before me like a stranger! In the ancient capital I took such pride in, I could not understand the bustle around me, nor could I dispel that nameless melancholy.

Only my childhood hometown remains forever vivid in my mind, never fading. Thirty years have distilled the villages of southern Anhui into thick oil paints: golden yellow, fiery crimson. Endless fields of rapeseed flowers stretching to the horizon, and mountainsides aflame with azaleas in full bloom.

I have passed through countless cities and towns, witnessed many breathtaking scenes — the Gold Coast of Australia, the bays and forests of Vancouver, the autumn leaves of American national parks, and Niagara Falls in Buffalo — searching all the way, yet never finding rapeseed flowers and azaleas like those of home. Not until I returned to visit my family, catching the rapeseed bloom by chance, did I once again behold those patchwork fields of gold and breathe in the fragrance of the soil of home. I captured those golden expanses on video and stored them away, afraid they might slip away again.

Homesickness, like love, is an eternal theme of literature and art. From Li Bai's "Raising my head, I gaze at the bright moon; lowering it, I think of home," to Tao Yuanming's "Come Away Home"; from Chyi Yu's "Olive Tree" to Fei Xiang's "Clouds of Home"; from Ma Sicong's "Homesickness Melody" to the American folk song "Five Hundred Miles." In the still of night, in a foreign land, a gentle folk ballad flows like a quiet stream and soaks into my heart — it is the Kingston Trio singing "Five Hundred Miles," the shared melancholy of every wanderer under heaven.

Homesickness is an invisible net — where does the road of wandering end?

Written October 6, 2005, Buffalo

乡愁是一张无形的网（下）

对于很多年轻人，去国和留守是一对纠缠不清的矛盾：《围城》内外，城内的人看外面的精彩世界，哪怕城里舒适顺遂，也终觉没有亲历外部生活的遗憾；远游的人历尽艰辛终于明白，乡愁无法用物质来填补。我当年就是这样心情。研究生毕业一扎就是五年，工作生活蒸蒸日上，前途一片光明，可看见身边的同学朋友一批批出国，心里觉得空落落的。终于赶上末班车，然而，异乡的天空却如此陌生，小时候夏夜乘凉所识的星空，连同当年的童话和遐想，从此再也无法拼接完整。

想起初到英国的情形：尽管已经三十出头，尽管有很多同学一起来到曼城，尽管此前早已经历过离开家乡在京城的多年飘荡，但远离故国仍然伴随着难以名状的痛苦：好像一棵连根拔掉的小草，任由风吹雨打，内心充满着深不见底的空荡和恍惚。学期伊始，学生会楼前各种学生自发的俱乐部正招兵买马，熙熙攘攘，一片欢声笑语，我却似乎处在另一个时空，与现实错置，不能理解身边的喧嚣，也无法排解莫名的惆怅。

继而是十年的隔绝：除了《华夏文摘》的陪伴，以及偶然逢年过节给家人电话贺卡问候以外，完全失去了和祖国的交流。殊不知，这正是中国翻天覆地的十年。直到2001年第一次回国探亲，才猛然发现又一次时空错置。站在熟悉又陌生的北京大街上，看着熙熙攘攘的人流，不可救药地感觉到，这个世界已然与我无关。这就是曾经留给我那么多温馨回忆的城市么？我梦牵魂萦的北京，如今形如陌路！在我引为自豪的故都，我不能理解身边的喧嚣，也无法排解莫名的惆怅。

只有我的童年故乡，在我的脑海永远鲜活，永不退色。三十年时光把皖南家乡化成了浓浓的油彩：金黄、火红。那是一望无际的油菜花，和漫山遍野的映山红。

走过无数城市乡镇，看到过许多摄人心魄的美景，澳大利亚的黄金海岸，温哥华的海湾和森林，美国国家公园的红叶和水牛城的尼亚拉加大瀑布，一路寻觅，可就是见不到家乡那样的油菜花和映山红。直到回国省亲，正赶上油菜花开的季节，才重温了田野的片片金黄，嗅到了家乡的土地芬芳。我把这片片金黄摄入录象镜头，收藏起来，生怕它再次丢失。

思乡与爱情一样，是文学艺术的永恒主题。从李白的"举头望明月，低头思故乡"到陶渊明的《归去来兮辞》，从齐豫的《橄榄树》到费翔的《故乡的云》，从马思聪的《思乡曲》到美国民歌《离家５００里》。夜阑人静，异国他乡，轻柔舒缓的民歌象涓涓流水，浸润着我的心，那是 Kingston Trio 演唱的《离家５００里》，全天下游子共同的怅惘。

乡愁是一张无形的网，流浪的路何处是尽头？

记于２００５年十月六日，水牛城

From 《朝华午拾》. Original Chinese: 《乡愁是一张无形的网》.

最近，我大学时期的老同学、也是"老下级"（上下铺——他睡在我下铺，hence），老丁，回忆往事，在同学群里感慨道：

【老丁原诗】毕业临别赠言

一九八一年十二月二十七日晚，安庆师范学院英语系师生在迎江寺小餐馆举行毕业聚会。会后回校，同学之间互相在日记本上签字留念。情之所致，即兴拙作分别签赠诸位同学留念：

同窗千日形与影，
别后东西难相逢。
学府同耕书山上，
天涯共航学海中。
战士何愁风霜烈，
园丁但求花木荣。
慧眼识得千里马，
奉献四化到底红。

老下级先唱了，我这个小他十一岁的老上级岂能不和？因此上：

【和诗】

四十四载梦与踪，
鬓边风雪各西东。
当年共挤青春铺，
今日同看夕照红。

>

半生代码半生酒，
一路浮沉一路风。
莫道人间书卷老，
至今胸中有彩虹。

和罢，意犹未尽，因作文遥寄：

【遥寄丁兄】

忆昔辛酉岁杪，霜钟初动，雪意微侵。诸生会饮于迎江古寺之侧，小馆孤灯，杯酒纵横。时则皖水无声，振风塔影摇于寒月；长街将寂，少年意气犹腾。酒酣耳热，相与执手题襟，或悲或歌，竟不能已。

嗟乎！同窗数载，晨分灯火，夜共芸编。上铺下榻之间，笑谈曾惊邻舍；残灯破卷之际，壮怀每指青云。或听VOA于月下，或诵灵格风于霜晨。纸短情长，墨痕狼藉，而青春之气，已横绝一世矣。

未几而东西南北，各赴尘途。兄则振羽桐城，我亦飘蓬海角。或困顿于风波，或沉浮于名利；或折腰稻粱，或白首江湖。昔日青衿少年，而今霜侵两鬓；当年纵谈四海，间或插科打诨，而今各守孤城。人生忽忽，驹隙而已。每念旧游，如闻远钟。

然则世路虽艰，壮心未死。忆当年书山并辔，学海同舟，未尝不自许为天下奇士也。今虽老矣，犹幸肝胆未寒，灯火未灭。酒后谈AI之变，犹如当年纵论四化；夜深观天地新局，尚存击楫中流之志。

故今日援笔和君，不为雕章，只为故人。愿兄老骥伏枥，长怀千里之心；愿我辈残年未晚，犹作时代之客。异日若得重聚，再携浊酒，同话少年。彼时纵黄发满头，亦可大笑曰：

"当年书生意气，至今尚未凉也。"

English Translation (archaic style)

Lao Ding's Original — Graduation Verses

On the twenty-seventh day of the twelfth month, in the year 1981, the faculty and students of the English Department of Anqing Normal College forgathered at a modest tavern beside the River-Welcoming Temple for our farewell revels. Returning thereafter to the college grounds, we inscribed parting words in one another's journals, as the spirit moved us. What follows are verses composed in that hour of exaltation, offered to my several schoolfellows:

A thousand days we shared one shadow, one form;
Now East and West divide us after this day.
Together we tilled the mountain of learning,
Together we sail the sea of scholarship.
What warrior feareth the biting frost?
The gardener asketh only that his blooms flourish.
Let the keen eye discern the thousand-*li* steed,
And in service of the Four Modernizations, burn ever crimson.

William's Reply — Forty-Four Years After

Forty-four winters of dreams and traces,
Frost at the temples, scattered East and West.
Once we crowded together on youth's narrow bunk;
Now we watch the same sunset glow from afar.

>

Half a life in code, half a life in wine;
A road of ups and downs, a road of wind.
Speak not of yellowing pages and aging scholars —
Still the rainbow beareth up within this breast.

A Letter Sent from Afar to Brother Ding

I recall the waning days of the xinyou year: the frost-bells had scarce begun to sound, and a whisper of snow hung in the air. We, the graduating class, gathered to drink beside the ancient River-Welcoming Temple — a lonely lamp in a humble tavern, cups raised without restraint. In that hour the Wan River lay silent, and the shadow of Zhenfeng Pagoda swayed upon the cold moon; the long avenue was soon to fall still, yet the ardour of youth still surged. Drink-warmed and flushed with feeling, we clasped hands and wrote upon one another's garments. Some wept, some sang, and none could bring themselves to cease.

Ah! For several years we shared the dawn-lamp and the midnight tome. From upper bunk to lower, our wild talk startled the neighbours; by flickering lamplight over tattered texts, our ambition reached for the blue clouds. Some nights we stole away to listen to the Voice of America beneath the moon; on frosty mornings we declaimed Linguaphone in its pure London accent. Paper was too short, feeling too long; our ink ran riot. But the spirit of youth had already bestrode the age.

Ere long we scattered to the four quarters, each upon his dusty road. You, brother, spread your wings at Tongcheng; I drifted like a thistledown to the ends of the sea. Some were broken on the rocks of fortune, some foundered in the currents of fame; some bowed for bread, some grew grey upon the rivers and lakes of the world. Then we were blue-robed youths; now frost invades our temples. Then we roamed the world in talk, full of jest and ribaldry; now each guards his solitary citadel. Life is as a horse glimpsed through a crack in the gate — a flicker and gone. Whenever I think upon those old wanderings, it is as though I hear a distant bell.

And yet the road of the world, though hard, hath not slain the heart. I remember how we rode stirrup to stirrup up the mountain of books, how we shared one vessel upon the sea of learning. Did we not then count ourselves among the remarkable spirits of the age? Though now grown old, we may yet rejoice that our gall hath not chilled, nor our lamp been extinguished. Over wine we discuss the transformations wrought by AI, even as once we debated the Four Modernizations; in the deep night we survey the new configurations of the world, still nursing the will to strike the oars in midstream.

Wherefore I take up the brush today to answer your verse — not for ornament's sake, but for an old friend's. May you, brother, like the aged steed in the stable, ever cherish the heart that would gallop a thousand li. May we, though late in our years, yet remain travellers in this age. If some distant day we gather again, let us bring our cloudy wine and speak once more of youth. Then, though our heads be full of white, we may yet laugh aloud and declare:

"The bookish ardour of those young days — even now, it hath not cooled."

Formatted by Tuya

by Li Wei (立委)

Roaming the World

In my personal semantic dictionary and knowledge graph, "wandering" (liulang) is a major node, with "drifting" and "waves" as its hypernyms. Its hyponyms branch out in lush profusion: sent-down youth, overseas re-settlement, leaping through the Dragon Gate — and leaping again — northward drift, plunging into the sea of commerce, westward drift, southward migration, and southward yet again. This is an honest map of my professional life. Behind these words and concepts lie surges of excitement and oceans of toil that perhaps only a visualization graph could hardly capture.

A life of undulating drift has been my constant companion. In 1976, I graduated high school just in time for the Cultural Revolution's final wave of shangshan xiaxiang — the "up to the mountains, down to the villages" campaign — and was sent to a mountain village in southern Anhui to be re-educated by "poor and lower-middle peasants". That was the starting point of my lifelong wandering. Looking back, it wasn't a bad beginning — a sixteen-year-old could feel more pride than sorrow. At the end of 1977, I caught the first nationwide college entrance exam in ten years and, against all odds, leapt through the Dragon Gate, becoming one of the historically celebrated Class of '77 (though we actually enrolled in February 1978). After graduation, I taught for a year, then leapt again — into graduate school in Beijing. That was an exhilarating northward drift, my joy on par with the crazy histry figure Fan Jin passing the imperial examinations. It was 1983, and I had the extraordinary fortune of studying under the founding fathers of Chinese NLP/MT, Professors Liu Yongquan and Liu Zhuo, pursuing a master's in machine translation — thus began my career.

In the four or five years after graduate school, I moonlighted in Zhongguancun, China's Silicon Valley, plunging into the sea of business high tech development. Though I could count myself among the earliest wave of xiahai entrepreneurs, I was only part-time and bore none of the risks full-timers faced. By then, the fever of going overseas — "foreign re-settlement," we called it — was raging. I couldn't resist the tide and caught the last train to Great Britain. But the early 1990s found the British Empire in decline: streets teeming with stray dogs, muggings rampant. One does not dwell in a dangerous state, so I drifted westward to the immigrant's Mecca — Canada, the land of maple leaves, flowers, and milk. A PhD, a daughter, a change of status, a job search — it was all wonderfully busy. Beautiful though Canada was, its job market was small. So southward I went, and collided headlong with America's dot-com boom. The United States truly is a wanderer's paradise: vast skies, boundless possibilities — the entrepreneurial journey began. As the grand entrepreneurial vision faded with the bursting bubble, I drifted south once more, finally sinking into the promised land of IT workers, unable to extricate myself — a place called Silicon Valley.

My career has roughly tracked the rhythm of NLP's gradual penetration into industry. The overarching theme: wandering, wandering, still wandering. Yet wherever I wandered, my heart for technological entrepreneurship never wavered. In my dictionary of wandering, something is missing, sensed only dimly. Tao Yuanming's "The Return" echoes in my ears from time to time: "My fields and gardens will run to waste — why not return?" To let leaves fall back to their roots, to start anew — perhaps that is the true destination of all wandering.

Written on March 23, 2013

Homesickness Is an Invisible Net (Part I)

At the end of 2005, our nine-year-old daughter Tiantian was deeply upset by a discussion about leaving Buffalo. I tried to console her: "You know, when American newspapers rank the most livable cities, Buffalo is always in the bottom ten. Cities like San Francisco, Boston, Seattle, Washington D.C., and San Diego — aren't they better than Buffalo?" It was true: Buffalo has long, brutal winters — they call it "Snow Capital" — leaving residents vulnerable to cold and illness. The water quality is poor and viruses are rampant. More importantly, there's no real industry, the economy is stagnant, the population shrinks year by year, and young people mostly head "south" at the first opportunity. But Tiantian wasn't buying it. With tears streaming, she said: "Who cares about this stupid rating. I have been living here for eight years and all my friends are here. Plus, I like snow."

Tiantian had lived here for as long as she could remember; Buffalo was, in her mind, the one and only irreplaceable hometown. I recall when she was five, we took her to Beijing for the first time to visit family. That first night at her grandmother's, everything was alien — no American cartoons on TV as she was used to. She cried and fussed, begging to go home — meaning, of course, her home in Buffalo. I told her this was home, her mother's home, but she simply couldn't accept it.

To prove Buffalo's virtues, Tiantian drew upon her limited knowledge to invent her own balance theory: Buffalo's famous lake-effect snow, she argued, counteracts the terrible greenhouse effect causing global warming. With an air of self-satisfied cleverness, she declared: "You see, the two effects balance each other. Nowhere else can balance the global warming as effectively as in Buffalo!" She could list a thousand reasons Buffalo was superior: "You got to admit, Buffalo is not bad. We have no earthquake like in San Francisco. No hurricane like in Florida. Our Christmas is always white."

Buffalo does have many acknowledged virtues, chief among them Niagara Falls — the so-called "Seventh Wonder of the World." The natural ecology around Buffalo is beautifully preserved: drive along the Niagara River from the falls and you pass through a gallery of fairy-tale scenery — one state park after another, ancient towering trees, rolling meadows. Yet aside from the Falls, these vast parks sit empty even on weekends; one can't help but feel the waste of such resources. Buffalo's downtown may be dilapidated and chaotic, but the suburban townships where most white-collar people actually live are like something out of a storybook — simple, honest folk, clean and safe streets, garden-like beauty. Buffalo's housing market is the least expensive in America: back then, just over a hundred thousand dollars could buy you a house with front and back yards (what in China they'd call a "villa"), the absolute price lower than in China's coastal cities! Two hundred thousand got you a luxury home, spacious to the point of embarrassment — a sum that wouldn't buy a corner of a house in New York or San Francisco. Life was cheap and convenient, with top-tier public schools, and extracurricular lessons — piano, sports — at half the coastal price. Not to mention a warm Chinese community and a bustling weekend Chinese school.

朝华午拾 · 浪迹天涯与乡愁（上）

浪迹天涯

在属于我个人的语义词典和知识图谱里，"流浪"是一个很大的节点，它的上位是漂流和波浪。流浪的下位谓词枝繁叶盛，包括：插队，洋插队，跳龙门，再跳龙门，北漂，下海，西漂，南下，再南下。这也正是我职业生涯的真实写照。在这些语词概念的背后蕴含几多激动几多辛苦，也许只有可视化图谱知道。

多起伏的漂流生活伴随着我的一生。1976年高中毕业即赶上了文革最后一届上山下乡，插队皖南山区接受贫下中农的再教育，这是我一生流浪生活的起点。这个起点回想起来并不坏，16岁的孩子当时能感到的是自豪多于悲凉。1977年底赶上了文革10年后第一届大学生招考，居然跳了龙门，成为史上著名的77级生（其实是78年2月入学）。大学毕业后任教一年，再跳龙门考研成功，北上京城。这是一次欣快的北漂，当年的兴奋喜悦堪比范进中举。那是1983年，有幸师从中国NLP的开山鼻祖刘涌泉刘倬老师，主攻机器翻译硕士，这才入行。研究生毕业后四五年间，中关村兼职下海。虽然可算头几拨下海人士，因是兼职，并无其他下海人的风险。其时洋插队之风正甚，终于没有顶住潮流，赶了末班车来到大英帝国。90年代初正值大英没落，乱态丛生，路多野狗，抢劫之风甚行。危邦不居，因辗转由欧西漂，来到一代移民的"麦加"，满是鲜花与牛奶的枫叶之国加拿大。攻博添女，换身份，找工作，不亦忙乎。加国虽美，工作市场却不大。于是南下，竟一头撞上了美国网络大跃进。美利坚果然是流浪者的天堂，广阔天地，大有可为，开启创业之路。轰轰烈烈的创业宏图随着泡沫的破灭渐趋平淡，遂复南下，终于踏入IT民工的圣地不能自拔，人称硅谷。

我的生涯与NLP在工业界逐渐渗透的节奏是基本上一致的。整个一个主题就是，流浪，流浪，还在流浪。但无论流浪何方，技术创业之心不变。在我流浪的词典里，冥冥中似有所缺。陶渊明的《归去来辞》不时在耳边萦回，"田园将芜胡不归"。叶落归根，初创再搏，或为流浪的真正归宿。

记于2013年三月23日

乡愁是一张无形的网（上）

2005年底，因为讨论离开水牛城搬家的事，九岁的女儿甜甜非常伤感。我宽慰她说："你知道么？美国报纸排名最受欢迎的居住城市，水牛城是倒数的十个城市之一呀（最受欢迎的十大城市包括旧金山，波士顿，西雅图，华盛顿和圣地亚哥等），哪里不比水牛城强呀？" 确实，水牛城冬季漫长，人称"雪都"，极易受风寒侵袭。水质低劣，病毒流行。更主要的是，没有像样的工业，经济发展落后，人口逐年下降，年轻人一有机会大多"南下"寻求发展。可是，甜甜不以为然，流着眼泪说："Who cares about this stupid rating. I have been living here for eight years and all my friends are here. Plus, I like snow."

甜甜自记事起，就住在这里，水牛城自然是她心目中不可替代的唯一故乡。记得她五岁那年第一次带她回北京探亲，第一天晚上住在姥姥家，一切对她是那么陌生，没有她已经习惯的美国卡通电视，她满脸委屈地吵着闹着要回家——当然是回水牛城的家。我告诉她这就是家呀，是妈妈的家，她怎么也无法认同。

为了列举水牛城的好处，甜甜根据她有限的知识，自己独创了一种平衡理论：水牛城有著名的湖区效应，所以多雪，而地球正面临可怕的温室效应，导致全球变暖，她自作聪明地说，"You see, the two effects balance each other. Nowhere else can balance the global warming as effectively as in Buffalo!"。她还能举出一千条水牛城优越的理由："You got to admit, Buffalo is not bad. We have no earthquake like in San Francisco. No hurricane like in Florida. Our Christmas is always white."

水牛城确实有很多公认的好处，最著名的是拥有号称"世界第七大奇迹"的尼亚拉加大瀑布。水牛城周围原始生态保护很好：郊外从大瀑布开始，沿尼亚拉加河车行，宛如驶进仙境画廊，州立公园一个接一个，参天古树，连绵草地。不过，这里除大瀑布外，空旷的公园即便周末亦无人问津，让人真觉得可惜了这些资源。水牛城市中心虽然日渐衰落杂乱，人们聚居的郊区乡镇却有如童话世界，民风淳朴，整洁安全，环境优美如花园。水牛城房市全美最便宜，当年十万美元出头就可以买到前庭后院的 house（国内叫"别墅"），绝对价格低于国内沿海城市！二十万就是豪华大屋，宽敞奢侈得让人发愁，这个价钱在纽约、旧金山不够买一个房角。生活便宜也方便，有一流的公立学校，课外教育（学琴，学球等）的学费只是沿海城市的一半价钱。更不用说，还有温暖的华人社区和热闹的周末中文学校。

From 朝华午拾. Original Chinese: 乡愁是一张无形的网.

Morning Glory and Afternoon Collection — Ch.1-2: A Brief Biography of Li Wei

by Li Wei (立委)

Life is short — trim off the beginning and the end, and you're left with perhaps thirty to fifty years. These can be divided into three stages: the career-building years (one's thirties), the mature years (one's forties), and the declining years (one's fifties and beyond). In Chinese custom, these stages are reflected in how one is addressed: Little Li (Xiao Li), Big Li (Da Li), and Old Li (Lao Li). But alas, I, Li Wei, leaped straight from Little Li to Old Li, never having the chance to savor the grandeur of my prime — a fact that has always left a faint ache in my heart.

Having skipped two grades between kindergarten and elementary school, I was always the youngest in my class. Born in the notorious hunger year besides, I was frail and undersized, often excused from PE with a doctor's note or sent home altogether — perpetually the little runt. Fortunately, as middle school began, a "revisionist resurgence" was underway: Mao had tasked Deng XP with cleaning up the Cultural Revolution's wreckage, and Deng in turn charged Zhou Rongxin, the education czar, with restoring order to the schools. The campus climate was renewed. Riding this tailwind, I began to distinguish myself. As class academic officer and math subject representative, I was assigned by the classroom tutoring teacher to mount the podium every morning during self-study period to demonstrate problem-solving strategies — practically a teaching assistant. But fair weather never lasts. The Gang of Four slandered Deng and calculated against him, and the Revolution faction regained the upper hand. The school descended into chaos. Academic classes were pushed to the background; "mass criticism" sessions became the main curriculum, supplemented with learning from workers, peasants, and soldiers on site. Unable to shine through academic subjects, I nevertheless lost no ground — in fact, my prominence only grew. For I was the master of polemical writing, having moved through the successive campaigns: Criticize Lin Biao, Criticize Confucius, Criticize Deng, Counter the Right-Deviationist Wind in education, and finally, Criticize the Gang of Four. At every assembly, large or small, whenever I spoke, my voice rose and fell with cadence and force, punctuated by wit and humor. I became a sensation on campus, celebrated far and wide. Some said I carried the legacy of Lu Xun — penetrating to the bone, yet always bringing forth the new from the old, a cascade of apt phrases. At open-air gatherings of a thousand people, the crowd was typically restless and disorderly, but the moment I stepped onto the platform, complete silence fell. They listened with rapt attention, and when I reached a punchline, laughter rippled through the audience. From this I forged a reckless courage and an immunity to stage fright — a gift that has served me all my life.

By the time I reached university — the prestigious Class of '77, the first cohort after the Cultural Revolution — I was still at the tail end, with classmates older than me by anywhere from one to over ten years. Among classmates we all called each other by name, except for my desk-mate, the youngest of the "Seven Fairies," who teasingly called me "Little Li Wei." It wasn't out of affection but rather to avoid suspicion — to demarcate clear boundaries. For four years we shared a desk, yet kept strictly apart — a Chu-Han divide, a clear line between Jing and Wei. The Seventh Fairy, naturally clever, used the pretext of being one year my senior to call me "Little Li Wei," thereby making our interactions, such as they were, officially above reproach.

Once the Seventh Fairy set this unfortunate precedent, the "Little" epithet stayed with me for years. Teaching middle school, I was called "Little Teacher Li" (age 22). In graduate school, I shuffled in and out of the computer lab, disheveled and unkempt, muttering to myself in "the world's language" (Esperanto), eventually becoming a campus joke (ages 23–26).

Caption: Full of youthful vigor and high spirits (1987).

After graduating from the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences and staying on at the institute, tales of Li Wei continued to circulate — mostly stories of love at first sight, a lightning marriage, chronic dishevelment, and the time I walked into a wall and had to apologize for it.

Caption: Li Wei directing machine translation system development at a Zhongguancun company (1988).

Thus I dug in at the research institute and the Zhongguancun company for five years (ages 26–31), honing skills akin to those of an old traditional Chinese doctor. My specialty was treating computers, taming their language functions. During this period, the fever for going abroad kept rising, spreading from Shanghai to Beijing. On every street corner, conversations inevitably turned to America, Japan, Britain, and Australia. Yet Li Wei and his "immediate superior" (my wife) ambled along in blissful ignorance, wrapped up in each other — like the old saying, "unaware of the Han dynasty, let alone the Wei and Jin". Not until every last classmate had departed did Little Li suddenly wake up. With grim resolve, he took the TOEFL exam and scrambled for the last train. As it happened, the Y.K. Pao Foundation was selecting promising talents, and through sheer luck, Little Li was chosen and dispatched to the Chengdu University of Science and Technology's overseas training center for half a year of preparation.

Who could have guessed that this would become the watershed between Little Li and Old Li. The talents gathered at the training center — men and women alike — were the best from every region and every field, divided into two groups: the one-year visiting scholars, mostly older, and the three-year doctoral scholarship recipients, mostly young rising stars. Li Wei, in the latter group, now found himself the senior. Every time there was an exam,  Wei inevitably took top honors, drawing a stream of talented men and women to his door with questions large and small. The sound of "Old Li" never ceased. Li Wei became a minor celebrity for a time, with a devoted following.

Caption: The talented men and women of the Chengdu University of Science and Technology Overseas Training Center (1990).

In the blink of an eye, Little Li had transformed into Old Li, basking in widespread esteem. As a foreign-language major, I should have been exempt from the English test. But the authorities, making no distinction, rounded everyone up and shipped us all to Chengdu, the "Land of Abundance" for centralized feeding. It wasn't just English — there were also policy training sessions. All my brothers and sisters worked conscientiously, scrambling to get ahead. Only Li Wei took it easy, spending his days indulging in Sichuan cuisine and lingering in teahouses and bars, much to the envy of his peers.

Though the title "Old Li" was coined in Chengdu, in my heart I didn't fully accept it. At that time my career was flourishing, at high noon — wide networks within the field and beyond. My associations were all with learned scholars; no common folk crossed my threshold. My advisor was a titan of the discipline, and I was his sole final protégé — his "closed-door disciple" (all the others having "betrayed" the motherland and fled to America). I was a "young" talent, a rising star, commanding the sidelong respect of my peers. On the eve of my departure from China, the national machine translation community held its annual gathering at the Fragrant Hills Guesthouse in Beijing. The highlight was a dinner conversation between my advisor and another giant of the field — what came to be known as the "Liu-Dong Dialogues" — throughout which Li Wei appeared repeatedly, furnishing his advisor with examples and explaining details. So influential was this that the assembled junior female scholars (mostly out-of-town graduate students newly entered into the field) flocked to Li Wei for guidance. Regrettably, with my mind so set on flying far away, I missed a golden opportunity to mentor these aspiring younger scholars.

After leaving the country, the years passed: from Britain to Canada, from Canada to America. Drifting and displaced, never knowing where I'd settle — my prime years flowing away like water. By the time of my eight-year tech start-up campaign in Buffalo (ages 37–45), my youth was gone, my prime had passed, and "Old Li" had become an honest name. Yet my ambition never waned. I redoubled my efforts, fighting on two fronts, and carved out a domain of my own.

Caption: Li Wei at his Buffalo office (2000).

Looking back, I can't help but sigh. My life — from youth to prime, precisely when my creative powers were at their peak and energy overflowing, with timing, place, and people all aligned — was cut in half by the long years of study abroad, everything reset to zero. Years later, after eight years of entrepreneurship, I returned to China to visit family. Amid clinking glasses at a hotel restaurant, I was enjoying a joyful reunion with family and relatives. During a brief pause in the feast, I strolled out onto the balcony to enjoy the cool air and take in the Beijing nightscape. There I happened upon an elegant young woman with a small child. Seeing my gray hair, she instructed the child: "Say hello to Grandpa." My blood pressure shot up, thunder crashed in my head, and all the wine in my belly turned to cold liquid, sliding down my spine.

Written on January 9, 2010.

朝华午拾 · 第一章之二：立委小传

立委列传

立委者，不知何许人也。少而敏，长而异，行迹颇诡于常人。
其生也，岁在荒年，形羸而志劲。未及冠，已连越学级，故恒处群中之末，年最幼焉。
然幼而不弱，虽体弗胜力，而心不屈志。

及中学之初，时局稍靖。上整学政，下肃庠序。立委因之得志，
为学官所擢，日登讲席，剖析数理，旁若无人，俨然少师。
众或异之。

未几，风复骤变。政教反覆，文艺退处，群趋口舌。
立委遂弃算而执笔，纵横批判之场。
其辞激而不燥，其论峻而多趣。
凡大会所集，千人喧沸，及立委登台，则声寂如林。
及其词锋所至，笑声震野。
或曰：“有鲁迅之遗意焉。”

由是胆气既张，临众不惧，终其身不改。

既入大学，岁在七七之年。
同学或长十余岁，呼名无忌。
惟其同席一女，独称之曰“小立委”。
非亲也，实所以避嫌而自别。
四年同案，界若河汉。
“小”字遂附其名，不可去。

其后为师，人称“小李”；
又入机房，昼夜沉思，口诵异语，众以为狂。
然其志固在远方，不为俗议所移。

及壮岁，入社科之府，留而不去。
或以情结婚，或以拙致笑，或以直触壁。
然其技益进，主译机器之文，疗电脑之疾，如良医治顽症。
五年之间，术成而名隐。

是时也，四海骚然，言出国者如市。
立委独处一隅，与其所亲者，相对忘世。
不知潮起。

及同侪尽去，乃幡然悔悟。
遂赴成都，入出国之塾。
群英毕集，才俊云合。
分为二辈：长者为学者，少者为新秀。

立委在新秀之中，忽为其长。
试辄居首，众皆仰之。
有事无事，咸趋其门。
“老李”之名，由此而生。

然立委心未以为然。
其时事业方张，师承名宿，交游尽鸿儒。
去国之际，香山论道，群贤在席。
立委数为师发言，条分缕析，众皆侧目。
后学相从者众，而其志已决，遂弃之而去。

既出国门，流转英加美三地。
岁月忽忽，若水东逝。
本当盛年，乃为学途所系。

他乡数载，非益其有，乃重其始。
人生之书，中叶忽断。

及至水牛城八年，鬓已微霜。
然志气未衰，犹能并驱两途，自立一隅。

后归故国，与亲友宴。
酒酣，独步于台。
忽遇一妇，携子而行。
见立委，命其子曰：

“呼爷爷。”

一言既出，天地俱寂。
立委怔立，若遭霆击。
酒气尽消，寒意自脊而下。

乃知——
名之所加，非虚也；
岁之所夺，不可返也。

太史曰：
人之生也，或以年序其行，或以名乱其序。
立委少而老名，壮而学子，
行不由己，时为之也。

夫所谓“老李”者，
非老于岁，乃老于世。

嗟乎！
名先于人，人生其后；
时夺其年，志存其余。

观立委一生，
非不得其时，
乃时不得其全也

From 朝华午拾 (Morning Glory and Afternoon Collection). Original Chinese: 乡愁是一张无形的网 (Nostalgia Is an Invisible Net).

Chapter 1: Homesickness is an Invisible Net

by Li Wei (立委)

Life comes but once, a river rushing to the sea that never returns. The distillation of a life transcends the life itself. Only when the migrating geese leave their call do you feel you haven't lived in vain. With accumulated experience, with inspiration stirring, with a serene mood and a pot of clear tea — what flows flowingly is not literary craft, but life itself: with its sorrows and joys, its sweat and blood.

Most things in this world follow predictable patterns. So do most human lives. But when an old hand looks back at his footprints, the ordinary parts tend to fade while the legendary ones stand out. And the legendary, by definition, defies belief. Yet what truly instructs us is often the legendary, not the routine. Morning Glory and Afternoon Collection is a legend. Some things in it, I scarcely believe myself. Take this, for example: raising 10 million dollars from the federal government and 11 million from investors within eight years around the turn of the century— fairly rare, right? But it happened, and it happened to us.

Another example: my elder brother's "rebellion" as a nine-year-old commander. I remembered the event, but in the first draft of Little Red Guards I did the math and thought it impossible, so I fudged it: "My brother was the representative of our second-grade class, one of the founders of the revolutionary organization." Later, after verifying with my father and brother, it turned out he WAS the commander, with a fourth-grade strategist as his adjutant. According to my father's account, our family was sent down to the countryside in 1965. Since there was no kindergarten there, I skipped straight from middle kindergarten into first grade elementary, sitting in the same class as my brother. After two months, I somehow advanced with the class to second grade (the plan was to hold me back in first, but the teacher said I was able to keep up). In '66 we were second-graders. School was suspended for the revolution, and the Little Red Guard was formed during that hiatus. The rebellion must have been in '66, because by '67 our family had left that small village town and returned to the county seat.

Morning Glory, Part One: Wandering Far Away

The very word wandering conjures the comic books of my childhood — Zhang Leping's Sanmao the Wanderer.

(to be continued)

朝华午拾 · 第一章：乡愁是一张无形的网

人生只有一次，奔流到海不复还。人生的酿造超越了人生。雁过留声，才感觉没有白活。有积淀，来灵感，准备好心情与清茶。从容流淌的不是文思，而是生活，伴着哀怨喜乐，汗水与泪血。

世界上的事情，多数都是循规蹈矩的常规。人一辈子也大多如此。不过，老帮菜回头看自己的足迹，常规的部分容易忽视，传奇的部分就凸现出来。凡传奇，就不可信。可是能够有启示的，往往是传奇，而不是常规。《朝华午拾》就是传奇。有些事情，我自己都不敢相信。比如，8年内从政府拿到1000万，从投资人拿到1100万的成就，极罕见吧。可它发生了，就在我身上。

再如，老哥九岁当司令造反的事情，我是记得的，可是在《红小兵》初稿中，我一算岁数，觉得不可能，就含糊地写“我哥哥是我们二年级的代表，革命组织发起人之一”。后来跟老爸老哥核实，确实是司令，后面有个四年级的军师辅佐。根据老爸的记述，我家1965年下乡，因为乡下没有幼儿园，我从幼儿园中班，直接插班进入小学一年级，跟我哥哥同班。上了两个月，居然跟班升学到二年级（本来打算留在一年级，可老师说我能跟上）。66年我们在二年级，其间有停学闹革命，匕首小分队就是在停学时期成立的。造反应该在66年，因为67年我家就离开那个小镇回县城了。

朝华之一：流浪远方

写就“流浪”二字，想起小时候看过的《三毛流浪记》来。张乐平后无漫画，大师千古。

From Morning Glory and Afternoon Collection（朝华午拾）. Original Chinese: 乡愁是一张无形的网.

by Li Wei (立委)

Why I Write Morning Glory and Afternoon Collection — Preface 2

After middle age, I grew fond of reminiscence. From time to time, seized by a mood, I would casually record the most unforgettable moments and feelings of my life — gathering fragments into a whole, publishing them online under the pen name 立委. This became "Morning Glory and Afternoon Collection".

"My Postgraduate Exam Experience" was the first piece in this nostalgic series, blogged on May 2, 2004, in Buffalo, New York. From there I couldn't stop, writing on and off for over a decade. Looking back, the college and postgraduate entrance exams — "leaping over the dragon gate" — truly were the fundamental turning points of destiny. On my first trip home after many years, both my elder brother and a senior schoolmate told me that for our generation, life's path was largely set the moment you either cleared or fell short of that gate. This is deeply unfair, because what standardized exams measure cannot begin to capture the talent and potential so many classmates possessed. Yet this is how society sorts us — an imperial examination system at its core, where academic excellence opens every door. Most opportunities and resources ultimately fall to the lucky few who cleared the dragon gate, leaving one to sigh at the opportunities in life.

A human life is like a dream — when you wake, nothing remains. Recording the most piercing moments, at least, freezes a frame of life. Life is brief. I didn't set out to write deliberately — I would simply record what came to mind, fearing that when I was truly old I would forget, as if I had never lived at all.

I began writing Morning Glory and Afternoon Collection to share with family, and later with those friends close enough to confide in. I have never deliberately elevated or embellished, but I know there is no absolute truth memories. What I call truth is only the truth of my memory, and memory is surely unreliable in places. Absolute truth is not necessarily more valuable — except when writing history — whereas "felt truth" is the stuff of literature. I have done my best to be truthful. Where something cannot be described truthfully, I would rather not write than knowingly fabricate. Some things I may only have the courage to write after retirement. What I choose to set down is real — not only for peace of mind, but in the hope of offering something to those who come after. But none of this is what matters most. What matters is using this unique way to connect with my father, my family, and those cherished friends — old buddies bound by common attention, care, concern, and fate — in a genuine exchange. I think to myself: without doing this, our usual conversations, trips home, and school reunions could never attain such depth. Separated for too long, people often find themselves with nowhere to begin. There are indeed things too precious, too sensitive, too delicate to share. But there is so much more that needs and can be shared — yet so many people rush through a lifetime without ever finding the occasion or the way.

Some time ago, talking about body and soul, I wondered: what is it that endures? At the very least, a person has thoughts, sensibility, and memory. If these are committed to words, it is as if something metaphysical is solidified and externalized. Though it cannot achieve immortality, at least it will not vanish with the body's going away. The ancients said: literary works endure across a thousand autumns. I have not thought that far — but sharing with family and friends is itself one of life's pleasures.

After I wrote Morning Glory and Afternoon Collection, my father began writing his own memoir, "Wind and Rain Through the Seasons", allowing us to understand more of his life. Every time I read about the famine year of 1960, and the life-and-death separation from my aunt — his younger sister — I cannot hold back tears. My elder brother also wrote "Riverside Chronicle" (later collected as "Small-Town Green Years"). His memory is more precise, his descriptions more delicate and vivid. Those "old stories" from the county town where we grew up, events that feel like a world away, come back to vivid life before our eyes.

This volume also collects a unique family heirloom — the surviving manuscript of my great-grandfather, "Remaining Ink of the Elder Li".

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朝华午拾 · 代序

我写朝华午拾——代序2

立委

人到中年之后，喜欢怀旧。有时候兴起，把自己一生中刻骨铭心的所历所感，随手记录下来，集腋成裘，以立委为名发表在互联网上，是为《朝华午拾》。《我的考研经历》是我《朝华午拾》怀旧系列的第一篇，博客记于2004年5月2日纽约州水牛城。从此一发不可收，断断续续写了十几年。回想起来，人的一生，高考和考研的"跳龙门"确实是命运的根本转机。第一次回国探亲，老哥和师姐都跟我说，同辈人后来的生活道路，大多在冲刺龙门的那一刻就注定了。这很不公平，因为很多同学所具有的才干和潜力，应试教育是不能全面衡量的。但是，社会就是这样来鉴别的，本质上还是科举制度，学而优则"仕"。多数机会和资源最终落在少数幸运地跃过龙门的同学身上，让人不胜唏嘘。

人的一生就跟梦一样，醒来什么也没留下。把最刻骨铭心的片段记录下来，至少把生活定格了一下。人生苦短，也不是刻意去写，想到了就记录下来，怕以后真老了，就记不得了，感觉白活了一样。

我写《朝华午拾》的起因是跟家人分享，后来也跟谈得来的朋友分享。从来没有刻意拔高或虚饰，但我知道，没有绝对的真实。所谓真实，也只是我记忆中的真实，而记忆肯定有不可靠之处。绝对真实不一定更有价值，除了写史以外，而感受的真实才有文学。我已经尽力真实，如果遇到无法真实描述的，我宁肯不写，也不刻意为虚。有些事大概要等到退休以后才有勇气。选择写出来的就是真实，不但求得心安，而且也希望给后来者以启发。但这些都不重要，重要的是，用这种独特的方式，跟老爸和家人，还有亲密好友，爱护、关心、有缘结识的老友，有一个交流。我想，我如果不这样，平时的谈话，回家探亲，还有同学聚会，都不可能深入和亲密。分开太久，人常常是这样，很多话无从谈起。确实有一些太过珍贵、太过敏感、太过微妙的，无法分享。可是还有更多的，是需要也可能分享的。但是很多人匆忙一辈子，就找不到一个机会或者方式。

前些时候谈肉体和灵魂，我就想，什么是永存的东西。至少人有思想、感性和回忆，如果诉诸文字，好像就把某种形而上的东西固化和外化出来。尽管不能不朽，却至少并不会随肉体消亡而逝去。所以，古人说，文章千古事。我倒没想千古那么远，但是，与亲友分享，亦是人生一乐。

我写《朝华午拾》后，我老爸开始写回忆录《风雨春秋》，让我们更多了解他这一辈子。每次读到60年荒年，我姑姑（爸爸妹妹）的生离死别，我就忍不住流泪。老哥汉阳一江水也写了《江城记事》（后结集为《小城青葱生活》）。他的记忆更加准确，描述也细腻。我们从小生活的县城所发生的那些恍如隔世的"城南旧事"，栩栩如生回到我们眼前。

本书还收集了家传孤本，我曾祖父的《李老夫子遺墨》。

From Morning Glory and Afternoon Collection (朝华午拾) — a memoir series. Original Chinese text: 代序.