How I resent that this body is not mine to keep; when will I be done with all this scurrying. The night is late, the wind is still, the fine ripples lie flat. From here the little boat drifts away; I leave my remaining years to rivers and seas. — Su Shi, “Riverside Daffodils”
2022.9.27
Today is the first day of my life as a free man. I slept till I woke on my own, wholly relaxed — even the skin on my forehead no longer had that old tightness, as if the wrinkles were fading, the hair straining to grow, the bald patch turning into a forest. Is there anything happier than not going to work?
Time to start saving money. At noon I went to the 7-Eleven and bought two boxed meals, one for RMB 19.8 and one for RMB 15.6 — that was my food for the day. If I keep this up, I’m bound to get thin. Hey, the abs will come — eight of them, rock hard. Once I get to Rushan there won’t even be a convenience store, so I’ll have to cook for myself: plain rice with Lao Gan Ma every day, eating vegetarian. I trust I’ll turn back into a lean southern man.
Last week I’d booked a ticket to the Wanshou Temple, and today I went to check it off. I know nothing about its history or architecture — I only went because it shares a name with a Wang Xiaobo novel. For a long time I thought the three Tang tales in Wang Xiaobo’s The Bronze Age were his best fiction, better even than The Golden Age. Only as I grew older did I gradually come to feel what was good about The Golden Age. I will never forget the summer after my freshman year, when I stayed behind on the campus in Changchun and read the story of Xue Song and Hongxian in the library, tireless and engrossed.
“In midsummer, on the red-earth hills of western Hunan, all is desolate; the grass and trees wither not from the blight of the autumn wind but from the fierce heat. The wild grass on the slopes is a sheet of yellow; even the three leaves of the wild taro by the water have flopped over in three different directions; the air feels like hot water dashed in your face. A dry, hot wind still blows over the slopes. ...” — Wang Xiaobo, Wanshou Temple
The zoo is very close to the Wanshou Temple. I don’t remember how many times I’d been — two or three — but now I didn’t want to go in; I just took a photo at the gate. I don’t want to see animals in captivity. Every living thing should be free, not penned up in a cage.
The Wanshou Temple and the zoo were probably the last two places I’d go out of my way to check off. I didn’t want to run around to any more; too tiring. For the month ahead I’d just pack properly, plan out my lying-flat life in Rushan, and get out of Beijing. Less pining after the people and things of the past; more looking forward.
Over dinner a question came to me: now that I’m not working, what cycle should I plan my life around? Back when I worked it was a seven-day cycle, of course; but with no job, Monday through Friday is the same as Saturday and Sunday, so there’s no need to go by the week — the very idea of the week has lost its meaning. A month seems about right, I think; a year would work too. Suddenly a door to a new world opened.
2022.9.28
Since I was still technically employed until the 30th, I could join the office’s autumn outing this month — my last group activity, I suppose. It was at Shuanglong Gorge in Mentougou, a two-and-a-half-hour drive; I got up at six thirty, woken by an alarm that hadn’t rung in a long time.
There wasn’t much to see in the gorge — ordinary hills and water and trees. But I thought that in late autumn, when the leaves turn red and the slopes are dyed layer on layer, it must have a charm of its own; and in deep winter, when the waterfall freezes, the pools ice over, or a heavy snow falls, there might be something worth looking at. What I hadn’t expected and found astonishing was that the Yongding River in the Mentougou stretch had water in it again — wide, racing, clear — winding and rushing on beneath the steep, rugged, vast northern mountains. I really wanted to go down and take a bath, to wash the filth off my body. I know nothing about painting, but if someone painted that scenery it would be the masterpiece of the northern landscape school.
Getting out to walk and look around, especially to the far suburbs to enjoy the hills and water, away from crowds and the city, does the body and mind a world of good. I couldn’t help thinking of Xu Xiake of the Ming dynasty. I envy him so much — and he could write such beautiful prose. Another one of my idols.
“The reason I wrote about Xu Xiake is to tell you this: what are called a century of fame and merit, a thousand years of empire, ten thousand ages of glory — set beside one thing, they really amount to nothing. And that one thing is: to spend your life in the way you like. There is only one kind of success — to live your life in your own way.” It’s said that Dangnian Mingyue, the author of Those Things of the Ming Dynasty, said this. I haven’t read it either, and I’m not going to verify.
2022.9.29
In the morning I got up to deal with the last item: picking up my certificate of termination. It could have been given to me three days earlier, but he insisted I come in today. All I saw him do was type my ID number in on the spot, verify my start and end dates, print it, stamp it, have me sign — done. Only now could I say all the paperwork was truly finished. If I found another job, I’d have to hand this certificate over. But another job is probably nowhere in sight for me; I hope I never have to work a day in my life, only laze around.
“What do you want to do?” “I want to loaf.” (Another version goes, “I want to idle about.”) It seems to come from Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge.
I quit a lot of work group chats and uninstalled the company’s messaging app. I wanted to delete all my colleagues too, but wasn’t quite that resolute, so I just left them for now. I figure we’ll never talk to each other again — the things and people of the past have nothing to do with me now. Only forward, only on.
2022.9.30
I didn’t go out at all today. I’d been to all the places in Beijing worth going to; I didn’t know where else to go, and had no heart for it anyway. Home called to ask whether I was on holiday and where I’d go for the holiday — of course I couldn’t tell them I’d quit. I read the Book of Songs indoors, but it was noisy upstairs, noisy down in the compound, noisy on the road outside the compound, noisy enough to fray your nerves. I long so badly to be far from crowds. I should go live in the Greater Khingan Mountains; I should go live on Lake Baikal; I should go live at Walden Pond.
2022.10.1
The packing boxes I’d bought online arrived early in the morning; before I was even awake, the delivery guy knocked and woke me. Six small boxes, and four a little bigger. I packed five of the small ones and sent two boxes of books first, to Pokuan’s place — he could get the shipping reimbursed. The other three would go out a little later, some of them home. Packing is exhausting. This is what you get for not being able to afford a house.
2022.10.2
There were new cases in Beijing again — it seems a few always crop up around the holidays. I hope it doesn’t last too long, or it’ll hold me up from going elsewhere. Leaving Beijing isn’t much of a problem in itself, but if Beijing has cases, the places I go will put restrictions on me, and that’s a hassle too.
While washing my face I thought: when a person leaves a place, it must be because the place isn’t good and somewhere else is better. Beijing may be the most developed, safest city, but living here doesn’t necessarily make you happy. For poor people, no place makes you happy. Older people will challenge the young: all you know is talking about money, you have no ideals at all. But does making money and getting rich not count as an ideal?
Every year after the National Day holiday Beijing turns cold; time to break out the long sleeves and trousers and a thick quilt at night. But cold and poverty may be good things for me — these past few years I’ve put on ten kilos, layers of flab, loose skin, ugly in photographs. It’s time to lose some weight.
2022.10.3
I sent off two more boxes of things; it cost a good deal. I packed some more, waiting to be sent. Not much left now. A big cold snap — no more walking around naked indoors. People who come north from the south to study or work tend to fall in love with northern heating and never dare go back to live in the south. I don’t know how I’ll adapt to a winter without heating in Rushan. Rushan is in Weihai, Shandong — it’s not that there’s no heating, it’s that most of the apartments in the Silver Beach resort area don’t have it; if you want a heated place, you pay RMB 1,000 more in rent. The young people living there all say you can tough it out without heating. I believe I can too — and save money besides.
Bathing costs the most — water, electricity (and the bathroom heater when it’s cold), gas. From now on I’ll bathe once a week, and once a month in winter. No job means money goes out at every turn: eating costs money, drinking water costs money, getting online costs money. My savings will run out fast. But there’s no need to fret — “to live out a life in freedom and peace.” If the money runs out, I’ll die: jump off a building, leap into the sea, lie down on the tracks, hang myself. Two or three years of living in freedom and peace is far happier than a lifetime in prison. For freedom’s sake.
Oh, and I can’t get sick. In all these years of working I never once fell ill, but there’s no guarantee I won’t get sick once I stop working. If I fall ill or have an accident, with no health insurance, the cost is enormous. Even lying flat, I need to keep regular habits and take good care of myself.
2022.10.4
I sent off two more boxes — one of books, one of old clothes — back home, and it cost a lot of money. I don’t know whether my parents will sense something’s off with me. If they do, I’ll make up a reason to brush it off, saying those things were useless, or that I’d moved. A general in the field need not obey every order from his lord.
Luo Yin, “Self-Amusement”: “Sing when you win, stop when you lose; too much worry and too much hate go on and on. If there is wine today, be drunk today; if there is sorrow tomorrow, be sorrowful tomorrow.”
After the gale and the cold snap, the sky turned a frightening blue again; just looking up at it lifts your mood. I’ve gotten used to skies this blue in the north — going back south I probably won’t adjust. Beijing’s air quality really has improved markedly these past few years, but I won’t get to enjoy it much longer.
Last evening Beijing’s news said there was a “breathtaking” sunset. I clicked in to look, and it was perfectly ordinary — Beijingers really have no sense of what’s beautiful. “Once you’ve known the vast sea, no other water is water; apart from the clouds of Mount Wu, no other cloud is a cloud.” If you’d seen a more beautiful sunset, you wouldn’t call Beijing’s sunset “breathtaking.” Seeing only a patch of sky from the bottom of a well is a terrible thing. I want to go to the seaside and see more beautiful sunsets and dawn skies, and wider views of sky and earth.
2022.10.5
Over the National Day holiday I went nowhere far except to take out the trash, buy boxed meals, and get PCR tests. I’d been to nearly every place in Beijing worth going to; only some of the hutongs and sights in the southern part of the city remained, and I thought they were too far. In truth I had little heart for sightseeing now anyway — I just wanted to leave Beijing early and begin my new life. But Beijing had quite a few scattered cases lately, and I worried I’d be caught up in it. Damn these rules!
It had gotten cold outside. Indoors I’d put on a hoodie, long trousers, and socks, and started boiling water — using the kettle, washing my face and soaking my feet in hot water. I really am afraid of the cold! And yet here I am, leaving Beijing — with its heating — just as winter comes, in pursuit of a cold freedom.
In the Book of Songs there’s the saying “in the ninth month, hand out the clothes.” October in the Western calendar is the ninth month of the lunar calendar. For thousands of years the seasons have not changed, turning and returning, and yet generation after generation of people have come and gone. “Human affairs pass away and are renewed; comings and goings make up the ancient and the modern.” How small and fleeting a person is.
2022.10.6
At noon I sent out another large box. By today I’d sent five small boxes and two large ones, seven in all. Hardly anything was left — some of it I’d carry myself, the rest I’d just have to throw away. There was also money on a few shopping cards I had to use up. The direct train from Beijing to Rushan had stopped for no clear reason, so I had to replan the route and change trains somewhere — go to Weihai first, then on to Rushan. Not the best moment to leave: there was a big meeting coming, there was the pandemic, and I had no idea what arrangements would follow the meeting. Everything was unknown, a gamble.
Going to a friend’s place for dinner was the first time in days I’d gone far from home. When I first came to Beijing I still had the energy for a social life, would go out of my way to meet new people; but these past three years I’ve hardly met anyone new, and I’ve grown colder and colder toward socializing. I’m a person who has never feared loneliness. My temperament suits living in the mountains, by the sea, in places with few people — quietly doing my own thing in a peaceful place. My friends all want to go abroad, and to go abroad you have to make money. I’m not a person who can make money, so I’ll go to a domestic city where you spend little.
It really is cold — no way around soaking my feet. Without heating I don’t know what I’ll do. My tooth hurts; a wisdom tooth has grown in crooked. And I have no health insurance anymore.
2022.10.7
I put away all my short sleeves, shorts, and ankle socks — either threw them out or sent them home. I’m going to Rushan right in autumn-winter, so I wouldn’t need them there anyway, and hauling them over would be a nuisance; better to lighten the load. From now on I’ll buy fewer clothes too — so I can bolt at any time, free and easy.
Back when I worked, at the end of every year the office would reimburse us RMB 3,800 in medical expenses. I never went to the hospital, and I didn’t take any tonics, so every year-end I’d be in a sweat over how on earth to come up with receipts for that money. The first few years I’d go to the pharmacy and buy daily necessities and health products, and mail the health products home for my parents. The last few years I didn’t want to buy anything more, so I opened a membership card at the pharmacy and put the money on it — which is how these past two years I ended up with six or seven thousand stuck on the card, unused. Now that I’m leaving I have to use it up fast, but I can’t use that much; so I’ll just give the card to my brother and let him spend it. There was other money too that only I could spend. At night I went to the pharmacy and bought RMB 1,500 of health products, meaning to mail them home — it’s all I can do. And from now on I won’t even have social insurance; I can only beg heaven not to let me fall ill.
At the compound gate, the old guy supervising the code-scanning asked me, “Back to work tomorrow, are you?” Out loud I said, “That’s right, back to work tomorrow,” but inside I was thinking, “Work? What work?” If I didn’t go out and come back at commuting hours and he noticed, he’d surely find it very strange: “How come this guy isn’t working? His job must be awfully cushy!” So I’ll just have to not go out.
My tooth hurts badly and hasn’t eased in the least; I don’t know what’s causing it. I really regret not having the wisdom tooth pulled while I was still working.
Tomorrow everyone else goes back to work and only I don’t — so relaxed and comfortable. I’ll sleep as late as I please, and put my phone on airplane mode so no one can find me. If anyone wants to ask me about anything, that can wait till I wake up. I don’t care about you lot at all!
2022.10.8
I mailed home the health products I’d bought yesterday, along with some things I didn’t need. In all I’d sent five small boxes and three large ones. What remained — bedding, toiletries, and autumn-winter clothes — I’d take to Rushan. At noon I asked in the chat group how to get to Rushan and got two answers: one, take the high-speed rail to Weihai first, then a bus to Rushan; two, take the tour bus that goes to look at properties, straight from Beijing to Rushan Silver Beach.
Since I stopped working I’ve been going to bed very late, not until around one, with the phone set to airplane mode, sleeping straight through to nine thirty. And it’s too cold, the sky is overcast, I haven’t gone out all day. Even without a job it gets boring, with nothing to do; once I get to Rushan I’ll have to find myself something to occupy my time.
What meaning does Beijing really have for me? I have no hukou, no house; Beijing is a place of temporary residence, like an inn — “Heaven and earth are an inn for all things.” I could never stay in Beijing forever; even if I hadn’t quit, even if I’d worked until retirement, once I got old I’d still have to go home, to die at home and be buried at home. Seven short years in Beijing — “time is the passing traveler of a hundred generations” — just a little stretch on the timeline, with limitless time stretching out on either side; this whole experience is no more than an interlude in a life.
Only in the evening did I suddenly realize the wisdom tooth had stopped hurting — for no reason, come in a hurry, gone in a hurry. May sickness and pain not torment me.
2022.10.9
Too cold, too windy, didn’t go out all day, and didn’t know where to go anyway. More cases in Beijing. I stayed home reading the Book of Songs.
2022.10.10
Lately I go to bed around one or two every night, set the phone to airplane mode before sleeping, and wake around ten in the morning — sleeping naturally, waking naturally, living naturally, dying naturally. Because I get up late I don’t nap at noon the way I did when I worked. The stretch before I leave Beijing for Rushan is a transitional period; this schedule certainly isn’t sustainable. Once I’m there I’ll arrange my time sensibly and do something meaningful.
A friend said I should leave earlier, in case the pandemic locks me in. I do worry about that, but my apartment in Beijing isn’t up yet (the 23rd), and I haven’t started looking for a place in Rushan. Besides, once I leave it’ll be hard to come back — like so many cities I’ve lived in before — and I can’t help feeling a little melancholy. I need time to ease out of the old mood and plan the new life. I can’t be that decisive, and I don’t want to rush; since I’m no longer working, I’ll treat all things with an easy grace.
“The True men of old knew nothing of the love of life or of the hatred of death. Entrance into life occasioned them no joy; the exit from it awakened no resistance. Composedly they went and came. They did not forget what their beginning had been, and they did not inquire into what their end would be. They accepted their life and rejoiced in it; they forgot all fear of death, and returned to their state before life. Thus there was in them what is called the want of any mind to resist the Dao, and of all attempts by means of the Human to assist the Heavenly. Such were they who are called the True men. Being such, their minds were free from all thought; their demeanor was still and unmoved; their foreheads beamed simplicity. Whatever coldness came from them was like that of autumn; whatever warmth came from them was like that of spring. Their joy and anger assimilated to what we see in the four seasons. They did in regard to all things what was suitable, and no one could know how far their action would go.” — Zhuangzi, “The Great and Most Honoured Master”
If it weren’t for a PCR test every three days, I wouldn’t leave the compound at all (only going downstairs to take out the trash). And if I didn’t leave the compound I’d never run into the gatekeeper uncle supervising the code-scanning, and he’d never ask me “You haven’t been going to work these past few days,” and I wouldn’t have to feel awkward and make up a reason to fool him — “I’ve been away these past few days.” Of course it’s not that I’m thin-skinned and don’t want to talk to people who are none of my business; it’s the goddamn restrictions. If there were no restrictions I wouldn’t need to go out for PCR tests, wouldn’t need to scan codes, and there’d be no need for an uncle posted at the compound gate.
I want to go somewhere that doesn’t require PCR tests, where no one bosses me around, no one restricts my freedom, and no one points at me behind my back.
2022.10.11
Packing: just one suitcase and one bag, the suitcase holding autumn-winter clothes, the bag holding valuables — and still I think it’s too much. Though Beijing’s pandemic situation is unstable, I’ve decided to leave on the 23rd as planned, unwilling to upset my plans by going early. Some things can’t go into the suitcase or bag yet; I’ll wait till the last day to decide what to toss and what to take. The quilt and pillow and kettle, obviously, can’t be taken; the laptop, charger, and toiletries I’ll carry with me that day. These past days I’ve eaten irregularly, and the flab on my belly has visibly thinned a lot — the abs are just around the corner.
Not wanting to go out is really not wanting to exchange pleasantries with the gatekeeper uncle, or answer his suspicion that I’m not working. I finally thought of a reason: “I’m working from home.” I really hate being questioned up and down about everything, and I hate the policy that’s “sustainable and must be upheld.”
2022.10.12
Staying in Beijing really has no meaning now. I don’t want to go out shopping or sightseeing, and I have no friends to see (not socializing is one of my virtues — only people who don’t fear loneliness are suited to quiet places). I truly can’t think of anything to do. I should consider leaving early, going to the seaside to start my new life. A day earlier is a day more of the experience; time waits for no one, and autumn is brief and beautiful.
As for transportation, I plan to take the tour bus, which goes straight to every compound in Silver Beach. I called the travel agency to ask: the bus runs as normal, the fare is RMB 160, it leaves at six thirty in the morning and arrives around five in the evening, and so on. Transportation is no problem. The only thing not settled now is lodging. Some kind people in the Silver Beach chat group are helping me look for a place, but it can’t be too far ahead — three or four days in advance is enough. I’ll sit quietly with it a few more days.
I finished all 305 poems of the Book of Songs, then wasted two days; tonight I’ll start on Tao Yuanming — how serene Master Five Willows’ frame of mind was. I read a poem called “Blame My Sons” and laughed myself silly. “White hairs have covered my temples, my flesh and skin no longer firm. Though I have five sons, not one of them cares for brush and paper. A-Shu is already sixteen, and matchless in his laziness. A-Xuan is at the studying age, yet has no love for letters. Yong and Duan are thirteen and can’t tell six from seven. A-Tong is nearly nine, and all he seeks are pears and chestnuts. If this is the will of heaven, then let me drink what’s in the cup.” When there’s nothing to do, reading a little poem calms the mind — and you learn something too; two birds with one stone.
2022.10.13
Something happened, and yet it was as if it hadn’t; it was quickly erased. Every day now I’m in the state I used to be in on Friday nights.
2022.10.14
I hadn’t gone out to wander for many days; today I forced myself to go walk the hutongs. Beijing’s hutongs are actually great fun — I used to love wandering around on my own, and the names of the alleys and the long narrow passages all have a Beijing flavor. I’d never been inside the courtyard homes on either side, but standing at a doorway and peering in, you could imagine the charm of life within (I know the courtyards are shabby and inconvenient day to day). As long as you’re walking — whether through hutongs or a park — it’s good for body and mind. But I’m about to flee, and I no longer have the heart to take in Beijing’s human texture. Riding the subway back, in the Friday rush hour, the car was packed with exhausted workers, and it left me more tired than before.
I told a friend I was leaving. Astonished, he said he’d been about to set me up on a blind date, and now it turned out I wouldn’t be in Beijing. Right — a man without a job, would any woman still want him? And blind dates are aimed at marriage; with your economic foundation at zero, which woman would marry you? Beijing’s older single women are not fated to be with me, and I’m not fated to be with them. Bye.
Today there was a rare bout of smog; I couldn’t even see the sun set behind the hills, let alone any “breathtaking” sunset. There’s no romance to be had in the city.
2022.10.15
Someone in the group had successfully applied for “unemployment insurance benefits,” which made me very envious, and I got the idea of collecting some money too. But I read the instructions: you have to meet the condition of “employment terminated against your own will.” I’d quit of my own accord, so I probably couldn’t get it. Still, I applied online, and if that failed I’d try the “unemployment allowance,” which has no such requirement — even “personal reasons” would do. (Sure enough, the first application was rejected within five minutes. I applied for the allowance, and was rejected again: “As of 0:00 on July 1, 2022, applications for the unemployment allowance are no longer accepted.” Not a shred of benefit to be had; I can only provide for myself and rely on my own two hands.)
Standing on the balcony hanging laundry, I thought of how over the New Year the window in the building next door, on my floor, facing my balcony, had been dark for two or three months — of course because that tenant had moved out and no one new had moved in, so it stayed empty. Once I move out, how long will my room be dark? I often wonder where that person before me moved to — Shunyi or Changping, Hebei or the Northeast? And why they moved — a new job, or going back home? Did they find a better rental, or buy a place of their own? I’ve no way of knowing.
2022.10.16
Lying in bed at night, I pictured the good life in Rushan: every morning I’d go watch the sunrise and the dawn sky, every evening the sunset and the evening glow, never letting a beautiful sight go to waste. Thinking of the brilliant dawn over the sea that someone in the group had shared, I was thrilled and awed. And then I remembered: in seven years in Beijing I’d never once watched the dawn. Before that, in the other places where I studied and worked, I’d never watched the dawn either. Only when I was very small, living in the little town, cooling off on the rooftop on summer nights, did I wake at daybreak and see the sun rising in the east. From childhood we’re taught to study hard, get into a good university, find a good job, make lots and lots of money — but we’re never taught to love nature, to feel the turning of heaven and earth, sunrise and sunset, moonrise and moonset, and so on. We’re raised into calculating people, “refined egoists,” utterly cold to the changes of the world and to the people around us, and forever making the excuse that study or work keeps us too busy to care about or pay attention to secondary things. How many chances to feel beauty we’ve missed because of it.
“Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion”: “Looking up, I see the immensity of the cosmos; bowing my head, I look at the multitude of the world. The gaze flies, the heart expands, the joy of the senses can reach its peak, & indeed, this is true happiness.” — Samantha Cristoforetti, the Italian astronaut
Waking in the morning, I heard water gurgling in the heating pipes — a pleasant sound; they were testing the system, and next month the heat would come on. Of course, by then I wouldn’t be in Beijing anymore. Once in Rushan, I’d have to get through a winter without heating. I thought of Kong Yiji, Lu Xun’s shabby scholar in his long gown, and felt cold.
As expected, because of the big meeting, the tour bus from Beijing to Rushan was suspended until the 23rd, upsetting my plans again. I had to change how I’d travel: first the high-speed rail to Weihai, then a bus to Rushan. Maybe I could stay in Weihai a few days and see its sunrises and sunsets. (That was the only arrangement possible. I’d arrive in Weihai at night, find a guesthouse for two or three days, and finish the “two tests in three days.” This change of itinerary cost me a lot of wasted money; having no job, I ought to be saving, but history saw to it that I lost out.)
As of today I hadn’t been home in three years, and hadn’t left Beijing in a year and three months. All of it left me feeling helpless; all I could do was sigh.
2022.10.17
The rental agent called to confirm whether I really meant to end the lease. I answered yes, I’d be gone on the last day. They reminded me how to handle the move-out online and what to watch out for. I noticed that if I left too much behind, they’d charge for clearing the room. I hurried to sort things again and hauled it all downstairs to throw out, so they wouldn’t dock me. If they dock you, it comes out of the deposit. The deposit was over six thousand — no small “extra” income, enough to rent in Rushan for two years. Beijing is a vampire.
Getting up in the morning, I found that Chaoyang District had no risk areas left at all — the day before it still had a medium-risk zone, and now they were all wiped out. I don’t know how they decide these things, but for me it was a godsend, and I should seize the chance to leave quickly. And yet I kept feeling there were things in Beijing left undone, and was slow to set out, even though there was nothing to do — maybe deep down I really was reluctant to go. I only hope the next few days don’t seesaw again and that it stays free of risk areas. For now I’ll stick to the plan: high-speed rail to Weihai on the 23rd.
2022.10.18
A former colleague told me about some fresh mess at the office. I wasn’t interested in the least, but I knew he wanted to vent his anger, so I listened for a while and chimed in, “Just making trouble for nothing,” and at the end said, “Not my business anymore.” Right — they’re all nothing to do with me now. Another former colleague asked how I’d been lately, and I couldn’t even be bothered to reply. Colleagues are just colleagues; once you quit, they’re strangers.
A friend asked whether I’d ever come back to Beijing. I don’t dare guarantee that I’ll never return, but I won’t go guessing either. Later is later. I only plan my life one or two years out; what the world will look like two or three years from now, nobody knows.
As for food, I’m completely undemanding — as long as it fills my belly, it’ll do. Shaxian snacks and Lanzhou noodles are delicious fare. The fancy restaurants and trendy snacks of the big city hold no attraction for me at all; I don’t drink coffee or milk tea, and I rarely even eat meat — chicken, duck, fish. My desires are extremely low; you could say I’m a champion of low-desire consumption. If a person lowers his appetite for consumption, he not only spends a lot less money but has a lot less anxiety — why not do it? Get that far and you’re free of the vulgar world.
Once food and warmth are taken care of, as for socializing — I actually think you can have social life anywhere. In the city you can socialize with artsy young people; in the countryside you can socialize with farmers and vendors. And even with no one around, you can commune with animals and plants, high mountains and flowing water, blue sky and white clouds. The rarest thing is solitude. Schopenhauer said: “Whoever does not love solitude does not love freedom, for it is only when a man is alone that he is free.” A person can’t reach absolute freedom, but he can approach it without limit.
2022.10.19
It’s been exactly three months since I first thought of quitting. Looking back on how my thinking has changed over these three months, I find it rather interesting — the season went from midsummer to late autumn, my clothes from short sleeves and shorts to long sleeves and a hoodie, my mood from restless to calm and quiet. I’ll make a little summary.
When I wrote “Seven Years Drifting in Beijing” I still hadn’t made up my mind to quit; when I finished it I only felt sorrowful and sad, feeling that in Beijing I wasn’t happy at all, that my life was bound, that in seven years I’d achieved nothing — I’d only “existed.” Later, from who knows where, came the courage — perhaps from realizing I couldn’t go on this way — and at last I swore to quit, to be done with it, to go live somewhere else. Right after deciding to quit I still felt worried and hesitant, but gradually I hardened, knowing I had to go. After a month of leave, mulling over this reason and that for quitting, I decided to leave with a gentle reason and a gentle manner. The quitting itself took another month: at first I still went to the office, later only to do the exit paperwork, stripping the office and the job out of my life for good. Once it was done I felt my reasons for quitting were childish and laughable — no need to have been so kind to them; I should have walked away colder. After leaving, of course, there was only joy and lightness.
“The past cannot be retrieved; the future may still be pursued.” Now I only look forward to the good life ahead — living alone by the sea, taking a walk every day, watching the ocean, watching the sunrise, the sunset, the dawn sky, the evening glow, hearing the sound of the waves, the sound of the wind, the sound of my own heart.
2022.10.20
Near the end of my time in Beijing, only three days left. In early October I went out every day — to take out the trash, to buy a boxed meal at the convenience store, or to wander nearby. By mid-to-late October I was going out only once every three days (that is, for a PCR test); the trash piled up at home and I didn’t take it out, and when I did it was after ten at night. I truly had no heart to go out. Why go out? There’s no sea to look at in Beijing.
Is Beijing good for nothing, then? Not at all. Beijing’s virtues are like the virtues on the evening news — a correct kind of good. But for an ordinary poor guy like me, who’s even hard up for rent, I really can’t name anything good about it; otherwise I wouldn’t be leaving. Of course, these seven years in Beijing weren’t entirely fruitless — the fruit being, “Ah, Beijing is nothing special either.” There are plenty of middle-aged men who spit on the ground, young men who care only about making money, young women who all dress in the same cookie-cutter way, old people who keep dogs out of emptiness and loneliness. How is it different from anywhere else? Sometimes you feel Beijing is bad to a heightened degree.
Lately I’ve been going out less, with little daily life to record, so my idle thoughts have multiplied — like some lecturing middle-aged man. Dull.
Since it was the third day again, I had to go out for a PCR test today. To make sure nothing goes wrong when I leave Beijing (say, a result coming back late, or not at all), and given the rule of a test within 48 hours of departure, I’ll have to get tested tomorrow and the day after too. In other words, three days of tests in a row. Thanks a lot — for nothing. And to lower the risk of a health-code pop-up alert, or being flagged a close contact, or an overlapping-trajectory warning, I have to go out as little as possible, see as few people as possible. As for what Shandong’s policy is (whether they’ll apply a one-size-fits-all rule and quarantine you the moment Beijing has a risk area), I can only leave it to fate. A year and three months without leaving Beijing — I really am walking on eggshells.
2022.10.21
Pacing around the room, looking at the familiar furniture and layout, I thought about how I’d lived in this 38-square-meter apartment for a full three years. Small as it is next to a ten-square-meter cubbyhole, living three years in such cramped space is no easy thing. What meaning do the city’s little boxes of concrete and brick really have for human beings? Still, this little place did make a lot of things convenient for me: moving here to live alone before the pandemic spared me a lot of the trouble of shared housing (if a roommate had any link to the pandemic, I’d be dragged in too). Of course, the rent was expensive. If you want to live a bit better, you have to pay the price. Everything is desire. I’m about to move, and a lot of things can only be thrown away — that’s just how it is when you have no fixed home. The history of an ordinary man who lived here three years will soon be erased, leaving no trace of him, and there’s even less chance that years from now someone will hang a plaque here reading “Former Residence of So-and-So” for people to come and admire. Life is that absurd — like dew, like lightning, like a dream, an illusion, a bubble, a shadow. Three years are but a blink.
2022.10.22
I dreamed my parents were reading the diary I’d written, a printed manuscript, page by page. Startled, I snatched it away and tore it up, but they said, “You write very well!” And then asked, “Did you really quit?” I said it was fiction, that I was still working.
I didn’t tell my parents about quitting, nor did I inform many friends. There was no need for them to know; I didn’t want my parents to worry, and with friends I’d grown distant from there was nothing to say anyway. So I came alone and went alone, walking on and on by myself — and felt rather impressive, to be able to make so many decisions on my own. That’s how it should be in this life: once you want to depend on someone, you’re bound, no longer free.
“The sunsets have all been so beautiful lately, and I always miss them.” They say this was a reader’s reason for quitting a job. What a beautiful line! Quitting isn’t anything new anymore — plenty of young people are doing it — but when it happens to you, everyone feels differently: some are excited, some are depressed, some are baffled. It’s worth writing down.
Today is my last day in Beijing (the big meeting has closed too). Strong wind, blue sky, leaves drifting down. Tomorrow morning I’ll take the high-speed rail out of Beijing, bound for Weihai. I gave the last few things in the apartment to a friend who lives nearby, and got my last PCR test. Everything is ready, only the dawn is wanting. I sat in the empty room, eyes closed, listening to time tick away.
Wang Xiaobo wrote at the end of Wanshou Temple: “Everything in the city of Chang’an has come to an end. Everything is heading, beyond recall, toward vulgarity.” My vulgar story in the city of Beijing has ended too, and the people and things of Beijing have nothing to do with me anymore. Goodbye, Beijing.