I hear your stomach ailment has come on a little; I trust it will soon be well. Wendeng is a little remote, but there is a joy. On the island there grows a medicine called white stone mushroom — its fragrance is at first like chewing tea, and after a while quite delicious; I hear it greatly benefits one, and I could not but let you know. The white stone mushroom is shaped like a stone ear, but has a fragrance; that is the only way to tell it. Keep it secret! Keep it secret! — Su Shi, Letter to Ju Chizheng
The weather forecast showed a blizzard on December 16, so I hurried off to downtown Weihai to wait for it to arrive. As far back as last winter I already knew Weihai was a snow nest — the snow by the sea is enormous, and the railings along the shore can freeze over, like an ice age. But last winter the restrictions hadn’t been lifted yet, travel wasn’t very convenient, and people in Weihai still had to go out in the snow for PCR tests — truly a bit bleak. This year that’s all over; we wasted four whole winters, and I wasn’t about to miss this one. Sure enough, the very next morning after I got to Weihai, snow was falling thick and heavy, laying a deep white blanket over the ground. Weihai’s snow is a romance quite unlike any other. Of course, for the locals, that much snow isn’t a fun or romantic thing at all. But to an outsider it’s a strange and wonderful sight.
Rushan, as a county-level city under Weihai, is an odd one out. It alone lies to the south, and it gets the least snow and the weakest wind. Not like Wendeng, where the snow is heaviest — snow piled 74 centimeters deep, breaking a record nearly 20 years old. Downtown Weihai gets heavy snow too, coming down like a curtain drawn before your face, the wind flinging snow at you, piling it on your eyebrows until you look like a snowman. Weihai, Rongcheng and Wendeng had a week of continuous heavy snow; the news flooded the internet. But Rushan only had one slightly heavy snow on the 16th, and another, heavier one on the 20th. Neither could compare with the rest of Weihai, but the big snow on the 20th was still far heavier than any snow of last winter. I was at Rushan Silver Beach last winter too, and never saw snow that heavy. Every year is different, and every day is different too.
That’s what life is like. If I hadn’t quit my job, hadn’t chosen a different way of living, I’d feel every day the same, every day dull and flavorless, going to work utterly meaningless, and life itself meaningless too. But I changed the track of my own life; wherever that track leads, I’ve seen a different life and a different world. Changing course is absolutely worth it.
The closer to year’s end, the faster time goes; December was over in a flash, and 2024 is right in front of me, almost straight overhead like the sun. Since lying flat, I’ve come to particularly love basking in the sun and watching how the light changes. Sunning yourself in winter keeps you warm; in summer it tans you darker. I like slightly darker skin — it looks healthier. Getting more sun can make you healthier anyway. But the city dwellers who live among high-rises, and the white-collar workers toiling in their cubicles, rarely see the sunlight. The changing light is fascinating too: at the summer solstice the sun is at its northernmost, at the winter solstice at its southernmost, so the sunrise and sunset you watch are in different places, and the slant of the light is quite different. In summer the days are long and the nights short; in winter the nights are long and the days short. Your sleep and daily rhythm are greatly affected by all this. So I say: every single day of your existence is different.
Winter in Rushan is December, January and February, but this year winter came earlier than last — it began turning cold in mid-November, and December’s low temperature already matched January’s low at the start of the year; the coldest it got in January was minus 13 degrees. Some say it’s because the cold belt has shifted south, so the south cools earlier, and more than in past years. But others say this year has an El Niño, and it’ll be a warm winter. I don’t know who’s right — these days experts have no credibility left. I can only go by instinct, and I think next January won’t be as cold as this December. But who knows! “Storms gather without warning, and a man’s fortunes turn overnight” — that’s just what it means. People should enjoy every day, because no one knows what tomorrow will look like.
Last New Year’s Eve I spent alone at Rushan Silver Beach, going nowhere, just staying in my own room. I don’t remember the details too clearly, but I’m sure that night I climbed into bed early, lay under the covers with the electric blanket on, playing on my phone or the computer. I didn’t call home, didn’t call anyone; there was no one I missed, and no one who missed me. Around midnight I heard a crackling and popping outside that went on for a long time — who’d have thought there’d be so many people in a ghost town, still keeping the traditional Spring Festival. I don’t begrudge anyone their firecrackers, but I didn’t want to join in either. In this year of lying flat I’ve figured out a great many things, one of them being that a crowd can create the beauty of a crowd, and an individual can create the beauty of an individual. When I was young I used to puzzle over my not fitting in, wondering whether I had some psychological problem or was too much a rebel — but now it’s all clear to me.
People online often ask whether I’m going home for the New Year; I tell them frankly that I’m not, that I’ll go back a few days after the New Year if circumstances allow, usually around the seventh day of the lunar new year for two or three days. It’s very hard for me to stay at home — my family and I don’t talk the same language, so what would I go back for? Someone will surely say, you’re too cold, too unfilial, there’s something wrong with your head, and so on. But as I said before, don’t doubt yourself just because you’re different from others. Everyone is different, and everyone is normal. Learn to accept yourself, and learn not to be swayed by other people’s opinions. I am who I am; I do whatever I want, and I’m myself.
Rushan Silver Beach’s high season lasts only three months — June, July and August — and the other months are the off season. Of those, December, January and February have the fewest people, the quietest, most deserted, truly a ghost town. In March and April people gradually return; in May the population shoots up; in September it drops fast again; in October and November it settles to a steady low. Anyone who hasn’t left by December is staying here for the winter. For me, of course, I prefer the times with few people. I like quiet, not bustle; I like a clean, tidy beach with nobody on it, enjoying all the boundless freedom of being alone — especially on those nights so still you can hear a leaf fall to the ground, as if far from a world of endless strife and lies, in a frozen time and space where everything is congealed and only you can move.
Each of the four seasons has its own look, and summer certainly has summer’s flavor. If you like bustle, then come to Silver Beach in summer. You can swim in the sea, eat barbecue at the night market; the country markets draw big crowds too, and the squares are full of people dancing and singing — song and dance everywhere, bright lights and wine, heavy traffic, a jostling crowd, all drawn here for gain, all hurrying here for profit. Still, the elderly are the majority, young people are few, and there are quite a lot of children, all here for the summer holidays, trailing their parents or grandparents. In winter it’s dark by five in the evening and there’s nothing at all outside. But in summer, even at nine or ten at night, plenty of people are still out and about, enjoying themselves. Summer and winter are completely different. The various legends that Silver Beach is a ghost town refer only to its winter; summer is still very lively. The extra people on the beach and under the setting sun do give this little town a bit more human warmth. But they also gave me my first case of Covid — that’s the downside of crowds. And in winter I don’t worry at all about catching anything from anyone, because I simply don’t come into contact with a single soul.
Spring and autumn are lovely seasons too. In spring the flowers open one after another, the swallows return, insects chirr, frogs croak, the wheat grows sturdy — a scene of thriving life; the temperature climbs again and warms people who’ve endured the long winter; off come the heavy clothes, the body grows lighter, the mind more active, restless with new urges. In autumn the leaves begin turning yellow again, the swallows fly away, the insects fall silent, the frogs go quiet too; the wheat was harvested back in summer and is planted again at the end of October; you no longer dare wear flip-flops and short sleeves and shorts, and your clothes thicken bit by bit — but autumn’s temperature is the most agreeable, and autumn is surely the most beautiful. In summer, though, there’s about a month of heavy rain, when the seaside is rather humid and the sea breeze clammy; but apart from that one month, the rest are quite dry, with lots of clear days. I like to see the sun often — that’s one main reason I like the north.
Why is there no one at Rushan Silver Beach in winter? Because the great majority of compounds here have no central heating. Anyone who can’t stand the cold can’t stay here. But for me, a man from Hubei, the cold here isn’t as cold as back home; it’s the damp cold of the south that I really can’t bear. The north is dry — even by the sea it isn’t as humid as the south. Without central heating in winter, I can still put up with it. Since I’m here, I’ll settle in. Besides, how long has it been since I tasted real cold — my face gone numb with it, my hands numb, rushing back to soak them in hot water? In my years working in Beijing I took a hot shower every day; but after coming here, I take a shower only once a week — it’s so cold, and a shower is no fun at all, plus it saves on the water and electricity bills. Two birds with one stone. Many people can’t stand the winter cold here, dare not come to live here, or leave once winter comes. If they don’t come, then I have the quiet all to myself.
Besides warmth, there’s fullness. I remember that back in Beijing I’d already come to feel disgusted by meat, and after coming to Rushan I decided to give up meat for good. I eat only potatoes, cabbage and eggs — practically a vegetarian. I don’t think eating meat does me any good. I can survive without it, and live healthier and happier. A plain life makes me purer. I’ve also stopped drinking cola and eating any sweets; sweet things do the body no good. Alcohol and tobacco, of course, I touch even less, and coffee isn’t to my taste either. Wanting to eat a little better, to drink a little better — it’s all just a person’s physical appetites. Some people have very strong desires, some very weak, and I’m one of the very weak ones. I can live a life of extremely low desire; a very little satisfies me, and most things no longer tempt me. Not being tempted means not being bound or held hostage — you can be a bit freer.
Not working, not marrying, having no children, and not fretting over my parents gives me plenty of time to do the things I like. What do you like to do? I like to idle about, to loaf and drift, to enjoy the wind and the moon and the flowers and the snow, to be in nature, to feel life quietly. To look at the blue sky, the sea, the mountains, the rivers, the birds, the fish, the moon, the stars; to listen to the wind, the rain, the cicadas, the birds, the frogs, the waves, to the sound of snow crunching underfoot in a snowfield; to feel summer’s heat and winter’s cold, spring’s warmth and autumn’s desolation; morning’s brightness and dusk’s dimness, sunrise and sunset, dawn clouds and evening clouds; how winter wheat tillers and how it fills with grain; why the sand bubbler crabs on the beach coil up so many little balls of sand; how the people foraging the shallows dig clams and razor clams; and how on the beach you can pick up a few hermit crabs, sea corn and sea anemones, the sea cockroaches on the rocks by the shore, the great flock of gulls resting on the dunes, the horseshoe jellyfish in Chaoxi Lake in summer, the wild ducks and coots in the Baishatan River in winter. The leisurely days of country life by the sea leave you perfectly content; you haven’t earned money, but you’ve gained something more meaningful than money.
That you don’t like mixing with people — that’s nothing. Not everyone has to melt into the crowd; some people belong to the wilderness, some to the high mountains, some to the sea, some to the vast starry sky. The crowd is only one form; a person can live in many different ways and needn’t be bound to just one. As for me, I only want to keep far from the crowd, draw close to nature, merge into nature, become nature. Someone will ask me, don’t you feel lonely. I’ve never felt lonely; I don’t know what loneliness feels like. Non Solus.
I often go out wandering on my bicycle alone. At Silver Beach I have only my two legs and a bicycle. What I like best is walking, and second to that, cycling. Silver Beach is countryside; public transport is very inconvenient — buses are hard to wait for, and there are no taxis at all. But when it’s cold I can’t cycle, because the wind by the sea is too strong and blows right through you. So generally I have to wait until May, and by November or December I can’t ride again. I rode my bike into Rushan’s town center and ate at KFC there. Silver Beach has no KFC, no McDonald’s, Pizza Hut or Burger King, and no movie theater or big shopping mall either. I also rode to the Mount Darushan scenic area; there was no ticket charge, and it’s basically abandoned there — a real shame. In early December I went for the first time to Xiaoshikou village, the peninsula that blocks the setting sun — it’s like the ends of the earth. Cycling is good exercise.
I don’t read books or watch movies; I myself am a book, I myself am a film. Even if this book or film is a bit bland, I don’t mind. What’s your ideal? Mine is the same as that child’s — “to spend a life in freedom and calm.” When people talk to me about art, I only find it vague and insubstantial. I’d rather go watch Professor Wen Tiejun’s lectures on the three rural issues — farming, the countryside and farmers. Beijing and Shanghai have nothing to do with me; the people and the doings of the big cities stir no interest in me at all. I only want to sit at the edge of the field and space out.
Earning money is hard. A year of making videos earned me only RMB 6,000. But that RMB 6,000 was enough to cover a whole year of my rent, property fees, and water, electricity and gas. That’s the advantage of living in a ghost town: the cost of living is extremely low. This year I spent in total less than RMB 15,000 — and remember, that’s all my expenses. So I only need to earn another RMB 9,000 to meet my needs for the whole year. Luckily I have some savings, and the savings draw some interest, so I can lie flat in peace, with nothing to worry about. So long as you lower your desires (and of course you have to genuinely love this way of living), your cost of living will be very low, and your quality of life needn’t decline either — you can live especially easy and free, with no mortgage or car loan weighing on you, no entanglements of social ties. The rich have the rich man’s happiness, the poor have the poor man’s happiness; with no money we can still enjoy “the clear breeze on the river, the bright moon among the hills,” and that happiness is purer than the happiness of pools of wine and forests of meat, of gilded dissipation. I’d rather be Su Shi.
Of course, I haven’t been staying at Rushan Silver Beach the whole time. Another advantage of not working is that you’re completely free — you can visit any tourist spot in the off season, and you don’t have to fight others for flights and hotel rooms, or get stuck in a crush of people at some packed attraction. For instance, over the New Year I went to Tibet, by train, and saw the beautiful scenery along the way; in Lhasa many of the sights are free, and even the Potala Palace costs nothing and has no lines — you can look as long as you like, all by yourself, wonderfully comfortable. I also went to Xinjiang — a place I’d wanted to go before but never had time for, and now I can go whenever I want. Only, Xinjiang is so big and I’ve seen so little of it; I’ll have to go back a few more times when I can. I also went to Qingdao, Xiamen and Quanzhou, and to Beijing and Jiagedaqi; and at the very end, in December, in a blizzard, I went to Weihai and saw the sea in the heavy snow — Huoju 8th Street and the Blueways.
What I’ve been through this year astonishes even me. I often think: having seen these beautiful sights, my life feels complete; even if I were to die now, I’d have no regrets — it’s been worth it. If I die, I die; what’s so frightening about death? I don’t fear death; it’s as if I see everything perfectly clearly. “I came, I saw, I conquered” — and as we Chinese put it, “If a man in the morning hears the Way, he may die in the evening without regret.” What is the Way? To me, Zhuangzi’s Way is the Way, and Thoreau’s Way is the Way.
The ancients also said, “The years of a lifetime do not reach a hundred; when days are short and the dull nights long, if you want to be happy you must do it now — there is no waiting till an after-time.” So let’s not talk about the future; the future can’t be counted on. Why fret so much? Living is tiring enough already without worrying whether tomorrow’s sun will rise. Carpe Diem. Go with the flow. Let nature take its course. 2024 is a year that sounds good to say and good to hear, and I’ll go on living out my nature of not working, drifting along by the sea. Maybe now and then I’ll wander off somewhere, take in the scenery, join the crowd — but mostly I’ll still be at Rushan Silver Beach, basking in the sun, eating, sleeping. The immortal Wang Ziqiao — it’s hard to wait to be his equal.
December 26, 2023, Rushan Silver Beach Resort, Weihai, Shandong.