This is a fascinating story, full of gorgeous and decadent atmosphere, but with a fresh and moving theme.
  The first topic is about reality. Are Lan Ling Xiaoxiaosheng who wrote “Jin Ping Mei” and Shi Naian who wrote “Water Margin” the same person? Eroticism and chivalry may be far apart, but they seem to stem from the same lifestyle. Readers are shocked by this lifestyle and realize that it contains both vitality and ghost aura. The ghost aura is not nothingness, but a shadow dragging on the ground when an imagined world rises. Among the various methods used to explore the creative background of the Ming and Qing novels, the exploration in the form of fiction may be the most unreliable, but the Ming and Qing periods were originally an era of cultural self-folding and derivation. Living in the world, but also living in doubts about the reliability of the world, people have created more texts than in the past, and they have also created more and more mysteries about the creation itself. The center of this kind of mystery is the rapid maturity of the literary form of the novel and the same rapid aging; and under the confusing relationship between the characters in the novel, we clearly see the secret call and inheritance between generations of writers.
  The second theme is about youth. Not only is there a clue of youth and aging hidden in the plot of the novel, but the author of the novel is obviously writing when his youth is full. The texture of the youthful body adds strength to the text. Common symbols such as dreams and sobriety, death and rebirth also gain ample sensibility because of the vitality of the text itself. We don’t have to look too rigidly at the character’s imaginary abnormal love, because all others are themselves to some extent, and the hand that grabs another’s ankle is actually grabbing on one’s ankle, as if to grasp the passing of youth . Youth is not the subject of writing but the way of feeling. It is with this way of feeling that the novel seems to effortlessly put “Jin Ping Mei” and “Water Margin” on the same plane. This is definitely not only the story of Wu Song and Ximen Qing Houlian is a kind of overlap of vision: one novel is seen from one novel, and another is seen from one author. The desire and fear contained in this sight rise and fall in the narrative, just as love and hope rise and fall in a smooth and light body.
  He took a pen and wrote his name on the paper: Lanling.
  It’s another boring legend, he thought. Those fairies and gods that never existed, as well as the erotic and desires of adults that were never lacking… But it will still be praised by his friends. They will put the transcripts by the desk and bed, and show off to visitors after reading.
  ”This is the work of Young Master Lanling,” they would say, “It has nothing to do with human desires. Can you imagine that this was the work of a real wealthy young man?”
  He laughed quickly. This cultural club, like all other gatherings of literati, used arrogance, mutual flattery, and meaningless mavericks to cover up the pursuit of fame and money. No wonder, he thought, even though they pretended to put “Liyan” in front of merit, they still wanted to look at the lie called “immortality”. They embraced his ability to piece together boring sentences and applauded his courage to let people roll with demons or men and women, but fundamentally, this was all because he was born in a rich family with no worries about food and clothing, and his appearance Handsome; if these plots were written by an ugly pauper, they must be worthless.
  In his bones, he despised these friends who only pursued the so-called apostasy but had no appreciative ability, but he despised himself even more because he knew that he could not do without these people. He is a coward and lacks the courage to leave.
  At the next party, he pulled down the curtain, created a dark and ambiguous atmosphere in the room, and then read out the most obscene part of the new work in a plain and moving tone. His friends sat aside, applauded, applauded, and some even whistled. He pretended to laugh, put his arms around their necks, and washed away his indifference to himself with the other’s eagerness. I don’t know who pulled the curtain abruptly. Countless tiny particles of dust churned up under the pale sunlight, as if his soul also jumped up with it. He touched his face and hurriedly looked in the mirror to see if it was stained with dust; he saw a huge shadow in the mirror, like a huge ghost, wandering and wandering behind him, showing a huge smile.
  It must be because I haven’t wiped the mirror for too long.
  On the road, he rarely stopped and stayed for a long time in front of the pergola of an old storyteller. Hearing the story of the old storyteller, I can’t say how excited the audience is, nor how skillful the performers are. Just staying so close to the “story” for more than an hour makes him think again about how the story and words are for him. Life is still very important. It’s just that his life now is far, far away from those pure times.
  … How many years ago was that? He is still a young man in his twenties, an existence more suitable to be called “the son” than he is now, because he still has time to disappoint his parents and make his elders angry. He just got married, but he doesn’t like to read or learn to do business, and his favorite thing is to listen to the storytellers on the street and look for the latest legends on the bookstand.
  At that time, there were a few Northern Song tales that were extremely popular, and they were put together on a book stand. The stall owner told Lanling that these stories were all about “Liangshan heroes” and were written by the same author named Shi Naian, and they sold very well. He flipped through it roughly: Lin Chong, Lu Zhishen, Song Jiang… It seemed very new and interesting. So he bought a copy, and quickly became fascinated by these stories.
  The images of these “Liangshan heroes” were abstractly formed in his mind. They were different from the style of the story content. They were strange and sweet images with a bit of privacy, just like smoking by the West Lake in early spring. The strips of willow trees looked like a green mist from a distance, and the moist air was like the wings of a bee, turning over beside the cheek… He originally thought that a man could not be an image in his mind because he was looking for Without their proper posture, they have never been a beautiful existence to him, but only tangible and organized numbers, including “looks”, “wealth”, “status” and so on. But not anymore. Those men have a lot of shadows, the shadows are not empty, sometimes more real than themselves, forcibly inserted into his living life from various angles.
  He became extremely curious about this author. There is a cloth shop in a narrow street, and a slick of indigo tank stains the water on the ground; and his curiosity jumps in the sewage, leaving all the spots on his clothes as traces. He decided to visit this man named Shi Nai’an.
  ”He’s such a weird person,” a potbellied bookseller kindly told him, “He doesn’t go out very much, and he doesn’t like others to go to his house. Even if I pick up the manuscript, I have to go there. Even if I send the most The safe guys will be kicked out by him. I have never heard of any friends he has, and probably no relatives.”
  ”Is he living alone?” Lan Ling asked.
  ”No, no,” the bookseller’s expression suddenly became alive, and he blinked happily, “There is also a beautiful young man, really beautiful…”
  It was this “beautiful young man” who put him in After closing the door, there was not any difficulty as expected; Lan Ling thought with pride that it was probably because of his likable appearance. He watched the young man turn around and ran to the inner room to announce his arrival-he thought that pair of ankles looked very nice when they were running. This man’s ankles and waist are as expressive as a face.

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