Word from Beijing was that Chorus had sold out. At the Xueyuan bookstore here, a thick stack still sat untouched, which probably says something about the local cultural weather. I spent some time reading it through. The prose felt close to the pieces in a Best Online Literature of 200X anthology on my shelf, and close to what I used to see on an old literary website—one piece had even appeared there. As the introduction says, it is a literary read, nothing more.
Some readers said it reminded them of a music magazine from several years back, a case of arriving after other people had already played out the tricks. That doesn't bother me much. It had been years since I sat down quietly with a local literary publication. With Zui Xiao Shuo and Hua Xi everywhere, there should be room for straightforward contemporary short fiction and novellas. I haven't read October or Selected Novels, and neither have the people around me.
The Green Train
These days there are planes, bullet trains, and express trains, and even the express trains don't make you eager to ride. The green train seems to have no advantage except being cheap. The first time I took a train I was three, traveling between Changsha and Qingdao, and later I went back and forth between the two cities again and again. My childhood impressions of trains were sleeper berths, ticket checks, walking through carriages to get hot water, all kinds of countryside outside the window, and the thrill of crossing the Yangtze. The most agonizing trip was in my second year of university: I bought tickets too late and trusted the wrong person, and ended up with two hard-seat tickets from Jinan to Changsha on the slowest ordinary train, twenty-seven hours in all. Even so, I still like trains. Give me a window seat and I can do nothing at all, just watch the outside, and forget distance and time.
Another part of train culture is talking nonsense. No matter where people are from, what they do, or what status they have, they can chat freely. No one may take anyone else's words seriously, but the process is interesting. Last year on the Xi'an–Chengdu route, a history major talked to me about Shaanxi snacks, Xianyang relics, and Chinese rock, and the whole trip was less lonely. On trains I have seen Huashan from a distance, passed Chibi, crossed the Qinling Mountains, and skirted Lingnan. Those are good memories. I hear there are plans to raise speeds, cancel green trains, and replace them with high-speed rail and light rail. Sometimes what we want isn't time and speed; it's the road, and arriving.
Everyone Asks Everyone
Who is that pregnant, cheerful, popular actress with a rich romantic history?
Chorus
We are all becoming more and more like our failed elders, and the elders are beginning to understand that we won't be as lustful as they imagined. We always become, reluctantly, the kind of people we didn't want to be.
Everyone Is a Fallacy Expert
I really didn't understand this one.
This Summer You Can't Go
This was my favorite. Death always leaves its mark in its own way. Some people can forget; others stay trapped there for life. And people can never escape contradiction and desire—cruel, selfish, hurting others without restraint.
Like a Rose-Red Rose in Summer
It is said to be written with a certain 'fourth girl' hovering over the author, all forty-five-degree melancholy gazes at the sky. Since it was serialized, perhaps later installments will have something better. Maybe.
Several of the stories, all by male authors, also break into long passages about sex and sex work. I honestly don't know what they are trying to say: satire of society? collective fantasy? Or, as one author writes, life has only two goals, money and women, and making art is also a way to get women? Lawrence said sex is not ugly; ugly people make it ugly. I agree. But this kind of fantasy writing only makes women seem more objectified and men more detestable. I also don't understand the recent Twitter enthusiasm for Sola Aoi. What is the noble reason for praising her? Giving men the pleasure of fantasy? An AV actress is just a job; no occupation is noble or base. That's all. Maybe men's and women's brains are wired differently.