In the few months that I have not been there, our gang and the Xinyang gang have been assigned to different places. A new construction site has been opened where I was before. The basement has been built, and the steel bars and shell slabs have been made, just waiting to be made of concrete.

Yun Zhi asked me where I wanted to do it, and I said I wanted to follow Lao Zhan. And Lao Zhan happened to be at the original construction site. I stayed there. Since the group of us brought by Yunzhi are all small workers, and the construction site is built with a frame building, our main work every day is to beat concrete. The workers called it "ashing".

Anyone who has worked in construction knows that it usually takes two shifts to beat concrete, one to operate the vibrator and one to prepare materials. My old station and I are preparing materials below.

Because he was Yun Zhi's nephew, Yun Zhi asked him to push the cart and asked the other three of me to use shovels to load stones on the dump truck, and Yun Zhi's other two relatives to load sand and one to pour cement.

Beating a small can of ash generally requires four truckloads of stones, two truckloads of sand, and two bags of cement. We poured all the prepared materials into a funnel-shaped iron container, and the regular workers of the construction company activated the button to make the funnel container go up automatically.

Then pour into a snail-like jar with fan blades inside, add water and stir. After mixing, it is poured into a dump bucket with a small cart frame, and then the regular worker drives the car for a distance to pour the beaten concrete into the large tank.

When the tank is full, it is hoisted upstairs by a tower crane and transported upstairs. The people upstairs looked at the position and opened the tank door, and the concrete flowed out with a "bang", and then vibrated with a vibrating rod. No rest is allowed during feeding. If we want to rest, we have to work fast.

The round tank above was stirring, the hopper container below was full, and the cart was full of stones, so we could stop for a moment.

The most comfortable time is when the mixer is broken, we stick the shovel into the stone, sit on the shovel handle, or simply take off the helmet and use it as a stool-

Our days go on like this, eating, going to work, and getting off work every day. Of course, there will be an occasional day or two of free time. Life is constantly repetitive, boring, monotonous and boring.

As for literature, I really don't dare to ask for anything more, I don't intend to pursue it deliberately, nor do I want to give up, so I just put it there in a disconnected way. Of course, I sometimes write an article and submit it to some magazines, but I don't get a response. Actually, I'm almost numb to this kind of thing.

But one day, I borrowed a magazine from a co-worker, and I was shocked to read a report about the contemporary writer Lu Yao who had passed away to write "The Ordinary World".

The report is a portrait of Lu Yao. I saw Lu Yao frowning, holding his head with his hand, and was in deep thought. His appearance reminds me of the fate of most literati throughout the ages: foreign writers aside, I only talk about Chinese writers.

That Qu Yuan died by throwing himself into the river, Du Fu died of hunger and cold, Li Bai died of drunkenness, Cao Xueqin died of excessive sadness, Lao She committed suicide, and Lu Yao died of exhaustion from writing novels.

Thinking about this, I made up a lot of things myself. That is, some writers have bad names. For example, Qu Yuan was really aggrieved and wronged, so why did he die without injustice in the end? Zhu Ziqing was self-purifying, didn't he clean himself up? Lao She's word giving away obviously meant suicide.

With such an inauspicious name, how can they have a good fate in the end? And his name is Zhang Jianming, isn't it a "cheap life" or "a cheap life", and is it doomed to a miserable life all his life?

Since the fate of the literati is so bitter, and their names are so cheap, should we give up on literature? I can't give my own answer. I was dazed, hesitant, hesitant, helpless.

Besides, I'm a restless person by nature, always looking for something new to excite me, but I can't find it. At the same time, deep down in my heart, there was always something restless. What exactly? I don't know.

It's annoyance, isn't it? It's sorrow, isn't it? It seems to be a little bit. After thinking about it, I came to the conclusion that I want women. Yes, who will comfort me when I am troubled, who will share happiness with me when I am happy, who will talk to me in the dead of night?

Who's in your arms when you're angry? Who do you tell when you're full of heart? In other words, I want to have a companion. But what does that vague object really look like?

She must be smart, beautiful, virtuous, gentle and considerate, loving me, caring for me, and loving me like a mother and sister. But when this person will come to me, I really don't know.

So, a lot of the time, I think about literature and women on the other, and the ratio is half and half. But which one is most important to me, literature or women?

I thought at the time: if a beautiful girl said to me, "Zhang Jianming, if you give up literature, I will marry you." "I'm probably going to burn all the literature books right away to fulfill the girl's wishes. But soon, I'll spend money again to buy the burned books.

For literature, there are many times when I can only "look at the lead and sigh", looking at the "tofu blocks" published by others in newspapers or magazines, in addition to envy, it is uneven, and after the unevenness, there is only lamentation, depression, irritability, and even sometimes there will be some nameless fires when something is fine, which makes the people around me inexplicable and scold me for being mentally abnormal.

This book comes from reading books