I have been out for 16 years, and I have only recently returned to my hometown, which became the "big rear" during the Anti-Japanese War. It's where I grew up, but everything here doesn't look like I'm welcome. I couldn't see a single familiar face on the street. In fact, there are no more narrow and smooth stone paths, and in their place are dusty wide roads. The once secluded streets and alleys are now bustling with activity. The black-lacquered iron threshold at the entrance of the mansion was all sawn off, allowing brand-new private chartered cars to enter and exit from there arrogantly. I could hardly open my eyes to the luxurious façade of the store, and once I boldly stepped into a high-profile department store, and just pointed to a thing sleeping in a glass window and asked for a price, I was startled away by the clerk's fierce reply.

I was like a stranger, living in a small hotel, paying a modest fee, but living in a small room where I could smell the smell of coal when I opened the window, and could not see the sun when the window was closed. Except for the time when I slept, I was out of this room almost all day. I like to go shopping, walking alone in silence on the street, and there is no difference between lively and calm for me. Sometimes I keep my head buried in my own business, and sometimes I stand on the street for an hour listening to a blind man singing a book, or looking for a person to talk to.

One day, when I was immersed in shopping, my left arm was suddenly caught, and I looked up in surprise, and I thought that I had stepped on someone else's foot inadvertently.

"What, you're here? Where do you live? You won't come to see me when you come back! Deserve to be scolded! ”

Standing in front of me was my elementary school classmate, middle school classmate, and college classmate Yao Guodong, although he was a third-level classmate, but he graduated from university and stayed abroad, but I only studied at university for half a year, and I stopped studying because of the death of my uncle, who helped me study. I went on to become a writer who wrote six books but didn't get much attention. He worked as a professor and an official for three years, and then returned home to live on the seven or eight hundred acres of land left by his father, and five years ago bought a large mansion from a middle-aged old family in the city, surnamed Yang, all these things I know perfectly. He got married, had children, died his wife, and took his wife, and I knew all these things. He never wrote to me, and I wouldn't ask for his address. When he resigned and passed through Shanghai, he found my place and dragged me out to have a meal at a local restaurant. He drank and talked to me about his ambitions, his pride, and his dissatisfaction. I rarely interject. Only when he asked me about my writing life, how well my books were sold, and how much I paid for my manuscripts, I would answer a few words. At that time, I had only published two collections of novels, and occasionally a short article or two in magazines, and I don't know how he had read them all, and read them carefully. "Well written! You can write very well! It's just that the spirit is too small! He blushed, nodded, and said to me. I couldn't answer, and my face turned red. "Why do you write about little things? I also want to write novels, but I want to write some earth-shattering dramas, heroes and martyrs! His eyes widened, and he threw his head back in a majestic manner, and looked at me with sparkling eyes. Okay, okay," I replied vaguely, and I looked very cold in front of him. He was silent for a moment, then burst out laughing. He got on board the next day. But his novels were never published, as if he had never put pen to paper.

Standing in front of me now is this friend, tall and tall, with broad shoulders, thick eyebrows, broad forehead, eagle nose, thin lips and thick lips, and a large and long face, and he has not changed much. It's just that the person is a little fatter, and the skin color is whiter. He squeezed my skinny hand into his fat, sweaty hand.

"I know you bought the Yang Family Mansion, but I don't know if you live in the city, I think you will live in the countryside to avoid the alarm, and I'm afraid that your doorman won't let me in, look at my outfit!" I replied with a little embarrassment.

"Alright, alright, don't be sarcastic about me. After the bombing last year, I lived in the countryside for two or three months before moving back. Where do you live? Let me see, I'll come to you later," he smiled sincerely.

"International Hotel."

"When did you arrive?"

"About ten days."

"So you've been staying at the International Hotel? You have been back in your hometown for more than ten days and still staying in a hotel? You're weird! Don't you still have a wide relative? Your rich uncle has become richer in business in the past few years, and he has been buying land every year. Why don't you go to him? He let go of my hand and said in such a loud voice that it seemed as if he wanted to be heard by the people in the street.

"Be quiet, be quiet," I reminded him anxiously. "You know they're not going to deal with me for a long time......"

"But now it's different, you're famous now, and you've written several books," he said without waiting for me to finish. "Even I envy you!"

"Don't be sarcastic about me. My annual income is not enough to make a decent suit, where can they afford me? They were either afraid that I would borrow money from them, or they thought that having a poor relative like me would disgrace them. Oh, did your great novel be written? ”

He was stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing. "You have a good memory. After I got home, I wrote for two years, and I had broken thousands of pieces of manuscript paper, and I hadn't written 20,000 words neatly. I don't have the skills. Later, I tried to pick up a pen and translate a little bit of French work, but it didn't work. I translated Hugo's novels, other people's beautiful articles, I translated them not even like words, I threw away the original book and read the translation, even I read the sentences myself, a copy of "Ninety-Three Years" [note 1] I translated two chapters and threw it away. I studied liberal arts in college for nothing. Since then, I have lost my heart, and I am ready to admit defeat to your brother, and I will never brag again. Now without talking about that, you take me to your hotel. International Hotel, huh? What street is this big hotel on, how do I not know! ”

I couldn't help but laugh. "Things with big names tend to be actually very small. It's around here. Let's go. ”

"Why, what kind of philosophy is this? Okay, I'll see. He said, a smile of delight.

[Note 1] "Ninety-Three Years": A long historical novel by the French novelist and poet V. Hugo.