
The Knife Lives: the Fallen Rivers and Lakes Record
by An Old Man
About This Novel
On the twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month, the day the Kitchen God ascended to heaven, my master died. Before he died, he said only one word: "Go." I buried him and the woodcutter I had just bought on credit. The word "" on the back of the knife looks like two scars that will never heal. Three years later, I was carrying sacks at Yangzhou Pier. I counted one coin per bag for three years. Until the people from the Renyi Gang found my senior sister - her hand tendons were severed and she was playing the piano on the boat for five copper coins a piece. That night, I dug out the rusty knife. The rain was heavy and the knife was dull. I killed seven people, and when the tiger's mouth opened, I suddenly understood: It turns out that the knife has never been rusty, it is the world that is rusty. Later, Qing troops entered the pass and the rivers and lakes disappeared. I changed my name to Lu Fu, my senior sister changed her name to a doctor, and we fled to the countryside to farm. The knife is still the same knife, but it no longer kills people-- It chops vegetables, chops grass, and repairs fences, and occasionally glows coldly on moonlit nights. Later, I became seriously ill. The senior sister asked: "Where is the knife?" I said, "Buried." "Where to bury?" "Buried in every day I live." -- This is a story about "living". This is not the life of a knight, but the life of ordinary people; It is not a life of gratification, but a life of carrying sacks, eating rotten rice, and sharpening a rusty knife on a rainy night. The world will sink, and dynasties will change, but as long as there are still people holding on to something and refusing to let go... The knife is alive
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