
Live, Road
About This Novel
Chongqing's fog always rolls over the scaffolding in the early morning, casting the construction site into a maze suspended in the air. When Lin Qingshi understood the true meaning of the words "Working Road" from his father's arithmetic, his twelve-year-old pupils were reflecting his sister's torn admission notice - the way the fluttering scraps of paper fell into the Yangtze River was strikingly similar to the trajectory of unopened sleeping pills falling by the Erhai Lake twenty years later. In the urban wasteland of concrete and neon, this mountain boy was pushed by the times to become a contractor, a lover, and a patient with depression. The women he has loved are all like reflections on the glass curtain wall of a dilapidated building: the bloody youth of school beauty Xu Nanrong melts under the shadowless lights of three abortion surgeries, and the love of Su Wanyue, who is not yet eighteen, turns into the never-ending wind chimes on the eaves of the Dali Inn. When he met his future wife at a blind date and put the wedding ring on his ring finger, the scent of ink from the money order sent by his crush Shen Qingwu twenty years ago still lingered in his palm. From stilted buildings to the CBD, from the whirlpool of the Yangtze River to the demolition ruins, the "survival" of three generations has grown wildly among the steel and concrete. My sister Lin Jianqiu is building a castle in the air on the sand table in the sales department, and my cousin Liu Haiyang's excavator bucket is burying the last piece of green tiles in the village in the city. Lin Qingshi finally had an epiphany in his daughter's crayon drawings: The so-called living is nothing more than twisting the sound of his father's abacus beads into rosary beads, and looking for a shrine to enshrine life in every grain of concrete.
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