Scorching Summer, Not Yet Over

Let me tell some true stories. I want to talk about that summer when I was nineteen. If I were to begin like one of the great novels, how should I start? If I were imitating Marquez, I might write: Many years later, when I happen to open my old diary, I will remember a night in the summer when I was nineteen. If I were imitating Dickens, I might write: Nineteen was the most youthful of years, and the most dissolute; the most carefree of days, and the most restrained; the most clear-headed of times, and the most bewildering; the most passionate of years, and the most ordinary. If I were imitating Hemingway, I might write: I am dust drifting through streets and alleys, through every nook and cranny. Countless years have passed since I was nineteen, and I still have nothing to show for it. If I were imitating Fitzgerald, I might write: When I was a little over nineteen, my hormones taught me a vivid lesson I would never forget. If I were imitating George Orwell, I might write: A humid, stifling night in July. A beer bottle came flying and tapped me on the head. If I were imitating Kafka, I might write: One evening, Zhang Zhuo came to his senses after being dazed by a beer bottle to the head, and felt hot blood run over his left eye. I thought for a long time, but never found an opening that suited a rough fellow like me. So I decided to begin this novel in my own way.