When I was in the military camp, I spent half a month's salary on a copy of the novel. I was about to turn up the light to read at night, but suddenly I heard that the leader outside the tent was furious, like a thunderous man chopping down a tree, and confiscating my idle books. I threw the enamel cup angrily and swore to the sky: "If you don't let me read it, I will write it myself!"
I stayed behind closed doors for three months, imitating Cangjie in creating characters, but my writing was lifeless, the characters were like crabs running wildly, and the writing was like a drunken man punching. On the day the book was completed, thirty volumes of mimeographed copies were distributed to colleagues. After reading them, they all laughed and said: "This thing is better than coptis for stopping dysentery, and is better than cross talk for relieving boredom!" Looking at the old work now, I can only clap my legs and sigh: "In those days, courage could be stewed in soup, and my skin was thicker than city wall bricks!"
