He dragged his backpack, which was stained with travel dust, as if he was dragging the weight of his entire youth - those were the countless nights he spent writing questions under the kerosene lamp, the honor of being "the first college student in the village", and the embarrassment of being soaked by Nan's mother-in-law's spit at this moment. He just responded to the greeting softly and turned around and became a "white-eyed wolf who was dumbfounded"; he just got used to Mandarin in the city, and in the blink of an eye he was labeled as "pretending to be a city dweller". The "Intelligence Bureau" at the entrance of the village never lacks scripts, and he is always the protagonist.
His story is the epitome of thousands of "question writers" who grew up from the soil - he entered the world with a bookish spirit, but met the sharpest stranger in the most familiar land. Those observations hidden in the smoke, those comparisons wrapped in care, those prides broken and re-spelled in the local accent, maybe you have quietly understood them on a platform late at night or in an alleyway where you turned around.
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Novels originate from reality and are higher than reality
Novels originate from reality and are higher than reality