I haven't done anything earth-shattering in my life. I believe in just one thing: wherever your roots are, that's where you must put them down. My roots aren't the gray bricks and dark tiles of the city. They're in the loess of the Xianyang Plateau: soil that smells of earth when you squeeze it, soil that grows waves of wheat, soil that holds the sweat of our worker and peasant ancestors.
People ask me if my life has been worthwhile. I say it has: worthwhile because I put down roots among workers and peasants, worthwhile because I watched wheat seeds grow from Xianyang to Guangzhou, then to Sichuan, and finally return to where they began. Worthwhile because I wrote the stories of our workers and peasants into the pages of time, one stroke at a time. My whole life has been spent following my roots. They're in the loess of Xianyang and in the hearts of workers and peasants. They'll never be torn out.
