In March 2015, I traveled from the north to the small city of Jiangyin. On the way, I met a very elderly man sitting by the train window, reading Kafka. After talking for a while, we gradually became acquainted. He asked, "Young man, are you still in school?" I shook my head and said, "I write independently and sell my soul." He stared at me for a long time, then said, "When I was young, I had that same pitiful ideal." I looked into his eyes. In the blazing sunlight, they gave off a deep blue glow, something so striking it seemed to defy nature. I understood his conflict. He had failed to withstand the test of reality, and so, even in his graying years, he was still reading Kafka. It was then that I began to think seriously about the meaning of fiction. Once the ornate language had been stripped away, Three O'Clock's Stunning Glimpse, Four O'Clock's Bitter Chill appeared before you, seemingly as nothing at all.
