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I have suppressed my mood to bother my husband so presumptuously for a long time, but the gentleman in our minds probably would not be indifferent to an enthusiastic young man's request for advice. After thinking about it several times, I finally abruptly express to you our hesitation and hesitation in literature and art, especially short stories. We have written several short stories by hand, using themes: one is focused on petty bourgeois youths who are familiar to them, using ironic artistic techniques to express the common weaknesses that appear and lurk in the modern era; the other is focused on familiar lower-class characters. --The lower-class people who are outside the impact of the big trends of the modern era, portray those strong desires for survival and vague impulses of resistance under the pressure of life in their creations. --I wonder if works with such content are worthy of being said to have contributed to the modern era? We were hesitant at first, then hesitated again when we picked up the pen.

"Collected Works of Sardin" collects all the extant works of Sardin since he started literary creation in 1931, including unedited and unpublished works, letters, diaries, etc. During the author's lifetime. The "Collected Works" consists of ten volumes and eleven volumes. Each volume is organized into novels (volumes 1, 2 and 3), short stories (volumes 4 and 5), reportage and prose (volume 6), literary theory (volume 7), letters (volume 8), diary (volume 9, volumes 1 and 2), and memoirs (volume 10). This compilation and publication, with detailed collection and large-scale publication, aims to comprehensively display the creative process, style and appearance of this old Sichuan writer, as well as his creative exchanges, life stories, and emotional connections with many writers in the modern literary world. Therefore, it is of high value for the supplement of historical materials in the history of modern literature and the study of the writer's works.

I was born on the 13th day of the winter lunar month in 1904, and my original name was Yang Chaoxi. After graduating from Sichuan Provincial First Normal University, he changed his name to Yang Ziqing. "Satin" was the pen name I used when I published a collection of short stories, "Routes Outside the Law" (later renamed "Routes"), in 1932. I also published a short story in "Free Talk" under the pseudonym "Yin Guang" and published a collection of short stories called "Pregnancy". My father was born in the Qing Dynasty. My grandfather's experience is unknown. I only heard that he was famous for his calligraphy. When I was five or six years old, my father passed away, leaving behind about fifty acres of land and a yard. What impressed me most when I was a child was that my uncles entangled my mother very hard over family property issues. I was also deeply impressed by the social life of the county town and some of its towns. Because when I was young, I often followed my uncle in teahouses and visited various places, and came into contact with all kinds of people. I only have one eldest brother who once served in the local army and died long ago.

There was the sound of airplanes after breakfast. Immediately ran into the air raid shelter by the east gate. There were already people there, and many more continued to come: men and women, civilians, and soldiers. Two or three soldiers squatted at the entrance of the cave and looked around. The sound of the plane disappeared. "There are five planes in total," a soldier reported looking into the cave, "They are coming from Baode." At the same time, he thought that the enemy planes would turn around; soon, the sound of planes sounded again. Then came the roar of bombs. There seemed to be only the sound of bombs exploding in my head. Everyone expected the soldiers to be as timid as themselves and advised them not to look at the cave entrance. And someone shouted to a common man who was looking at the entrance of the cave: "Come in! Are you a traitor?" There was another series of countless explosions. A soldier came into the cave and told everyone: "The Gospel Hall was bombed."

It is quite difficult to trace the entire development history of Lin Chong Gou in detail. But one thing is worth mentioning: since the end of the last century, a certain law that governs social life in the entire valley has become invalid. This rule is: every ten or twenty years, a few families will move to Khanba with their hard-earned savings; while another group of people who were exploited by landlords and bullies in Khanba or other fertile lands in the neighborhood and became bankrupt will use baskets to carry babies, broken pots and broken cotton wool, and move into Linco Valley to slowly lick and heal their wounds. They may live with the backward production methods from generation to generation and be trapped in this poor ravine forever; but they may also be lucky enough to return to Pingba. In this way, the population of Quangou is quite stable.

On November 19, 1938, a sunny day with melting snow, some of our "Lu Yi" classmates and Comrade He Qifang set out from Yan'an to northwestern Shanxi together with the comrades. Because there was something wrong with the machine, the car we took was the last to drive when we set off. When we arrived at Qinghuabian at three o'clock in the afternoon, our comrades had already rested for a long time. Qinghua Bian is seventy miles away from Yan'an. It is a small village high on the mountain road with only twenty or thirty households. The comrade was standing in the middle of the road talking to a young farmer. The short and thin farmer answered his inquiry while weaving the kind of woolen strips that fit the heroic character of the northerners. Most of these inquiries are about the technical knowledge of weaving woolen fabrics. Finally, the comrade took the unfinished wool strip and learned to knit it for a while. The cadres, the children, and the simple peasants with towels on their heads who surrounded him all couldn't help but laugh.

There was the sound of airplanes after breakfast. Immediately ran into the air raid shelter by the east gate. There were already people there, and many more continued to come: men and women, civilians, and soldiers. Two or three soldiers squatted at the entrance of the cave and looked around. The sound of the plane disappeared. "There are five planes in total," a soldier reported looking into the cave, "They are coming from Baode." At the same time, he thought that the enemy planes would turn around; soon, the sound of planes sounded again. Then came the roar of bombs. There seemed to be only the sound of bombs exploding in my head. Everyone expected the soldiers to be as timid as themselves and advised them not to look at the cave entrance. And someone shouted to a common man who was looking at the entrance of the cave: "Come in! Are you a traitor?" There was another series of countless explosions. A soldier came into the cave and told everyone: "The Gospel Hall was bombed."

In the spring of 1991, I suffered from blue-white syndrome and was almost blind. I suffered in the dark for a while, but now I'm getting used to it and getting better. Fortunately, this memoir, which had been written for seven or eight years, was finally completed before I lost my sight. I left the heavy organizing and proofreading work to my assistant Qin Yousu, and left Beijing and moved back to Sichuan in November last year. I have traveled far away from Sichuan several times in my life, but every time I was attracted by a force and came back. I'm afraid this will be the last time. After all, I'm almost 90 years old.

Thinking of the move, Luo Mo couldn't help but feel angry again. "Shanghai people are so annoying!" Three days ago, when he was carefully lighting up the newly purchased gas stove, squatting on the floor, leaning back, squinting his left eye, and puffing gently, suddenly, a woman's high-pitched voice slipped in through the gap in the door. Then, as if someone pulled his thin yellow hair upwards, the body that was folded into three folds immediately straightened up, and he tilted his neck to listen: "In the house... Dinner... Here..." He guessed that the usually talkative owner was probably trying to get along with him again. Although he was pretending to be attentive as usual, it is not a bad thing for people who travel far away to be a little relaxed.

Comrade Chen Zhuokun of the Guangzhou Academy of Fine Arts sent me a special letter to look for woodcuts made by Ye Fu of the "18th Art Society" for the Xinken edition of "Routes Outside the Law" so that he could send them to Tokyo. But I no longer have the original book in my hands. It's not easy to search here. I wonder if you can ask someone to copy the post in Chengdu and send it to you? I remember that you asked a wild man to engrave this woodcut. The content is "On the Pier". I still remember that the Federation of Literary and Art Circles held an exhibition of poisonous weeds in the early days of the """, which included an old volume of "Routes Outside the Law". Please help Comrade Xiao Caixiu for me. I believe you can find it. If Chengdu really has no solution, please write a note at the end of this letter and send it to Comrade Wang Jue or Lin Yan, asking them to take the trouble to look for it in Chongqing.

This is the courtyard of a large landowner in this town. It has three entrances. The dining hall is next to the spacious kitchen on the side of the main house. It is equipped with tables and chairs and can accommodate seventy or eighty people. The side rooms on both sides of the hall upon entering are dormitories, all equipped with single beds made of unpainted white wood. Those rural grassroots cadres who have been going to the front yard one after another, and the younger ones go to the courtyard to play basketball, and some of them are playing basketball. Older people often go into the dormitory to smoke leaf cigarettes. It was around one o'clock in the afternoon, and there was still an hour left before the meeting could continue. When Wang Dafei, the president of Muyu Commune and the former first secretary of the party committee, who now had an empty title, walked into his dormitory, he found He Yongnian, the captain of their company's production brigade, still sitting on the edge of the bed wondering.

Faint light came in through the small window. The light and shadow in the room are still very blurry. Those piles of thick black shadows of different sizes. Only with the help of habit can one be sure that they are some old suitcases, cabinets, or a black lacquer box for storing hair combing equipment. The widow of former District Court judge Choi Ja-hun suddenly woke up. Because she firmly believes that all evil often occurs when day and night alternate, she has always woken up at dawn for a long time. Although the information she got, there was no sound to prove that it was reliable. Moreover, she has seen the world and is not as easily confused as an ordinary country woman. She sat up, put on her clothes, and struggled with the remnants of sleep she had; listening to see if there were any suspicious noises nearby.