Dragon in Qingshan

When I first opened it, I had no idea that I was about to be colonized by a silent force. At first, it was a few sentences that grabbed me. They are like flashlight beams that suddenly light up in the dark, illuminating the traces of dust dancing in the air - it turns out that there is such delicate vividness hidden in the cracks of daily life. Then, the character walked out. Instead of walking towards me, they walked past me, carrying all their fragility, contradictions, humbleness and dignity, just like those strange faces that rub shoulders with you in the subway car, but you instantly understood the weight of their lives. It doesn't teach by talking, it just presents. In those long, almost trivial descriptions, I learned to breathe at another speed. A dusk can last ten pages, and an inner struggle can wind like an endless lane. Time collapses and expands here, and I am forced to give up my greed for "plot" and learn to gaze instead - to gaze at the movement of a light, the texture of an emotion, the slow geological movement of a decision taking shape deep in the soul. The most amazing thing is the echo. Long after I closed the book, I kept encountering it again in my own life. The slightly sloping shoulders of the woman in front of me in the queue at the supermarket, the reflection of the shattered sky on the street after the rain, a certain overheard dialogue - all of these were enchanted by the book, becoming deep, trembling, and carrying multiple meanings. It didn't change the world, but it permanently changed the frequency with which I received it. Sometimes I feel that a truly great story is not about telling life, but becoming a prism. Through it, the chaotic light that is simplified as "everyday" is broken down into a clear and brilliant spectrum. From now on, you see everything with the profound vision given by this prism. Now it stands on my bookshelf, its spine worn. But I rarely reread it. Because it has already completed the most sacred betrayal: it escaped from the paper, sneaked into my eyes, and became the filter that cannot be removed when I view all things. Walking on an ordinary street, I would suddenly feel its language rising in my throat, like a strange wind blowing through the inner map I thought I knew, revealing unnamed valleys and rivers. I know that a part of me will always live in the kingdom it built with words that is more real than reality. Whenever the surface of life is too smooth and hard, I tap the invisible wall with my memory and hear the deep and clear echo from another world. That is a never-ending conversation between me and it.

This novel has the beauty of a classical mystery novel. It does not have the exaggerated words or sensationalism of the Internet articles of this era, only clean words. The pace is very slow, but the content is quite full, and the text is very comfortable to read. I will keep following it.