Miss the Emptiness

The author has recorded his unique journey of walking tens of thousands of miles and visiting 42 junctions of tri-province border regions in China over the past 20 years， presenting the unique natural landscape， human geography， and customs of the junctions of the three provinces.

A-Jian

A-Jian， whose real name is Zhao Shijian， is from Qingdao， Shandong. He has been to farms， worked as a labourer， a teacher， a geological team cook for expeditions， and" a travel guide， music critic， etc.， and has published many books.

Five years ago， Uncle Jian entrusted me with the task of writing a foreword for his manuscript on the tri-province border region （hereafter referred to as “San Jiao”）. The first time I read it， my mind was elsewhere， and I failed to fully immerse myself. Upon reading it again two years later， I began to appreciate its depth and penned the initial foreword， Neither Welcome Nor Refusal. Revisiting it now， I feel compelled to rewrite my thoughts as I am more acutely aware of the work’s brilliance.

Words reveal one’s true self. To understand a book， the best approach is often to understand the author， why and how they wrote it and to reflect on oneself， setting aside biases， gaining clarity， and internalizing the insights within the book.

Jian is a legendary figure who encountered significant life experiences early on. He is either a poet among travelers or a traveler among poets. He started The Beer Journal， and has ventured through most counties and cities across the country. He began exploring the outdoors in the early 1980s， climbed thousand-meter peaks around Beijing， hiked the untamed stretches of the Great Wall in the Beijing-Tianjin-Hebei area， cooked for the Qinghai-Xizang scientific expedition， journeyed through San Jiao， explored ancient Chinese pagodas， and more. When I once asked him to summarize himself in a few words， he replied， “Friends， beer， women， persistence， and travel.”

Jian loves to walk， and his journey through San Jiao， pausing here and there， with breaks in between， spanned more than 20 years. His choice of San Jiao as a theme likely stemmed from three reasons. First， he has a “pioneer’s spirit” of exploring the unexplored; San Jiao is an unconventional subject， with few enthusiasts nationwide， allowing him to break new ground. Second， San Jiao demands extensive time， which ensures a long-term project that allows him to travel widely without idle periods. Third， with such a grand plan as a pretext， he could encourage friends to join him， finding secluded spots to recite poetry and share drinks. In his own words， visiting San Jiao is secondary; gathering with old friends is what truly brings it to life.

Jian’s approach to exploring San Jiao has a postmodern flair. Most travelers， whether for sightseeing or research， set specific goals and destinations. But Jian and his friends’ journeys are much more freewheeling， often with no particular plan. They frequently decide on their destination after meeting up， playing a game to settle on the place， and then voting on a quirky way to get there. Aside from walking （covering tens of kilometers at times） or cycling， they might run a marathon， go barefoot， pedal a tricycle， or skate--anything to keep their bodies in motion. They usually travel on a budget， eating at modest local spots and staying in simple lodges for laborers. Once they find a San Jiao marker stone， they toss a die onto it， and whichever province it lands on， that “provincial representative” must take a drink. Or they might drink a shot from each of the three provinces， smoke a cigarette from each， or bury some valuables nearby and announce the location， inviting others to come and find them. If a friend’s hometown is nearby， they would embark on a “household raid” visit. Jian’s brainchild， the “Post Group，” has developed nearly a hundred different travel themes， like the “Silent Trip，” “Luck Trip，” and “Self-Effacing Trip，” all aimed at resisting routine. To outsiders， they might look like a gang of mischief-makers， but abstracting this phenomenon hints at a philosophy of “existence precedes essence.”

Jian has a habit of recording his journeys as he travels， noting everything he sees and hears， large or small. His style is similar to Ming Dynasty geographer Wang Shixing， who described his own method in Expanded Record of Knowledge： “I recount only what I’ve seen and heard; otherwise， I’d rather leave it blank.” Jian’s Guide to Beijing’s Thousand-Meter Peaks， published a few years ago， is the culmination of years of climbing notes， and this epic San Jiao work is no different， a collection of field notes from his explorations. I sometimes wonder if he has documented his entire life， as I’ve heard he even has a work titled Dictionary of Friends， chronicling his friends’ stories， an idea that leaves many in awe.

Jian’s diaries have a unique format， forming a style all their own. Though they may look like simple logs， they are packed with information， concise， and carefully worded. He doesn’t compile resources， cater to anyone， or add personal musings. Rather than lecturing， he shares small， uncurated realities from his surroundings. In these little fragments lies the essence of real life， the world in its raw form. He says his lifelong pursuit in writing is to craft expository prose that can explain clearly without accompanying images. In this era of image-driven content， short videos， and storytelling， being a writer focused solely on phenomenology is a kind of dedication， and sticking to one’s style as he has is no small feat. Philosopher Hannah Arendt once said that once factual truth is lost， no rational effort can retrieve it. I seem to see Jian bending down， picking up the fragments underfoot， and handing them to Arendt.

Professor Chen Jiaying once remarked that Jian is deconstructing society. After reading this book， I can sense that he’s dismantling grand questions like the meaning of life through his own brand of “l(fā)ittle stirs，” breaking them down into traveling friends， remote towns， local beers， and teas shared with locals. Piece by piece， these “l(fā)ittle stirs” ground us in the present moment. As I write this， I imagine the Zen monk Zhaozhou appears and tells me， “Go have some tea.”

These little stirs and simple facts ultimately combine to create this encyclopedia-like work. This book covers fascinating local names， scenic views， folklore， and characters from the San Jiao areas. Readers can easily use it as a travel guide or reference. The text is brief， touching lightly on what he encounters without going into detail， allowing readers to dig deeper based on the places or terms that interest them. Let me offer a small quiz： If you want to see a live version of a Ming Dynasty man’s hairstyle and attire， which San Jiao border should you visit？ The answer lies in this book.

Aside from serving as a guidebook， this work has other uses， and I’d like to share my personal approach to enjoying it. One day， when you find yourself at ease， try setting a map of China on your desk， opening this book， and letting go of any lingering concerns， approach it with a clear mind. Once you’re immersed， follow the author’s steps and vision; wherever he goes， you go， seeing the sights through his eyes. As the words gradually unfold， you’ll soon find yourself entering a new world， a small universe Jian has created， brimming with hidden scenes， little secrets， surprises， and Jian’s unique blend of life and freedom. To truly engage with this book， two things are essential： a calm heart， free from impatience， and a lack of expectation to find anything “useful” here. Otherwise， you might end up like I did the first time， lost and tossed aside. The text can transform into vivid imagery， making reading a path to embracing emptiness and flowing with nature， truly wonderful.

Jian’s life of travel stirs my admiration. Though my body may not reach where he has gone， my heart yearns to follow. I often ask myself why I can’t live as freely and open-mindedly as he does. Now I think I understand： it’s because I can’t let go of so many things. I can’t release my attachment to material comforts， societal judgments， or my constant search for life’s meaning. We are beings moving towards death; how we live is up to each of us. Some， seeing life as finite， feel they must accomplish things and are perpetually racing against time， viewing everything， including travel， as tasks， as if life is only about completing missions. In contrast， Jian always seems to have endless leisure， free and untethered; after enjoying the scenery of Jiuyi Mountain， he might suddenly decide to continue his trek through the mountains of Guangdong， Guangxi， and Hunan， or visit the Yao people deep in the Nanling Mountains. For those of us confined by schedules and responsibilities， this lifestyle can only be admired from afar. Perhaps only by reaching the realm Zhuangzi describes， transcending worldly affairs， material concerns， and even life itself， can one keep pace with Jian. Life， perhaps， is just about watching the scenery.

Jian， a person many may not understand， and even if they do， cannot emulate， might just be a prophet of sorts， someone who’s tried out the way we might live twenty years from now. In our fast-paced world brimming with meaning and purpose， it’s hard to practice this form-filled， content-rich yet goal-free style of travel. In the book， there’s a local’s “soul-searching” question that captures the sentiment of many： “What’s the meaning of traveling here？ I know you’re just here collecting antiques！”