Spring Has Half Gone Since We Pa

Spring Has Half

Gone Since We Pa

TheWriters Publishing House

September2024

60.00 （CNY）

This book isa collection offictional prose stories focusing on the author's overseas study experience，life trivia， and the mental journey of literary writing It includesworkscreatedbyauthors inspired by dailylives.Anatypical Chinese student's hesitationand confusion when studying abroad reflects his continuous exploration，understanding，and pursuitof knowledgeabout literature and thecontext of the times through his lyrical writing.Rooted inthe impetuous andever-changing era，theauthor hopesto usecross-cultural，cross-context， and cross-era writing to explore how contemporary young people find their voiceand value，reconcilewith Easternand Western traditionsandcultural differences，andachieveself-identity.

SpringHas HalfGone SinceWePa

Liu Qian

LiuQian holdsabachelor'sdegree in ComparativeLiteraturefromBarnard College，Columbia University，and amaster'sdegreeinHumanities fromtheUniversityof Chicago.Her academicinterestsincludeEasternand Westernclassical theatre，modernand contemporaryfilmculture，andfiction.She likestoexploreavarietyofwritingstyles and has wonawards in new concept essay competitions.

Nanjing， 1947

Thesnowhadfallensodeepthatit seemeddeterminedtoburyeventhe pale，frail lightofdawnbeneaththe inky，frost-hardened earth.Fromthe eavesand shadowycornersstillhung afewstubbornicicles，likeslender winter willows drooping under the weightofthenorthernwind，bent low as if they might fall at any moment.Theredlanternfromthe LanternFestivalstillswayedthere， and its former plump festivitynow faded， shrinking into itself，shivering aloneinthebitterair.

Heawoketothefainttraceofa delicatefragrance.Drowsily，he openedhiseyesandblinkedacouple of times.Beforehecould makeout the flicker of golden yellow swaying beyondthewindowlattice，agustof cold wind seeping through the paper panes had already snapped him fully awake.Afewsprigsofwintersweet thathad stretchedoutovernight，

rustling gently as they slipped into theroom.Theirslenderbranches bent ever soslightly，archinglike thebackof abridge spun thinby winter's hand-half-veiled by sharp snow，nothingof itremainedbuta fadingscent，like the lastbreathof a brokensoul，urginghim to wake from hisdream.

Morning had fully broken， yet theroomstillflickeredwiththe dimlightof a candle.Its glow fell uponthedregsatthebottomofa white porcelain teacup，castinga murky， desolatereflection-chill andstrippedof eventhelast trace ofwarmth.Hechangedintoa plain white long robe， the collar embroideredwithafewpale，unripe plum blossoms. But the creases alongthefabrichunglooseand weary，givinghimthelookofa fading year clinging to its final scene Thosehands，oncedevoted to the artof inkandverse，hadsomehow grown calloused， tiny rough ridges

Appreciation of Chinese Literature 1

risingontheirsurface.Againand again，hetried，almostangrily，to smooth the foldsofhisrobeasif wringingthethroatof time itself. Eachmotionismoreruthlessthan thelast.The humanheart，afterall， isfickle.Butwhenhad hisown beguntochange？Therewasnotime todwell.Acigarettewasalreadylit betweenhisfingers.Ghostlythreads of smoke spiraled around him until theyhad spread，curlingever upward，boundlessand indistict， like mist from the heavens， cloaking himin theillusionofawayward immortal.

Aservant'svoicecamemuffled through the papered window： \"Master Xu， it’s time. The carriage has been waiting at the gate for quite a while now.\" There was no reply from within -only a slow，languid exhaleofsmoke， thickwith thehaze oflast night's wine.He rose at his own pace， unhurried， stepping out withameasuredcalm.Yes，heno longer wished to live as a man， to carrythe tangledburdenofhuman emotions.Helongedtocastthem allaside-those intricatethreadsof joy and sorrow，longing and rage - like that tattered paper lantern still hangingoutside，asmearof garish reddestinedtobesweptawayby thevast， indifferent snow.General Lu had sent word： come spring， they'd be returning. The message had been passed to himwith care. He frowned slightly and said nothing. Hehad no patience for such talk anymore-reekingof gunpowder， blood，and the bitter dust of bullets. Theypiercedlike blades， cloyed likecandied figurines，clunglike the heavycurtainofanoverripeopera. Hisearshad growncalloused from hearing them，his throat near bursting with a coppery froth of blood-but thebitterness simplywould not go down.

Afewsnowflakeslanded on his shoulders，andhefeltasudden weight press downat once.He lookedup，and theredlantern had torn open at some point， a gapinghole nowstutteringwith thesharp，whistlingwind.Crimson scrapsflutteredtotheground，their once-faded hue now deepened by snowinto something darker，more haunting.Hesteppedoutside.The coachmanliftedthecurtainofthe carriage.Justashewasaboutto climbin，one footalreadyraised， hepaused.Forsomereason，the imageof those buddingwintersweet branches by the window returned to him：solitary， glistening， so fragile likearequiem for the city ofNanjing itself. In the bleak and cuttingwind， theyheld a sorrow too deep to dissolve.

HerememberedGeneralLuhad said they’d be back by next spring. Hesettled intohisseat.Thewheels began toturnslowly，steadily. The coachmancrackedhisvoice intothe wind，urging the horses on.Ahead， the falling snow swept acrossthe road inthick，endlessflurries，painting it intoaboundlesswhite-vasterthan anysilencelodgedintheseamsof memory， more immense thanany emptinessone might tryto fill.But thehuman heart isprone to change Brushing two snowflakes from his shoulder，he thoughtso.

NightHongKong，1999

Theneon signs of the Kowloon concession district had already flickeredtolife，blinkinglike gemstonesintheblack-diamond night. Tightly packed， they pressed into the narrow， bustling alleys， sodenselycrowdedthateventhe lingeringsummerheatseemed squeezed out. Through the fluttering hemsof laundry strung high above the street， one could just make out thefaint glow of a dormitory's second-floorincandescentbulb， flickeringontheceiling likeadead white moth， clinging on.

Shestoodwithherheadlowered before the iron gate， fingers groping through the dark lining of her briefcase again andagain but never brushingagainstthekey'sfamiliar chill， that icy touch tinged with the scentofold copper.Thegateloomed beforeherlikeablackmountain risingfromtheground，itsiron face dark and stern， confronting her in silent defiance. Thatsquat， unremarkable little buildingslouched atthefarendofthestreet，listless and dim，sinking into the night like sewage into the gutters， both flowing toward the same turbid sea， heaving with the weary sighs of a fading Hong Kong.

Itwaslate.Nodoorkeeperwasthere to lether in.“Missy， what are you doing coming home at thishour？ She imagined runninginto the landlady， thatsharp-tongued elderwomanwith a toothpick forever dangling from herlipsandeyebrowsarchedhigh She'd bark the question in herworn， singsong Cantonese，needlingher like alinerehearsedathousandtimestoo many. And under that silk nightgown， thosepillowybreasts，paleand ample， wouldnearlyspilloutbeforehereyes， swayingjustenoughtomake her chesttightenandstarsbloombehind hereyelids.Thentherewasthat cloying，lingeringcologne， the thick， syrupyscentofdecayingrosebudsas if someone were stuffing her nose and mouth full of rotting petals.

Howmanyyearshaditbeensince she came to Hong Kong？Twelve.She counted on her fingers and thought to herself. How many twelves does a lifehave？Inthedistance，theruckus ofmusicand theclamorofcrowds seemed to trace her steps，ready to tapher shoulder and whisper that this salty night stretched on longer than any dream. Yes，Hong Kongwas salty， like that stingy little dish of soy sauce at the corner food stall. Under the dim overhead lights，everyface tookon a waxy yellow cast， like glistening roastmeatsdisplayed inawindow sweating drop by drop with oil-like heat.Weren’t those neatly chopped soychickensjustlifedismembered？ Piece by piece， fed into gaping mouths， chewed， swallowed， and finally spat out in a mess of bones and grease. Hong Kong was salty. That saltiness coiledlikea serpent made of grains of brine， its core pressing straight from the tip of the tongue to the throat. Even in July， a chill shot up her spine， leaving her trembling uncontrollably. She remembered gulping down cup after cup of weak teauntil the plastic kettle was nearly drained. The limp tealeavesfloatedlikesludge in murky dregs，but the saltinessand

relentlessrefusedtofade.Andthe leftover tea，coolingafterabriefboil， resembledasealosingitsheat，dark andbitter，densewithbrine，andeach sipchurningupwavesofunspeakable unrest in her mouth.

She glancedatthewatch. Itwas3a.m. No one else would be coming home tonight.Afteramomentofhesitation， she slipped her hand back into the briefcase， unwilling to give up. Half of herfigurevanished intothe darkness of thestairwell，whereafaint light caught her black leather heel， gleaming brightyetdeathlypale.Timehad grownsostill，somute， itfeltamiliar and foreign，just like whenshe had first arrived in Hong Kong： standing atthisveryirongate，tryingtolocate thenarrowkeyholehiddenwithinthe rigid bars. She had turned the key so slowly-clockwise，once，twice， threetimes-waitingforthedoorto open，waitingforthesharpbreathof April to crack thestillness，waiting forthat salty sunrise to ignite her and the whole of Hong Kong.

Reminiscence： Forgotten FlowersofQinhuai

Even without snow， Nanjing is already abeauty beyondcompare.

On the Qinhuai River， the drifting silhouettesoffinelydressedwomen， theirfragrancesand illnesses，their graceandsorrow，havealldrowned inthedark ripplesofthewater.Like duckweed，scattered and rootless， they drift with no place to call home. The riverside taverns， the weeping willows in the twilight-some

solitary candle still burns behind a quiet window， luring in the night， unraveling like a woman's hair cascading down in silence. In the gentlestbreeze，those strands brush against the skin of memory. The world may be fraying at the seams， but yearning floated and lingered like catkins. During those seasons whenrainbeatsoftlyonplantain leaves， faint light spilled from halfshut doors， shimmering between waterside pavilionsand river alcoves like ripples of longing that refused to fade. Songs drifted through the deep courtyard like golden koi， gliding through the midnight ripples of autumn， rousing even the slumbering crabapple blossoms intoa feverish bloom. They released their evening fragrance -drenched in memorysteeping the lanterns beneath the eaves ina languid， swaying glow. Night deepened. The wind’s laughter fadedintostillness.Onecould almost glimpse that pale crescent moon caught in her cloud-like hair-shimmering with each smile or frown， until it splintered into streaks of white in the dusk of her years. Frombehind emerald bedcurtains， her silken skirt whispered with the soft clinking of jade; with justa few graceful steps， enough to awaken a world long drunk on dreams. Ink spilled across the page-love，hate， delusion， desire，sweet beginnings，or drifting ends -all silenced in the last curl of sandalwood smoke.

Longestranged fromthe secluded chambers，whonowweepswith sleeves soaked through？ Each spring returns the same， with only one lamp to share the passing days.