To Live Yu Hua Quotes

Your life is given to you by your parents. If you don't want to live, you have to ask them first.

It’s better to live an ordinary life. If you go on striving for this and that, you’ll end up paying with your life.

No matter how lucky a person is, the moment he decides he wants to die, there's nothing that will keep him alive.

As the black night descended from the heavens, I knew that in the blink of an eye I would witness the death of the sunset. I saw the exposed and firm chest of the vast earth; its pose was one of calling, of beckoning. And just as a mother beckons her children, so the earth beckoned the coming of night.

The emperor beckons me; he wants me to marry his daughter. The road to the capital is long and distant; I don't want her.

It is when the suffering of others becomes part of my own experience that I truly know what it is to live and what it is to write. Nothing in the world, perhaps, is so likely to forge a connection between people as pain, because the connection that comes from that source comes from deep in the heart.

It was just as summer arrived that I met an old man named Fugui.

Speaking of which, I also met a teenager that could command silver butterflies around on Mount Yu Jun. Does anyone know who that was?” The lively, bustling chaotic spirit communication array suddenly fell silent the moment those words were out. This kind of reaction, Xie Lian had seen it coming and so he just waited patiently. After a while, Ling Wen finally asked, “Your Highness Crown Prince, what did you just say?” Mu Qing coldly answered for him, “He just said, he met Hua Cheng.” Finally obtaining the name of that red-clothed young man, Xie Lian was ineffably in a good mood. He smiled and said, “So his name is Hua Cheng? Hm, this name suits him quite well.

Saper vivere vuol dire non dimenticare mai queste quattro regole: non dire parole sbagliate, non dormire nel letto sbagliato, non varcare la soglia sbagliata e non infilare la mano nella tasca sbagliata.

Unequal lives give rise to unequal dreams.

best for Yin Yu to pretend not to know him. “San Lang, should we also think of a way to get out of here?” Xie Lian said. Hua Cheng seemed to be enjoying himself where they were. “Hmm? Already?” Xie Lian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Well, yes. Do you want to live in here?” “If it’s with gege, I don’t see why not,” Hua Cheng said. “All right, fine. I was joking.

The residents of the the town are attracted by the words and the pictures on the signs. They know full well the perils posed by overpopulation. Many of them have mastered the use of several types of contraceptives. Now they understand the dangers posed by traffic accidents. They know that even though overpopulation is perilous, the living must do their best to have a good time and avoid being killed in traffic accident.

A ripensarci questa vita è passata così veloce, una vita del tutto normale: mio padre sperava che facessi onore ai miei antenati, diciamo che aveva scelto la persona sbagliata; io, be'... il mio destino era questo. Da giovane ho fatto la bella vita per un po' grazie ai soldi lasciati dai miei avi; poi sono arrivati giorni sempre più neri, ma è stato meglio così: se guardo chi mi stava accanto, Long Er e Chunsheng, anche loro se la sono spassata per un po', ma alla fine hanno perso la vita. È meglio avere una vita normale, chi lotta per avere questo o quello, a furia di lottare ci rimette la propria vita. Prendi uno come me: in effetti mi sono dimostrato sempre più incapace di risalire il fiume dell'esistenza, eppure ho vissuto a lungo; tutte le persone che conoscevo sono morte, una dopo l'altra, io invece sono ancora vivo.

China during the Mao era was a poor country, but it had a strong public health network that provided free immunizations to its citizens. That was where I came in. In those days there were no disposable needles and syringes; we had to reuse ours again and again. Sterilization too was primitive: The needles and syringes would be washed, wrapped separately in gauze, and placed in aluminum lunch boxes laid in a huge wok on top of a briquette stove. Water was added to the wok, and the needles and syringes were then steamed for two hours, as you would steam buns. On my first day of giving injections I went to a factory. The workers rolled up their sleeves and waited in line, baring their arms to me one after another – and offering up a tiny piece of red flesh, too. Because the needles had been used multiple times, almost every one of them had a barbed tip. You could stick a needle into someone’s arm easily enough, but when you extracted it, you would pull out a tiny piece of flesh along with it. For the workers the pain was bearable, although they would grit their teeth or perhaps let out a groan or two. I paid them no mind, for the workers had had to put up with barbed needles year after year and should be used to it by now, I thought. But the next day, when I went to a kindergarten to give shot to children from the ages of three through six, it was a difference story. Every last one of them burst out weeping and wailing. Because their skin was so tender, the needles would snag bigger shreds of flesh than they had from the workers, and the children’s wounds bled more profusely. I still remember how the children were all sobbing uncontrollably; the ones who had yet to be inoculated were crying even louder than those who had already had their shots. The pain the children saw others suffering, it seemed to me, affected them even more intensely than the pain they themselves experienced, because it made their fear all the more acute. That scene left me shocked and shaken. When I got back to the hospital, I did not clean the instruments right away. Instead, I got hold of a grindstone and ground all the needles until they were completely straight and the points were sharp. But these old needles were so prone to metal fatigue that after two or three more uses they would acquire barbs again, so grinding the needles became a regular part of my routine, and the more I sharpened, the shorter they got. That summer it was always dark by the time I left the hospital, with fingers blistered by my labors at the grindstone. Later, whenever I recalled this episode, I was guilt-stricken that I’d had to see the children’s reaction to realize how much the factory workers must have suffered. If, before I had given shots to others, I had pricked my own arm with a barbed needle and pulled out a blood-stained shred of my own flesh, then I would have known how painful it was long before I heard the children’s wails. This remorse left a profound mark, and it has stayed with me through all my years as an author. It is when the suffering of others becomes part of my own experience that I truly know what it is to live and what it is to write. Nothing in the world, perhaps, is so likely to forge a connection between people as pain, because the connection that comes from that source comes from deep in the heart. So when in this book I write of China’s pain, I am registering my pain too, because China’s pain is mine.

This “me” of ten years before lay down amid the leaves and long grass and slept for two whole hours. During this time a few ants crawled up my leg, but even in my deep sleep my finger accurately flicked them off. I felt as if I had come to a shore, and the echoing shouts of an old man poling a bamboo raft seemed to reach my ears from far away. I awakened from my dream, and

the voice calling out was actually crisp and clear. After I turned around I saw an old man in one of the nearby fields patiently trying to coax an old ox into working. The ox, probably already exhausted from plowing the field, stubbornly lowered his head and refused to move. The bare-chested old man leaned on the plough behind his beast, seemingly frustrated by the ox’s attitude. I heard his bright voice say to the ox, “Oxen plough the fields, dogs watch over the house, monks beg for alms, chickens call at the break of day and women do the weaving. Have you ever heard of an ox that didn’t plough the land? This is a truth that has been with us since ancient times. Come on, let’s go.” The

weary old ox, after hearing the old man’s lesson, raised his head as if admitting his mistake. Pulling the plow, he began to move forward. I noticed the old man’s back was just as black as the ox’s. Even though the pair had already entered the twilight of their lives, they still managed to noisily plough the rugged land, the earth breaking up like a wave crashing on the shore. Afterward I heard the old man’s hoarse yet moving voice sing an old folk song. First he sang a long introductory melody, then came two lines of verse:

The emperor beckons me; he wants me to marry his daughter. The road to the capital is long and distant; I don’t want her.

The little one or the big one?

...yanı başımdaki tarlada bir ihtiyarın, yaşlı bir öküzle tarlayı sürdüğünü gördüm. Yaşlı öküz, tarlayı sürmekten yorulmuş olacak ki başını öne eğmiş öylece dikiliyordu. Arkasında, sırtı çıplak, sabana yaslanmış ihtiyar adam, anlaşılan öküzün tembelliğine kızmıştı; öfkeyle bağırdığını işittim. "Öküzler toprağı sürer, rahipler yoksullara bağış toplar, horozlar şafağı haber eder, kadınlar kumaş dokur. Tarlayı sürmeyen öküz mü olurmuş? Bu ezelden beri böyledir, hadi yürü, yürü!" Yaşlı ve bitkin öküz, ihtiyarın azarını işitince hatasını kabul eder gibi başını kaldırdı ve sabanı çekmeye başladı. İhtiyarın sırtının da öküzünki kadar kara olduğunu fark ettim. İkisi de, hayatlarının alaca karanlığında bile olsalar, o çakıllı taşlı tarlayı sürebiliyorlardı, tıpkı dalgaların sahile vurması gibi.

L'imperatore a sposar sua figlia mi chiamò, ma la strada è troppo lunga e non ci vo. Rifiutare di diventare genero dell'imperatore perché la strada è troppo lunga! Il tono compiaciuto del vecchio mi strappò una risata. Probabilmente il bufalo aveva di nuovo rallentato il passo, perché il vecchio si mise ancora a predicare: "Erxi, Youqing non fare il pigro; Jiazhen, Fengxia stai arando bene; anche Kugen se la cava". Quanti nomi può avere un bufalo? Curioso, entrai nel campo e mi avvicinai al vecchio per chiederglielo: "Ma quanti nomi ha questo bufalo?" Il vecchio fermò l'aratro e mi squadrò da capo a piedi. "Vieni dalla città?" "Sì," ho accennato col capo. E il vecchio tutto compiaciuto: "L'avevo capito subito". "Quanti nomi ha il bufalo?" "Solo uno, si chiama Fugui." "Ma poco fa hai detto un sacco di nomi." "Ah!" si mise a ridere tutto contento e mi fece cenno di avvicinarmi. Quando gli fui accanto, fece per aprir bocca, poi si fermò vedendo che il bufalo aveva alzato la testa. Lo sgridò: "Non spiare tu, giù la testa!" Il bufalo obbedì, allora il vecchio mi sussurrò: "Ho paura che si accorga che c'è solo lui ad arare, così chiamo tutti questi nomi in più per ingannarlo. Se sente che ci sono altri bufali ad arare il campo non fa storie e ci mette più impegno".

Mio padre, spesso, mugugnava tra i denti e sospirava rimproverandomi di non saper onorare i miei antenati. Spetta forse solo a me di onorare gli antenati? pensavo, e mi dicevo: perché rinunciare a un'esistenza perfetta sotto ogni aspetto, per accollarmi la fatica di onorare gli antenati? E poi, anche mio padre si era comportato come me da giovane: il mio clan in origine possedeva duecento mu di terra, ma una volta finiti in mano sua ne erano rimasti solo un centinaio, Così io gli dicevo: "Non ti preoccupare, ci penserà mio figlio a onorare gli antenati". Bisogna pur lasciare qualcosa di buono alla nuova generazione!

A fine giornata, la mia giacca di seta era sdrucita, le spalle erano intrise di sangue. Camminavo da solo verso casa, camminavo e piangevo, piangevo e camminavo. Pensavo: ho trasportato quelle monete per un giorno solo e già mi sento a pezzi, chissà quanti tra i miei antenati si sono ammazzati di fatica, per guadagnare quel denaro. Solo allora compresi perché mio padre avesse voluto a tutti i costi monetine di rame e non pezzi d'argento: voleva che capissi com'è duro far soldi.

A questo punto Fugui mi guardò con una risatina: quello che quarant'anni prima era stato un libertino sedeva a petto nudo sull'erba fresca, il sole che squarciava a fiotti di luce le foglie degli alberi illuminava i suoi occhi stretti a fessura. Le sue gambe erano incrostate di fango, sulla sua testa completamente rasata sbucavano radi e sparsi alcuni capelli bianchi; sul petto la pelle s'increspava in tante grinze, lungo le quali scivolava colando il sudore. In quel momento il vecchio bufalo era accucciato nell'acqua giallastra dello stagno, affioravano soltanto la testa e la lunga colonna vertebrale: l'acqua dello stagno sciabordava su quella schiena bruna come le onde che s'infrangono sulla riva. Incontrai questo vecchio agli inizi della mia vita girovaga, ero un giovane spensierato allora, ogni faccia nuova mi riempiva di entusiasmo, m'attirava profondamente tutto ciò che m'era sconosciuto. Fu proprio in un momento simile che incontrai Fugui: sapeva raccontarsi in modo colorito e vivace, nessuno mi ha mai aperto il suo cuore come lui, era disposto a rivelare qualsiasi cosa volessi conoscere. L'incontro con Fugui mi riempì di liete aspettative per la mia vita alla ricerca di ballate, pensavo che quella terra fertile e lussureggiante fosse popolata da un'infinità di persone come lui. In seguito ho effettivamente incontrato molti vecchi simili a Fugui, portavano come lui delle braghe con il cavallo che ricadeva a penzoloni quasi fino alle ginocchia. Le rughe sul loro viso erano coperte di terra e sole e quando mi sorridevano potevo vedere che nel vuoto della loro bocca non restava che qualche dente. Spesso versavano lacrime torbide, ma non perché fossero tristi: piangevano anche quand'erano allegri e persino nei momenti di assoluta calma e senza alcun motivo, poi alzavano le loro dita scabre come strade di campagna a sfregarsi via le lacrime come ci si pulisce di dosso qualche filo di paglia.

Mia madre sosteneva che la terra è il miglior nutrimento dell'uomo, non solo fa crescere i raccolti, ma può anche guarire le malattie. In tutti quegli anni, mi tamponai qualunque ferita con una zolla di umido fango. Aveva ragione mia madre, il fango non va disprezzato, può curare mille malattie.

Ne ho combattute a decine di guerre io, e ogni volta mi dicevo: vecchio mio, anche se muori devi vivere lo stesso. Le pallottole m'hanno sfiorato in ogni punto del corpo, ma non mi sono mai fatto niente. Chunsheng, basta pensare di non morire e non morirai.

Quando sarò morta non avvolgermi in un sacco di iuta, la trama della iuta ha i nodi troppo stretti, una volta giunta nell'aldilà non riuscirei a liberarmi; basterà un panno pulito e prima di seppellirmi lava bene il mio corpo". Poi aggiunse: "Ormai Fengxia è grande, se le riuscirai a trovare un marito, chiuderò gli occhi in pace. Youqing è ancora un bambino, ci sono cose che ancora non capisce; tu non picchiarlo spesso, fagli un po' paura e basta". Stava disponendo il suo funerale, e nell'ascoltarla mi colpì un dolore aspro e amaro: "Secondo il corso naturale delle cose," le dissi, "io avrei dovuto esser morto già da un pezzo: ne ho visti morire tanti durante la guerra, eppure io non sono morto, ed è solo perché continuavo a ripetermi ogni giorno che volevo vivere per tornare a rivedervi. E tu vorresti abbandonarci?" Le mie parole ebbero effetto su Jiazhen. La mattina dopo, al risveglio, vidi che Jiazhen mi stava guardando: "Fugui," sussurrò, "non voglio morire, voglio potervi vedere ogni giorno".

Di colpo privata di due persone, come ce l'avrebbe fatta ad andare avanti questa famiglia? Era come una pentola spezzata: mezza pentola non fa una pentola, mezza famiglia non fa una famiglia.

Chunsheng," gli dissi, "non devi assolutamente fare il pazzo, i morti stessi vorrebbero tornare a vivere, un uomo sano e forte come te non può morire!" Poi aggiunsi: "La vita te l'hanno data tuo padre e tua madre, se non la vuoi più, devi prima chiederlo a loro". "Mio padre e mia madre sono morti da tempo," disse Chunsheng asciugandosi le lacrime. "A maggior ragione, allora, devi vivere e bene, pensaci: hai fatto tante guerre in giro per il mondo, è stato forse facile restare in vita?

Ah, gli uomini! Per quanto travagliata sia stata la loro esistenza, sanno ancora consolarsi in punto di morte.

Jiazhen ha avuto una bella morte, serena, dignitosa. Non si è lasciata nessun'ombra alle spalle; non come certe donne del villaggio, che anche dopo morte sono oggetto di chiacchiere." Questo vecchio che mi sedeva di fronte usava un tono nel parlare della moglie morta più di dieci anni prima che destava nel mio intimo un senso di ineffabile tenerezza, come un prato verde che vacilla nel vento, vedevo la quiete ondeggiare in un luogo remoto.

活着，在我们中国的语言里充满了力量，它的力量不是来自于叫喊，也不是来自于进攻，而是忍受，去忍受生命赋予我们的责任，去忍受现实给予我们的幸福和苦难、无聊和平庸。

İnsanların unutmaması gereken dört kural vardır: Yanlış söz söyleme, yanlış yatakta uyuma, yanlış eşikten girme, elini yanlış cebe atma.” “Bu adam ikinci kuralı unuttu ve yanlış yatakta uyudu.” -Yaşamak

Tek bir cümleyle beni neredeyse öldürmüştü. -Yaşamak

Kendi kendime, "Bu kız benim eşim olmalı," diye düşündüm. -Yaşamak

Umarım öteki dünyada da ömrümü yine seninle geçiririm. -Yaşamak

Bana bir can borcun var,öteki dünyada ödersin. -Yaşamak

Fugui, bu öküz babandan bile yaşlı görünüyor -Yaşamak

Düşünmek yüreğimi öyle acıttı ki, ağlayamadım bile.

geceleri yatağa uzanır ama uyuyamazdım. nefret edecek birsürü şey gelirdi aklıma, ama sonunda yine kendimden nefret ederdim.

It is when the suffering of others becomes part of my own experience that I truly know what it is to live and what it is to write.

Our leader was dead. My eyes too filled with tears, and I wept like the thousand other. I heard heartrending screeches and earthshaking howls, people gasped for breath and choked in anguish - and then my mind began to wander. Grief no longer held me in its sway; my thoughts started moving in another direction entirely. If it had been just a few people weeping, I would certainly have felt sad, but a thousand people weeping at the same time simply struck me as funny. I had never in my life heard such cacophony. Even if every living variety of beast were to send a delegate to our auditorium and they were all to below in unison, I thought to myself, they surely could not make a stranger chorus than the din of a thousand people crying their heads off. This untimely fancy might have been the death of me. I couldn't help but smile, and then I had to fight back the laugh that was pushing its way out. If anybody were to see me laughing, I would be labeled a counterrevolutionary on the spot and life would not be worth living. Hard as I tried to bottle up my laughter, it insisted on spilling forth, and knowing I couldn't stifle it any longer, I desperately threw myself forward, hugging the back of the chair in front of me and buried my head in my folded arms. Amid weeping of a thousand people I was in the throes of uncontainable mirth, my shoulders heaving, and the more I tried to stop myself from laughing, the more laughs kept coming. My classmates, through a curtain of tears, saw me sprawled over a chair, racked by agonizing spasms of grief. They were deeply moved by my devotion to our fallen leader, and later they would say, 'Yu Hua was more upset than anyone - you should have seen the way he was crying

Our leader was dead. My eyes too filled with tears, and I wept like the thousand others. I heard heartrending screeches and earthshaking howls, people gasped for breath and choked in anguish - and then my mind began to wander. Grief no longer held me in its sway; my thoughts started moving in another direction entirely. If it had been just a few people weeping, I would certainly have felt sad, but a thousand people weeping at the same time simply struck me as funny. I had never in my life heard such cacophony. Even if every living variety of beast were to send a delegate to our auditorium and they were all to below in unison, I thought to myself, they surely could not make a stranger chorus than the din of a thousand people crying their heads off. This untimely fancy might have been the death of me. I couldn't help but smile, and then I had to fight back the laugh that was pushing its way out. If anybody were to see me laughing, I would be labeled a counterrevolutionary on the spot and life would not be worth living. Hard as I tried to bottle up my laughter, it insisted on spilling forth, and knowing I couldn't stifle it any longer, I desperately threw myself forward, hugging the back of the chair in front of me and buried my head in my folded arms. Amid weeping of a thousand people I was in the throes of uncontainable mirth, my shoulders heaving, and the more I tried to stop myself from laughing, the more laughs kept coming. My classmates, through a curtain of tears, saw me sprawled over a chair, racked by agonizing spasms of grief. They were deeply moved by my devotion to our fallen leader, and later they would say, 'Yu Hua was more upset than anyone - you should have seen the way he was crying

When I was ten years younger than I am now, I had the carefree job of going to the countryside to collect popular folk songs. That year, for the entire summer, I was like a sparrow soaring recklessly. I would wander amid the village houses and the open country, which was full of cicadas and flooded with sunlight.