Yu Hua Quotes

If literature truly possesses a mysterious power, I think perhaps it is precisely this: that one can read a book by a writer of a different time, a different country, a different race, a different language, and a different culture and there encounter a sensation that is one's very own.

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.

My mother often said, as long as a person is happy at work, then poverty is nothing to be ashamed of.

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.

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.

We survive in adversity and perish in ease and comfort.

We were fishers of memory waiting on the banks of time and waiting for the past to swallow the date.

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

She is like a broken pot that's not afraid of shattering, and I'm like a dead pig who no longer minds that the water's coming to a boil

People fear getting famous just as pigs fear getting fat. Reflecting the observation that fame invites a fall just as a fattened pig invites the butcher.

You know how men are... always peering into the pot even when they're eating out of the bowl.

Vừa nãy anh khóc là cứ tưởng Nhất Lạc đã chết, bây giờ khóc là vì đã trông thấy Nhất Lạc vẫn còn sống…

The timid die of hunger, the bold of overeating.

With relief I arrived at memory's peak, and a broader landscape came into view.

At first, writing actually felt the more arduous of the two activities. But in order to reach cultural-center nirvana, I forced myself to continue. I was young then and it was no easy matter to persuade my bottom to maintain such constant intimacy with my chair

My emotional state then was cramped and confined, like a room with tightly sealed windows and doors: although love's footsteps could be heard outside the room, I felt they were steps heading somewhere else--until one day when the steps came to a halt and the bell rang.

So things remained until one day, many years later, I happened upon a line in a poem by Heine: “Death is the cooling night.” That childhood memory, lost for so long, suddenly restored itself to my quivering heart, returning freshly washed, in limpid clarity, never again to leave me. If literature truly possesses a mysterious power, I think perhaps it is precisely this: that one can read a book by a writer of a different time, a different country, a different race, a different language, and a different culture and there encounter a sensation that is one’s very own. Heine put into words the feeling I had as a child when I lay napping in the morgue. And that, I tell myself, is literature.

the

As we Chinese say, you don’t have to pay tax on bullshit. That being so, why not bullshit to the max?

Recordar el pasado o añorar la tierra natal son, en realidad, maneras de recurrir a algo tranquilizador cuando estamos desorientados en la vida real.

Unequal lives give rise to unequal dreams.

That is the real tragedy: poverty and hunger are not as shocking as willful indifference to them.

The more boldly a man dares, the more richly his land bears

Hứa Ngọc Lan và  Nhị Lạc vừa ngồi tại chỗ, là hai mẹ con cứ nói hết chuyện nọ lại xọ sang chuyện kia, một người đàn bà ba mươi tuổi và một cậu bé tám tuổi, khi nói chuyện với nhau giống như hai người đàn bà ba mươi tuổi, hoặc hai cậu bé tám tuổi, hai người nói chuỵện sau khi  ăn cơm, hai người nói chuyện  trước khi ngủ, hai người nói chuỵên khi cùng đi ra phố, hai người thường xuyên càng nói càng hợp gu.

Three or four years ago, a city education bureau announced a new measure to raise the quality of local teachers and enable graduating high school seniors to be more competitive in the university entrance examination.

This was a key moment in my life. I had always assumed that light carries farther than human voices and voices carry farther than body heat. But that night I realized it is not so, for when the people stand as one, their voices carry farther than light and their heat is carried farther still. That, I discovered, is what “the people” means.

Why, when discussing China today, do I always return to the Cultural Revolution? That’s because these two eras are so interrelated: even though the state of society now is very different from then, some psychological elements remain strikingly similar. After participating in one mass movement during the Cultural Revolution, for example, we are now engaged in another: economic development.

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.

When asked if he had a special feeling for books, critic-turned-filmmaker Francois Truffaut answered, "No. I love them and films equally, but how I love them!" As an example, Truffaut gave the example that his feeling of love for "Citizen Kane" (USA, 1941) "is expressed in that scene in 'The 400 Blows' where Antoine lights a candle before the picture of Balzac.' My book lights candles for m any of the great authors of this world: Chinua Achebe (Nigeria), Angela Carter (UK), Saratchandra Chattopadhyay (India), Janet Frame (New Zealand), Yu Hua (China), Stieg Larsson (Sweden), Clarice Lispector (Brazil), Mario Vargas Llosa (Peru), Naguib Mifouz (Egypt), Murasaki Shikibu (Japan), and Alice Walker (USA) - to name but a few. Furthermore, graphic novels, manga, musicals, television, webisodes and even amusement park rides like 'Pirates of the Caribbean' can inspire work in adaptation. Let's be open to learning from them all. ("Great Adaptations: Screenwriting and Global Storytelling," 2)

What has made us move from one extreme to the other? Coutness answers ould probably be offered, but I doubt that such a cascade of responses will really provide clear explanation. One point, however, is clear: when society undergoes a drastic shift, an extremely repressed era soon becomes a very lax one. It's like being on a swing: the higher you soar on one side, the higher you rise on the other. China's high speed economic growth seems to have changed everything in the blink of an eye, rather like a long jump that let us leap from an era of material shortages into an era of extravagance and waste, from an era where instincts are repressed into an era of impulsive self-indulgence. A quick jump seems to be all it took to cross a span of thirty years.

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.

In times like these, who had either the leisure or the inclination to indulge in a touch of elegance?

Fin da quando ero piccola, - continuò lei gridando come prima, - mio padre mi diceva che il sangue ci viene dagli antenati. Per vivere uno può vendere frittelle, vendersi la casa, la terra... ma in nessun caso può vendere il sangue. Può persino vendere il proprio corpo, ma non il sangue. Vendendo il corpo, vende se stesso. Ma se vende il sangue, vende i suoi avi. Xu Sanguan, tu hai venduto i tuoi antenati!

developed

revolution was just a short step away from counterrevolution.

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.

Four other old folk emerged one by one to join their brother. All five siblings wore cheap polyester clothes, and standing in a group they looked very much alike. They differed only in their heights, like the fingers of a single hand.

Several times I ran into a crowd of [redacted], dozens of them. They were not like the other [redacted] that sometimes gathered together and sometimes separated--this crowd stayed consistently together as they walked, a little like the moon's reflection on water, which keeps floating in a discrete shape no matter how the waves tug.

Les hommes sont comme ça [...]. Ils mangent dans leur bol, mais ils gardent un œil sur la casserole.

Travolto dalle emozioni, ripensai agli anni delle elementari e delle medie, quando ci obbligavano a leggerlo: non era una lettura per bambini, ma adatta a un lettore maturo e sensibile, A volte, serve l'occasione giusta per incontrare veramente uno scrittore.

En realidad no vivimos en la Tierra, sino en el interior del tiempo.

El tiempo nos impulsa hacia delante o hacia atrás y va alterando nuestro aspecto.

A parte de la vida misma, no veo otropa motivo para seguir viviendo.

Those immediately behind number 50 were anguish personified. They let loose an endless stream of foul language and it was hard to tell whether they were cursing themselves or cursing something else. My neighbours and I in the last third of the queue only felt a pang of disappointment whereas those who just missed out on the coupon were like people who see the duck that they had cooked flap its wings and fly away.

Chaque fois que je lis ces grandes œuvres, je me laisse entraîner par elles. Je m'accroche à elles comme un enfant craintif au vêtement de sa mère. Je me règle sur leur pas et j'avance tout doucement dans le fleuve du temps. C'est un voyage agréable où mille sensations se mêlent. Elles m'emmènent avec elles et me laissent rentrer seul, et de retour à la maison je me rends compte qu'elles sont pour toujours avec moi.

Si la littérature est réellement dotée d'une force mystérieuse, c'est bien celle-là: la possibilité pour un lecteur de retrouver ses propres impressions dans l'œuvre d'un écrivain d'une autre époque, d'un autre pays, d'un autre peuple, d'une autre langue et d'une autre culture.

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。

When I lay down on that clean concrete bed, I found the ideal place for an afternoon nap. On many baking afternoons that followed, if I saw that the morgue was not otherwise occupied, I would lie on the slab and savor its soothing coolness; sometimes in my dreams I would find myself in a garden full of blooming flowers.

Benim endişem şu ki, kandırmak aleni bir şekilde insanların yaşam şekli haline geldiğinde, bu ister bir kişi olsun, ister bir ülke, herkes aldatmanın kurbanı haline gelir.

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.

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".

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.

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.

Per la mia imbranataggine in materia, ero come una casa senza porte e finestre: l'amore faceva su e giù, io sentivo il rumore dei passi, ma credevo che fosse lì per caso e diretto altrove. Finché, un giorno, si fece avanti e suonò il campanello.

La casetta si sta allontanando e i binari sono volati via. Continuo a perdermi inseguendo le mie tracce, e mi stanco. Mi siedo su una pietra, serafico come un albero. E i miei ricordi sembrano dei maratoneti mentre corrono al mondo che ho lasciato.

Boşuna dememişler kalp yüzden ayrıdır diye, birinin yüzünü tanıyabilirsin ama kalbini bilemezsin.- Kanını Satn Adam

Boşuna dememişler kalp yüzden ayrıdır diye, birinin yüzünü tanıyabilirsin ama kalbini bilemezsin.- Kanını Satan Adam

İnsan olmak vicdan ister."- Kanını Satan Adam

Kalbi nasıl kırılmış ki böyle ağlıyor?"- Kanını Satan Adam

Verdiğim sözü tutarım ben. İnsan olan bir kere söz verdi mi bin atlı süvari alayı bile durduramaz onu.”- Kanını Satan Adam

ama kanını satmak atalarını satmaktır.”- Kanını Satan Adam

Biz köylüler yaşımızı gösteririz," dedi Genlong, "şehirdekilerse kırk beş yaşındayken otuzlarında gösterir. "- Kanını Satan Adam

...Yeşil dağ orada durdukça yakacak için endişe etmene gerek yok..." Anlamı: Yaşamın olduğu yerde umut vardır demek olan Çin atasözü.- Kanını Satan Adam

Every time I read one of the great books, I feel myself transported to another place, and like a timid child I hug them close and mimic their steps, slowly tracing the long river of time in a journey where warmth and emotion fuse. They carry me off with them, then let me make my own way back, and it's only on my return that I realize they will always be a part of me.

Düşünmek yüreğimi öyle acıttı ki, ağlayamadım bile.

Kadınların tepesi attı mı, söyleyecekleri ya da yapamayacakları şey yoktur.

Kadınların tepesi attı mı, söyleyecekleri ya da yapamayacakları şey yoktur.- Yaşamak

İnsanların unutmaması gereken dört kural vardır : Yanlış söz söyleme, yanlış yatakta uyuma, yanlış eşikten girme, elini yanlış cebe atma.-Yaşamak

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

Düşünebiliyor musun, hayatımda üç kez ölülerin yattığı o küçük odaya girmek zorunda kaldım ve her defasında orada yatan benim canımdı. -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

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.

L'ho vista questa Gui Hua. Ha un sedere troppo grosso. Ti piacciono le chiappone, Gen Long?" chiese Xu Sanguan. Gen Long si mise a ridere e toccò ad A Fang parlare: "la donna col sedere grosso va bene. Stesa sul letto sembra una barca, è molto stabile.

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

... because my memory had caught up with the world that had gone away.

As soon as the train pulled into the station, the red guards would pour out of doors and windows like toothpaste squirting endlessly from a tube.

You don't have to pay tax on bullshit

As I look back over China's sixty years under communism, I sense that Mao's Cultural Revolution and Deng's open-door reforms have given China's grassroots two huge opportunities: the first to press for a redistribution of political power and the second to press for a redistribution of economic power.

Seen in this way, it represents a challenge of the grassroots to the elite, of popular to the official, of the weak to the strong... More than twenty years have passed since Tiananmen protests of 1989, and from today's perspective their greatest impact has been the lack of progress in reforming the political system. It's fair to say political reform was taking place in the 1980s, even if its pace was slower than that of economic reform. After Tiananmen, however, political reform ground to a halt, while economy began breakneck development. Because of this pradox we find ourselves in a reality full of contradictions: conservative here, radical there; the concentration of political power on this side, the unfettering of economic interests on that; dogmatism on the one hand, anarchism on hte other; toeing the line here, tossing away the rule book there. Over the past twenty years our development has been uneven rather than comprehensive, and this lopsided development is compromising the health of our society. It seems to me that the emergence - and unstoppable momentum - of the copycat phenomenon is an inevitable consequence of this lopsided development. The ubiquity and sharpness of social contradictions have provoked confusion in people's value systems and worldview, thus giving birth to the copycat effect, when all kinds of social emotions accumulate over time and find only limited channels of release, transmuted constantly into seemingly farcical acts of rebellion that have certain anti-authoritarian, anti-mainstream, and anti-monopoly elements. The force and scale of copycatting demonstrate that the whole nation has taken to it as a form of performance art.