What is life?Everything but life and death is a scratch

Chen Nianxi, 52, spent 16 years as a tunnel blaster in mines halfway across China.He wrote many words that shook the poetry world: “I dare not look at my life/it is hard and black/the sharp Angle of a pick/stones bleed when touched/I kill my middle age at a depth of five thousand meters/I burst rock layers again and again/by this I reassemble my life/My tiny relatives are far at the foot of the Shang Mountains/They are sickBody dust/Their old age can be prolonged as much as my middle age can be cut/I have three tons of dynamite in me/They are the fuze part/Last night in front of their bed/I burst the ground like a rock.””Who has read my songs/who has heard my hunger/The world is a field of snow/we are the birds in it/its whiteness makes us black/its magnificence makes us desolate.””Dust” is his new collection of nonfiction stories, he wrote in this book a group of ordinary and simple workers, skilled alchemical Zhou Daming and his wife, once suddenly rich venture contract abandoned mine boss, Sichuan people formed by the back of the foot team, miners and mine police, farmers, women, small workshop owners…Like a documentary, it records the burst and silence of fate.To be honest, recommending Chen Nianxi’s works requires careful choice of words and sentences.For it is hard not to worry that the words, typed with a mechanical keyboard on a bright cafe sofa, are not demeaning and blasphemous to the words of the old, with a different kind of machine, that are literally pressed against the earth, rubbing it so hard that it bleeds.In “Tiny Dust,” Chen nianxi displays a more concise and restrained writing style that is completely different from poetry writing.No exaggeration, no sentimentalism, no pretense, he narrates the “dust” of his world without making the book dust.As some readers commented, “The contents and objects described are obviously the most difficult and painful aspects of life, but when I read, I did not feel the same amount of pain, but” light “, or even “warm”, like being wrapped in cotton wool.Every person and every story described in this book are just a handful of dust in the big era, but every ordinary person of us is also the dust of the world, tiny but not humble, striving and blazing alive.”It is A book of life, and A book of death, and, in the final analysis, A book of life. There is always side A and side B of the world, and the dust floats, sometimes on this side, sometimes on that side.”What is life?Everything but life and death is a scratch.

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