But later that day, the streets of Kweilin were strewn with newspapers reporting great Kuomintang victories, and on top of these papers, like fresh fish from a butcher, lay rows of people - men, women and children who had never lost hope, but had lost their lives instead.

People there only dream that it is China, because if you are Chinese you can never let go of China in your mind.

When you already believe something, how can you suddenly stop? When you are a loyal friend, how can you no longer be one?

I did not lose myself all at once.

We are living in a world where everything is false. The society is like bright paint applied on top of rotten wood.

For unlike my mother, I did not believe I could be anything I wanted to be. I could only be me.

And below the heimongmong, all along the ground, were weeds already spilling out over the edges, running wild in every direction.