I am not Ximen Qing.

The school bell sounded a bit like Ah Hu's mournful cry. The classroom was tense and serious as everyone listened to the English teacher's opening remarks. With the teacher's all-English self-introduction, a sense of novelty and admiration arose spontaneously among the students. My older sister was the English class representative in junior high school. Things were a bit chaotic; her understanding of pinyin and the 26 letters of the alphabet was confused. The English teacher said English was a "clean" language, a hybrid, because British culture was a hybrid of continental and native cultures. English has many loanwords—French, German, Spanish—and the countries that had the greatest influence on Britain were actually France and Denmark. No wonder British dramas are inseparable from French and Danish kings.

The Hundred Years' War between England and France was a war of indiscriminate conflict, a war in which each side was intertwined with the other. The greatness of Henry V faded with the decline of Henry VI. There was also Joan of Arc, the French heroine, and the clash between Napoleon and Wilson. The global popularity of English is attributed to the First Industrial Revolution, which led to Britain's colonies spreading across the world—a manifestation of the soft power of the British Empire. It's almost like a vocal lesson, with the English teacher instructing students on the pronunciation of the twenty-six letters, phonetic symbols, monophthongs, and diphthongs. It seems English has an advantage over Chinese in music, doesn't it? I always feel that English songs sound better than Chinese songs.

The English teacher asked the students to prepare tape recorders and cassette tapes so they could learn and imitate the pronunciation of native speakers. The English teacher was multi-talented; she could draw, illustrating the tongue positions for phonetic pronunciation and the coordination of airflow and teeth, and she demonstrated these for the students. With less stiff tongue movement, their pronunciation became more flexible. The English teacher taught the students many simple sentence structures: subject, verb, object, attributive, adverbial, and complement, and also explained parts of speech, as if English and Chinese were essentially the same, including tense and number changes, and first, second, and third person pronouns. English is actually a very precise language, requiring the memorization of many, many words, which can be quite tedious. The English teacher would say that's because they haven't learned enough; in fact, both English and Chinese are excellent languages. She didn't want to say too much, fearing it would scare the students and defeat the purpose of learning English.

Of course, David Solomon would occasionally come to the classroom to observe and provide guidance. Mr. Ke, the head of the education bureau, would act as the interpreter throughout. The students' attention was always focused on the interpreter, Mr. Ke; he was simply a genius! What was he saying to David? The students couldn't understand a word, but they were filled with admiration and envy. The interpreter must be a prodigy, able to translate Chinese into English and English into Chinese with ease. Rumors circulated that David Solomon had caught far too many pronunciation errors in the English teacher. However, this didn't seem to affect the English teacher at all; she continued teaching English as if nothing had happened.

David Solomon enjoys mingling with young female teachers. His nearly two-meter height attracts many of them. Rumors are circulating that David Solomon is actually a farmer in England, but this British farmer has become a big shot in the Chinese mountains, even having a translator. English is incredibly popular in China; many girls throw themselves at men who speak English. David certainly doesn't lack the affections of Chinese women, because the girls aren't stupid. If they become his girlfriends, David can happily take them to settle in England. People are desperate to go abroad. In England, being a farmer is better than being a professor in China. My aunt said her third brother in America washes dishes to supplement their income and even sent her a photo. It's easy to buy a big-displacement car in America. America is paradise; everything is advanced. The American Dream is the greatest dream; going to America is an unattainable dream.

It wasn't easy to escape the forest. Mom no longer had to be a nanny, and Dad reluctantly chose to work as a low-level employee at his second aunt's husband's factory. Zhang Sheng was finally free; he no longer had to put up with Sister Hua's bad temper. They had moved three times in a row. Now, Sister Hua was pregnant, and her pregnancy symptoms were quite severe. The house they had been renting had become Sister Hua's new home. His third aunt's fate had changed. The world was constantly changing, changing rapidly. The spring of reform and opening up had arrived, and some people had made a fortune through speculation. He gradually realized that his second aunt's husband undoubtedly belonged to the wealthy class of the new era. He was the factory manager, and the old saying still held true: "When one person attains enlightenment, even their chickens and dogs ascend to heaven." His second aunt's pillow curse had worked; his second aunt's husband had become a great savior, rescuing his third aunt's family. His third aunt had escaped from the countryside, and the family had entered a new life. However, she had become a restored queen at home, naturally retaliating in kind. Her hatred for her third aunt's husband manifested in making him do hard labor in the factory, becoming a cement worker, busy from morning till night.

The brother-in-law took care of his sister-in-law, but the second aunt became the punching bag for her husband. Working in the same unit, the brother-in-law, sister-in-law, and brother-in-law constantly argued, and naturally, the older sister suffered the most. The second aunt often cried until her eyes were swollen from worrying about her disappointing siblings. Zhang Sheng's worries stemmed from his parents' endless arguments. Everything remained the same, and he frequently saw his second uncle and father, along with his third aunt, arguing at the factory. The kind and strong image of his second uncle from his childhood was gone. Why did they have to come together? It was all fate's choice. At that time, he didn't understand his second uncle's volatile temper. Relatives were like that; as one got closer, kinship would gradually disappear. Why would kinship disappear? At that age, simplicity could resolve everything. He didn't understand, and he believed in misunderstanding. Every day, he worked from dawn till dusk, riding his bicycle along the roads, the roads surrounded by forests, accompanied by long wagons hauling logs. Wherever the road was built, trees were felled; the railway was phased out, and new roads were built. Humans are killers of the forests. I don't understand why they cut down towering trees. They've been cutting down trees for decades, all for the livelihood of the workers. The trees are turned into planks and plywood, which are then transported to the rivers and streams of the motherland. The workers are undoubtedly happy that their livelihoods are guaranteed.

Covered in dust, he often ran to the stream beside the road to wash his face. His power was boundless, like riding a warhorse, like the colossal ancient Egyptian in *Gargantua and Pantagruel*, possessing the imagination of Don Quixote, pedaling a windmill. The billowing dust on the road was the dust kicked up by his pedals—his motivation was sufficient.

The so-called town was a bustling world, and he envied the residents living there. But when he returned home around eight or nine o'clock at night, exhausted, he could only gaze at the dark distant mountains and forests, listening to the babbling brook. In the moonlight, he dared not look into the forest a few hundred meters away, fearing he might see the legendary fire fox. His father had once told a legend: he was lost in a snowy winter forest, without light, completely lost. Then, a dancing fire appeared in the distance, like a beacon, illuminating his path and leading him back to the forest, even escorting him home. His father later remembered that he had saved a family of foxes while felling trees; it was the foxes repaying a debt of gratitude. Zhang Sheng didn't know if this was true or not. Having read fox stories in *Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio*, he longed for a female fox spirit to come to his bedside. Suddenly, he thought of Jane Eyre; perhaps she was the incarnation of the legendary fox spirit.

This is truly a sister's care for her brother. This home was once her second aunt's husband's home, and now it's her father's home. Her father's life is inseparable from the care of his sisters. Going to the city to study is full of motivation, full of life's drive, entirely because of Jane Eyre, who sits in front of him. Jane Eyre is Zhang Sheng's goddess, a girl who hasn't fully developed yet, a flower in her prime, everything about her is beautiful, perfect. Zhang Sheng keeps this life's impulse hidden in his heart like a stone sinking into the sea, like a grotto eroded by time. Oh! Girl, your charm is like the allure of a fragrant rose, permeating Zhang Sheng's heart and nostrils, like living in a dream. One can imagine that Wang Aiyue, Jane Eyre's deskmate, and Zhao Lizhi and Liu Jing are all green leaves under the goddess's flower, forgetting the troubles and worries of worldly life here, adding only that beautiful feeling of being in love, how wonderful and pure, not knowing what this is called liking, what this is called adolescence, yes, spiritual love, unrequited love. To use Plato's analogy, I've never heard of Byron's innate fondness for him. His face was covered in acne, his voice hoarse. Thinking back, the adorable Sang Lun has long since left school, I heard he became a worker. With Sang Lun's model-like physique, there's no need to worry about girls not falling for him. I wish Sang Lun success in both work and love, only to have his friends forever cherished as his former deskmate. Sang Lun, who copied homework for the sake of dignity, was undoubtedly also an excellent student who loved learning. Through the changing seasons, Sang Lun will be like a generation of old wooden handles, tempered by life's trials, becoming a new generation of wooden handles. The bitter rain and cold winds of life will also turn Sang Lun's fair skin into a man's dark tan. Like everyone else, life is like a whetstone, capable of sharpening knives, but also turning steel into dust. A gust of wind carries memories in his mind; the death knell of time makes him forget the beautiful world that once existed. The cycle of life makes us remember some things and forget others, so the cruelty of life will be seen in the hazy, weathered eyes of the elderly, a rainbow devoid of life. A beautiful world exists, but it's like a magical world in time and space, where darkness often dominates life. The light of life illuminates the light of life itself. Dante gazes upon the goddess beneath God's throne, but Dante is a poet. Most ordinary people in worldly life become a grain of sand, yet within that grain of sand lies a beautiful universe, a universe of light, the light of the goddess of life, of Nuwa and Eve, Venus, the Seven Fairies, goddesses, Helen, Sith, and Green Pearl—the poet's imagination, the world of fantasy. These girls vanish in the mundane lives of ordinary people, in the mundane routines of marriage and childbirth, in the decadence of wine and meat. Beauty is like a dream, an illusion; the dream is forever gone, leaving only the vast, desolate earth, the chilling wind among withered branches and fallen leaves. Jane Eyre's existence gives him the power to traverse forests and towns, a power he longs for, like a dragon or a unicorn, with the bright, captivating eyes of Wang Aiyue.

Du Lihua was undoubtedly one of the more precocious students in the class; boys had already been presenting her with flowers at the school gate. Jane Eyre's mother, the math teacher, would often frown in class, expressing her disdain for Du Lihua. "Some of the girls have bad habits; they don't finish their homework on time."

At this point, Du Lihua would blush and glance at Jane Eyre. They, along with Wang Aiyue, would often hold hands on the playground after class, becoming the three sisters, the three goddesses of beauty and wisdom. The homeroom teacher was undoubtedly tolerant and didn't interfere with Jane Eyre's friendships. However, she would occasionally remind and hint to Du Lihua that she should be mindful of her early romantic relationships. It wasn't that she didn't want to interfere, but rather that their families lived very close to each other, and their parents were friends.

The homeroom teacher had three lovely girls, all renowned ladies from prominent families. Zhang Sheng was still quite worried; would the beautiful Jane Eyre also have someone she liked? These were all wild guesses. At this point, what were love, sex, and the concept of life? Was she still ignorant about the process of birth? Although she had seen so many pregnant women, she was still stuck in the mindset that life was a gift, a state of ignorance. In fact, it is in ignorance that one can imagine the most perfect love, pure as water, untouched by any impurity.

Life was simple. With a television at home, romantic speculation remained confined to the dramatic love stories of "The Flying Fox of Snowy Mountain," "The Seagull," "Between the Clouds," and Qiong Yao's "Plum Blossom Mark." For a time, I even became enamored with the love lives of the female protagonists in these dramas, hating the utterly wicked villains—why did they have to destroy pure love? Jane Eyre's appearance was like a rose blooming in a meadow, but Zhang Sheng, unfortunately, didn't understand what a rose was. In autumn, northern homes were filled with pots of clivia, their thick green leaves resembling cacti with tender green shoots. Clivia was popular for a while, then that enthusiasm, like love, faded away.

In autumn, pots of purple, yellow, white, and violet chrysanthemums bloom, youthful and vibrant. Lacking the poetic flair of Tao Yuanming, Du Fu, Li Bai, or Cao Xueqin, the fragrant scent of the flowers, like oranges, cleanses the soul, cleansing the soul devoid of aesthetic sensibility. Wildflowers bloom on the mountains and in front of and behind houses—cucumber blossoms, trumpet-shaped flowers climbing under the eaves in summer, intertwined with wild grapevines—days pass by in the transition between spring, summer, and autumn. In winter, the river freezes, the north wind blows, and snow falls heavily. Occasionally, a pheasant can be seen twenty meters from the house; the male is beautiful, fiery and alluring, the female ugly and plain. The rooster's crow echoes through the distant valleys. Finally, saplings are planted on the cleared land, covering the barren fields, blending with the shrubs—forestation has begun! Logging continues deep in the mountains and forests. For the livelihoods of the workers, the decades-long deforestation is nearing its end. Occasionally, looking out over the open fields, one can still see ginseng growing in sheds. Often, due to the vicissitudes of the international market, ginseng farmers have no control over the market's ruthlessness and have no say in pricing, with prices mainly determined by the international foreign trade market.