"Wang Yi finally chose me as the question writer, thinking that I could give him some trouble, but I didn't even give him a chance and just wrote the word "mule".
Wang Yi clasped his fingers and was about to count strokes when Zhuang Yu over there announced that he had failed..."
The courtyard is deep, the corridors are winding, and the vines clinging to the pavilions are dense and vigorous. The afterglow of the setting sun shines through the branches on the people in the courtyard, soft and gentle.
This is a private courtyard at the foot of Iris Mountain, which was built thirty years ago.
Zhou Qiang was taking notes with a pen and paper when he heard the voice recounting the past and stopped. He raised his head in confusion, only to see the old man on the wicker chair staring at the sky in a daze.
"Mr. Zhang?" Zhou Qiang called tentatively.
The old man came back to his senses and showed an apologetic expression, "Sorry, I was a little distracted."
"Mr. Zhang, why don't you come here today? The sun is going down and it's getting cold. I'll help you in."
Zhou Qiang has been here for more than half a month. He is the editor of Zero Zero One Publishing House. He came here just to interview the old man and write a biography for him.
After listening to Zhou Qiang's words, the old man sighed slightly, "I still go into too much detail and wasted a lot of time."
Then he changed the topic again, "You don't need to come tomorrow, you can do whatever you want for the rest of the time."
Zhou Qiang's expression was stagnant, and he didn't understand what the old man meant. According to the progress, they were only halfway through the interview, and there were still many things left to talk about.
After that world tour, Mr. Zhang won the Nobel Prize for Literature the next year, becoming the youngest winner in history.
The following year, he married Teacher Xu and later had a son and a daughter.
Although he had already become a literary figure in his thirties, Mr. Zhang continued to write and publish new works every few months until he stopped writing at the age of eighty.
Teacher Zhang, now ninety-two years old, is already a living legend.
Today, Mr. Zhang has many children and grandchildren, and they are all celebrities. His eldest daughter, teacher Zhang Pengpeng, is a representative of contemporary realist painters, and his second daughter, Zhang Ziyan, is an internationally renowned pianist. His eldest son joined the army when he was young and served in the army for most of his life.
There are still many things to talk about after this, so why are you telling him not to come?
"Teacher Zhang, how about we keep it short later?" Zhou Qiang said.
Zhang Zhong waved his hand and said, "No, just go and express yourself freely."
Zhou Qiang was stunned for a long time, looking at a loss, and finally asked his biggest question in this period: "Mr. Zhang, when you mentioned the rebirth of the earth, did you want to add some magical color to your biography?
"
Zhang Zhong stared at Zhou Qiang with bright eyes and suddenly laughed: "Whether it is true or false, a dream or an illusion, it is no longer that important. I can no longer tell whether the earth is a dream or the starfish is a dream. Between you and me, or
It's just a dream. Young man, go back."
Zhou Qiang's questions were not answered, but more questions were raised.
However, he was too embarrassed to disturb Zhang Zhong anymore, so he stood up, bowed, and walked out of the courtyard.
Seeing Zhou Qiang's back disappearing, Zhang Zhong turned his gaze to the setting sun in the west.
He suddenly heard a familiar voice calling him in the air, followed by a second, third...
"It's time for me to leave too." Zhang Zhong muttered to himself.
The yard suddenly became quiet, the wind stopped, the leaves stopped moving, and the crickets in the grass disappeared.
And it was not just this small courtyard that suddenly fell silent, but also a dream-like world.