Hello, Xiaobo
Everyone has their idols; my idol in literature is Mr. Wang Xiaobo.
On April 8, 2016—the first weekend just after the Qingming Festival—I took a bus alone to the Foshan Cemetery in Yangfang Town, Changping District, to tend the grave of my idol, the gifted writer of a generation, Mr. Wang Xiaobo.
As I bought flowers outside the Foshan Cemetery, I asked the flower-seller how to find New Zone 8 in Section 1 of the cemetery. The elderly woman asked: You've come to tend Wang Xiaobo's grave, haven't you? Then she warmly told me how to find Xiaobo's tomb. She said that over these past ten-plus years, people have kept coming to tend Wang Xiaobo's grave.
There were not many visitors in the cemetery; I was alone in New Zone 8. Walking through row after row of tombs and ascending the steps to the highest point, there was Xiaobo's grave. It is very distinctive, just like Xiaobo himself, and like that independently marching pig-eldest brother in Xiaobo's writing. After Xiaobo died, his wife Li Yinhe buried him in a natural boulder: they bored a hole in the stone, stuffed his ashes inside, sealed the hole with cement, and inscribed a few large characters on the rock, 'The Tomb of Wang Xiaobo,' with his dates of birth and death. That was how this extraordinary talent was laid to rest.
When I reached Xiaobo's grave, the cemetery was empty. Qingming had just passed, and there were not as many flowers before his grave as I had imagined; only a card held down by a stone, bearing a few lines of writing:
The Silent Majority
Here no word is written
All is silence
— Xiao Fang to Xiaobo, April 3, 2016
Xiaobo's essay collection is itself titled The Silent Majority, and 'The Silent Majority' is also the best-known of his essays. Xiaobo's writing is suffused with a spirit of humanistic care, and his style is humorous. As a liberal and individualist, Xiaobo was always devoted to giving voice to marginalized people. Hence many lonely people who did not fit in, after reading Xiaobo's books, became strong in heart and at peace in spirit.
I never got to meet this Xiao Fang, but in my mind this female fan of Xiaobo's must be a person of marked individuality; whether her face is gentle or bold, her inner world must be out of the ordinary. To come alone to tend Xiaobo's grave at Qingming, and in this manner, this Xiao Fang must be no ordinary woman.
Compared with her, the bunch of chrysanthemums I bought for ten yuan is rather vulgar. But if Xiaobo has a spirit in the beyond, he should not mind the difference. Perhaps, drawn by the attraction of opposites, Xiaobo would consider working Xiao Fang into some character of his—like Xian Tiao, Xiao Zhuanling, or Chen Qingyang. As for me, he might give only a simple, knowing smile. But whether it is I or Xiao Fang, we would gladly accept any form of welcome from Xiaobo.
Mortal life is drab and flavorless; Xiaobo solved this problem through his creative work. The works Xiaobo created helped another group of people escape, for a while, the drabness of mortal life. Such is Xiaobo's way of existing and the meaning of his existence.
A writer who has achieved this has no regrets. Xiaobo, whether you were lonely in life or not, I believe your spirit in heaven would feel gratified by all the people today who love your work.