The Republic of Wine

was promoting communism.
    If you want to know the truth, I’ve never tossed away my beggar’s staff, and if I were to toss it away someday, I’d surely not go out and ‘beat up a beggar,’ would I? But there are no guarantees, since people can’t dictate the changes they’ll undergo throughout their lifetime.
    Now for your story: 1. You call it grim realism.’ Can you tell me what that means? I can’t say for sure, although I have an idea. The contents of your story make me shudder, and all I can say is, I’m glad it’s fiction. There’d be big trouble if you’d written a journalistic essay with the same contents. 2. As for publishability, normally there are two standards that apply: ideological and artistic. I can never figure either of them out. And I mean just that. I’m not pussy-footing. Fortunately, Citizens’ Literature has a fine crop of editors, so let them decide.
    I’ve already sent your story to the editorial department of Citizens’ Literature , and as far as hosting a dinner or sending gifts is concerned, I’m afraid I don’t know enough about either to even try. Whether that stuff works with big publications like Citizens’ Literature or not, that you’ll have to find out for yourself.
    Wishing you
    Good luck,
    Mo Yan
    IV
    Meat Boy, by Li Yidou
    A late autumn night; the moon was out, hanging in the western sky, the edges of its visible half blurred like a melting ice cube. Cold rays of light danced in the sleepy village of Liquor Scent. Someone’s rooster crowed from a chicken coop. The sound was muffled, as if emerging from a deep cellar.
    Muted though the sound was, it still roused the wife of Jin Yuanbao from her sleep. She wrapped a quilt around her shoulders and sat up, feeling disoriented in the surrounding mist. Pale moonbeams slanted in through the window, stamping white designs on the black quilt. Her husband’s feet stuck out from under the covers to her right, icy cold. She covered them with a corner of the quilt. Little Treasure slept curled up on her left, his breathing deep and even. The muffled crows of roosters from even farther away came on the air. She shivered and climbed down off the bed, throwing a jacket over her shoulders as she walked into the yard, where she gazed up into the sky. Three stars hung in the west and the Seven Daughters rose in the east. It would soon be dawn.
    The woman went inside and nudged her husband.
    ‘Time to get up.’ she said. ‘The Seven Daughters are up already.’
    The man stopped snoring and smacked his lips a time or two before sitting up.
    Is it dawn already?’ he asked, with a hint of confusion.
    ‘Just about,’ the woman said. ‘Get there a little earlier this time, so it won’t be a wasted trip like the last time.’
    Slowly the man draped his lined coat over his shoulders, reached out for a tobacco pouch at the head of the bed, filled his pipe, and stuck it between his lips. Then he picked up a flint, a stone, and some tinder to make a fire. Angular sparks flew, one landing on the tinder, which caught fire when he blew on it. The deep red flame glowed in the dark room. He lit his pipe and took a couple of quick puffs. He was about to snuff out the tinder when his wife said:
    ‘Light the lantern.’
    ‘Are you sure you want to?’ he asked.
    ‘Go ahead and light it,’ she said. ‘A tiny bit of lantern oil can’t make us any poorer than we are now.’
    He took a deep breath and blew again on the tinder in his hand, watching it grow brighter and brighter and finally turning into a real flame. The woman brought the lantern over and lit it, then hung it on the wall, where it cast its feeble light throughout the room. Husband and wife exchanged hurried glances, then looked away. One of the many children sleeping next to the man was talking in his sleep, loudly, like shouting slogans. One of the others reached out and rubbed the greasy wall. Yet another was weeping. The man tucked the one child’s arm back under the covers and nudged the weeping child.
    ‘What are you crying about?’ he said impatiently. ‘Little family wrecker!’
    The woman took a deep breath. ‘Shall I boil some water?’
    ‘Go ahead,’ the man replied. ‘A couple of gourdfuls will be enough.’
    The woman thought for a moment, then said, ‘Maybe three this time. The cleaner he is, the better our chances.’
    The man raised his pipe without replying, then peeked over at the corner of the bed, where the little brat was sleeping