Zunyi Camp Recap

During my ten days at Zhihe, I received so much encouragement and also began to re-examine everything I had learned before. In conversation I discovered my own gaps and tried to fill them. For me, teaching Virginia Woolf was difficult, and I am deeply grateful for every co-reader's recognition. If anyone learned even the smallest thing from my course, or gained even 1% more interest in Virginia's life and work, that would be an honor for me.

At this moment, something stopped—we call it "eternity." I hope this instant (perhaps the moment of our discussion, perhaps the moment I watched everyone read, or perhaps the moment everyone opened their hearts and let the "ink blots" from Virginia's pen seep into their souls) is no longer a fleeting shadow for anyone, but something eternal.

I'm glad my first trip to Guizhou was to Zunyi, and glad my first time in Zunyi came with such warm friends. Teaching Peking opera at the roundtable was no small challenge, but fortunately the co-readers were all incredibly supportive. Looking back on these ten days of courses, what matters most—what I most want to say—is the question of artistic expression. From the rise, peak, and decline of Peking opera, I believe everyone could feel how important expression is. The big and little friends in Zunyi were all delightful. The motorcyclists were wild too. Back on the flat plains of Chengdu, I miss Zunyi's hills all the time.

Writing this summary, it has already been so long since camp ended. The busyness of these months has washed away much of the sorrow of parting. But turning back, I find that Zunyi and its friends have left an indelible mark on my life and memory. See you next time!

Every book club brings new feelings and insights. In Linhai and Zunyi alike, I met wonderful people. In winter I said I hoped to guard this space well—to become that potion NPC who respawns in every new Chamber.

Though I am no longer the "adventurer" here, I will quietly guard and support every adventurer's journey from the other side of the map.

Two weeks is not excessively long, so from the very beginning I was planning "farewell." This was not only the hidden theme of my roundtable, but also a "farewell" that, for me, was quiet or barely noticeable. Because for me, "farewell" is the most dangerous moment, and a swift, silent escape is the safest plan.

So I also called it a night flight—like courtesans in ancient times who always married and left the brothel at night to shield themselves from gossip, as if moving between worlds were always shameful; like Hongfu fleeing to Tang, not knowing whether the road ahead was light or dark, yet knowing the past need not be clung to.

But this world would not allow me such arrogance. As I had hoped and deeply believed from the start, that inner, id-like expectation had already taken hold of my heart. Though I denied it at every moment—in an almost instinctive way—that this world held some utopia worth believing in, one that could pull back the desperate yet devout person lying face-down at the mouth of the pot.

When this "third world" descended upon me, everything became entirely different. Zhihe/Ledu and the co-readers did not respond to the invisible wall between me and others—they responded to me directly. "Just be yourself," or "I can feel the depth of your thinking…" When my course hinted at a messianic way of redeeming history, Zhihe/Ledu was so perfectly suited to that theme.

Ledu/Zhihe was truly built as a utopia. As Boss Xie said, "mutual trust is the only requirement." Language was no longer the tortuous thing of the secular world. Every wound, fantasy, and taboo could be spoken. And the courage to speak plainly—as Xiaoxuan demonstrated—is what draws us close to truth.

Co-reading exists as the expression of this form. The strength the co-readers gave me was an unexpected diversity and richness—a paradise beyond imagination. No theme went unanswered in a new way; no feeling went unretold in a new way. If the roundtable's theme was understanding human predicament, then their mutual understanding had already surpassed the roundtable's theme.

At this point, the night flight no longer showed its shame as an escape from shared living. Instead, as something that could be dissected into the tension of "farewell," it became a genuine exploration of history's hidden depths—collective/individual, present/future, optimism/pessimism… a revelation of human authenticity, truly understood within the entanglement of the small light Zhihe/Ledu granted and the roundtable's hidden theme.

If Zhihe/Ledu had already set a paradise as history's guide, smoothing over every latent grievance, then redemption arrived in the most sudden way. When the night flight had become reality, when "farewell" became—as it implied—the hidden thing of history inevitably blown away by the wind of time, the angel would look straight at the person whose inner world was about to become ruins. The angel's language brooks no refusal. I did not, and need not, hear Teacher Liao's final phone call clearly. Personality, age, interests, even beliefs—none needed to be considered. Every intermediary was unnecessary in paradise. All who were bound would break their chains; love itself became the theme.

In the end, whether to say "farewell" or not did not become the roundtable's hidden theme as I had seen it. In this journey, the presence of one another that this place could hold was made eternal. The night flight was no longer a secret rush toward the distant horizon—it was a bold rush toward this moment.

When shall we look again at the stars above—one by one, never extinguished.

After the whole camp, my biggest feeling was: "Ledu really can hold so many rich things at once." Whether during daytime roundtables or evening activities, the Zunyi camp was like a flowing feast—people coming and going in shifting light and shadow, thoughts and discussions rising and falling, diverse faces and ideas flickering like reflections. I think everyone gained more familiarity with Virginia Woolf, solarpunk, films about history, Peking opera, and gongs and drums. Even better, besides Wang Yu, Lizhi, Wenyu, and Old Zhao, we also took this chance to meet Dang Yang and Li Yi, and successfully joined the wounds of history with the wounds of image—encouraging everyone to bravely face personal and collective trauma.

At Zhihe Zunyi camp, so many old friends and new friends met. So many thoughts and feelings flowed as naturally as the stream in the valley that day. It was, truly, a beautiful thing.

Following the precious experience of Zhihe's Yuncheng chapter during winter break, I joined the Zunyi camp not as a facilitator—but after earnestly telling Boss Xie about my longing to climb mountains and my enthusiastic willingness to do whatever was needed, I set the goal of fully attending everyone's courses and, for the first time, respawned in the southwestern land of Qian, Guizhou.

As it turned out, reality was far richer and more varied in feeling than I had imagined: sudden situations, unplanned developments, heart-stopping experiences—and, of course, the all-nighters that appear whenever everyone gathers. New friends, old friends, and friends who were half-new and half-old met in this place once called Yelang and Bozhou, where Zunyi dialect, Sichuan dialect, and Chongqing dialect mixed together. In cafés we talked from Peking opera to film, from stream-of-consciousness to solarpunk, eating all kinds of strange peppers. Extra joy came from finally co-creating "Planet Trio" at Ledu with everyone—exploring through painting the intersection between ourselves and the planet.

When I saw everyone's focused expressions at the roundtable, I couldn't help taking out my phone to record. So when I opened the group chat, what I saw most often were cozy scenes of the Ledu space and close-ups of facilitators and co-readers, focused or smiling (and phones not yet put away from the second before). While discussing all kinds of punk, the Peking opera drumbeats from outside reminded us to feel the "present West" without forgetting the "ancient Middle"; while thinking about what history is, the stream-of-consciousness sharing inside made me more aware that literature and history are never separate.

I met some slightly older friends (or friends with more years of experience in different fields), and I don't know what I will be like in a few years. But I have motivation now—at the very least, to live a few more years. I gave up the expectation of finding some "grand ambition" before departure, and put my sight on each tomorrow, trying to walk each step well. Will new friends become old friends? How long can this feeling last? I only hope that parting will give me more courage to live and experience—for the sake of meeting again.