I didn't stay long at home—just took a quick look around before heading back to the provincial capital. Seeing that his parents were in great spirits, Zhou You didn't dare linger either. No choice. Every time they meet now, it's all about urging him to get married. A headache.
The group took a flight back right away; they were all busy people, and just managing to come out for a few days was already impressive. Zhou You sometimes enjoys the hustle and bustle, but other times he prefers quiet. When stillness reaches its peak, one craves movement; when movement peaks, one seeks stillness—the way of yin and yang transformation.
Just then, Zhao Yun sent over the latest documentary, same as always: one theatrical version and one extended cut. The private home theater was already set up, so he decided to test it out with this film. First, the space was larger, offering a broader view. Second, the equipment was better—4K at minimum, with top-tier picture quality. Finally, the software had improved a lot; Zhou You had installed a massage chair inside, so he could watch and get a massage at the same time, easing fatigue. Pure enjoyment.
Everything was ready, and he began watching.
At the start, there was a prologue: "This film is set deep in the Yimeng Mountains, in a village of 167 households and 484 people. It tells the story of the poverty and helplessness of the farmers in Shaoyu Village. And through these farmers, we can also see the poverty and helplessness of most farmers across China."
Opening with a direct point, Zhou You was a bit surprised. This was a semi-official film; even if it wasn't meant to sing praises, it shouldn't be this blunt. He could only say the director had guts.
The first character to appear was Du Shenzhong—messy hair, dark complexion, thin frame, hunched back. Yet Zhou You felt an inexplicable sense of closeness and familiarity, as if he were one of those folks from his own village. As the camera moved in, more and more of his talents emerged. He could write, and his calligraphy was beautiful; during holidays, weddings, and funerals, villagers would seek him out for inscriptions. He could also write essays, occasionally crafting clever phrases, and had even published some pieces. He loved reading books and newspapers, had attended correspondence courses and training sessions at the Lu Xun Literary Academy, and submitted to many publications—but few were accepted. Later, it turned out he could play instruments a bit, performing a piece on the erhu, though the notes were off.
If you ignored his appearance and only looked at these skills, he could pass for a retired old cadre. Unfortunately, he lived in the countryside. The villagers' verdict was: "He's a talented man, just tends to his fruit trees less than others." He was the one most out of sync with this village. You could call him the most cultured and artistic person in the village, but you could also call him the most useless, because his family was among the poorest there. Yes, in the countryside, farming the land, yet unwilling to accept it.
When Zhou You heard him say, "They say farmers have a bond with the land, but I have no bond with it at all! It's just helplessness, no choice. If there were a way, why would we send our kids away to study by any means necessary?"—yeah, everyone talks about how great the countryside is, but how many city folks let their own kids farm the land? Later, there was a show called *Metamorphosis*, purely for entertainment.
The director seemed to feel it deeply too: "Brother, you've spoken my heart! If I hadn't left the mountains back then, I'd be you today." At this point, it would have been even better to play Zhao Chuan's *I Am a Little Bird*:
*Sometimes I feel like a little bird, wanting to fly but never getting high. Maybe one day I'll perch on a branch, only to become a hunter's target. I soar into the sky only to find myself, from then on, with no one to rely on. I am a little bird. Every time the night grows deep and quiet, I can't sleep. I wonder if only my tomorrow won't get better. What will the future hold? Who can really know? Is happiness just a legend I'll never find? The world is so small, we're destined to have nowhere to run. When I've tasted all the warmth and cold of human relationships, when you decide to burn for your ideals, the pressure of life and the dignity of existence—which matters more?*
Shakespeare's "To be or not to be" has tormented the soul more than once. Zhou You had someone like that in his village too—his elementary school's private teacher, full of impractical ideas and always out of step with the times. After he was let go as a private teacher, he couldn't carry anything, couldn't lift a thing, had no strength for farming, and no one would hire him for work outside. Luckily, he was still sharp enough to open a small shop, barely scraping by. Whenever Zhou You encountered someone like that, he felt a deep reluctance—what a life, spent struggling through hardship.
Now, watching this documentary, he suddenly thought about bringing that teacher to the farm. But what could he do? He didn't know any skills, and frontline work would be beneath him. Forget it—he'd wait until the New Year to set up a school and let him return to his old trade. He was a good teacher back then, praised by the whole village; he taught the local kids seriously.
Du Shenzhong's wife constantly complained about her bad luck, marrying a good-for-nothing who lived in a dream. When she found out he wanted to buy a pipa, she couldn't help grumbling: "Don't talk to me about that. You can't even play the erhu well, you don't know how, and now you want to play the pipa? Stop with these wild fantasies. With our yearly income, we don't even know how the apple harvest will turn out—just these two apples a year. Do you know how much a pipa costs?"
When Du Shenzhong finally gritted his teeth and bought a pipa in town for 690 yuan, lying to his wife that it was 490, she flew into a rage when she found out the truth: "Do you ever think about this family? Who doesn't have shoes? Who doesn't have a coat? ... Do you think?" "People need to eat, but the spirit also needs filling!" Du Shenzhong argued. Was his wife wrong? No—they just saw things from different angles. One, unrecognized talent, bitter for life. The other, struggling through hardship, earnestly wanting a decent life. Born into such circumstances, what could you do?
Du Shenzhong wasn't lazy either. In his early years, he went out to work to scrape together his kids' tuition, "accumulating a handful of bitter tears." For five straight years, during the off-season, he went elsewhere to help corn dealers harvest corn, earning just a few dozen yuan per acre per day; after the corn harvest, he'd go to construction sites to haul bricks. Working day and night aged him prematurely. Over the years, in the prime of his life, he lost 13 teeth.
Ah, this is why, in times of chaos, someone always steps up. Because the world buries too much talent. Whenever you read history, you wonder: how did rulers gather so many talented people around them? From such tiny patches of land, how many kings, generals, and ministers emerged? Take Liu Bang and Zhu Yuanzhang—they gathered a group of fellow villagers. Were these villagers really better than others? Later, it became clear. Talent isn't born; it's forged through experience. People are incredibly malleable. Out of a hundred people, one might have the potential to become a Xu Da, but whether he becomes Xu Da depends on whether he meets a Zhu Yuanzhang. When Zhu Yuanzhang conquered the realm, the first team he could rely on was his hometown folks. Under his discovery, they trained and grew, gradually becoming unparalleled civil and military officials. In ancient times, 99.9% of talent never had the chance to become talent at all. That's the greatest waste in this world.