A Single Swallow

by Zhang Ling

The legs upon which the Gospel traveled were porridge and medicine.

The living can’t control their own days, but the dead are not thus bound. After death, the soul is no longer limited by time, space, or unexpected events. The soul’s world has no boundaries. To the soul, the entire universe and all eternity are just a thought away.

Our steps were best measured not in feet, but in inches. We feared crushing the tender pieces of old memories buried beneath the changes.

Time is a strange thing. It washes away the outer skin of solemnity and reveals the absurd nature of things.

Hate that can find expression is not hate. Hate must come to the end of its own rope before being forgotten.

War is one world, and peace another. Each world has its own door, and they are not connected in any way.

Facing death is a form of bravery, but so is facing life. I had to live to see the day when my knife would be of use.

Time is a miraculous thing. It can wear down the thorns of emotion, gradually eroding them to dust, and from this dust, a new sprout grows. That sprout is the power of life.

Diligence clips the wings of cleverness, allowing it to stay firmly on the ground. Persistence grinds away the sharp edges of cleverness, not allowing it to take shortcuts through things. Cleverness thus clipped can more fully penetrate the nature of things.

On a bleak autumn evening, the soldiers of the training camp left Yuehu along the sandy road in front of the church. It was the same path I’d walked when bringing Stella to Yuehu years earlier. Their departing footprints passed over those coming in, and in the future, there would be more incoming footprints passing over these. Life is nothing but a series of such overlaps and interminglings.