Life Stories

In 1977, Huang Doudou was born in a remote mountainous area of Wenzhou, Zhejiang Province. When he was in the second grade of elementary school, a cultural troupe from a local People's Liberation Army unit came to perform at his school. Huang was instantly captivated. Inwardly, he made a solemn vow: one day, he would become a dancer. To pursue this dream, at the age of 12, Huang was admitted to the Shanghai Dance School to study ethnic dance. Huang Doudou was exceptionally short. Compared to the other dozen or so classmates who entered the school with him, he was shorter and less flexible. His classmates mocked him, saying, "With your height, dreaming of making dance a lifelong career is pure fantasy. Don't waste your energy!"

Rishina's home was near the sea, and for generations, the villagers had made their living by fishing. From a young age, he accompanied his father on fishing trips, quickly becoming his father's trusted assistant. But recently, he had become obsessed with hunting, neglecting his duties to the point of being beyond reproach, and he frequently suffered his father's scolding because of it. Not far from the village stood a small mountain, rugged and rarely visited. The elders said wild boars often appeared there. How wonderful it would be to catch one! The thought of the wild boars on the mountain haunted him, and he resolved to try his luck.

A young woman wrote: "I live in Taoyuan and work in Taipei. I have to spend three hours every day commuting by car. Even though I have a seat, the vehicle is noisy and shakes violently, so I can't listen to music or read books during the ride. I don't want to move house, change jobs, or drive myself. I always get a full night's sleep the night before, so I don't need to catch up on sleep during the commute. How can I save these three daily hours?"

Someone was driving home in the evening for dinner and made a quick phone call to let their family know—just over forty seconds. In that brief span, the car veered onto the sidewalk, struck three pedestrians, hit a tree, and overturned. All three pedestrians died from severe injuries. The driver has since been legally arrested. Using a mobile phone while driving is extremely dangerous. Studies show that driving while on the phone is even riskier than drunk driving; research indicates that making a phone call instantly reduces reaction ability as if aging 50 years; studies also show that a driver’s attention drops by 37% when talking on the phone...

In the Fuwa community of New Mexico, USA, three homeless men held begging permits and had lived in this community for 13 years. On November 6, 1998, the New Mexico state government passed a bill to revoke the begging permits of beggars who had been begging for over ten years, claiming they had become so wealthy that they no longer qualified to beg. As a result, the three homeless men were forced to leave New Mexico and head to Florida. Upon hearing this, Father Sam of the Fuwa community immediately voiced his opposition and wrote to the state government, demanding that the three beggars be brought back. He stated that a community cannot exist without beggars, and that the government's presumptuous action was a complete desecration of good-hearted people, showing indifference and disrespect toward human nature. The bill must be revised.

Throughout history, the handkerchiefs used by three individuals alone are worthy of being recorded for eternity. The first is Vincent van Gogh. We shouldn't only remember him for painting "Sunflowers." After a heated argument with Gauguin, Van Gogh cut off one of his own ears, wrapped it in a handkerchief, and gave it to a woman. If that handkerchief still existed today, it would certainly be worth more than "Sunflowers." The second is Lin Daiyu, who, on her deathbed, burned her manuscripts—poems she had once written on handkerchiefs. As the lyrics go: "This poetry-laden handkerchief was always with her, wiping away so many of my old tears. Had I known human feelings are thinner than paper, I would regret keeping this poetic handkerchief until now..." The third owner, Pavarotti, does not represent a tragedy. Every time he stepped on stage, he held a white handkerchief in his right hand, creating a striking contrast—black against white, heavy against light—with his 300-pound frame and thick, dark beard. This not only offered a visually impactful unity of opposites but also made him seem like the ambassador of handkerchiefs.

A former Tibetan serf once complained: "I herded sheep for my master for twenty-five years, yet never knew what mutton tasted like." This feeling is deeply unsettling. From a worldly perspective, to face meat walking before your eyes every day and yet never taste it seems unbearable. Later, this serf became a monk and had an epiphany: "On the sky burial platform, vultures eat human flesh to carry the soul to heaven; humans eat mutton merely for taste, and as a result, the sheep lose their bodies while humans lose their souls. Those meat-eaters may have long since died, but I, the monk, am still joyfully alive." This story also brings me joy. When I dine at restaurants, I often wonder: those hard-working servers who bring delicious dishes to tables every day—have they ever tasted those flavors themselves? My heart once felt injustice for their plight. But SARS changed my view: diners who ate civet cats faced a collective uprising of the SARS virus, which rebelled within their bodies, while nearly all the servers remained unscathed—only one chef who secretly sampled the dish不幸 drew the short straw. If everyone refrained from eating meat for twenty-five years, not only would they avoid becoming serfs, but some might become living Buddhas or simply joyful, healthy people. The animals spared from becoming human food might even joyfully reincarnate as humans.

A mountaineering team was climbing a snow-covered mountain. This was an exceptionally treacherous peak; the slightest misstep could send them tumbling down to certain death. Suddenly, the team leader lost his footing and began to fall. He wanted to let out a final cry of despair, but he knew that any sound would startle the others, destabilize their climb, and cause more to fall. Clenching his teeth, he forced himself to remain completely silent. Thus, he fell silently into the deep icy ravine below. Only one team member witnessed this tragic scene.

I still remember some events from my childhood in Chongqing. My family lived on Shizi Mountain in Nanshan, from where we could visit the higher Zhenwu Mountain. On Zhenwu Mountain, there was a particularly dangerous stretch of path—on the inner side was a steep cliff, and on the outer side, a deep precipice. That day, I was having a lot of fun. On the way back, I deliberately walked close to the edge of the cliff, hopping and jumping, even leaping forward in a skipping gait. At seven years old, I didn't yet understand the preciousness of life. My actions were partly motivated by a desire to make my mother anxious when she saw me. Below the cliff in the valley, a strange rock protruded from the wild grass. The stone naturally formed a coiled snake shape, with a raised section in the middle resembling a snake's neck and head. According to legend, married couples who threw stones from the cliff and hit the body of this stone snake would have a son. Naively, I thought I understood adult matters. Hearing such talk from the adults and recalling my games of playing bride and groom with a neighbor girl, I actually picked up a stone and threw it forcefully down the cliff. Not having good control over my throwing balance, my posture looked even more perilous from the side.

When I told people I was going to walk across America, many said, "Wow, just saying it takes courage." Others said, "You can't do it." But weighing 181 kilograms, with a heavy backpack on my back, I've already walked 489 kilometers. I'm already a father of two, but obesity has been tormenting me. To lose weight, I decided to set off from San Diego and walk across the entire United States, with New York as my destination. Actually, weight loss isn't my only goal; I have a vague feeling that this journey is destined to change my life. I wasn't always overweight. When I was young, I served in the Navy fleet, once a handsome man with many friends, living happily every day in California. But at the age of 25, a car accident changed everything. Two passengers got off the bus at an intersection, and I didn't see them... I spent 10 days in jail for vehicular manslaughter. Since then, I've been trapped in deep self-blame, unable to face the families of the victims. As time passed, my guilt only grew stronger, and long-term depression caused my weight to rise uncontrollably.