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Chinese novelist and playwright (1940- )
Missing: 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8. Present digits repeat to show how many times they occur.
Tradition reads 1 as the number of origination — the point before anything has been divided. Practitioners associate it with people who move first, set direction, and carry the discomfort of being early. The same tradition is candid about the cost: the instinct that starts a thing is not the instinct that finishes it, and 1 is read as needing others precisely where it least wants to admit it.
Concentrated self-direction. Read as conviction that does not need external agreement — and does not always seek it.
Read as bluntness: reaching the conclusion without the intermediate handling. The tradition frames this as a timing gap rather than a lack of feeling.
Read as difficulty getting the inner picture out — the thought is complete, the expression lags. Often described in people whose written voice is far stronger than their spoken one.
The centre of the grid, so its absence is weighted heavily. Read as difficulty adapting mid-course — a preference for the plan already chosen over the plan now indicated.
Read as a complicated relationship with obligation — either avoiding it or over-shouldering it, rarely a settled middle.
Read as reluctance to sit with an unresolved question. Associated with wanting the working answer rather than the true one.
Read as discomfort with power and money — not incapacity, but an unwillingness to claim authority openly.
Moolank 4 comes from the day of the month alone; Bhagyank 1 from the whole date. They differ, which is the ordinary case — the two numbers answer different questions.
The ascending lunar node — a shadow graha, not a physical body. Disruption, ambition, the unconventional. Read with more caution than any other.
Bhagyank uses the same arithmetic as the Western life path, so the two will always agree. That is not two traditions confirming each other — it is one calculation under two names.
The writer is an ordinary man, not a spokesman for the people, and that literature can only be the voice of one individual. Writing that becomes an ode to a country, the standard of a nation, the voice of a party... loses its nature—it is no longer literature. Writers do not set out to be published, but to know themselves. Although Kafka or Pessoa resorted to language, it was not in order to change the world. I, myself, believe in what I call cold literature: a literature of flight for one's life, a literature that is not utilitarian, but a spiritual self-preservation in order to avoid being stifled by society. I believe in a literature of the moment, for the living. You have to know how to use freedom. If you use it in exchange for something else, it vanishes.
I want to write a novel so profound that it would suffocate a fly.
I came to the riverbank. The sand underfoot crunches and sounds like my grandmother sighing. She is fond of chattering endlessly, although no-one understands her. If you ask, Grandmother, what did you say? She will look up absentmindedly and, after a while, say, oh, you're back from school? Are you hungry? There are sweet potatoes in the bamboo steamer. When she chatters it is best not to interrupt; she is talking about when she was a young woman. But if you eavesdrop from behind her chair, she seems to be saying. It's hidden, it's hidden, everything is hidden, everything… All these memories are making noises in the sand under your feet.
The sand murmurs that it wants to swallow everything.
A good man never fights with a woman.
Grandfather, when you saw the tiger were you scared? Bad people scare me, not tigers. Grandfather, have you ever run into bad people? There aren't many tigers but lots of bad people, only you can't shoot people.
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