In discussing the year 1985, I believe that it is best to start with what led up to it. However, this requires a lot of writing and research. Furthermore, it calls for a serious academic attitude. I do not want to do it this way, not only because that will run counter to the purpose of this paper, but also because I cannot bear it--my heart just cannot. Why must exact facts, cold analysis or ruthless “internal logic” kill an extremely vivid, though obscure, bit of the past? Let it live. Therefore, although I know clearly that most of the events of 1985 germinated at the end of 1983 or the beginning of 1984, and that we need to go there to create a plausible explanation for 1985, I still just want to talk about my own experience. I do not mind that its fragmentary nature will cause my version to lack the necessary authority.
I remember on one night either at the end of 1983 or the beginning of 1984 (I don't recall the exact date) some friends, including Chen Jiangong, Zheng Wanlong and A Cheng came to my home to eat Mongolian hotpot. The room was small and so was the table. We could only sit tightly around the table, our hands and feet knocking against each other. It was not very convenient. What was exciting was the glittering and steaming copper hotpot in the centre of the table. The mixture of the smell of mutton and charcoal was so tantalising that the crowding at that moment became a kind of comfort. As usual, A Cheng told stories. At that time he was already known among friends for his ability to tell stories. He once told me that during the years he spent labouring in the countryside he used to make a living telling stories. Many of the 'educated youth' who had been sent to work there would save their scarce supply of meat, cigarettes and wine to reward A Cheng when he made the rounds of their residential area to tell stories.