My Destiny

My middle school years were spent at the key middle school in Yu County. Initially, Yu County had only one key middle school, with a fairly long history—it was founded by several graduates from the former Southwest Associated University. It is said that only one of them was from Guizhou, while the others were from other provinces, both men and women. Back then, after graduation, they found themselves unemployed. So, on a whim, they started a middle school in Yu County. Unexpectedly, it became a success.

The Guizhou native was the biological uncle of my Principal Mother. That uncle later ran a profitable cloth batik factory in Southeast Asia. Without his continuous financial support, the school could not have been established solely on the passion of a few Southwest Associated University graduates.

After liberation, that school became a key middle school. In the past, there was no high school, but later, one was added. In the 1980s, a portion of the teachers were transferred to establish a branch school, called the "New Key School."

I was admitted to the "Old Key School," which was the top middle school in all of Yu County, with an admission score over ten points higher than that of the "New Key School."

It was only after I graduated that I learned my score hadn’t actually met the requirement—I fell short by seven or eight points. But this was considered a school secret, known only to a few school leaders at the time.

During my middle school years, I began devouring literary classics from ancient and modern times, both Chinese and foreign. My parents didn’t object, with only one condition: my academic performance could never fall below the top fifteen, not even once. I was clever, so that wasn’t difficult for me. I wasn’t the type of student who studied relentlessly; as long as I put in serious effort for a few days before exams, my grades would generally be around the top ten. With such results, no matter how fierce the competition was when applying for high school, my parents would ensure I remained a student at the "Old Key School" for high school, just as they had ensured I became a student there for middle school. Although they never explicitly said this to me, I understood it perfectly. My parents and I often shared unspoken understandings.

What did my academic cleverness benefit from? After I was no longer a student, I often asked myself this question when reflecting on the past. It was almost like seeking trouble, but for a period, it genuinely troubled me.

There is no doubt that appearance is related to genes. The rare cases where parents are plain-looking while their children are exceptionally attractive are said to be the result of optimized gene combinations from previous generations, or even several generations back. Much later, my Biological Father, He Yongwang, told me that his father was a handsome man in his youth, and my Biological Mother’s mother was also considered delicate and pretty—so my eldest sister being a rural beauty naturally had a basis in genetics.

I asked, "What about their intelligence?"

Biological Father said, "You mean whether they were clever or not? As far as I know, they were no smarter than others in the same village."

This conclusion once left me deeply disappointed.

I really wanted to confirm that at least one of my strengths as a person was given to me by my innate, ordinary bloodline, with no relation to the superior external conditions I once enjoyed. The fact that even my academic cleverness wasn’t "given" by my birth parents made me secretly sad for a while.

Upon careful reflection, I had to admit that rather than having an innate cleverness in learning, it was the study methods taught by my Adoptive Parents that made me, who was originally not clever, become quite clever.Principal Mother once advised me: "Learning is about accepting the knowledge taught by teachers, while practice is about accumulating knowledge on your own. For example, when a teacher introduces a new word, they might emphasize the meaning of a certain character in previously learned words and its meaning in the new word, so you understand that the same character can have two meanings. But in reality, there might be more than two meanings—perhaps a third or fourth that the teacher didn’t mention. Why? Maybe the teacher thinks those meanings will be covered later, or perhaps even the teacher isn’t aware of the third or fourth meanings. Don’t assume that all teachers at key schools are highly knowledgeable—that’s not necessarily the case. Some teachers at key schools are simply good at teaching the content outlined in the curriculum. They may not possess knowledge beyond the textbooks. So, what should you do? Look it up in the dictionary! By consulting the dictionary, you can comprehensively grasp even the knowledge the teacher hasn’t taught. Practice isn’t just about reviewing; it also includes cultivating the ability to learn independently."

From then on, I always kept a dictionary on my desk while doing homework.

My Adoptive Father also gave me personal guidance.

He said: "Math exam questions themselves have no inherent meaning; the purpose is to continuously improve students’ reasoning abilities through these questions. When faced with a math problem, if the first solution that comes to mind is simple, you should immediately dismiss it, because simplicity defeats the purpose of enhancing reasoning skills. Exam questions lacking this purpose, especially major problems where a single mistake costs over ten points, are rarely included in exams. When dealing with such major problems, avoiding simple logic in reasoning generally prevents errors in the direction of the solution. Without making directional mistakes, you won’t waste time."

Adoptive Father’s advice was also crucial in ensuring my math scores consistently ranked at the top.

During my middle school years, I not only read many books but also watched many movies. I was often among the first to see new films released in Yu County. To attend a certain singer’s concert, I traveled to Linjiang City multiple times with the children of cadres from my class, willingly spending Saturdays and Sundays on riverboats.

Not all students at the "old key school" were children of county or township cadres; the majority were still children from ordinary families who excelled academically. In elementary school, I could still blend in with them, but after entering middle school, I found it harder to fit in. We had too little in common to talk about, and shared interests were especially scarce; conversations always felt distant. Even if I didn’t want to treat them that way, they found it difficult to bridge the gap with me, and blending in with me seemed even harder for them. As a result, by the second year of middle school, my circle of friends consisted only of a few children of county cadres. Soon, the daughter of a township head joined us—rumored to be the future deputy county head, though the promotion never happened—and she tactfully withdrew from our small circle.

I acquired a brand-new purple women’s bicycle, a "Flying Pigeon" brand. At the time, "Flying Pigeon" was a well-known brand. With the bicycle, I began exploring the county town, seeking out its historical and hidden corners. Back then, there was no academic pressure, so I still had plenty of free time each day. I felt that growing up was a happy process, and my journey was free of burdens in any aspect. I enjoyed this process like a young bird with newly hardened wings enjoying the sky. I loved riding my bicycle alone, familiarizing myself with streets and alleys, and collecting impressions of Yu County everywhere I went.The history of Yu County dates back to the Ming Dynasty, but all that remains from that era are a small stone bridge and a few sections of crumbling city walls. Beneath the bridge flows a narrow tributary of the Jing River, which passes through the town before rejoining the main river. As it is a living stream, the water is quite clear, with stone walls about one and a half meters high lining its banks. Even when the Jing River swells, the water under the bridge never overflows these walls; during dry spells, the stream often dwindles to just over a foot deep, and children can be seen all day long stepping down the stone steps to catch small fish and shrimp. Adults never worried about accidents, as the riverbed was flat. The ruins of the old walls were covered in morning glories, and wild rabbits roamed there, with rumors of foxes as well. I once saw a wild rabbit there but never had the fortune to encounter a fox.

By that time, the county had already developed a new district, where a cultural palace, a sports stadium, a library, a courthouse, a procuratorate, and a larger cinema had been built—the realization of the so-called "one palace, two halls, three courts" major projects. There were also several rows of commercial buildings, accompanied by newly paved asphalt roads with proper names.

In contrast, the old district of the county still lacked roads suitable for motor vehicles. The streets were narrow, and neighbors often chatted across doors and windows in the alleys. Whether streets or alleys, the surfaces were paved with ancient bricks or stone slabs. When children ran across them wearing wooden clogs made by their parents, the sound was delightful. At the time, major cities across the country implemented the "three responsibilities at the doorstep" policy, which required keeping the ground clean, ensuring garbage was in bins, and preventing standing water or snow accumulation. Yu County never adopted this policy, yet the streets and alleys of the old district were always clean, with no issues of snow accumulation or standing water. After rain, if any water pooled in front of a house, people would promptly sweep it away, and the wet pavement dried quickly. If one household hadn’t swept in time, the neighbors across the way would do it. Because the streets were so narrow, the area in front of one’s door almost became a shared space between two households. If one family swept more often, the other would feel obliged and take the initiative next time. Except for a few designated spots with garbage bins, most streets and alleys had none. Since doors and windows often opened directly onto these areas, placing bins would have faced opposition—and justifiably so. Instead, every morning, someone would pedal a three-wheeled garbage cart through the streets and alleys to collect trash, with additional rounds at noon and evening. Three times a day, rain or shine. The shops along the commercial streets had no doors or windows, relying instead on removable wooden panels to separate inside from outside. On sunny days, all panels were taken down, leaving the shops fully exposed. On cloudy days, how many panels were removed depended on the shopkeeper’s preference. Every shop followed this practice, creating a monotonous appearance. To break the monotony, shopkeepers put effort into decorating the panels, painting patterns with varnish or even carving reliefs. For me, such streets were particularly worth exploring.

My family had a camera even before I was born. By the time I was in middle school, the camera was essentially mine. I fell in love with photography, capturing scenes all over the county and using up a lot of film. Buying film and developing photos cost money, but I had little practical understanding of finances.

Often, I would say, "Mom, I’m out of film again," and within two or three days, a new roll would appear on my bedside table.

If I mentioned owing money to the photo studio for developing, my father would argue with my mother, saying, "No, no, don’t take out your wallet. It’s my turn to pay for our daughter this time."Somehow, I was becoming something of a local celebrity in the county town. Some shopkeepers recognized me, and I owed them money. Sometimes I even forgot, but the shopkeepers certainly didn’t. When they saw my mother, they would smile and tell her, "Your daughter still owes money here."

My mother would also smile apologetically and say, "This child, how disgraceful."

As soon as she returned home, she would scold me: "It’s not good to owe people money. You absolutely must not do it again."

Then, she would give me some more money.

By those two years, my father had already moved back home.

Linjiang City was planning to build a bridge over Mirror River, with a road to be constructed on the opposite end, leading directly into the city. This would allow buses to travel unimpeded between Yu County and Linjiang City, not only shortening the distance but also greatly aiding Yu County’s development. This was a provincial-level project, implemented by Linjiang City, and Linjiang City appointed my father as the overall person in charge.

I could see my father every day, and the affectionate relationship between us, father and daughter, grew stronger with each passing day, to the point where my mother once joked, "I’m getting jealous."

My father often gave me money behind my mother’s back, saying, "Don’t tell your mother. She’s against me giving you pocket money."

And I would happily reply, "Yes, sir." Sometimes I would even give him a kiss.

Money really is a wonderful thing!

Even between a biological father and daughter (of course, I had no reason to doubt this relationship at the time), a father frequently giving his daughter money would make the daughter love him even more.

During my middle school years, I never lacked money or anything else. To put it another way, as a middle school girl from a small county town who hadn’t seen much of the world, as long as what I desired wasn’t something surreal or ahead of its time, I could generally get it. Besides, I didn’t have particularly strong desires. Often, things I hadn’t even thought of would be given to me as gifts by uncles and aunties—my parents’ subordinates, colleagues, or friends—such as imported Japanese game consoles, Korean cosmetics, and high-end electronic watches brought back from Hong Kong. Honestly, I didn’t really like those things.

With my father living at home, the number of guests at our house gradually increased, to the point where I later couldn’t remember who was who. I had to drop their surnames and simply address them all as "uncle" or "auntie." I could only guess who were my parents’ colleagues, who were friends, and who were merely ordinary subordinates based on how close my parents were to them. Later on, I found this kind of judgment almost pointless and stopped trying to guess.

The number of gifts received at home also grew—some were the "token gestures" that first-time visitors felt obliged to make; some were gifts for festivals or holidays; and some were birthday presents for my parents or me. In short, anyone who wanted to give something to others never lacked an excuse, and I doubt even sending someone specifically to stop them would have worked. Their sincerity often made it hard for my parents to refuse outright. Most of the gifts were cigarettes, alcohol, and tea. After the guests left, my parents would have to discuss who to pass them on to. My father had publicly announced that he quit smoking, but that only reduced the number of people giving him cigarettes. Treadmills, exercise equipment, and massage chairs were moved by my mother to the nursing school for the teachers and students to use; air conditioners and fans were taken by my father to the construction site command center.Back then, there were no "Eight Regulations," and as long as one didn't accept money, accepting anything else didn't seem to count as "corruption." In local contexts, whether something was considered corruption or normal "human interaction" was also a fine line.

I once saw my mother distressed over a set of seemingly high-end silk bedding and pillows. The person who gave them said, "It's time for a seasonal change."

My mother sighed helplessly, "What should I do? How am I supposed to handle this?"

During some holiday seasons, items that couldn't be regifted or weren't suitable for regifting almost filled our small storage room.

Guizhou is a province with a wide variety of fruits. Throughout the year, seasonal fruits are constantly available in the market. I became so satiated with fruits that even the sight of them would make my stomach churn with acidity. As an adult, I often thought of Zhang Jiagui—the man who, in order to ensure that his and my eldest sister's children wouldn't drool at the sight of fruits from a young age, ended up imprisoned and never became my eldest sister's husband.

This also made me think repeatedly of the term "destiny."

Was that the "destiny" of Zhang Jiagui and my eldest sister?

Principal Mother once told me that she believed people have three types of "ming" (fate/life): first, what parents give, which determines the family one is born into and one's genetic makeup—this is called "tianming" (heavenly fate). Second, what is determined by one's own life experiences—this is called "shiming" (actual fate). "Shengming" (life) also refers to the sense of right and wrong one upholds in life, a combination of life and fate. Third, what culture gives—this is called "zixiuming" (self-cultivated fate).

She said: The term "culture" is also a combination of "using culture to transform people." It doesn't just refer to the presence or amount of knowledge. "Those near vermilion turn red; those near ink turn black," and "birds of a feather flock together" also refer to relationships between people, which are indirect relationships between people and culture. Some people may have knowledge but be culturally poor individuals. Others may not have high academic qualifications but are worthy of our respect and friendship. Because culture also exists in life, they are people who are good at absorbing beneficial nourishment for being human from life. Their "shiming" has endowed them with certain good qualities as human beings. When good qualities are embodied in ordinary people, they often appear especially precious. This is not only a blessing for individuals but also for a nation...

For some reason, that day, Principal Mother seemed to be in a "teaching mode," unable to stop herself, as if she wanted to pour all her thoughts on what makes a person human and what makes a person good into me.

I asked her if "destiny" specifically referred to "tianming."

She immediately became sensitive and asked me how I knew the term "destiny."

I said I was already a middle school student, had read many extracurricular books, and it wasn't strange for me to know.

She thought for a moment and said I could understand it that way.

After another moment of thought, she continued: "Although 'tianming' is given by parents, comparing one's parents to others is absolutely a detestable social phenomenon. Good culture is what prevents this phenomenon from spreading, while conversely, culture that fuels it is trash. Those who flaunt themselves proudly because of their superior 'tianming' are nothing more than gilded scum. Similarly, those who wallow in self-pity or abandon themselves because of poor 'tianming' are people who don't understand what life truly is. Daughter, remember, truly respectable people are those proven by their 'shiming' and 'zixiuming'!"

After saying this, she stared intently at me, as if trying to see how much I understood of her words.

I whispered, "If I am destined to live an ordinary life, what should I do?"She said, "That's not scary at all. In fact, it makes it even more important to be a good person."

I thought for a moment, then couldn't help asking, "If everyone is ordinary, isn't it too difficult to be a good person?"

She fell silent for a long time, pondering before replying, "Extraordinary people are often just one or two in ten thousand, or even a million or ten million. But ordinary good people—they make up a few percent of the population. If my daughter can become one of those few percent in the future, her mother and father will be especially comforted."

I didn't fully understand Principal Mother's lesson to me that day, which is why it left such a deep impression.

My junior high school years passed unconsciously, leisurely and filled with happiness.

Then, I began my high school life as a boarding student at a key high school in Linjiang City.

Attending high school in Linjiang instead of continuing at the "old key school" in Yu County was my father's idea. He believed I had reached the age where I needed to broaden my horizons and be exposed to new times and new things. Staying in Yu County, he thought, would negatively impact my growth and future life.

My mother completely agreed with him.

And I happened to share the same thought. Although Yu County wasn't bad and was becoming more modern, it was still a small county town. It no longer held any attraction for me, nor was there anything left to make me nostalgic.

My parents' suggestion perfectly aligned with my own wishes.

So the situation became this—instead of my father returning to Yu County every week, it was now me, the boarding student daughter. The bridge hadn't been completed yet, and the highway wasn't open, so traveling back and forth by river ferry once a week was also tiring.

I asked my parents if I could come home every two weeks instead, and they considerately agreed.

In reality, I didn't even manage every two weeks—there were plenty of times when I only returned home once a month.

My parents never complained.

It was just that every time I came home, the atmosphere in the house felt like a holiday, and what I experienced could be described as a "welcome." Dad, Mom, and Grandma Yu smiled from morning till night, as if angels had descended upon the Fang household again. Grandma Yu had stayed at our house to help my parents manage daily life. My father was constantly busy and had no mind for household matters. My mother often seemed rather inept and incapable when it came to managing the home. She was undoubtedly a good mother and a good wife, but she was naturally not a good homemaker. Our family couldn't do without Grandma Yu, and Grandma Yu herself had no family or children. She had lost her husband young and remained a widow her whole life. My parents treated her well, giving her a monthly salary she was particularly satisfied with, so our home essentially became her home.

Linjiang No. 1 High School was the city's only high school that only offered senior high education. The children of county leaders within the regional administrative area, the children of city leaders, and even some children of leaders from neighboring cities—as long as they were academically capable—were almost all absorbed into No. 1 High.

It was commonly believed that the children of cadres often weren't very "bright" in terms of intelligence—but this was actually a rumor. Although it spread widely and persisted for a long time, it was still just a rumor. At least back then, at Linjiang No. 1 High, it was completely not the case.Students at Linjiang No. 1 High School were generally diligent, and the children of cadres were no exception. Some of them had been top students in their classes during middle school, or even school-wide academic stars. They all seemed to have clear life goals, studying with exceptional self-discipline, requiring no urging from anyone. Their relationships with each other were also rather distant—not particularly close, yet they all tried to avoid making things worse. Moreover, they were all extremely low-key, each instinctively "keeping their heads down." In comparison, I often felt ashamed of my own "overflowing happiness" from elementary school through middle school. Some classmates also read extensively, and when they talked about Freud, A Brief History of Time, and The Third Wave, I could only listen attentively, unable to contribute a single word—I had never heard my parents mention such foreign names, nor did we have books like those at home.

Once, while eating in the cafeteria, several classmates at the same table somehow started discussing literature. An older student suddenly asked me what books I had read. After thinking for a moment, I replied, Les Misérables.

"Ah, so you like Hugo."

"A sense of reform is a moral sense."

"Progress is the phenomenon humans should possess."

The other two senior students casually recited two lines from the book—I knew they were from the book because I had copied them into my notebook.

"Don't show off in front of our junior. Junior, have you read Simon's novels too?"

I shook my head blankly.

"Aside from the realms opened by each step I take and each word I speak, I know not of any other realms..."

That senior sister herself began quoting from books.

"And you're not showing off? Stop, both of you stop. No more talk about literature. Change the subject." The senior sister sitting next to me helped me out.

I excused myself to get more soup, stood up with my bowl, and never returned.

Later, a classmate told me that those senior students were in their final year of high school and about to face the college entrance exams. They were all key members of the school's literary club and well-known literary figures at No. 1 High School.

Whether they were famous or not didn't interest me. No matter how many novels they read, weren't they just readers, not authors of any work?

But I couldn't help feeling a deep respect for them. Just think—about to enter the examination hall, yet each of them could remain so calm and composed, chatting and laughing freely. How much confidence must they have inside! Having read so many books while still managing to rank among the top students academically—how did they do it?

Along with respect, I also felt a sense of inferiority I had never experienced before.

That year, specifically in the second semester of my first year of high school, I began struggling academically. No matter how hard I worked, I could only maintain a middle-ranking position in my class. The study methods my parents taught me simply didn't work at Linjiang No. 1 High School.

For the first time, I began to doubt my intelligence.

I once asked my parents: "What kind of person do you hope I'll become in the future?"

After exchanging glances, my mother spoke first: "Daughter, I have only one hope for you—that you'll become a well-educated good wife, good mother, and good woman in the future. As for what makes someone good, you understand. As for which university you attend, what major you choose, and what work you do after graduation—those are all decisions you must make yourself. Your father and I will offer some opinions for your consideration, but we absolutely won't interfere."

My father continued: "I completely agree with your mother's attitude. You decide according to your own wishes. Don't set overly high goals for yourself and force yourself to achieve them. People don't need to make their lives so tense—living naturally is also good. In short, if you're happy, your parents are happy."

My parents' expectations for me were so relaxed, almost without any specific hopes, which made me secretly relieved, yet also inevitably brought some feelings of being overlooked—a sense of loss and frustration. Whether their words reflected their true thoughts, I didn't know and didn't want to know.

Indeed, various external factors had made me more steady. It seemed not just external factors were at work—sometimes I felt as if something belonging to the origin of life within me had begun to emerge. No, "emerge" isn't quite right—it must have originally existed somewhere in my life, initially in a "dormant" state, and now, influenced by external factors, began to "revive."

Thus, my body also began to change.From my second year of high school, I began to grow taller. By my third year, I had reached a height of 173 centimeters. With my increased height, my waist appeared even slimmer, my chest developed more fully, making it impossible not to stand tall. My legs had also unknowingly grown longer, turning me into a tall, slender girl on campus. Whether wearing a skirt or trousers, I could be described as graceful and elegant. The shape of my face had changed too, transforming from an apple-like roundness to an oval shape.

This change brought me a quiet sense of joy, but it also came with some troubles—I wasn’t accustomed to attracting so much attention. The gazes first came from the boys, later from the girls, and eventually even my parents’ looks toward me became different.

When my mother looked at me with appreciation, it never made me uncomfortable; on the contrary, it brought me great pleasure.

But the changes in my body seemed to cause unease for my father. He rarely looked directly at me anymore. In my presence, he seemed unsure of where to direct his gaze.

So, I stopped wearing skirts at home.

Only Grandma Yu showed no restraint in expressing her delight at the changes in my body.

“Child, it’s so hot outside. Why are you wearing trousers at home? Even I feel hot just looking at you. Hurry up and change into a skirt—the shortest one you have!”

When she said this, I would only smile in response.

At Linjiang No. 1 High School, I remained unnoticed, with average grades. I was composed—not because I pretended to be, but because I could no longer muster the energy to be lively. The vitality that once made me active seemed to have faded away. There were no rumors about my relationships with boys or girls, and I had no romantic experiences to speak of.

The only thing that brought me comfort was the change in my body, but this comfort was something I could only keep to myself. Because a girl from a small town with average grades would surely be looked down upon by her classmates if she took pride in her figure.

My high school years were like the Mirror River—calm and uneventful.

But one event left me emotionally devastated—during my final semester of high school, Grandma Yu suddenly passed away from a heart attack.

My mother treated Grandma Yu very well, and Grandma Yu cared deeply for my mother. If my mother fell ill for several days in a row, Grandma Yu would often grow anxious and distressed. But their relationship wasn’t that of mother and daughter; it had always been simply a bond between two good women of different ages. At its core, it was the relationship between a good employer and a good maid.

But my relationship with Grandma Yu was different.

Although I never drank her milk, I was bottle-fed by her several times a day! The frequent tasks of cleaning up after I vomited, soiled myself, or wet myself were always her responsibility, not my mother’s. In the summer, fearing I would develop rashes, it was she, not my mother, who bathed me every night and dusted me with powder. When I was little, our home had neither an electric fan nor air conditioning. To ensure I slept soundly and well, Grandma Yu would often sit by my bedside with a palm-leaf fan, gently fanning me. Sometimes, she would doze off while still fanning me. If the body truly holds memories, then my body’s memory of her embrace must be deeper than that of my mother’s—in fact, when I was little, I preferred to be held by Grandma Yu. Her plump embrace was so comfortable, so warm, giving me a greater sense of attachment. When held by my mother, it often took me a long time to fall asleep, but in Grandma Yu’s arms, I would drift off in no time.Now, when I write about her, the words that appear on the page are "Grandma Yu," but back then, to me as a child, she was my dear grandmother. After I learned to speak, I called her "Grandma" over and over, not "Grandma Yu." Her death was the first loss of a loved one for me, and the emotional blow far exceeded my capacity to bear it. I even became unwilling to go home because stepping through the doorway without Grandma there would inevitably bring tears to my eyes. Even if my eyes remained dry, my heart wept.

I had originally intended to apply to my father's alma mater, Guizhou University, but I didn't get in.

Instead, I was admitted to the Chinese Department of Guizhou Normal College. After I enrolled, it was renamed Guizhou Normal University.

I admit that Grandma's death affected my preparation for the exams.

I have no complaints about this—how could Grandma have chosen the timing of her own death?

As for me, I felt that wherever I ended up teaching Chinese in a middle school in the future, that life would be quite good. Staying in Guiyang, of course, aligned with my ideals; going to Linjiang would be fine too, and returning to Yu County would also be acceptable.

For some reason, my understanding of life and my pursuit of so-called happiness suddenly became extremely practical. One could even say that I became a university girl without dreams—in an era when all university students had dreams and at an age when I should have been dreaming the most.

This, too, seemed related to Grandma's death.

Since everyone must inevitably face death, is the relentless pursuit of so-called happiness not also an obsession with fleeting clouds?

What if one simply let go?

What's wrong with letting things take their natural course?

Some people's misfortune lies precisely in not even having the "capital" to make such a choice.

But I, Fang Wanzhi, had it.

I admit that my attitude toward life back then was rather passive, and this made me more composed.

I became so composed that I rarely opened up to others.

And this gave others the impression that I was "profound."