‘‘In the process of writing the document, the writer had run into another problem difficult to wriggle out of, an obstacle there was no way to get over: he had to track down the historical roots of the story. In this, he faced immense handicaps. He was isolated, with no one to help him. All he could lean on was his own talent: after days and nights of pondering, he was inspired in a dream and wrote down some very graceful words: ‘… On our flourishing, colorful street, each resident enjoys full freedom to the best of his ability. Like a duck taking to water, everyone is relaxed and happy. Vehicles full of wonderful foodstuffs roll past on the street, a photography studio with the best technology is open for us day and night, the green trees at the roadside are set off by the translucent blue sky-scenery that delights both the eye and the mind-and flocks of pigeons settle on the roofs of our temples… The instant every person opens his eyes each morning, he takes a deep breath and shudders with joy from head to toe. Indeed, sometimes this beautiful rhythm moves us to tears and silent sobbing. In this worldly paradise, this Xanadu, people are peaceful and affectionate, caring for each other as for family members. There is no reason to be on guard. Everyone is magnanimous and passionate: everyone who comes here is given close attention. Everyone is sincere, and everyone displays chivalry. To draw a visual analogy: this ground is so fertile, the natural resources so abundant, that on this free land every seed that is sown has the chance to grow and mature and complete its life course. Peremptory actions and brutality have never been heard of here. It is like a large garden with a hundred flowers blooming at the same time, fragrant all day long, the scene alive with the joy of spring. Immortals sit with their eyes closed amid the flowers, and the mellow sound of stringed instruments resounds in the sky… Could we guarantee that all the seeds would be strong and healthy? Could they all send forth exquisite flowers? Perhaps two seeds were sick and deformed, marinated in venom, and, after gestating in the spongy, fertile earth, then fanned in the warm spring wind, grew into weird shapes and occupied a plot of land among the hundred flowers. They were a flashy eyesore as they desperately dispersed their toxins everywhere. This has become the present reality. Is this way of putting it rather exaggerated? Well, then, say this is a tiny contaminant, such as a little boil on one’s body: there’s no need for surgery. One can let it run its natural course; that’s a lot more practical. We certainly don’t have to regard Madam X and Mr. Q as loathsome enemies or horned fiends. We won’t consider this problem from the point of view of ignorant women. If the two of them are demons, how could our place still be called a Xanadu? Could we still enjoy our perpetual, serene paradise? We aren’t looking at them this way (our magnanimous nature won’t allow it), but we can come up with some reasonable, bold assumptions that will be authenticated in the future. For now, they can enlighten us and strengthen our confidence in exploring the truth. The writer has plenty of reason to assume that these two persons’ ancestors must have included an endless succession of mentally ill people, even people suffering from hemophilia or gonorrhea. Naturally, their families had nothing to do with Five Spice Street. They had probably flourished in a remote little mountain village, a bare mountain where grass and trees didn’t grow, a village filled with stupidity and barbarity, preserving shocking vices. A large fire consumed the village. This man and woman were the only two who survived: they left the village and came to our city and were mixed in with the residents of our city. They settled down here.
And thus we verified people’s thinking of them as two deformed, sick seeds that had been steeped in poison. Thus, the historical roots of what happened on our street are plain as day.’
