i knew why she was worried. talkative kids are not well thought of in our village, for they can bring trouble to themselves and to their families. there is a bit of a young me in the talkative boy who falls afoul of villagers in my story "bulls." mother habitually cautioned me not to talk so much, wanting me to be a taciturn, smooth and steady youngster. instead i was possessed of a dangerous combination – remarkable speaking skills and the powerful desire that went with them. my ability to tell stories brought her joy, but that created a dilemma for her.
a popular saying goes "it is easier to change the course of a river than a person's nature." despite my parents' tireless guidance, my natural desire to talk never went away, and that is what makes my name – mo yan, or "don't speak" – an ironic expression of self-mockery. after dropping out of elementary school, i was too small for heavy labor, so i became a cattle- and sheep-herder on a nearby grassy riverbank. the sight of my former schoolmates playing in the schoolyard when i drove my animals past the gate always saddened me and made me aware of how tough it is for anyone – even a child – to leave the group.
i turned the animals loose on the riverbank to graze beneath a sky as blue as the ocean and grass-carpeted land as far as the eye could see – not another person in sight, no human sounds, nothing but bird calls above me. i was all by myself and terribly lonely; my heart felt empty. sometimes i lay in the grass and watched clouds float lazily by, which gave rise to all sorts of fanciful images. that part of the country is known for its tales of foxes in the form of beautiful young women, and i would fantasize a fox-turned-beautiful girl coming to tend animals with me. she never did come. once, however, a fiery red fox bounded out of the brush in front of me, scaring my legs right out from under me. i was still sitting there trembling long after the fox had vanished. sometimes i'd crouch down beside the cows and gaze into their deep blue eyes, eyes that captured my reflection. at times i'd have a dialogue with birds in the sky, mimicking their cries, while at other times i'd divulge my hopes and desires to a tree. but the birds ignored me, and so did the trees. years later, after i'd become a novelist, i wrote some of those fantasies into my novels and stories. people frequently bombard me with compliments on my vivid imagination, and lovers of literature often ask me to divulge my secret to developing a rich imagination. my only response is a wan smile.