Free Diary of a Naked Official by Ouyang Yu Page A

with Mother Earth, instantly turning myself into an unrecognizable mass of flesh and blood, hot and steaming, achieving the highest intensity of orgasm. That is love, sex, life and death all rolled into one. Short of that, there is nothing worth trying. It is all the same if you keep fucking the same cunt year in and year out or if you keep fucking different cunts of different sizes, matched with different faces, until you are too old to fuck when you realize, in retrospect, that all you have ever managed to do is exactly the same as a golf ball that enters multiple holes or a basketball that drops through hundreds, if not thousands, of net holes.
    If I get caught one day, I shall experience the impingement of my body upon the earth, with its ultimate arousal and thrill, in the coupling of life and death.
    For the first time, it seems, I realized the proper function of this diary or journal. Now that there are no priests of any religions or religious denominations worth my trust and my confidence, the diary is the only confessional, in which the man listens to himself, hisother self or selves, or reads it or them, the way Cioran succinctly puts it: ‘All men are fragments of himself’.
    I shall fly with all my sins into the skies and let them shit like rain. Let the mediocrities of this world quote that .
    After reading Cioran, I find I’m becoming him although B finds him too distressing for publication, not a shining example of optimism for the money-minded masses going to beat the Americans and become the Number One Nation in the world. He wants uplifting stuff, such as The Surrendered Wife , as he thinks the book might be an antidote for the ills of the contemporary society. But nothing American, in my opinion, is going to work. Good luck if he can make sales soar.
    8/7
    With poets, as a rule, you do three things, in sequence, to pass the night. First, they call you out to a dinner, surrounded by friends, all poets, known or unknown. Then, they move on to a KTV place where they hire a private room with more beer and they sing with escort girls. Afterwards, a few stalwart ones stay and move on to a huisuo or entertainment complex where you go forthree Ss, sauna, shower and shoot, to put it crudely. This is exactly what I did last night.
    X, who sent me the query regarding the Bosnian-Herzegovinian poet, has also sent a few manuscripts that I have knocked back but he persists, almost on a daily basis. When you have someone like that, all you do is delete him as soon as you see his email, without even reading a word. He is not the paying type but he keeps hoping that his stuff might somehow be published by us at our expense as he believes that his is so good that, once published, it will win prizes all over the country and, once translated, will win awards all over the world. I am sick of poets like that, blinded and bloated by their own sense of self-worth, blown out of all proportion, although as a person he is urbane and accommodating enough.
    As soon as I arrived at the Starbucks, he arose from his seat and introduced me to a crowd of people already sitting there. Even though I am used to being called zongbian or editor-in-chief, which I am not as I am only a deputy editor-in-chief, I am never comfortable with the appellation because it is not true. But if they insisted, I simply allowed them the indulgence. He did the rounds pointing out their names and positions but I was convinced that we would remain strangers afterwards. The only other person I knew was DSG, short for Daq Sogu, a poet with fish-whiskers, who seemed delightedto see me and asked me to sit next to him. Soon, large plates bearing steaming dishes came, with bottles of beer, wine and baijiu , white liquor. They talked about poets and who had won what. While lending them half an ear, I chatted with DSG about his latest submission, what I thought of it and what could happen or not happen. He pretended that he did not care; instead, he began