Free The Crazed by Ha Jin

the idea of my going into business.
    One late afternoon, as I was leaving the classroom building, my teacher caught sight of me and called to me. I froze in my tracks at the side door.
    Coming up to me, he said, “Going home?”
    “Yes,” I answered, then together we resumed walking. Silently we strolled toward the street outside the campus. On the dusty playing field some undergraduates were chasing a soccer ball and two stout women were practicing the shot put. A group of students in sweat suits were drawing lines for a sports meet, dribbling liquid whitewash from kettles to the ground on the outskirts of the field.
    Mr. Yang said to me, “I’ve heard you want to go to Hong Kong to become a businessman.” His tone was rather sardonic.
    Disconcerted, I replied, “They are interested in me, but I haven’t decided yet.”
    “Do you think you’re good at handling imports and exports?” His voice turned serious.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Can you dispense with the study of poetry? Maybe you can, and I have been wrong about you.”
    “That’s what I’ve been thinking about. Honestly I don’t feel like going into business. I love poetry, you know that, but everybody wants to get rich nowadays.”
    “Well, you are not everybody.” He slowed down his pace and pointed at a thirtyish man pulling a cart loaded with cinders and garbage, the man’s naked back dripping sweat. “Look at that fellow over there,” Mr. Yang went on. “No matter how much money he has, I bet he will sleep on the street tonight. Even if he makes tens of thousands of yuan someday, he will never become a man who is really rich. He won’t want to stay at a hotel or fly to Shanghai. He was born poor and will remain so.”
    “What do you mean?” I muttered, uneasy about the superiority he felt over the trash collector.
    “If you are determined to study literature, spiritually you must be an aristocrat. Many of us have been poor all our lives, but we are rich in our hearts, content to be a Don Quixote.”
    I didn’t know how to respond to that and kept walking silently.
    Placing his hand on my shoulder, he added, “Think about this matter carefully, Jian. I won’t make you do anything against your heart, but it’s time for you to choose your way of life.”
    It took me a few days’ soul-searching to make up my mind. When I told Mr. Yang about my decision to abandon the lucrative opportunity, he said with his eyes shining, “Jian, I knew you would be clearheaded about this. If you were someone else, I wouldn’t have bothered to talk to you about it. From now on, I’ll make you work harder.”
    “I’m looking forward to that.”
    I was moved by my own choice, which I regarded as a sacrifice. On the other hand, once the decision was made, I suddenly felt at peace, and even my dinner tasted better. Gradually I could see that Professor Yang treated me differently from the other graduate students; he often assigned books and papers for me to read alone.
    Half a year later, his daughter and I got engaged.

8
    I apologized to Banping for being late, delayed on the way by traffic.
    “That’s all right,” he said.
    “How was he this morning?” I asked about Mr. Yang.
    “Awful.”
    “What happened?”
    “He sang a lot of songs.”
    “What did he sing?”
    “All kinds of stuff, from revolutionary chants to opera snatches.” Banping shook his head, smiling facetiously.
    His smile evoked a strange feeling in me, a mixture of sadness and aversion. In my head a voice suddenly said about our teacher, He’∂ be better off if he lost his speech.
    Meanwhile Mr. Yang was asleep, his nose making a tremulous sound.
    Banping walked out, holding a battered black umbrella and a bulky book,
An Omnibus of Spy Stories.
He had been writing a detective novel, which I wasn’t sure he’d ever finish. I had noticed that his feather bookmark was moved toward the back of the book about a hundred pages a day. He still could read quite a bit while attending