Yu Jian

In this book， the author delves into personal memories and historical transformations to depict various facets of Kunming， encompassing its culture， natural environment， and the vibrant lives of its inhabitants. Through essays， poems， and photographs， he vividly captures Kunmings evolution over time， all while poignantly expressing his nostalgia for the hometown he can never return to.

Once， there was a place called “Kunming.”

As the cities of northern China descend into darkness at sunset， Kunming， situated on the southern plateau， remains bathed in daylight， granting this city an eternal golden twilight and radiant streets. The street I lived on during my childhood faced the setting sun as if it stretched all the way to the sun. On its stone-paved surface， garbage collection carts， appearing as if sent by divine beings， would shimmer as they halted， their drivers ringing brass bells. Garbage collectors would line up on the streets， their faces illuminated by the sun， only to vanish into the neighborhoods shadows. Most of Kunmings main streets run east to west. Before sunset， the city is filled with roads leading to the setting sun， gleaming like freshly wiped floors. The sky is a clear blue， the air fresh. Grass atop gray-tiled roofs gently sways， sycamore trunks glisten like gold-coated leopards， and glimpses of roses， orchids， and camellias bloom in ancient courtyards behind partly open gates. As the sun slowly sets， the sky fills with colorful clouds， reminiscent of surreal dreams of the beasts in the mountains surrounding Kunming： red lions， purple bears， peacocks amidst sheep， tigers with goat faces， elephants by the shore， cotton sprouting from whale tails. They shape and reshape， evoking fleeting inspirations in the mind of a painter like Dalí. Under this canopy of colored clouds in Kunming， bats and swallows take flight. At twilight， theres always a moment when the light dims， and the city turns a hazy purplish-gray. The world seems to lose power， pausing abruptly. People on the streets seem like spirits from a bygone era， eerily still and silent. After a brief pause， life slowly resumes its rhythm. The shutters of a shop close and lights begin to shine. Looking up， a huge yellow moon， mirror-like， hangs over Wucheng Road， low enough to seemingly reflect ones face. By around eight oclock， night gracefully arrives， the moon brilliantly illuminating the cobblestone paths of Dyers Alley and the tiles of Blow Flute Alley， and the grand hall of Yuantong Temple. In my youth， the never-ending golden twilights of my hometown imbued me with a unique perception of the world， profoundly influencing my life and fostering an innate love for the world within me.

Years ago， I read the biography of the poet Goethe. At fifty-nine， his childhood in Frankfurt remained unchanged. The world had changed， but his hometown remained his hometown; “everything reminded me of the city and the regions long gone turbulent times.” An affection for antiquity welled up within me. It can be said that such “antique charm” -- the ancient Main River bridge， remnants of the palaces of Charlemagne and his successors， the old commercial district， shops surrounding Bartholomew Church， and the “narrow and dirty butchers stalls adjacent to the market” -- shaped the great Goethe. Im certain that figures like Goethe would never emerge from a newly finished， freshly painted residential area. Literary giants like Li Bai， Goethe， and Cao Xueqin always arise from places imbued with “antique charm.” Its a universal truth in the history of civilization. Hometown is not merely about outdated structures; its the cradle of poets. For a place to produce a figure like Goethe， it might need three centuries， awaiting the emergence of that “antique charm.” As the Tang Dynasty poem goes： “I left home when I was young and returned in my old age. Though my accent remains unchanged， my hair has grayed. Children see but dont recognize me. Laughing， they ask where this stranger comes from.” This captures a fundamental human experience， a universal end to lifes journey. Years ago， I believed Id revisit the streets and courtyards of my youth， pointing out the old loquat tree to my descendants， telling them how I played there as a child. But Ive since realized I could never pen a memoir like Goethes. Ive lived in this city for over forty years. Now， its transformed beyond recognition. Traces of my past life have vanished， replaced by unfamiliar buildings and streets with the fresh smell of lime and cement. Their shapes， brightness， and colors are foreign to me. Here， theres not a hint of the life I once led; at most， Ive been a mere visitor. Im at a loss for words to describe it， just like the migrant workers new to this place， rendered speechless and directionless. People dont instantly adapt to new surroundings. After moving， it takes adjusting to the rooms lighting， furniture， colors， and scents to feel at home. The extension of ones senses requires at least twenty years to mature， with at least a hundred stories to shape them. A transformed hometown makes my writing feel like a falsehood. My poetic lexicon was birthed in my old hometown， crafted by the life I lived there.

One day， with a mix of sunshine and showers， I returned alone to the neighborhood of my youth， now demolished， looking as if hit by an earthquake. Wading through the ruins， guided by hazy memories， I found the remains of the courtyard where I grew up， marked by a few wooden pillars and a standing wall. It was that wall that made me recognize this was my childhood home. When we first moved in， it was freshly painted white. I assumed it had always been so. But two years in， the paint peeled off one day， revealing a dragon drawn beneath， a colorful tail peeking out from the wall. Now， most of the dragon was exposed， stained yellow from water that had trickled down the wall. Yet， I couldnt be entirely sure this was my childhood home. Besides， it shouldve been a French-style corridor， open to the sky， its path lined with vase-shaped terracotta balustrades. The corridor connected one side of the courtyard， meaning the original design was merely a wall. But innovatively， a corridor was built atop it. I recall one of those red balustrades had a hole， revealing its hollow interior.

Little Ming， who lived opposite us， once caught a mouse and tied a string to its tail， making it enter that hole. But the string snapped， and the mouse disappeared into the hole. We blocked the entrance， hoping to retrieve the mouses body days later. But a week later， when Ming reached in， he found nothing. That hole， to me， became a portal to another world filled with mystery. But there was no trace of those balustrades in the rubble. Even the walls orientation seemed off. Living there， it felt east-facing， but now， it leaned southeast. I cant confirm whether the ruins I visited that rainy day were indeed my old home. Soon after， even the ruins were gone， replaced by new buildings， and the neighborhoods name was erased from new maps. So， I even doubt whether I ever lived there. Perhaps those red vase-shaped balustrades were something I read about in a Balzac novel. If none of what you mention ever existed there， isnt your writing just a lie？ Or cant you simply indulge in unrestricted fiction？ In our era， the world is constantly changing; writing based on memory is forever surrealistic. The world only exists within my writings. Without it， what is the world？ Before I even begin to write， the world has already evolved. Writing no longer mirrors the world in a classical sense. The world is no longer evidence of the act of writing. Only in memories can I find the heavenly hometown of my dreams.

Kunming Chronicles：

My Hometown， My City

Written & Photographed by Yu Jian

CITIC Press Group

January 2022

128.00 （CNY）

Yu Jian

Yu Jian is a regular contributor to publications like China National Geography， Chinese Cultural Geography， and Traveller. He is the chief writer for the documentary Drinking from the Same River. Author of several poetry and essay collections， he has won numerous awards， including the 2012 Peoples Literature Non-fiction Prize and the 15th Chinese Literature Media Award for Outstanding Writer， among dozens of others for his poetry and essays.