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本文的作者埃文·奥斯诺斯，毕业于哈佛大学政治学专业，如今是《纽约客》杂志的驻华记者。由于埃文长期在中国工作，所以对中国了解很多，埃文还曾因一篇关于中国的报道于2008年获得普利策奖。更有意思的是，埃文还有一个中国名字——欧逸文，一个听上去相当有腔调的名字。
在这篇《十亿个故事》当中，埃文将给我们讲述一次奇遇：有一天，一个农民工贸贸然地打断了埃文与邻里的谈话，埃文与其慢慢交谈过后发现，一个清洁工竟然有着自己的文学梦，还曾拿过“对联王”之类的奖项，最不可思议的是这个农民工还在网络上过着精彩的小日子……埃文被这一切深深吸引了，其实不只是埃文，我们也会羡慕把生活过得如此悠哉乐哉的人，不是吗？更为可贵的是，他还有梦……
In my neighborhood， near the 1）Lama Temple， the men and women in 2）fluorescent orange 3）jumpsuits work for the district 4）sanitation department. Many of them are 5）migrant workers from the countryside； they sweep the alleys， clean the public restrooms， and collect the trash. Some wear 6）straw farmers’ hats that cast a shadow across their faces， and， I admit， the matching uniforms make it difficult for me to keep them straight. I don’t know if there are three of them or thirty.
One afternoon not long ago， I was chatting with my next-door neighbor， a retiree named Huang Wenyi—a proud Beijinger， born and raised—when one of the sweepers in an orange jumpsuit wandered by. He had 7）tousled hair，sun wrinkles around his eyes， and a smile of 8）jumbled teeth. He approached and pointed to a gray flagstone at our feet. “Can you see the emperor on that rock？” the sweeper asked.
Huang and I looked at the rock and back at the sweeper. Huang was not interested. “What are you bullshitting about？” he asked. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The sweeper smiled and asked， “Are you saying you think I’m not a cultured man？”
“What I’m saying，” Huang said， “is that you’re not making sense.”
The sweeper gave him a look， and turned， instead， to face me. “I can look at anything， and pull the essence from it，” he said. “It doesn’t matter how ordinary something is； in my eyes， it becomes a treasure. Do you believe me？”
Huang was irritated： “Old man， I’m trying to have a chat with our foreign friend here. Can you not disturb us， and go back to your work？” With that， he waved the sweeper away and wandered into his house. But I was actually 9）intrigued， so I introduced myself. The sweeper’s name was Qi Xiangfu. He was from Jiangsu Province， and he said he had come to Beijing three months ago.
“Why did you come，” I asked.
“To explore the realm of culture，” he said grandly.
“What kind of culture？”
“Poetry， mainly. Ancient Chinese poetry. During the Tang Dynasty， when poetry was the best， every poet wanted to come to Chang’an，”he said， invoking the name of an ancient capital， the predecessor to Beijing. “I wanted a bigger stage，” he said. “It doesn’t matter whether I succeed or fail. I’m here， that’s what matters.” It was getting late； before I went inside， Qi said he had competed in poetry competitions. “I won the title of ‘Super King of Chinese 10）Couplets.’” In his spare time， he had taken to hosting an online forum about modern Chinese poetry. “You can go online and read about me，” he said.
That night， I typed his name into the Web， and there he was： Qi Xiangfu， the Super King of Chinese Couplets. In the photo， he was handsomely dressed in a bow tie and a jacket； he looked young and confident. Chinese poems are hard for me to understand， and many of his， especially， were 11）impenetrably weird. But I appreciated some moments of grace： “Earth knows the lightness of our feet，” he wrote. “We meet each other there. Between heaven and earth.”
To my surprise， the more I searched about Qi Xiangfu， the more I found of a life lived partly online. He described the first time he ever presented one of his poems to a large group—it was played on a speaker at a construction site—and he described a bus trip in which he met， as he put it， “a girl who sympathized.” They married and it“ended his life of 12）vagrancy.” There were hints of trouble in his life—at one point， he wrote a plea for donations， saying， “Alas， Comrade Qi is having a difficult time”—but something in the spirit of his online persona 13）captivated me.
After I met the street sweeper Qi Xiangfu， I started 14）bumping into him frequently. A few weeks ago， he told me he had been reassigned to the sanitation department in another part of town； he said he would come back when he could. The last time I saw him， he wasn’t wearing his uniform； he was in street clothes—a crisp white shirt and a black jacket—on his way to see his daughter who worked at a restaurant nearby. He had a book under his arm： Ten Contemporary Authors of Prose. For the first time， I saw the two personae， online and real-world， in one.
“What inspires you，” I once asked him.
“When I write，” he said， “anything becomes material. In life， I must be practical， but when I write， it is up to me.”
在我的住处附近，挨着雍和宫，有一些穿着荧光橘色工装的男男女女，他们是区环卫局的工人。他们当中有很多是乡下来的农民工；他们打扫大街小巷，清洁公共厕所，收集废品。他们中有些人带着农民的草帽，脸上被投下一片阴影，而且，我得承认，那一致的装束让我很难去分清他们。我并不晓得他们一行人是有3个还是30个。
不久前的一个下午，我正在和隔壁邻居聊天，他叫黄文艺（音译），退休了，是个自豪的土生土长的北京人。当时，一个身着荧光橘色工装的清洁工从我们身旁经过。他头发蓬乱，眼周有着被太阳晒出的皱纹，笑起来露出一口糟牙。他走近我们并指向我们脚下的一块灰色石板。“你能看见那块石头上的皇帝吗？”这清洁工问道。
老黄和我看了看石板，又看了看那个清洁工。老黄并不感兴趣。“你在胡说八道些什么？”他问道。“你都不知道自己在说些什么。” 那个清洁工笑起来，问道：“你意思是，我不是个文化人？”
“我说的是，”黄答道，“你的话说不通。”
那个清洁工扫了他一眼，而后转过身，面向我。“我看东西能发现其本质，”他说。“不管多么普通的东西；在我眼里，都是个宝贝。你信我吗？”
老黄生气了，说道：“老头儿，我在跟外国朋友聊天。你别打扰我们，干你的活去，行不？”说罢，他挥手示意清洁工离开，而后踱步走回了自己的房子。但我真的是很好奇，所以我作了自我介绍。那个清洁工名叫戚相富，来自江苏省，他还说自己是三个月前来的北京。
“你为什么来这儿？”我问他。
“为了探索文化的领域，”他堂皇地答道。
“什么样的文化？”
“主要是诗歌，中国古代诗歌。在唐代，诗歌最为兴盛的时候，每个诗人都想去长安，”他说道，他引用了一座古都的名字，北京之前的前朝古都。“我想要一个更大的平台，”他说。“成败都没关系。我来到这里，才是最重要的。”
天色渐渐晚了；在我回屋之前，戚说他曾参加过诗歌比赛。“我获得过‘超级对联王’的称号。”在他闲暇的时候，他是一个以中国现代诗歌为主题的网络论坛的版主。“你可以到网上了解一下我，”他说。
那天晚上，我在网上输入了他的名字，而后就看到了他：戚相富，超级对联王。照片里，他打扮得帅极了，戴着领结，穿着夹克，看起来既年轻又自信。中国诗歌对于我来说很难理解，特别是戚相富的一些诗，格外古怪难懂。但我还是欣赏到了一些优雅的部分：“大地知晓你我脚步的轻盈，”他写道。“天地之间。我们遇见彼此。”
令我惊讶的是，关于戚相富，愈加搜索我就愈多地发现他在网络上的生活部分。戚相富在网络上描述了他第一次将自己的诗公之于众时的情形——那首诗在建筑工地上的一个扬声器里播放——他还描述了一次汽车旅途中的邂逅，如他所写，“一个支持他的女孩儿。”他们结了婚，而后婚姻“结束了他漂泊的生活。”描述中有一些关于生活中困苦的暗示——在某一处，他写了一个呼吁捐款的请愿，上面说，“唉，戚同志正在艰难时光中备受煎熬”——尽管如此，戚同志线上角色中的某些精神还是俘获了我。
认识清洁工戚相富之后，我便时常撞见他。几周前，戚相富告诉我他被环卫局调到城市的另一端去了；他说可能的话他会再回来。最后一次见到他的时候，他没有穿他的制服；而是穿了便服——一件亮白色衬衣和黑色夹克——他要去看他在附近餐馆打工的女儿。他腋下夹了一本书——《十大当代散文家》。第一次，我看到了他的两面人格合二为一，网络上的和现实世界里的。
“是什么激励着你，”我曾经问他。
“当我写作的时候，”他说道，“一切可以信手拈来。在生活中，我必须务实，但在我写作的时候，我说了算。”
在这篇《十亿个故事》当中，埃文将给我们讲述一次奇遇：有一天，一个农民工贸贸然地打断了埃文与邻里的谈话，埃文与其慢慢交谈过后发现，一个清洁工竟然有着自己的文学梦，还曾拿过“对联王”之类的奖项，最不可思议的是这个农民工还在网络上过着精彩的小日子……埃文被这一切深深吸引了，其实不只是埃文，我们也会羡慕把生活过得如此悠哉乐哉的人，不是吗？更为可贵的是，他还有梦……
In my neighborhood， near the 1）Lama Temple， the men and women in 2）fluorescent orange 3）jumpsuits work for the district 4）sanitation department. Many of them are 5）migrant workers from the countryside； they sweep the alleys， clean the public restrooms， and collect the trash. Some wear 6）straw farmers’ hats that cast a shadow across their faces， and， I admit， the matching uniforms make it difficult for me to keep them straight. I don’t know if there are three of them or thirty.
One afternoon not long ago， I was chatting with my next-door neighbor， a retiree named Huang Wenyi—a proud Beijinger， born and raised—when one of the sweepers in an orange jumpsuit wandered by. He had 7）tousled hair，sun wrinkles around his eyes， and a smile of 8）jumbled teeth. He approached and pointed to a gray flagstone at our feet. “Can you see the emperor on that rock？” the sweeper asked.
Huang and I looked at the rock and back at the sweeper. Huang was not interested. “What are you bullshitting about？” he asked. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The sweeper smiled and asked， “Are you saying you think I’m not a cultured man？”
“What I’m saying，” Huang said， “is that you’re not making sense.”
The sweeper gave him a look， and turned， instead， to face me. “I can look at anything， and pull the essence from it，” he said. “It doesn’t matter how ordinary something is； in my eyes， it becomes a treasure. Do you believe me？”
Huang was irritated： “Old man， I’m trying to have a chat with our foreign friend here. Can you not disturb us， and go back to your work？” With that， he waved the sweeper away and wandered into his house. But I was actually 9）intrigued， so I introduced myself. The sweeper’s name was Qi Xiangfu. He was from Jiangsu Province， and he said he had come to Beijing three months ago.
“Why did you come，” I asked.
“To explore the realm of culture，” he said grandly.
“What kind of culture？”
“Poetry， mainly. Ancient Chinese poetry. During the Tang Dynasty， when poetry was the best， every poet wanted to come to Chang’an，”he said， invoking the name of an ancient capital， the predecessor to Beijing. “I wanted a bigger stage，” he said. “It doesn’t matter whether I succeed or fail. I’m here， that’s what matters.” It was getting late； before I went inside， Qi said he had competed in poetry competitions. “I won the title of ‘Super King of Chinese 10）Couplets.’” In his spare time， he had taken to hosting an online forum about modern Chinese poetry. “You can go online and read about me，” he said.
That night， I typed his name into the Web， and there he was： Qi Xiangfu， the Super King of Chinese Couplets. In the photo， he was handsomely dressed in a bow tie and a jacket； he looked young and confident. Chinese poems are hard for me to understand， and many of his， especially， were 11）impenetrably weird. But I appreciated some moments of grace： “Earth knows the lightness of our feet，” he wrote. “We meet each other there. Between heaven and earth.”
To my surprise， the more I searched about Qi Xiangfu， the more I found of a life lived partly online. He described the first time he ever presented one of his poems to a large group—it was played on a speaker at a construction site—and he described a bus trip in which he met， as he put it， “a girl who sympathized.” They married and it“ended his life of 12）vagrancy.” There were hints of trouble in his life—at one point， he wrote a plea for donations， saying， “Alas， Comrade Qi is having a difficult time”—but something in the spirit of his online persona 13）captivated me.
After I met the street sweeper Qi Xiangfu， I started 14）bumping into him frequently. A few weeks ago， he told me he had been reassigned to the sanitation department in another part of town； he said he would come back when he could. The last time I saw him， he wasn’t wearing his uniform； he was in street clothes—a crisp white shirt and a black jacket—on his way to see his daughter who worked at a restaurant nearby. He had a book under his arm： Ten Contemporary Authors of Prose. For the first time， I saw the two personae， online and real-world， in one.
“What inspires you，” I once asked him.
“When I write，” he said， “anything becomes material. In life， I must be practical， but when I write， it is up to me.”
在我的住处附近，挨着雍和宫，有一些穿着荧光橘色工装的男男女女，他们是区环卫局的工人。他们当中有很多是乡下来的农民工；他们打扫大街小巷，清洁公共厕所，收集废品。他们中有些人带着农民的草帽，脸上被投下一片阴影，而且，我得承认，那一致的装束让我很难去分清他们。我并不晓得他们一行人是有3个还是30个。
不久前的一个下午，我正在和隔壁邻居聊天，他叫黄文艺（音译），退休了，是个自豪的土生土长的北京人。当时，一个身着荧光橘色工装的清洁工从我们身旁经过。他头发蓬乱，眼周有着被太阳晒出的皱纹，笑起来露出一口糟牙。他走近我们并指向我们脚下的一块灰色石板。“你能看见那块石头上的皇帝吗？”这清洁工问道。
老黄和我看了看石板，又看了看那个清洁工。老黄并不感兴趣。“你在胡说八道些什么？”他问道。“你都不知道自己在说些什么。” 那个清洁工笑起来，问道：“你意思是，我不是个文化人？”
“我说的是，”黄答道，“你的话说不通。”
那个清洁工扫了他一眼，而后转过身，面向我。“我看东西能发现其本质，”他说。“不管多么普通的东西；在我眼里，都是个宝贝。你信我吗？”
老黄生气了，说道：“老头儿，我在跟外国朋友聊天。你别打扰我们，干你的活去，行不？”说罢，他挥手示意清洁工离开，而后踱步走回了自己的房子。但我真的是很好奇，所以我作了自我介绍。那个清洁工名叫戚相富，来自江苏省，他还说自己是三个月前来的北京。
“你为什么来这儿？”我问他。
“为了探索文化的领域，”他堂皇地答道。
“什么样的文化？”
“主要是诗歌，中国古代诗歌。在唐代，诗歌最为兴盛的时候，每个诗人都想去长安，”他说道，他引用了一座古都的名字，北京之前的前朝古都。“我想要一个更大的平台，”他说。“成败都没关系。我来到这里，才是最重要的。”
天色渐渐晚了；在我回屋之前，戚说他曾参加过诗歌比赛。“我获得过‘超级对联王’的称号。”在他闲暇的时候，他是一个以中国现代诗歌为主题的网络论坛的版主。“你可以到网上了解一下我，”他说。
那天晚上，我在网上输入了他的名字，而后就看到了他：戚相富，超级对联王。照片里，他打扮得帅极了，戴着领结，穿着夹克，看起来既年轻又自信。中国诗歌对于我来说很难理解，特别是戚相富的一些诗，格外古怪难懂。但我还是欣赏到了一些优雅的部分：“大地知晓你我脚步的轻盈，”他写道。“天地之间。我们遇见彼此。”
令我惊讶的是，关于戚相富，愈加搜索我就愈多地发现他在网络上的生活部分。戚相富在网络上描述了他第一次将自己的诗公之于众时的情形——那首诗在建筑工地上的一个扬声器里播放——他还描述了一次汽车旅途中的邂逅，如他所写，“一个支持他的女孩儿。”他们结了婚，而后婚姻“结束了他漂泊的生活。”描述中有一些关于生活中困苦的暗示——在某一处，他写了一个呼吁捐款的请愿，上面说，“唉，戚同志正在艰难时光中备受煎熬”——尽管如此，戚同志线上角色中的某些精神还是俘获了我。
认识清洁工戚相富之后，我便时常撞见他。几周前，戚相富告诉我他被环卫局调到城市的另一端去了；他说可能的话他会再回来。最后一次见到他的时候，他没有穿他的制服；而是穿了便服——一件亮白色衬衣和黑色夹克——他要去看他在附近餐馆打工的女儿。他腋下夹了一本书——《十大当代散文家》。第一次，我看到了他的两面人格合二为一，网络上的和现实世界里的。
“是什么激励着你，”我曾经问他。
“当我写作的时候，”他说道，“一切可以信手拈来。在生活中，我必须务实，但在我写作的时候，我说了算。”