Liang Xiaosheng is the pioneer of educated youth literature and also one of the core writers of contemporary Chinese literature.
——Meng Fanhua, Literary Critic

Despite vast changes since the 1990s, Liang Xiaosheng's impassioned voice remains uniquely powerful — his works continue to offer readers genuine intellectual fulfillment.
——Zhang Yiwu, Literary Critic

Liang traverses disparate eras as history's witness, kindness's advocate, justice's champion, and life's chronicler. His writing forges an indomitable force that transforms literature's union with truth, goodness, and beauty from ideal into reality.
——Chen Xiaoming, Peking University Professor

★All must bid farewell to this world — but first, we must live as we choose.

★A landmark allegorical work by Liang Xiaosheng, winner of the 10th Mao Dun Literature Prize and original author of the TV series "A Lifelong Journey". Beneath its fantastical surface pulses the same humanist core that made "A Lifelong Journey" beloved, meditating on life, freedom, and emotional truth.

★Soaring imagination meets absurdist humor! These small tales wield outsized wisdom, ordinary characters erupt with extraordinary vitality. Through microcosms and metaphors, Liang distills profound philosophy about existence.

This collection features Liang's short stories including "Death's Messenger", "New Tales of 'Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio'", "The Inkstone Chronicle", and "A Kite's Lifespan".
Here, storm clouds tear themselves apart to summon blazing life; caged parrots vanish without witness; a plaintive whistle at dusk curses abandoned fates... With boundless imagination, Liang weaves dreams both bizarre and poignant — at turns whimsical, sardonic, and heartbreaking.
Through allegory, these stories unravel truths about life and liberty. Liang wraps decades of observation in fantastical prose, creating tales that intoxicate the mind long after reading.

Liang Xiaosheng

He was born in 1949 in Harbin with ancestral roots in Rongcheng, Shandong. He is a renowned contemporary Chinese writer and scholar. Currently, he serves as a senior professor at the School of Humanities of Beijing Language and Culture University, a member of the National Committee of the Chinese People's Political Consultative Conference (CPPCC), and a researcher at the Central Research Institute of Culture and History. To date, he has authored over ten million words of literary works, including essays, novels, commentaries, and documentary literature. His representative works include "Tonight There’s a Snowstorm", "The Rings of Time", and "Educated Youth". In 2019, he won the 10th Mao Dun Literature Prize for his novel "A Lifelong Journey".

Death's Messenger| 001
A Basin of Dough | 010
A Nail | 020
New Tales of "Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio"(Three Stories) | 029
A Kite's Lifespan | 044
Breakthrough | 050
Death of a Caterpillar | 062
Butterfly Loving Flowers | 064
Alice's Freedom | 067
Barton's Glory | 077
Candle's Tears | 084
Clouds Become Rain | 095
The Sea's Allure | 098
Lost | 114
The Inkstone Chronicle | 164
Mid-Autumn Moon | 178
Jet Ruler | 204

Noon. The summer heat was unbearable.
He lay on the bed in a daze, neither fully asleep nor fully awake. Through the haze, he heard several knocks at the door. He wanted to respond but couldn't make a sound. He tried to sit up but found his body stiff and heavy, as if it no longer belonged to him.
The knocking came again, followed by the soft creak of the door opening. A wave of icy air rushed in, carrying with it a rich, intoxicating fragrance.
Light footsteps approached the bed. Someone was leaning over him—he could feel the chill on his face, smell the perfume. With great effort, he opened his eyes and saw the exquisitely beautiful face of a young woman. Her expression was coquettish, her red lips curving into a sweet, enchanting smile that revealed shallow dimples in her peach-blossom cheeks.
Yet she was a stranger.
She swept the silken black hair from her chest over her shoulder, straightened up, and stepped back from the bed. With elegant grace, she lifted the hem of her dress and settled into a chair by the round table. Her mesmerizing gaze never left him.
Embarrassed by his own disheveled state, he quickly shook off his lethargy, sat up, slipped on his shoes, and took the chair opposite her. "Forgive me", he muttered. "I've been ill these past few days."
She shrugged, her smile still sweet, still bewitching.
"Are you... a university student?" he asked, studying her — the sleeveless pink dress, her jade-like arms bare, an ivory neck adorned with a gold necklace, a small golden cross half-hidden at the collar. He dismissed the thought immediately. Female students rarely wore such things.
She shook her head, still smiling that same smile — innocent yet full of charm, like a guileless maiden with a thousand subtle allurements. It left him both mystified and strangely stirred, as if under a spell.
"An actress?" He had been visited before by actresses or aspiring ones, hoping he could recommend them to directors for roles in adaptations of his stories. But none of his recent works had been optioned.
Another shake of her head.
"An editor?" A chill ran through him.
Again, no.
"A journalist?"
Still no. That smile never wavered.
"Then who are you? What do you want with me?" He was utterly lost.
"I am Death", she finally spoke, her voice like birdsong, like pearls striking a plate. As she spoke, her pearly teeth lightly caught her lower lip, her bright eyes fixed on him—serious yet playful, demure yet amused.
He laughed weakly. "If Death looks like you, no one would fear dying." Some part of him wanted to please her.
"I am Death", she repeated, slowly extending a hand to clasp his.
He shuddered. Her delicate fingers were ice.
She held on, her grip unrelenting. His hand might as well have been frozen to metal in winter.
Now he understood why the room had grown colder since her arrival. Stunned, he stared at her — but her extraordinary beauty left no room for fear.
"Believe me now?" Death released his hand, her smile more enchanting than ever, tinged with triumph—and something sly, something cunning.
He gaped, speechless.
"What, still in doubt?"
"I... I believe you. But... why have you come for me?"
She giggled, covering her mouth with a slender hand. "Why else? Duty calls."
"Duty? You're... here for a manuscript?" He stared at her peach-blossom face, bewildered, asking foolish questions.
"A manuscript?" Death laughed, the sound like tinkling bells. Then she tapped his forehead with a delicate finger. "I'm here for your life."
The touch sent an electric coldness piercing through his skull, sharpening his mind. No more drifting thoughts — this demanded seriousness. "You must be mistaken", he said carefully. "I'm only thirty."
"I take my work very seriously", Death replied primly. "Since I began overseeing human lifespans, I’ve never made a single error."
"Please don’t misunderstand — it’s just... so sudden..." He found himself addressing her with reverence, even fear.
Death sighed, as if this were routine. "Everyone dies. And everyone thinks it’s too soon. That’s what makes my job enjoyable."
He had no reply.
With a graceful motion, Death extended an arm — like an opera heroine, her hand a white lotus — and pointed to the bed. "Look. You’re already dead."
He turned. There, on the bed, lay his own body, stiff and lifeless.
His shock was immeasurable.
Death, unfazed, smiled sweetly. "I’m very busy. I can’t linger." She glanced at the refrigerator. "Do you have anything to drink? I’m parched."
"Yes, yes!" Flustered, he hurried to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of chilled soda, poured it into a glass, and presented it to her with both hands—like a servant to a master.
Death accepted it with regal indifference, sipping slowly. In her other hand, a white handkerchief appeared (where had that come from? Her dress had no pockets), fluttering delicately by her cheek. He wondered how someone so cold could feel heat. The handkerchief released another wave of fragrance, dizzying in its intensity.
Retreating to his seat, he studied her. A woman’s heart is soft, he thought. If I appeal to her pity, perhaps she’ll spare me.
When Death finished her drink, he spoke, voice trembling with false piety: "Of all gods, I revere you most, Death. Your power is absolute..."
Death smiled modestly, pleased.
Encouraged, he switched to a mournful tone. "I’m only thirty. If I die now, so much will be left undone. No achievements, no legacy. I’ve never even... loved. How can I die without having loved?" His own words moved him to tears.
"Enough," Death cut in. "All this whining is tedious. You’re afraid to die — yes?"
"Yes! Yes!"
"But I cannot be swayed." Death’s smile was radiant, her dimples deep, her beauty unbearable.
Undeterred, he wept openly, repeating his pleas, tears and snot streaming.
"Oh, poor thing, don’t cry..." Death’s voice was suddenly tender. She leaned across the table, dabbing his tears with her scented handkerchief.
Seizing his chance, he grasped her icy hand, letting his tears fall upon it.
"If you spare me... I’ll worship you forever. You, so beautiful, so kind..." He lied — to her, to himself. His hand, now as pale as hers, had gone numb.
Death withdrew her hand, still smiling. "No matter what, I will not spare you."
Despair returned. Yet her smile still enchanted him. He cried harder. Death comforted him like a child, her voice gentle, her touch soothing — but always, always repeating:
"No matter what, I will not spare you."
Finally, in utter desperation, he fell to his knees, pressing his face against her ballet-dancer’s legs, weeping into the cold silk of her stockings.
Death never stopped smiling.
At last, she sighed. "Very well, poor thing. I’ll spare you... if you give me something in return."
His sobs ceased. He looked up, still kneeling.
Death’s eyes gleamed with delight.
"Name it. Anything I have", he vowed.