I began to hate the painter of that portrait. I despised every self-described intellectual. This kind of hate was truly hate. When I threw open the doors to my heart, a spastic rage was pulsating through my blood. I dubbed that feeling hate.

• 我开始恨画她的那个人,我恨所有自称自己是 知识分子的人,这种恨就是恨,当我敞开我的心扉,这痉挛着的愤怒便跳动在我的血液里,我把这种感受命名为恨。