On the other end of the phone, Professor Han's breathing grew noticeably heavier. The old staff member asked with concern whether he was all right. Professor Han said he was fine and was recuperating in the hospital.
Professor Han explained that he was in the hospital after a minor car accident. He was recovering and could not come in person, so he could only ask the old staff member to tell him about it. He apologized for the trouble.
The old staff member repeatedly assured him it was no trouble at all. Professor Han should rest easy and focus on recovering. He had nothing to do anyway.
After exchanging a few pleasantries, Professor Han asked whether there were any more detailed—and more "truthful"—accounts of this disaster recorded in Historian.
He wanted to know what accounts of that great fire existed beyond the county gazetteer written by Daoist Ji, the temple keeper of Zuan Wangye Temple.
"Something less mystical."
That was what Professor Han said.
Although he knew the mystical version might be the truth, who would believe him if he said so?
"Let them fly up, let them sink down, let them disappear into Historian."
He remembered Teacher Qie's words firmly.
Do not keep speaking of it.
Professor Han thought of a graduate student he had once supervised. The young man was addicted to the internet and had once said something.
"Bad publicity is still publicity."
If you mentioned it, it had already won.
The pharaohs of Egypt carved their names before their tombs. When people spoke their names, it proved they were still alive.
They turned themselves into mummies, waiting to return one day.
So if you neither remembered nor spoke of it, if you let everything become emptiness, the problem would resolve itself.
But Professor Han could no