Lu Yao's 1982 novella: a closed loop of backdoor favors, and the divide between country and city that no one manages to cross.
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He is face-down on a loess plateau in northern Shaanxi, fists beating the ground, howling loud enough to fill the whole valley. Not long ago he was a village schoolteacher, standing at the front of a room teaching the local kids their ABCs. Now he is nothing — his teaching post taken from him, the city job he had just landed stripped away too, the road back and the road out tied in the same knot under his feet.
This is Life, the novella Lu Yao published in 1982. It made him famous before Ordinary World, the sprawling novel that would later win the Mao Dun Literature Prize — and the bones of that later book are already here: the same loess plateau, the same generation of rural youth straining toward the city. Life swept the country in the eighties, and in 2023 it came back into view as the TV series Miles to Go, though the show's ending pulls far away from the book's. Start with the thin original.
Gao Jialin, the protagonist, teaches at the village school in Gaojia — sharp, proud, unwilling to spend his life bent over a field. His father Gao Yude, a plain and honest farmer, dotes on him and watches his fortunes rise and fall without ever saying a word to stop it. Liu Qiaozhen, daughter of the village's richest man Liu Liben, is beautiful and cannot read a single character; she has loved Jialin quietly for years. Huang Yaping, who works at the county radio station, was Jialin's classmate in high school, worldly and sharp-tempered. The village Party secretary, whose word is final, is Gao Minglou.







Jialin carries his bags back to Gaojia in disgrace. He knows the road into the village so well he could name every stone on it, but this time his legs are weak under him. He drops to the ground and sobs into his own family's soil. Grandpa Deshun, an elder in the village, comes over. He doesn't scold him, and he doesn't offer any polished comfort either. He only tells him that the door to life never shuts all the way, not ever.
Lu Yao sets his pen down right there. Does Jialin ever get back on his feet? Does he return to the city? Is there any more between him and Qiaozhen? None of it is written. Lu Yao leaves those questions deliberately open, for the reader and for his whole generation.
He doesn't treat the geography of northern Shaanxi as scenery either. The loess plateau, the gullies, the earthen cave dwellings are terrain that people actually live in, and when Jialin walks across the plateau, the light, the dirt under his feet, the shout carrying in from somewhere far off all speak for him instead of narration doing it. This is the early shape of the dense realism that Ordinary World would later build on.
A companion guide gives you the map. Only the text lets you smell the raw earth on that plateau. Lu Yao's sentences carry a particular warmth. He writes about the people of northern Shaanxi and about the grain in the fields with the same seriousness, so that after you close the book you can still recall the wind outside a cave dwelling, or a suona drifting in from somewhere on the plateau. No amount of explaining replaces that. And there is another thing: should Jialin be forgiven at all? Was Qiaozhen right to choose what she chose? Finish the text and you will argue with yourself about it long into the night.
Lu Yao gives Jialin no ending, because he knows the road for that whole generation had only just begun.
Before the guide was written, this book got a visual foundation — every illustration you just read grew out of it.


The story is set in northern Shaanxi just as reform and opening-up were beginning. Household registration was still an iron gate, and a rural young man with no connections and no diploma had almost no way through it. The village sits folded into the loess gullies, cave dwellings cut into the hillside; the county seat isn't far, but the bus ride there still takes half a day of jolting. This was before the line between city and country had loosened at all, and whether a family's child escaped farm work rarely came down to talent. It came down to a letter, a signed chit, a rumor that someone's uncle ran the regional labor bureau.
Gao Minglou wants a respectable job for his own son, Gao Sanxing — a village schoolteacher counts as half a state employee, with grain rations to prove it. A few cartons of cigarettes, a few dinners, a round of favors called in, and Jialin's name is struck from the roster. No one in the village speaks up for him. There isn't even a proper notice; he is the last to find out. He rolls up his bedding from the school dormitory and goes back to his father's few thin acres.
Lu Yao is ruthless here. He doesn't spend words on Jialin's anger or his sense of injustice — he just sends him out to work the field. What the reader sees is a young man dropped, in an instant, from someone people looked up to back down to a farmhand, and the whole fall is carried in that one action.
In the months Jialin is at his lowest, Qiaozhen is the one who comes toward him. She can't write him a letter, so she sews him cloth shoes and slips him white-flour buns instead, the way a girl from these parts says what she means, one handful pressed into your hands at a time. Jialin is moved, and says yes, and the two of them start walking the paths on the plateau, one behind the other.
But there is a splinter in Jialin that he never says out loud: he believes his life is meant to be more than this girl, this plateau, these days. He is grateful to Qiaozhen, and he half-knows something crueler underneath it — the devotion hasn't landed on the wrong person, but it doesn't match the life he wants. This is one of the hardest things in the whole book: it isn't that he doesn't love her. It's that he loves the place he wants to go more.
The turn is dramatic. Jialin's uncle, Gao Yuzhi, discharged from the army and now director of the regional labor bureau, is transferred back to the area. The moment the village cadres hear that Jialin's uncle runs the bureau, they know exactly who to court. Gao Minglou, the same man who had Jialin pushed off the teaching roster, now steps in personally and arranges a job for him as a correspondent at the county radio station.
A reader might laugh here, and feel the chill of it too: the man who took his teaching post and the man who lifts him back up are the same man. The back door that pushed him out of the classroom is the same back door that gets him into the county. Lu Yao plays it flat, with no soul-searching from Jialin, no wrestling with his conscience. He takes the job and packs for the city. This is the book's real irony: Jialin is not a victim straight through. He has already benefited from the very unfairness that once cost him everything.
In the county town, Jialin runs into his old classmate Huang Yaping again. She works at the radio station, quick to laugh, fashionable, her speech full of city words. Her fiance is a coworker, Zhang Kenan, a decent match by any measure, but Yaping's heart tilted away from him a while ago. She is willing to drop Kenan for Jialin, and she dangles more than that: a transfer to Nanjing, a wider world for the two of them to try.
Jialin makes the worst decision of his life: he breaks it off with Qiaozhen. She doesn't cry, doesn't fight, doesn't say one hard word; she just turns and walks away, though her back is rigid the whole time. Lu Yao doesn't stack this scene with dialogue. Jialin hands back everything she ever gave him, untouched. She takes it, lowers her head, and leaves. It is harder to watch than any shouting match would have been.
Qiaozhen, handed her feelings back, doesn't fall apart, and there is no tragic gesture, no dying for love. She soon marries Ma Shuan, a steady young man from the village who has quietly loved her for years. She isn't settling for him out of necessity; after the pain, she chooses this steadiness herself.
Many readers only fall for Qiaozhen at this point. She isn't shoved along by fate; she chooses, and the path she picks doesn't let Jialin cost her the rest of her life. It looks plain from the outside. It holds.
Zhang Kenan, watching his fiancee slip away, is bitter about it. His mother is even less willing to swallow it, and she writes a letter to the discipline commission: Jialin got his job through connections, through the back door. The investigation confirms every detail. Jialin is removed from his post and put under review.
The correspondent's job is gone, and with it Yaping's dream of Nanjing. The same rule that was once used against him, that he then used to climb, is now used to bring him down. Fate has drawn a clean circle around him.
What this book is really about is far from a love story. It's about what stands in the way of a rural young man trying to rise in the early years of reform: household registration, networks of favors, the opportunities that fall out of city people's hands almost by accident. The two women in the book aren't there for a love triangle either. Qiaozhen is devotion rooted in the land, Yaping is the pull of upward mobility, and whichever way Jialin chooses, he loses something.
The sharpest irony in the book is this: Jialin first loses his teaching post to someone else's back-door dealing, then climbs back up through that same system, then gets knocked down by it again. He is nowhere near an innocent victim; he has used the same unfair rules himself. This is where Lu Yao rises above ordinary melodrama. He never lets Jialin become a saint.
The phrase Gao Jialin's choice has been argued over since the eighties and is still quoted today. It has outgrown the character himself and become the shared dilemma of a whole generation of rural youth in the early reform years: a future, or peace of mind; the buildings in a distant city, or the girl next door who brought you white-flour buns.
Lu Yao writes people without ever raising his voice. He almost never reaches for adjectives like Jialin is in agony or Yaping is torn. Instead he shows Jialin setting Qiaozhen's shoes back on the table, untouched, or Yaping slapping her broadcast script down and walking off. The feeling hides in the gap between the gestures.

