This is why I love stories, even the ones that make no sense at first glance. They force us to look at the messiness of life, the contradictions, and the pain—and somehow find meaning in them.

超现实主义

蓬皮杜中心

Visiting the surrealism exhibition at the Pompidou Center was a disconcerting experience. As I entered the gallery, the bizarrely unsettling environment and artworks inside made me deeply uneasy—almost all of the pieces were strange, eerie creations that seemed to belong to an incomprehensible, otherworldly realm. Surrealism emphasizes a world entirely dominated by the mind, detached from reality, expressing the subconscious and dreams of the artist while deconstructing and reconstructing them to create a bizarre yet thought-provoking artistic universe.

This completely unfamiliar experience left me feeling uneasy. Distorted and fragmented human forms, inverted and torn scenes, the intertwining of hallucination and imagination—these works seemed to challenge the rational order of the modern world. They appeared to focus solely on the artist's emotional expression, disregarding any connection to reason or reality. Standing before a painting of a distorted human figure, a mocking thought suddenly popped into my head: “What artistic value does this have? Even I could have drawn this when I was two years old!”

I was startled by this thought: my two-year-old self—that was precisely the unrestrained, purely spiritual state that surrealist artists sought to achieve. From an unconditioned perspective free of societal norms, my childhood doodles and distorted figures might have been genuine expressions of my inner spirit. So why had my perspective become so critical now? Had this inner world never truly existed, or had it long been obscured by the conditioning of "normal" societal perceptions?

With this realization, I began to relax. The paintings were no longer just unfamiliar artworks; they felt like gateways to distant memories, pulling me back into my own primordial mental world. These works didn’t demand understanding; they only asked to be felt.

参观蓬皮杜艺术中心的超现实主义特展。进展厅时，里面光怪陆离环境搭配及艺术作品让我 十分不安——几乎都是奇怪的令人感到诡谲的作品和难以理解的异世界。超现实主义强调完全 由精神主宰的世界，与现实完全脱离，表达艺术家内心深处的潜意识和梦想，并对其解构与 重建，创造出一个怪诞又引人深思的艺术世界。

这种完全未知的体验让我局促不安。人体的扭曲、破裂，场景的倒置与撕扯，幻觉与异想交 织……这些作品像是挑战了现代世界的理性秩序。它们似乎只关心艺术家自我情感的表达，而 无视了理性与现实的联系。站在一幅扭曲的人体画前，我脑海中突然冒出一个嘲讽般的想 法：“这东西有什么艺术价值？我两岁时也能画！”

我猛然一惊：两岁的我，这不正是超现实主义艺术家追求的那种没有社会规训、只专注精神 世界的原初状态吗？ 从未受社会规则限制的视角看，我童年的那些随意涂鸦、扭曲的形 体，或许才是真正的内心精神的表达。如今，我的眼光为何变得如此苛刻？是这些精神世界 从未存在，还是它们早已被“正常”的社会认知训练所遮蔽？带着这样的思考，我的心态渐渐 放松了下来。那些画不再只是陌生的艺术品，而像是打开了我久远的记忆，牵引我重新走进 自己的原初精神世界。它们不需要你去“懂”，只需要你去感受。

晚间的星空

展览结束后，我和朋友随便吃了顿麻辣烫，聊了聊AI和马术。回来的路上，意外地抬头看到 一片满天星空，那种静谧和深邃，与超现实主义展览的诡谲形成了奇妙的对照。或许，艺术 与生活的本质都一样——不必总试图解释，只需敞开心灵去经历与感受。

GPT-2的超现实主义

When testing the GPT-2-medium model's text generation, I unexpectedly found that its attempt to mimic human speech often felt like the narration of an absurd dream, filled with a strong surrealist atmosphere and a sense of chaos. It lacks logic, with wildly disjointed and erratic plots, but precisely because of this, the unique artistic tension and uncertainty it creates are utterly captivating.

我在测试GPT-2-medium模型的生成时，意外地发现GPT-2模仿人类说话却像是在讲述一场荒 诞的梦境，有很强的超现实主义氛围和那种混乱感。缺乏逻辑，情节及其跳脱，但也正如 此，这种特殊的艺术张力和不确定性令人着迷。

She fainted, with her entire body on fire. The crowd applauded as she was thrown against a bench – at which point she lost her balance and suffered a massive head injury.

However, this was nothing compared to some of her tormentors. In fact, it was a rather epic scene.

"We need to take a break, you guys," one woman said after she found out she hadn't made the cut for the night. "You've all got your reasons to hate it, but if every one who gets through that bar loses their life then you guys all have your fault and I forgive you guys, please don't have to do this. We can't live this way."

And so, the only way I could think to salvage the moment would be to break this whole thing down into smaller, simpler stories.

Here's a few that could be told with little repetition. A few that only have a passing resemblance to the final product because most of the characters are dead (though that doesn't necessarily stop me writing stories about them). A few that could be written down and shown over and over again.

A few that make me feel sad or angry. That just don't make sense to me. All this makes sense when I understand.

Then I turn to the next story:

A story about an angry mob, in which nothing at all happened.

If your reaction to this story is "Why did some people burn down the hotel in Hangzhou?", chances are that you're not alone.

I recently came across this blog:

It's a lovely, poignant, touching story about a guy who found a house of his own, a place where he, the person living there would finally feel safe and at peace, only for it to be taken away by circumstances far beyond his control. He wasn’t a hero, nor was he a villain. He was just a man trying to find his way in a world that seemed intent on breaking him.

The story resonated with me because it echoed a familiar feeling—the desire for stability and belonging, and the cruel irony of losing it just as you thought you’d found it. It’s a theme that crops up often in the stories I write, intentionally or not.

But it also made me think about the people who stood outside the burning hotel in Hangzhou, their faces lit by the flickering flames. Were they bystanders? Participants? Victims of another kind? The anger, the confusion, and the helplessness that must have filled the air in those moments are what drive me to keep writing.

Because sometimes, writing is the only way to try and make sense of the chaos.

This is why I love stories, even the ones that make no sense at first glance. They force us to look at the messiness of life, the contradictions, and the pain—and somehow find meaning in them.

So maybe the mob outside the hotel wasn’t angry. Maybe they were scared. Maybe the fainting woman’s fire was metaphorical, a desperate attempt to rekindle something that had long since burned out.

I don’t know.

What I do know is this: stories are never just about the people who live in them. They’re about us, the readers, the writers, the ones trying to understand.

And maybe that’s enough to keep telling them.

---

她晕倒了，浑身燃烧着火焰。人群鼓掌欢呼，当她被甩到一条长椅上时，她失去了平衡，头 部遭受了严重的创伤。

然而，与她的一些折磨者相比，这简直不算什么。事实上，这是一场相当史诗般的场景。

“我们需要休息一下，各位。”一个女人在发现自己没能入选当晚的名单后说道。“你们每个 人都有讨厌它的理由，但如果每个通过那个门槛的人都失去了生命，那你们每个人都有责 任。我原谅你们了，请不要再这样做了。我们不能这样活下去。”

于是，我能想到挽救这一刻的方法就是将这一切拆解成更小、更简单的故事。

以下是一些可以讲述的故事，几乎没有重复。它们与最终的情节仅有一丝相似，因为大多数 角色都已经死去（虽然这并不一定妨碍我写关于他们的故事）。有些可以一遍又一遍地写下 来展示。有些让我感到悲伤或愤怒。有些对我来说毫无意义。而当我明白这一切时，一切才 变得合理。

然后我转向下一个故事：

一个关于愤怒的暴民的故事，什么都没有发生。

如果你对这个故事的反应是：“为什么有些人在杭州烧了酒店？”那么你可能并不孤单。

我最近看到了一篇博客：

这是一个美丽而感人的故事，讲述了一个男人找到了一间属于自己的房子，一个让他觉得自 己终于安全、平静的地方，但却因为远超他控制的原因被夺走了。他既不是英雄，也不是反 派。他只是一个试图在这个似乎注定要压垮他的世界里找到出路的人。

这个故事让我有了共鸣，因为它唤起了一种熟悉的感觉——对稳定和归属的渴望，以及在你以 为终于找到了它时却被夺走的残酷讽刺。这种主题经常出现在我写的故事里，无论是有意还 是无意的。

但它也让我想到那些站在杭州燃烧的酒店外的人们，他们的脸被火光映照着。他们是旁观 者？参与者？还是另一种形式的受害者？在那一刻空气中充满的愤怒、困惑和无助，正是驱 使我继续写作的原因。

因为有时候，写作是试图让混乱变得可以理解的唯一方式。

这就是为什么我热爱故事，即使是那些乍一看毫无意义的故事。它们迫使我们去审视生活的 杂乱无章、矛盾和痛苦——并试图在其中找到意义。

所以，也许酒店外的暴民并不是愤怒的。也许他们是害怕的。也许那个晕倒的女人的火焰是 隐喻的，是一次绝望的尝试，试图重燃早已熄灭的某种东西。

我不知道。

但我知道的是：故事从来不仅仅关于生活在其中的人。它们也关于我们，读者，作者，那些 试图理解的人。

或许，这足以让我们继续讲述它们。