It's late at night, the rain is still falling, and I can't sleep.

On such a quiet, peaceful night, listening to the rain outside, I'm too happy to sleep.

The light rain patters on the withered yellow plane-tree leaves and taps on the blue-gray roof tiles. When it quickens, the drops fall thick and fast like a Beethoven piano concerto; when it slows, they drift down leisurely like Abing playing the erhu. In the sound of the rain you can almost hear all of life's joys and sorrows, partings and reunions, highs and lows.

In the north, spring rain is precious. The Ming dynasty poet Xie Jin once wrote a humorous, exaggerated poem about it: "Spring rain is as precious as oil; it falls and floods the streets; scholar Xie slips and falls, and a herd of oxen laughs themselves silly." For farmers, spring is when overwintering crops like wheat turn green again and grow toward ripeness, and they need a lot of water. It's also the critical period for crops like corn and cotton, from sowing to seedlings, which need plenty of water too. But the north is known for "nine dry years out of ten," which makes spring rain all the more precious there.

Spring rain has no such precious status in the south. In March and April, the southern spring brings its usual light, drizzling, endless rain. I came to Nanjing in this season. For a northerner like me, "Jiangnan" was a dreamy, poetic place that existed only in poems and in my imagination: Bai Juyi's "Remembering Jiangnan" ("Jiangnan is lovely, its scenery I once knew well; at sunrise the river flowers are redder than fire, in spring the river is as green as indigo; how could I not remember Jiangnan?"); Du Mu's "Spring in Jiangnan" ("For a thousand li orioles sing amid green and red; waterside villages, mountain walls, wine flags in the wind. Of the Southern Dynasties' four hundred eighty temples, how many towers stand in the misty rain?"); Dai Wangshu's "Rain Alley" ("Holding an oil-paper umbrella, I wander alone down a long, long, lonely rainy alley, hoping to meet a girl like a lilac, full of sorrow"); and Zheng Chouyu's "Mistake" ("I passed through Jiangnan; the face waiting through the seasons, like a lotus, blooms and fades…").

As the train passed from the countryside to the city, I sensed a beauty different from the northern plains. All kinds of plants were washed clean and bright by the rain. One plant in particular, whose name I still don't know, seemed to be some kind of shrub, growing in clusters and covered with green leaves the size of coins. It was the purest green I've ever seen. The land was divided into ponds connected by winding streams, and now and then I glimpsed villagers with rolled-up trousers and bare feet, bent over planting rice seedlings in the fields. I've heard most of it is mechanized now, so scenes like this probably won't be seen much in the future.

When I walked out of the station, it was just getting light. The rain was still falling, though gradually easing. At Xuanwu Lake, the whole lake was still shrouded in a vast mist, like a dream. On my first day, I went to many places. Shence Gate left a deep impression on me. The city wall is built entirely of large blue-gray bricks. Though somewhat broken and mottled, it still carries the weathered sense of history, and its tall, imposing presence is undiminished. It's surrounded by old trees, clusters of flowers, and lush grass, with smooth pebble paths spreading out in all directions and a few visitors sitting on the benches here and there. Nanjing in April was still cold, especially in the rain, so the only way not to freeze was to keep walking. I walked along Taiping South Road, Beijing West Road, the Confucius Temple, and the Qinhuai River. I really did walk a long way that day.

It was raining the day I arrived, and since then I've loved rainy days. Some people hate rain; others are especially happy whenever it rains.

When Du Fu was drifting in Chengdu, it was probably this same season when he wrote his beloved poem: "Good rain knows its season; it comes when spring arrives. It slips into the night with the wind, nourishing everything without a sound. The country paths and clouds are all dark; only the lantern on a river boat shines. At dawn, look at the wet red places: flowers heavy over the City of Brocade." All I can do is envy him for being able to see the riverside on such a rainy night. For a long time, I've had a wish of my own: a little house on the bank of the Yangtze, far from the city, where I can open the window and see the river. I'd spend most of my time reading, and when I take a break, I'd walk down to the river, listen to the boats' horns, sit and daydream by the water, or get up, dust myself off, and pick up a few flat stones to skip across the water.

We often skipped stones when we were kids, always competing to see who could throw farther and get more skips. I thought I was pretty good at it, and later I even worked out some technique. The stone should be as flat as possible, of course; that's the basics. Then press your thumb on top, wrap your index finger around the edge (the more it wraps, the better), and support the bottom with the other three fingers. Then lean your body sideways, keep your elbow as parallel to the water as possible, stretch your arm out as far as it goes, and throw hard. The stone flies out, kicking up splash after splash across the surface, from big to small, until it disappears. At that moment, all of us would be tense and focused, counting, and as soon as your count beat someone else's, you'd jump and cheer. Back then, such a simple game gave us endless fun.

I don't remember much from my childhood, but whenever I do look back, it brings a lot of joy. Leung Man-tao said that memories sometimes come flooding back all at once; many elderly people writing memoirs can recall things from long ago, with every detail vivid. I'm half skeptical of what he said, but I still hold out hope that one day, when I'm old and back in a countryside courtyard, on some sunny summer afternoon, I'll lie in a reclining chair, fan myself with a palm-leaf fan, recall the happy times of my childhood, and drift off into a sound sleep.

Yasunari Kawabata said he often found himself mysteriously pondering trivial questions. So one day when he woke at four in the morning and found that the flowers were not asleep, he found it wondrous and beautiful, and reflected that some beauty can only be seen by certain people.

I suppose the reason I find this rainy night so beautiful is that I live alone and am still awake at four in the morning

Dawn is coming, the rain is still falling, and it's time to sleep.