When she appeared on the Spring Festival Gala stage again, she looked as solemn as a dharma figure. That statue of the 1990s, co-sculpted by herself and her audience, seemed unchanged—and yet entirely transformed. In 1993, Faye Wong penned the lyrics for "Zhimi Buhui" (No Regrets in Devotion): "Whose heart shall I use to feel?" Her answer then was: whose heart could I possibly use but my own—this time it is myself, not someone else. She is what the era cannot quite articulate, cannot quite define. In the '90s, she became a bodhisattva in a short skirt, with sunburn blush and Nezha buns—like when Buddhism first arrived, people entered modern temples such as the Workers' Stadium and their Walkman cassette players, and in their astonishment took the strange image of this bodhisattva named Faye Wong into their hearts. Her music belonged neither to that era nor to this one; you couldn't even say which era it belonged to—she existed in another dimension of space-time. In this way, she defined a kind of Other Shore, turning this world into her dharma hall. And so Faye Wong herself became a label—she cannot be tagged with any other label. People don't know what to say in front of her, literally. Every host, every journalist trembles before her—not because Faye Wong has a temper, but because she is herself, not someone else, and she cannot be casually slotted into the preconceptions in people's heads. To this day, Faye Wong's fans cannot speak in clichés. Before this statue, they are compressed into speaking the way Faye Wong does—plain words, clear words, words of lived experience, words that transcend conventions and literary forms. In the comments they say, Faye Wong's album (Restless) is really great—it's truly, genuinely great. They say, Faye Wong, ah, Faye Wong—chanting her dharma name. This is a response I can pick up: Faye Wong, ah, Faye Wong, this time it is herself, not someone else. Twenty-two years ago, Faye Wong released her final album, To Love. In the twenty-two years since, she has sung a handful of songs ("As You Wish," "Legend," "Because of Love," "What the World Has Given Me"). One fan said: the singles just don't measure up. In truth, those songs aren't bad—they're sung beautifully. They are what the human world can accept. People, facing her songs, finally know how to talk about them; finally there are literary frameworks to apply; finally there are words that fit. She is ethereal, she is luminous, she is warm, she is reconciled. How happy people are—she sang "What the World Has Given Me," she has reconciled with the world! On stage she radiates the aspect of a Buddha, and now people can effortlessly see in her singing a beautiful self that conforms to literary convention—a self no longer terrifyingly elusive, one that no longer makes the concepts in people's heads feel their own shakiness and hypocrisy. In truth, I have no reason not to be happy for such a Faye Wong. Who could not be happy for such a Faye Wong? And yet, we also remember that indelible statue—we cling so stubbornly to this image, while she taught us not to cling to any image. In the warmth of home, as Faye Wong's lovely image appears on the television screen, on this beautiful New Year's Eve, the singing that has never gone out of fashion—and was never in fashion to begin with—resounds heavily in our ears: The silhouette is real, the person is false / Nothing to cling to / A hundred years ago you were not you, I was not I / The sorrow is real, the tears are false / There was never cause and effect / A hundred years from now, there is no you, and no I — "A Hundred Years of Solitude" Revised