无序混乱，天真混沌，人的身体四分五裂，没有哪一块是完整的。月亮看着我，我害羞，不好意思看她。

Disorder, chaos, naïveté, confusion—the human body is torn apart, not a single piece remains whole. The moon looks at me. I grow shy, too embarrassed to meet her gaze.

她蜷缩在沙发上，躲避着他的手，而《惊魂记》正播放在屏幕上。她不记得自己曾答应看这部电影——只记得好像有什么力量引她来到这里。

She had curled up on the couch, shrinking from his hand, while Psycho played on the screen. She couldn’t remember ever agreeing to watch it—only that something had guided her there.

以“大连工大开除与外国人发生性关系的女学生”为切口，作者指出在父权民族主义中，“国家的边界”被画在女性身体上：不是需被保护的“国器”，就是可被羞辱的“国耻”。道德恐慌被流量算法武器化，具名女性被剥夺主体性，沦为可惩罚与消费的“裸命”。文章断言女性主义与民族主义本质不相容，并主张：唯有拒绝家国对身体与人格的占有、反抗父权结构，个体才能争取更安全与平等的生存空间——甚至以“自称国耻”来拆解叙事。

Using the Dalian Polytechnic case—expelling a woman for sex with a foreigner—the essay argues that under patriarchal nationalism the nation’s frontier is drawn on women’s bodies: either “national assets” to be protected or “national shame” to be policed. Moral panic is algorithmically weaponized; a named woman is stripped of agency and reduced to bare life. The piece contends that feminism is fundamentally incompatible with nationalism, urging a refusal of the state’s claim over bodies and a dismantling of patriarchy—up to the radical gesture of “claiming national shame” to break the narrative.

在一个由影像构成的世界中，女性的目光不应再被动——它必须回望、抗拒，并铭记。

In a world made of images, a woman's gaze must no longer be passive—it must return, resist, and remember.

在“果果班”，孩子们据说会长成壮硕的果子。某个早晨，我跟着虫群走进斑驳黏稠的色块，伸手——竟是触手；我成了蚂蚁。教室化作巨人国度，我惊惶逃离，爬回家、钻进脸盆，自溺又醒来，仍在果果班。同学说：从来没人保证我们一定会结成果实。成长像一场变形与回声，甜与惧并生。

In the Fruit Class, children are said to ripen into heavy, gleaming fruit. One morning I follow the insects into blotches of sticky color; when I reach out, it’s a tentacle—I am an ant. The classroom swells into a land of giants. I flee, drown myself, wake again, still in the Fruit Class. My classmates say no one ever promised we would ripen. Growing up is a metamorphosis where sweetness and fear arrive together.

在言语中成为他人，丢失自我。博尔赫斯的图书馆里，你自己是不存在的，你不过是重复的他人。

In language, you become another. The self slips away. In Borges’ library, you do not exist. You are nothing but the repetition of others.