conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for a story with the title 'Years of Red Dust'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Years of Red Dust
  Why Comrade Kang insisted on coming out and showing us the picture that evening in spite of his poor health was something we thought we knew. It was because his son, Big Buck Kang, had turned out the opposite of what his father expected of him—he didn't become "a worthy successor to the great cause of communism." Comrade Kang was devastated, not just by his son, but by the way things were developing in the country too. He simply wanted to go over these years one more time, in another attempt to justify his own lifelong pursuit. Given his deteriorating health, he probably would not have too many more evenings like that with us. So we sat around him, waving our cattail-leaf fans to the rhythm of the evening talk.
  Comrade Kang joined the Communist Party in 1948, one year before the liberation of Shanghai. In the early fifties, he was assigned to work as the director of a large textile factory. He devoted himself to the work—to the transformation of the factory into a state-run one with all the benefits of socialism (job security and medical benefits for the employees) and to increasing production in accordance to the state plan. As a midlevel Party cadre, in the early sixties, he could have moved out of Red Dust Lane to a larger apartment, but he insisted on modeling himself after the selfless Comrade Lei Feng and gave the opportunity to somebody else. With the outbreak of the Cultural Revolution, however, overnight he was turned into a "capitalist roader" and made to wear around his neck a huge blackboard with his name crossed out. He was then sent to a "cadre school," to reform him through hard labor. His wife died the second year, leaving their only son alone in the city. Comrade Kang didn't return home until almost the end of the Cultural Revolution, a shrunken shadow of the former Bolshevik, dragging a crippled leg, and a total stranger to his son, who had grown up on his own.
  He had barely been rehabilitated as the factory director, however, when, in the mid-eighties, the new cadre retirement policy came into practice. He stepped down, making no attempt to hang on to his position. He also made a point of not going back to the factory frequently. He knew better than to interfere with the new director's work, though he couldn't help worrying about the new problems there.
  In short, he had lived up to his ideal of a loyal Party member all those years. In his opinion, there was only one exception: he agreed to accept monetary compensation for his loss during the Cultural Revolution. He took the money to purchase a plane ticket for his son, who, in the mid-eighties, wanted to go to a language school in Japan. Comrade Kang didn't like the idea, but his son said he had lost the opportunity to go to school here—because Comrade Kang had been labeled a "capitalist roader" in the seventies.
  The father had felt guilty about what had happened to the son. What really upset Comrade Kang, however, was the change in his son after the young man's return from Japan.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me three more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: People have long concluded that he was born in the wrong time, and to the wrong family. Both his parents were ordinary workers, and for many years it remained out of the question for him to be able to satisfy his epicurean needs. Eventually, he grew up to be an ordinary worker too.
  Still, Wei managed to enjoy eating and drinking in his way, or in whatever way affordable. On a summer evening, he would pull out a bamboo chair and sit on the doorstep with the chair in front serving as a dining table. He would forget all his worries over a bowl of steaming rice. Slices of pork ears or a couple of chicken feet made it a wonderful evening for him, and a smoked carp head and a bottle of beer, a blissful weekend. When out of money, he could wolf down three bowls of white rice with a pinch of fried rice.
  As for his sealike drinking capacity, that was more of a mystery. His parents didn't drink, absolutely not during the year of his conception. At five or six months old, Wei had already started licking at the Shaoxin yellow rice wine on the tip of his uncle's chopstick. Upon graduation from high school, he ranked number one among the drinkers in the lane, even though he was never drunk. He established himself as such during a bet with Fatty Peng. He finished twelve bottles of Qingdao beer in one sitting, winning the bet hands down without belching once or his face changing color.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last paragraph.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But Qing didn't follow him into the room. Instead, she stood in the lane, holding her one hand in the other as if in great pain.