One in early winter
Wen | Qian Hongli
There is no sunshine for many days, and the days have been overcast, which makes people depressed.
After work, I like to ride in the southeast direction of Swan Lake, and the eight or nine black trees on the south shore are full of seeds. These days, one seed after another, like cotton, exploded. Looking at this black tree in the distance, it is like a flower cloth, and a small white flower blooms on the red bottom. The leaves of the black oak are really beautiful, and the green leaves have turned crimson through the wind and frost, hidden among the camphor trees and willow trees. When riding, the old man saw it from afar, and his spirit was lifted; and the ginkgo biloba leaves, that yellow, yellow and transparent, seemed to have been purified, that is, the bright yellow of Van Gogh's later period, reached the extreme; the leaves of the late cherry blossoms were between red and yellow, and one day they picked up a few pieces and brought them back, slowly, dehydrated, dried, and laid out some huge spots. In fact, falling leaves are also alive, making you deeply feel the loneliness of autumn and winter until it is empty. It is these brilliant leaves that make the depressed heart suddenly light up - every day after work, as if looking forward to this moment, while riding on the car, while looking up at the rows of red and yellow trees.
In Yongjia, the mountains are everywhere, full of sassalous trees and persimmon trees, and the leaves of the latter have fallen, leaving red fruits. The persimmons in Zhejiang are very different from those in Anhui, beautiful and slender, and the water droplets hang down like drops, hanging between the bare branches, which can simply enhance people's aesthetic power.
Every winter, except for the cold, always idle, half a morning, always sitting in front of the computer, listening to brahms piano sketches, Bogleridge piano, faint, delicate, sad, silent, like flowing water, also like flames, has been burning, dancing, as if a long memorial, full of witchcraft... I have always wanted to write about Pogleridge, as well as Tchaikovsky, always unable to write, afraid of not reaching the height and depth of their spiritual world, in the end, they are still abrupt, it is better not to write, and always stay in the heart circling. In the lives of these two, the influence given to them by women is too profound. Tchaikovsky's later works were all dedicated to Madame Meck, and without her support, he would have died of poverty, let alone creation—a pair of people who admired each other in their souls, never met, perhaps deliberately—and I seemed to have insight into the deep inferiority and noble dignity of the two...
Looking at Chekhov's biography, I was astonished that a person can be selfish to the point of reaching the pinnacle. Chekhov was frail and sickly, and was always taken care of by his sister. He chased a woman with Leviathan, and in the end, neither of them was chased, and he married a theatrical actor two or three years before his death. For many years, the diet and living have been taken care of by my sister. One day, his sister revealed to him his willingness to marry whomever he wanted, and the brother was silent and angry. It was terrible that a brother could be selfish enough to ruin his sister's feelings. What is the use of making a will to give most of the property to the sister? Out of inertia, the sister often clashes with her sister-in-law after her marriage, the trigger is that the wife wants to change his bad habits of not paying attention to hygiene, stipulating that he can take a bath to sleep and other trivial matters, and the sister is not used to it, like a baby by the brother's temperament. In those years, Chekhov's mother and sister had conflicts with his wife, just to take care of this frail genius, which was really unique.
Recently, I read Mr. Zhu Liangzhi's "Sixteen Views of Southern Painting" at night, a huge work by the Emperor. In the early years in Wuhu, I heard people talk about him, and at that time, he had just been transferred from Anhui Normal University to Peking University. From Mr. Zhu, I first came into contact with Gong Xian's paintings, which were too lonely and unheard of, like an earthquake. It's amazing, no wonder he calls himself "half a thousand"—half a thousand, isn't it five hundred years? For five hundred years, no one could surpass him. That kind of desolate and nihilistic temperament, no one can match. Looking down at his paintings one by one, I suddenly felt that Huang Gongwang and Fan Kuan had become small, but they were all full. Gong Xian was simply the first class of people in heaven and earth. Later, the Internet continued to search for his paintings, which was even more remarkable, that kind of vast expanse of large blanks, if there is no landscape and water hut, the heavens and the earth are fine and insignificant, only the spirit will last forever... His paintings are all frost and snow, what kind of loss and gain is this? What kind of cold state of mind can this be presented? It may be possible to express the perception in a few thousand words, but everything is in vain. The fate between people and paintings is nothing more than the shocking power of the eye-catching edge. One by one, full of light ink, light ink, the smell of deep winter, there is nothing in the world, nothing to rely on, just like I have wandered on the barren slopes countless times, dry reeds, bargrass, snow-like miscanthus, lodging cattails, scorched yellow Metasequoia... They were all soaked in the frost of nature and turned gray and white. Step by step through the towering dry grass, I am in the middle of it, as if I see the fate of mankind, I really have nothing, nothing to rely on... I like to go to such a place too much, surrounded by silence, there is nothing in my eyes, and it is as if I have everything.
In the early years, I was very fond of the animals that rolled their eyes in the writings of the Bada Shanren, birds, fish, and seemed to have the pleasure of being in the middle, and everything was nothing but disdain, disgust and ridicule of the world. Nowadays, looking back at the ink in his later years, even the entire painting axis is empty, only squatting with a small chicken chick, only to realize that it is so ruddy and cute. From intense to mild, how many detours are needed. Why do you like Qi Baishi? Could it be that the ordinary cabbage and the solid ink persimmon under his brush reveal the warmth of the human veins - these simple things are the most recent people, and they are eternal, like an unquenchable fire, beating in the notes of Brahms, forever warming people. Even if you feel lonely, you can only remember to listen to Brahms's piano sketches, but in the end, these notes can always catch you from the slang flood waves, put it in a sealed place, and slowly have a warm and warm feeling, the so-called sublimation, the soul is inspired and inspired, and all the sufferings in the future are just reported. Brahms's series of piano sketches, which must be listened to when alone, slowly, walked out of the subtle or indescribable ego, not depressed by the clouds, not for the present. But sometimes, when it is really impossible to break through, it is still necessary to turn up the volume and let Tchaikovsky's "First Steel Association" be a big splash, as if it has a magnificent and deep happiness.
Slowly, I found that the most advanced and highest way of living is nothing more than whether a person has the ability to reach happiness, how you look at emptiness and possession, and how to understand giving and receiving. For example, if you admire the red leaves of the black oak and feel the unattainable beauty of nature and be very happy, is this not a high-level happiness?
Spend a morning reading a magazine, the only part of the novel, really can't stick to it - language, breath, mood, nothing, nothing, lost clean - I am measuring the current novel by the standards of Shen Congwen, Renming, and Wang Zengqi. However, the domestic magazines are very strange, and unanimously give a large amount of space to the novel, leaving a small amount of prose and essay space. China is the big country of poetry, essays, and essays, and I don't know when I will run to the novel...
(Selected from Qian Hongli's work "In the Name of Love", Baihuawen Publishing House, 2021 edition)
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