□ Wang Huaqi
Fifteen years ago, from the beginning of writing my first essay on your novel, I was puzzled by a question: When you were labeled as a "pink writer" and a "pilgrim writer", what exactly made you have a sudden and enlightened epiphany? This question remains unsolved, but I know that it was this epiphany that extinguished the fire of loneliness burning in your heart, the "last romantic of the twentieth century," and you have chosen to bury it in the dust.
Hidden in the city. In the early morning of winter in Beiping City, the door of the Museum of History at the noon gate squeaked open, and in the large dark warehouse on the east side of the Wufeng Building, you began to use a black rag that had been frozen to clean up the dusty fragments of history. In the mist, you have maintained the independence of life in a very secular form, for almost a third of a century. I believe it was not a cowardly retreat, but a silent entrapment. This silence is full of poetry, it is the silence of enlightenment philosophy, it is the true "avenue without words".
This silence is the Master, your spiritual pastoral!
"My readers and I are getting old". Sixty years! How many dying readers approach the flowing waters of the rivers with the devotion of the listeners, hoping to walk through the layers of mist of history in this way and find the factors that make up your spiritual habitat — love, faith, memory, or something else, but the white waves are like snow, the waves are like thunder, and the water is disregarded. Standing on the head of the river, looking at the vast water in the distance, the thoughts are also like a skirt flowing with the river.
The pity leap of Qu Zi, who looked up to the heavens and asked for a long time, made this water begin to carry a heavy body and a soaring poetic soul, and since then, a vast soup of water and a poet who described the withering tree have become the eternal destination of the spiritual support of many literati. Thousands of years later, I don't know whether I am standing at the end or the beginning of this poetic river, but I can feel that when the Chinese poetry withers like dead leaves, the land of Chuxi is still moist and fertile, and Chinese literature here has undulating mountains and green bamboo forests.
You are cutting into history in an awkward era in an alternative form. The climax of "May Fourth" has completely subsided, and you, with the stubbornness of the countrymen who "recognize the reason for death", consciously guard the Enlightenment that has gradually become "romantic", and use a pen to properly retain the form of a romantic life in the twentieth century, ending the emotional inflammation of that era. You have completed the transformation from a soldier to a literati in the "narrow and moldy small fast" in the hutongs of Beiping City, and although you are emaciated, you are still stubborn, but the city does not show the generosity it deserves, and its refusal makes you have a deep sense of cultural inferiority, and the original extroversion has regressed. You curl up the original stretched tentacles of life, in a day of starvation, you are thinking of the majestic hanging coffin of the thousand-year-old wind and dust, the simple and beautiful tea border city by the mountains and rivers, the young sailors who raise the pulp in the middle of the stream, the amorous Xiang girl who is Tsai Lan with Zhizhi by the riverside stream, the tragic and magnificent forest trumpet at the edge of the beach, the cow horn in the smoke of cooking... The deep roots, romantic and passionate Chuxi culture accepts and soothes your wandering soul, making your psychology move from inferiority to self-esteem. You swim between the five streams and dangerous beaches, watch the sunrise and sunset on the ferry, pick the red oranges on the green trees in the homeland, listen to the sigh of a scalper being stabbed into the throat, admire the sculptural backs of the boatmen who are struggling on the dangerous beach, smell the smell released by the rain from the earthen kiln, watch the water ducks fight with the red-faced Cuicui on the river, and listen to the sailors' malicious scolding. Thoughts are abundant in the polite ancient wind, emotions are steaming on that river full of motherhood, and your texts are brewed by the pathos of compassion and beautiful dreams, so mellow as liquor. You not only make people see the heaviness and chronic disease of a nation's history and culture, but also make people see a vivid and beating "conscience" full of humanistic spirit and human concern, and in the noise of Phoenix City, you contain your in-depth exploration of national cultural psychology and the grand intention of shaping national character.
Master, this is the master!
The ultimate faith and life sustenance of the lost "may never come back, maybe tomorrow"! You do not wait passively, you want to find the cornerstone of life, try to ferry yourself, your life is as full of the magnificent poetry of "walking to the end of the water, sitting and watching the clouds rise", although there are difficulties and silences, but the charm is still the same, flat and clear.
You say confidently, "If you think according to me, you can understand me; if you think according to me, you can know people." "Clumsy, I still can't read you, let alone learn your life posture of waking up to life."
Tatsumi soup soup, Lingxiang dissolving, Siren Sven, who is with whom?
About author:Wang Huaqi is a middle school Chinese teacher.
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