Today, the first day of 2022, I would like to present readers with a New Year's message written by the columnist of Chaohua Weekly - look back with affection, look forward to it happily, hello, 2022!
New Year's
The new year is coming again, and there are new expectations for the new days to come.
The most hopeful thing is that the epidemic that has been spreading for two years will pass as soon as possible and get our lives back on track. The will and experience accumulated by our country in the fight against the epidemic in the past two years will make us ignite new hope and strength. For individuals, writing is naturally still a duty, and I hope that I can be brave and brave again, and the ink will be new, and I will not fail the reader and the years. Duff once had a poem "The same spring wind is still mighty, and the two emotions are always lingering", in order to bless himself, but also to bless everyone! - Shaw Revival
American literature appreciation
There are many doors in the Temple of Heaven, and the Huajia Gate is my only favorite, because it is quiet, there is a piece of ancient cypress in front of the door, and it is especially cool in summer. I used to sit in a chair in front of the door and paint at the centuries-old coopers. The trunks of the trees are full of leaves and leaves, which reminds me of a poem by the American poet Robert Frost entitled "Chopping Wood Stacks", which includes the following sentence: "All that can be seen in front of and behind you are neat rows of thin and tall trees." ”
Frost stood in front of the chopped firewood stack, and what he saw was not the firewood stack, but "a neat row of thin and tall trees." These once "neat, thin and tall trees" have become the stacks of firewood in front of you.
More than a hundred years ago, when the Eight-Power Alliance invaded Beijing, they set up their barracks at the Temple of Heaven and cut down the cypress trees in front of them as firewood. It wasn't "neat rows of thin, tall trees," but stout cypress trees that were hundreds of years old.
Frost writes in the last sentence of the poem: "The trees lie, warm the swamps, and the narrow valleys burn smokelessly." ”
In the Temple of Heaven, those cypress trees used to burn, not smokeless, but billowing smoke. (Excerpt from Xiao Fuxing's revival column "The Gate of the Temple of Heaven")
"Morning Flowers" is the growth of the sun, she blooms on the desks of thousands of households, and the xia is splendid and colorful. May the tip of my pen also share a wisp of her, so as not to live up to the expectations of the times and readers.
Speaking of readers, I remembered a past event: In the summer, an old gentleman from the Central Plains traveled thousands of miles into Beijing to find me, I thought there was something important, it turned out that the old man was hit by a few words in one of my articles, and felt that it was just against him, and specially came to the door to say thank you. yes! In fact, it was he who really had to be thanked, not me—he made me realize the weight of the pen in my hand. —— Bian Yufang
Three hundred poems, Qin Feng only accounted for ten of them. Qin Feng ten songs, I am only fond of "Crab Leaf" and "No Clothes". If you ask about the other eight poems, naturally each has its own advantages, limited to the length, not to repeat them one by one. What if I had to say a few words? Well, okay, and let me not take a chance, and take out a "me" from the rest of the shri.
What is "I"? In the Shang Dynasty, "I" was a jagged giant weapon, a symbol of slashing and authority. In the time of the Book of Verses, "I" was transformed into a first-person "self-proclaimed self-proclaimed." Take "Qin Feng" as an example: words and gentlemen, gentle as jade; in its board house, chaotic my heart song. ("Xiao Rong") did not see the gentleman, worried and admired. How? Forget about yourself! ("Morrowind") The heavens of the heavens, annihilate my good people. If it is redeemable, the man is full of his own body. (The Yellow Bird)
Look, here I am myself, I am who I am. It can be seen that the origin of "I" is so brilliant and sonorous!
This is a veritable rebirth of the world of words and ideologies; it is a revolution in the field of writing and the ideological world. (Excerpt from Bian Yufang's column "Qin's Nostalgia")
What a blessing! The new year, 2022 is coming, to paraphrase the humor of young people: "Love you love love". Love you, love and love. A year of "love". Benevolent people love people, love people, love you, love learning, love work, love hometown, love motherland. Needless to say, love is the most beautiful emotion of human beings. It is also the only "vaccine" and prescription to save the world!
What a blessing! In 2021, I met the "Morning Flowers" in Shanghai with the sunset evening view. Morning flowers, flowers that bloom in the morning. Is there a more beautiful flower in the world than a flower in the morning when it blooms with crystal dewdrops? Borges once said: "The flowers bloom for themselves, but let many eyes find the scenery." I believe that "Asahi" is exactly such a flower. I wish her more and more beautiful in 2022 full of love, more and more, full of streets and alleys in Shanghai! --Lin Shaohua
So, what about our loneliness in the moment? The first question is: Are we no longer alone? It should be said that I, we are still alone. But loneliness is not the same as loneliness. Most of our loneliness is no longer the loneliness of Qu Yuan, Chen Ziang and other ancients who asked questions about heaven and earth, worried about the country and the people, or did not meet with talents and had no way to serve the country, nor is it different from the loneliness of Lu Xun and Chen Yinke, "although tens of millions of people are going to die" - such loneliness can be called great loneliness. Even, it is different from mo yan's special social environment or personal context in the small loneliness. In contrast, our loneliness, especially that of most people in the city, seems to be called a small loneliness. It may come from the dilution of the individual's sense of existence by the surging wave of science and technology, or from the questioning of personal character by various surveillance camera lenses, or from the dissolution of poetic habitation by materialism and consumerism, or from the destruction of the idyllic scenery on which nostalgia is based by the rapid advancement of urbanization, or from the impact of Western culture on the national cultural bloodline and spiritual homeland, or from the sneering ridicule of the ideal light by the noisy crowd, and even from the full attention of relatives around them to the hungry tiger on mobile phones. Drunk... Such loneliness seems to be ethereal and always lingering, seems insignificant and sometimes unforgettable, and seems to be not without pretense and so real. To put it more extremely, such small loneliness is blunting to the point of stripping us of our feelings of a bird song and a wisp of sunset, and is distorting or even rejecting our right and ability to be moved or moved.
So, as a matter of urgency, should we not repair such an ability to be moved and moved? With a bird song, a ray of sunset, a morning glory, a dogtail grass, a fallen leaf, or a book, a poem... (Excerpt from Lin Shaohua Lin's column "Loneliness and Loneliness Are Different")
The years flow like water, but they may not disappear when they flow, but they are injected into a deeper ocean and injected into a more distant time and space. Therefore, in 2021, I miss my deceased writer friends with the column "It seems that the deceased is coming", as if meeting them again and communicating with them. I believe that they and their works will live forever in the world and in our hearts forever. The new year is coming again, and I wish dear readers to listen to the babbling of the water in the "morning flowers" stained with vivid dew. - Jian Ping
Once, I was drinking tea with Liushahe in a teahouse. I wanted to ask him to talk about Li Jieren and his classic literary works for the main creators of the newly formed "Big Wave" crew, but he did not agree. To tell you the truth, in fact, after I met him, I had already dispelled my original thoughts, because he was cold from the wind, his throat was hoarse, and he could hardly make a sound. He leaned down in my ear and said softly and repeatedly, "I'm really sorry, please forgive me!" "I said, you're not feeling well today, you shouldn't come here again. But he waved his hand at me, and then he pointed his finger to his chest, and I understood, he meant that he was very happy and happy to come here. He smiled at me, and that smile rippled on his face, so frank, so bright. I once read an article written by him, saying that in his opinion, tea is a "mild poison", the ancients cloud "poison bitter mouth is good for the disease", it is the posterity to change the "poison" to "good medicine", and the bitter tea can sweat, so it can cure colds. Sure enough, even if it is cold, the quicksand river still has to go to the tea house to drink tea.
That Tuesday morning, Chengdu was filled with a light smoke-like mist. I met liushahe again to drink tea and chat at the tea house on Klong Street. That day, I came early, so I stood by the funan river and looked at the slowly flowing river. I thought to myself, why does Quicksand River like this teahouse by the river? Is it because the river has carried his ideals, his romance, his passion, but also his disappointment, his pain, his ups and downs? I couldn't help but silently recite the sentence of "Poplar" in his "Grass and Trees": "She, a long sword with green light shining, stands alone on the plain, pointing high to the blue sky." Perhaps, a storm would uproot her. But, even if she died, her waist would not bend to anyone! "Isn't the Quicksand River such a poplar, let the wind and rain blow, and stand tall like the poplar?" (Excerpt from Jian Ping's column "Tea Guest" Quicksand River" in the column of the deceased)
In 2021, there are many things to be thankful for, among which writing-related, publishing a new book "On Paper" is one, and becoming a columnist of "Liberation Daily" Chaohua Weekly is another. If "On Paper" is the old man, "Letter from the Moon Sky" (column title) is the old woman, every word in it is soaked with what I know that the year of the Mandate of Heaven is different from what I thought and thought in the past, and I feel very happy when sharing with readers and friends the clouds of the island in southern China, the ebb and flow of the tide, and the song of life under the moon and above time, and the beauty of all things.
Gratitude never gives up the taste of the "morning flower", gratitude and readers and friends meet here. In the new year, may the mountains and rivers be unharmed, and you and I still have a quiet and good time to meet and know each other here. --Su Vicissitudes
The first wave of rain in the spring awakened the incense trees, awakened the fishing boats that had been moored for a long time, awakened the countless dry dreams on the island, awakened the deep and shallow entanglements under the earth, and stood up and struggled to break through the heavy doors leading to spring. In the rainy season of the Ugly Year, before the parents and three children parted again, they took the same group photo according to the black and white group photo of the family of five forty-seven years ago. The father tossed and turned again, and wrote the following words: "Forty-seven years at a time, the heavens and the earth do not feel that I am old, I have done nothing in my life, only children and adults can be pleased, may the heavens bless the family forever." ”
At dusk, in the sparsely populated streets, a young man who stayed on the island for the New Year due to the epidemic was full of alcohol, took the hand of a traffic policeman, and cried in Northwest dialect: I really want to go home for the New Year, ah, too far away... The same young traffic cop innerly refused to let a big man take his hand, but he resisted, and kind words comforted him. Who knows, this year is also the first time he has not returned to his hometown for the New Year. He thought, wait until you get off work, give your distant parents a call.
Like a tree, it always dreams of seeds and fallen leaves that have left itself, and in the dreams of every old garden, the footsteps of wanderers echo all night long. After the new rain, the full moon rises, and the island gently swallows the sky clear. The mother slowly went up the stairs, lit the lamp in her daughter's room, lit the lamp in her son's room, lit all the lights, just like when they were young, like they never left. (Excerpted from Su Cang's letter from the moon sky column "A tree dreams of a seed that leaves itself")
Column Editor-in-Chief: Huang Wei Text Editor: Huang Wei Title Image Source: The pictures in this article are from Xinhua News Agency
Source: Author: Xiao Fuxing, Bian Yufang, Lin Shaohua, etc