A classic novel a day | The man who was defeated by poetry

About the author: Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), a famous Chilean poet and Nobel Laureate in Literature. At the age of 19, he published his first collection of poems, Sunset, and at the age of 20, he published his famous work "Twenty Love Poems and a Desperate Song", which established his position in the Poetry Scene in Chile and even in the world.

The man who was defeated by poetry

(Chile) Pablo Neruda

In my teenage years, I was the kind of student poet in a black cloak, as emaciated and nutritionally deficient as all the poets of the time. I had just published my poetry collection Sunset, and I weighed less than a black feather.

I walked with my friends into a humble, inferior tavern. That was the time when tango was all the rage and hooliganism was rampant. The dance stopped abruptly, and the tango music suddenly interrupted like a wine glass smashing against the wall. Two notorious hooligans grinned at each other on the dance floor. When one comes forward to hit the other, the other person retreats, and a group of music fans behind the table also dodge backwards. It was like two uncivilized savages dancing in a clearing in a primeval forest.

Without giving it much thought, I stepped forward, despite my own thinness and weakness, scolding them: "Don't face the villain, the wolf heart and dog lungs guy, the slutty scum, don't argue with everyone!" Everyone is here to dance, not to see you play a farce! They glanced at each other in surprise, as if they couldn't believe what they were hearing. The shorter one was a boxer, and he came up to me and tried to beat me to death. If it weren't for a very accurate punch that slammed this orangutan-like man to the ground, he would have been able to achieve his goal. It was his opponent who finally decided to give him a punch.

When the defeated fighter was carried out like a sack, when the man sitting at the table handed us a bottle of wine, when the dancers threw us a warm laugh, the big man who punched the fatal punch naturally wanted to share the joy of the victory. But I scolded sternly:

"Get out! You're all the way to him! ”

My pride soon came to an end. After we crossed the narrow aisle, we saw a tiger-backed guy blocking the exit—the victor I rebuked, blocking our way, waiting for revenge.

"Lao Tzu is waiting for you." He said to me.

He nudged me gently and pushed me to a door, and my friends all ran away in panic. I glanced at it hurriedly to see if I could catch anything in self-defense. No, nothing. Heavy marble table tops, iron chairs, I can't lift them. There were no vases, not even a worthless cane that someone had forgotten to take away.

"Let's talk." The man said.

I understood that any resistance would be futile; I also thought that he was probably like a jaguar facing a fawn, looking at me before swallowing me. I knew that all I could do in self-defense was to let him know my fears. I pushed him back, but I couldn't move him in the slightest. He was a stone wall.

He suddenly raised his head backwards, and his fierce eyes changed their looks.

"Are you the poet Pablo Neruda?" he asked.

"Yes."

He bowed his head and continued, "I'm so unlucky! I am now in front of the poet I sincerely admire, and it is he who scolds me to my face! ”

He held his head in both hands and said sadly, "I'm a villain, and the guy I'm fighting with is a cocaine dealer." We are the most humble people in the world. But there is one pure thing in my life, and that is the love that my fiancée, my fiancée, gives. Pablo, you look at her, you look at her pictures. I must tell her that you took this picture with your own hands. It would make her happy. ”

He handed me the picture of the smiling and moaning girl.

"She loves me because of you, because I have recited your poems."

He recited headlessly: "A sad child like me, kneeling and looking at us from the depths of your eyes..." At this time, the door slammed open. It was my friends who came back with armed reinforcements. I saw surprised faces crowding the doorway.

I walked slowly out the door. The man remained alone, not even changing his posture, and continued to recite: "For the life that is going to burn in her veins, my hands have to kill." ”

He was defeated by poetry.

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Source: Minghang Cultural Appreciation

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