The ancients were not easy to read and write, and they believed that writing was created by saints and should be respected by everyone.
The so-called "respect for the characters and cherish the paper, the great merit", there are the buildings of the Xizi pavilions that burn the character paper, which have become the most pure and kind expression of Confucianism in the lives of the common people. There is a pavilion in our township. In the old days, there were always old people who cleared out the burned paper ashes from the Xizi Pavilion and sent them to the land with plum blossoms, orchids, and green bamboo to bury, which showed the villagers' respect for the writing paper and the heart of the heavy etiquette and repair of the text.
The pen is moderate, there is a heart of cherishing words, and perhaps it is better to write the wind and bone, write quietly and write the grand atmosphere. Qing Ren An Zhen composed the poem "Xi Zi": "Xi Huang was born with a picture book, and Cangjie was transformed into thousands of words. It will be figurative and reasonable, and it is better to throw it without pity. "There is love, there is respect, there is compassion, there is a heart of literature. Love, respect, compassion, and literary heart are the realm of feelings, which are more precious than the inheritance and transformation.
There was a book called "Under the Pavilion of The Characters", and the new column was simply called "Under the Pavilion of the Characters". There is tinglin town in Shanghai, where Gu Yewang lived in seclusion in his later years, and his friend Cai Guohuan met many times, but he did not make the trip. Under the pavilion is like under the forest, people in the pavilion forest, when there is a forest under the thinking. In the fireworks of the world, there are some forest under the best mood.
- Author's words
After the winter, it was cold in the end. The wind also increased, as thin as the tip of a needle, burrowing into the cotton clothes of people and into the treetops. As long as it is not a sunny day, there is always a faint hint of snow in the air. Light snow, heavy snow, small cold, heavy cold, the snow is getting thicker and thicker, first the clouds, then the wind, the wind blows the poplar branches, blows the pine branches, blows the yellow weeds on the ground. Then the wind was strong and howled. Snow began to fall, fragments of light, scattered under the eaves, rolling from pine needles to ravines. Ravines are the first to be white. The white was first gray, then light white, and finally pure white.
The snow began to fall, accumulating vainly, reaching out and dipping it, and the fingertips were stained with a layer of cotton wool. The treetops were white, the tiles were white, and then the heavens and the earth were white. Winding and turning through the alleys and walking through the paths, the world of black and white is in front of you, and it is also the taste of black and white. The snow fell quietly, and the four fields were white and black. Except for a soft thudding sound when the snow falls, no sound can be heard. Ancient brick and wood buildings, the faint light is too faint to find the past. Sleeping in the snow at night, quiet and magnificent.
I like to watch the snow behind the window of the old-fashioned old house and watch the snow of the waxing moon, which lasts all night. The morning cooking smoke appeared lonely and cold, the snow soaked the roof near the chimney, and the tiles were wet and darker, until they reached the bottom of the eye. The snow on the leaves of the camphor trees outside the courtyard had accumulated too thickly, and suddenly it fell down, hitting the wall of fish scales and tiles, scattering in all directions, startling several chickens in the bamboo bushes to dodge around. The snow on the bamboo branches was also thick, pouring through the north wind, and the appearance of winter filled the old courtyard.
Look at the snow behind the window of the old-fashioned old house, see the spring snow from the winter snow, see the middle age from the teenager, the snow is cold and snowy white. Jiang Jie's "Yu Meiren" seems to be able to be used to see the snow: the teenager looks at the snow song upstairs, and the red candle is dim. In the prime of life watching the snowker boat... And now look at the snow monk's house, the sideburns have been stars also.
When I was a child, I liked to play with snow, and now I like to watch snow, and watching snow is slightly higher than playing with snow. But playing with snow has a brilliant piece of innocence that is often nostalgic. One year during the Spring Festival, I returned to the city from the countryside and watched the snow all the way. The snow in early spring is more beautiful than the flowers in early summer. Watching the snow in a car is like looking at the flowers, and it is full of joy. Sitting on the car, the earth is white, the spring snow stretches for two roads, the mood is very good, and there is a great joy of "seeing all the Chang'an flowers in one day".
Snow can also be listened to, in silence. Listening to the snow in the silence of the night, if you are in a tile house, there is always a poetic sense of hearing. I always felt that those fluttering snow shadows were the dark fragrance floating in the night, and the shadows dissipated. There was no wind in the yard, and lying on the bed, you could hear the snow falling on the roof with the windows. At first it was the sound of dense wooden piers, but before long, the snow had accumulated to the thickness of a copper coin, and the sound was getting quieter and quieter. I turned my head to see the trunks of trees hidden in the night, and the ice and snow were shining in the window lamp. The cold wind blew through, and every household closed its wooden doors. Under the lights, a table, a stove. Although it is not possible to drink around the stove at night, a person, a book, a cup of tea, but they have to be alone.
Listening to snow, listening to the wind, listening to the rain, listening to birdsong, listening to the sound of frogs, this kind of beauty and comfort is common in the poetry and paintings of the ancients. Among the many snowy scenes depicted by the ancients, there are mountains and water, and there is more than one person, or a pine or a stone or a boat, or hidden behind a window or sitting in front of the case. This person is the painter himself, in the painting to see the snow and listen to the snow.
Huang Gongwang painted "Visiting Dai Tu of The Creek", in which the mountains are stacked, the peaks are standing, and the steep peaks are majestic and spectacular, straight into the clouds. Below the hill is a meandering stream. On the boat, the boatman seemed to be paddling away from the village. At the foot of the mountain, the cottages are scattered, the houses are empty, and the courtyard is covered with snow. This snow echoes Wang Wei's "Snow Creek Map" in the distance, showing the cold trees in Jiangcun, the lonely boat in wild water, the snow covered, the sky is reckless, and there is a silence and emptiness. This is the snow of heaven and earth, and it is also the snow of the world.
The ancients painted snow, the snow scenery was extremely paved, but people were tiny, almost nothing, and there were often boats and boats. For example, Zhao Tuo's "Map of the Return of the Snow River", Wang Jie's "Small Snow Map of a Fishing Village", and Gao Keming's "Snow Intention of Xishan Mountain" are as clouded as in "Chibi Fu": "Ride a flat boat with a leaf, and lift a bottle to belong to each other." Sending ephemera to heaven and earth, a millet in the sea. Mourning the beard of my life, envying the infinity of the Yangtze River. Flying Immortals travel and hold the bright moon and end up long. Knowing that it is not sudden, it will be left behind in the wind of sorrow. ”
Zhao Tuo's "Snow River Return Map" (partial) picture comes from the Network
It is interesting to have some snow in winter, and the snow is pleasant and the snow is strong. Sometimes the snow is too heavy, and it is even "white head" when you go out for tens of meters. In the city, playing with snow is a luxury, compared to the past in the countryside, you can play with hill snow, wood snow, bamboo branch snow, tea garden snow and so on. Playing with the snow on the hill is like looking at ancient paintings, and the taste is like a Ming and Qing landscape scroll, and the background color is reckless.
The mountains and forests on a snowy day, green and white, floating wet white light, green and pale green, white and slightly bright. Early in the morning, standing under the eaves and looking out, I saw the white top of the mountain, and there were large pieces of green pine, masson pine, and dense turns. The masson pines are randomly long, varying in size and size, one by one, rising and falling according to the mountain.
Bamboo branch snow is an ink sketch. A branch of snow, a faint cold air on three or five bamboo leaves, the taste is like the Court paintings of the Song people, showing a quiet state. The snow in the tea garden is white, there is no wind, and the snow is calm and quiet. The grass snow is like a large piece of rice paper, can't bear to fall ink, can't bear to fall ink, can't bear to fall on the foot, don't dare to fall on the foot. The garden snow is the most interesting, like a big bun. Just like the pillow bun seen in Shandong for the first time, the pillow is so big that it is scary.
When it snows heavily, the lotus jar in the courtyard is full of snow, the potted plant is full of snow, and the snow on the dead branches of the old plum is an inch thick.
The snow in the north is like a hero, and the snow in the south is a scribe. The snow in Jiangnan is delicate, gentle, and like a girl who has not left the cabinet in the old days, astringently fluttering, falling for half a day, before letting go of the courage, wantonly tearing cotton and pulling wool, clustering down. In an instant, the fields were clear. Reaching out to pick it up, the snow flakes fell straight into the palm of my hand, one after another, wet and cool. The snow in Jiangnan fills the lake embankment, down the banqiao, under the hook fence tiles, down on the black cloth clothes of the peasants, down on the oil-paper umbrellas of the literati, down on the cloaks of the black canopy boats, and down on the fields. The snow whitened the mountain tip, the top of the tower, the canyon, and the eaves. In the world of white, time seems to have stood still, leaving only day and night.
For a southerner, there is nothing more exciting than the next snow in winter. A year later, the reunion, the snow is still the same, the personnel is not the same, quite a thought. I was alone under the eaves of the snow, making a cup of hot tea, silently taking care of the heat, noise and uneasiness left in my body by the past years.
In the afternoon, wander in the water town lane. Narrow and long cobblestone road, old gray-brown walls with chrysanthemum pots in the corners. The chrysanthemums were broken, and the branches stood on their own in the snow white. There was no sound in the air, and the alley was stagnant in the old snow-colored mood and waves.
On the empty side of the road, the sky turned gray-blue.
I remember one year when snow fell, bamboo, tea trees, and pines were frozen. The snow pressed against them, crystal clear but saw a touch of dark green. The window glass is also covered with ice flowers, like countless white stars. However, this is the scenery of other people's homes, and the windows of my house are as usual only covered with light and paper, and the paper becomes damp, and the wet wetlands are hunched over the panes, blocking a window of wind and snow.
When it snows, I always want to go out and play. Go to the pond behind the house and the ridge in front of the house. The place to enjoy the snow should be wide, quiet in the shadows, and deep in the wide.
The pond in the snow is full of style, full of water, covered with cold ice, walking up, worrying, and returning in ten steps. Standing on the pond and strolling around, The barmon is wrapped in ice and snow, as thin as a white gun, and the birds that are not afraid of the cold jump freely among them.
The birds in the snow were lonely, noisy, unable to find food, and their fluffy gray feathers reflected white, a dazzling wild amusement. I swept out a clean clearing with my feet, pulled out the tiny pieces of popcorn in my pocket, and sprinkled it. Not long after, a bird fell like a chicken pecking rice and nodded its head to eat, and from time to time it looked around alertly and timidly.
The situation of seeing snow on the ridge is different. The cold air of the clear air inhaled into the lungs along the nostrils, the chest was cold, and the soles of the feet seemed to float up. The vast terraced fields, covered in cotton-lint snow, appear quiet. The slender wires were covered with snowflakes, bloated and thick, and stretched across the river and across the mountains. It is difficult to find here, the snow white is eye-catching, then sitting on the stove stall is even better, the heavens and the earth are also big, but people feel that the heavens and the earth are under the eyes.
It was clear and the snow was melting. The sun is shining brightly, and the snow is in the water.
There is a ticking sound of water under the eaves all day long, and occasionally a drop of cool snow water falls on the top of the head or neck and slides down the back. Branches, cornices, clotheslines, and everywhere hung condensed into shiny, shrill ice, like an upside-down awl. The ice is round and slender, like an old popsicle. Many children forked bamboo sticks, knocked ice on palm leaves, knocked down to eat, ice lips were cold, tongues were frozen wood.
The snow is not cold, the snow is cold. Cold, I'm not afraid. I remember one time, I took a bathtub of ice water, put in a lot of snow, jumped in to take a bath, and washed it with steaming heat. A skinny little child, bathing in snow water, surrounded by fog, shadowy, this is the last image of childhood left in the mind. People tend to grow up overnight.
The garden after the snow is like a roll of rice paper, and stepping on the snow to find plums is to step on the snow to find spring. Red plums fall in the snow, dense charm, sparse charm, such as rouge dot dyeing, sparse and elegant, into the eyes of the magnificent, spring than apricot blossom branches and feet.
A monk asked, "What is Mahabharata?" The Qingchen Zen Master replied, "The snow is falling." "Mahāyā is great, Prajnaparamita is wisdom. Great wisdom is the snow falling. Zen Master Baizhang Huaihai used the snowy mountains as a metaphor for great nirvana. The vast snow is the abyss of wisdom, calm, introverted, deep, peaceful, and empty. The boundless snow light is also the abyss of wisdom, calm, introverted, deep, peaceful, and empty.
The first snow of the night. The snow light mixed in the clouds and fog, mixed with the mountains and stones and grass and trees, flashed in a ghostly way, everywhere, and filled all the space. Even through the window, into the room, and the lime white of the room, the heart is suddenly full of light.
The indoor snow is bright, and the utensils and debris are coated with a very light and faint soft light, like the paste formed by time. The decaying vines and grass on the balcony looked like old things in the misty light of the snow. At this time, the indoor air is also cold and white. If it is afternoon, the golden light of the sunset and the cold white of the snow light blend, fix your eyes on it, and the dust floating in the air is slowly and freely and silently swimming in mid-air with a golden cold white or a cold white golden yellow.
The snow was very cold, there was no warmth, and it looked strangely clear and bright.
The snow is silver and white everywhere, reflecting the infinite blue of the sky, and the sky spreads endlessly overhead. The sky seems to be bigger after the winter snow, and people feel smaller.
At the turn of the night, look at the starry sky in the snow. A lone lamp lit up in the attic on the top of the hill, and the wind was cold, down the collar. The river froze, and the ripples did not grow. The stars twinkled in the cold sky, and the half-bent moon hung on the edge of the wilderness. Coldly looking at the stars and moons, the stars and moons also looked at people coldly, looking at each other for a long time, suddenly cool, suddenly sad and happy. Alone in the snow, two lines of footprints from the top of the mountain to the bottom of the mountain, lonely and determined. Turning to look back, fixed there, suddenly delirious.
When he was a teenager, he opened his head to the rain, and after middle age, he held an umbrella to avoid the snow.