Although the award is not the only yardstick to measure literary achievement, two "Mao Awards" are enough to prove her weight, she is Zhang Jie. On January 21, the writer I respected died of illness at the age of 84. I always felt that she was not so old, and I always felt that she was very young, that she was fifty or sixty years old. This illusion stems from the youthfulness of her words, from the clarity of her flowing direction.
In my early years, I wrote novels that were deeply influenced by Zhang Jie. If I remember correctly, her novel "Emerald" was published in the third issue of "Flower City" in 1984, and the first time I went to the library in college, I first read this novel, and I also imitated and wrote an article, even the title is similar, called "Grandmother's Tears", published in the school journal. Zhang Jie did not adopt the traditional, life-order, beginning-and-end writing method, but selected a few days before and after the heroine Ling'er was invited back to a meeting, and recounted the decades of bumpy life. Zhang Jie's interlacing of time and space and stream of consciousness attracted me, and later I imitated and wrote "Father". The imitation is very poor, and now I can't see it. But when I write a novel, it is indeed Zhang Jie who enlightened me. Later, I read her "Ark", "Heavy Wings", and "Wordless".
And her long documentary essay "The person who hurt me the most in the world went", I read it several times, this essay triggered my deep thinking about family affection, filial piety, death, love, old age and other issues, every time I read, my heart surged with a series of stinging sadness, I always remember the end of the big string of question marks: "See an old man who is similar to my mother's age and has a very tough body, always want to go forward and ask people a 'your old man's high life'?" I don't know who to ask in my heart: Why is it that people are still alive and their mothers are gone? ...... Do I have any extravagance? I can't wait for the fate of my mother in the afterlife, and it can't relieve me of the pain of missing my mother. I only begged my mother to give me more dreams, so that I could say to her again in the dream, Mom, please forgive me! Even if I write all the words, can I write all the love I have for me that I cannot repay and cannot repay? Can I write all my apologies for her? Can I write about my thoughts about her? Mom, since you will eventually abandon me, why would you send me into this world for a while, so that I will be hurt by parting with you? Mom, you used to say, 'I can't die, what do you do when I die?' 'Mom, now, really, what am I going to do?' "Every time I see this, I wet my eyes with tears and fall into self-blame and guilt. This directly gave birth to my essays "Sunflowers on the Grave" and "Falling Leaves golden".
I like the crispness of Zhang Jie's words, with the sharpness of the edges and corners. "Emerald" writes that a newlywed couple swimming by the sea, the groom was swept away by the tiger's head whirlpool, the next day, when the sea was low, the body was washed ashore, Zhang Jie used a "spit" word, the sea threw the groom's body like a storm into the sea like branches, wooden boards, empty wine bottles, can boxes, plastic pockets and other turbid objects were "spit out" out. I have memorized this "spit" word for more than thirty years. Zhang Jie's thinking is divergent, watching the sea recede, she wrote, the sea "refuses to accept everything on this land." "The sea, farther and farther away, getting cleaner and cleaner. Crystal clear, crystal clear and shining quietly under the morning sun. Zeng Ling'er exhaled in surprise: "My sea of wisdom..." These dynamic poetic words can always touch my numb heartstrings.
Contemporary writer Wang Meng wrote a playful essay for "Wordless", "Extreme Writing and Boundless Realism", talking about language, Wang Meng said, "This is a book with its own unique language style. As I read it, I remembered what Indian writers had said, and they said, and they also wrote in English, but not in general British or American English, but in Indian English. Tagore won the Nobel Prize in this English. Zhang Jie's language is seven slashes and eight slashes, ghostly craftsmanship, interesting aura, self-contained, really let you lose your temper. Zhang Jie has her own rhythm and breath, cold, steep, unquestionable, not to be refuted, a bit "overbearing", but also "soft" in the gaps. At first glance, it feels rough, but when you think about it, you have a taste.
I like this direct expression of Zhang Jie, not dodging, not avoiding. Zhang Jie has a great realm of his own.
Zhang Jie's novel "Emerald" does not write about grandmothers, but only mentions the "infinite love" implied by the "emerald" gemstone, and she has created a female image of a scientist named Zeng Ling'er who transcends the "small self" to the "big me", but her novel let me write a grandmother. It's incredible, but it's true. Thanks to Zhang Jie, I sowed a seed of literature for me. The French literary theorist Danner said in the "Philosophy of Art": "The human mind is like a torch made of haystacks, to function, it must first burn itself, and there must be other fires around it. ”
The essence is clean and clean. Zhang Jie's clear writing, maverick and wise posture will also be embedded and illuminated in the sky of my literature for a long time.
Dazhong Daily reporter Qi Chunjie
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