About the Author
Yu Zhigang is a member of the Chinese Writers Association, a senior newspaper reporter and chief editor of the Xiangshan County Media Center. In 1994, he founded the "Xiangshan Port" supplement, which trained a large number of local writers; after 2000, he published essays and essay collections "Yu Zhigang Prose" and "Full of Paper Smoke Lan". His works have been published in important domestic journals such as "People's Literature", "Huacheng", "Meiwen", "Essays", "Jiangnan" and other important domestic journals, and have been reprinted 16 times in core journals such as "Xinhua Digest", "Selected Essays", "Essay Overseas Edition", etc., and won 9 provincial awards such as "Big Red Eagle Literature Award", "Feitian" Ten-Year Literature Award" and "China Journalism Award Re-evaluation Silver Award", and 9 times selected as "China's Best Essay of the Year" and other well-known anthologies.
introduction
The publication of "The Strange Confucius" coincided with the fact that I was about to retire at an old age, and the newspaper department planned to let me "play the role of the last issue". It is difficult to be generous, and I do not want to occupy too much editing resources, so I brag about myself, by the way, my own literary origins and literary dreams.
I don't know what happened
There is a picture that often flashes in memory. In the dark old house, a bamboo mound separated the damp gable next to the bed, a teenager lay on the bed day after day, and wrote a word crookedly on the old newspaper that pasted the wall: "Teeth cold for three days"; another word: "Fashionable and timely"; and then wrote "drunken eyes", "slightly conscious", "surprised and inexplicable"...
When I was 13 years old, I lived with my mother in a classic room, transcribed the words in the books on the "parapet", looked before going to bed, stared when I got up, and felt that these words were all elves of seeing, and they were confidants who could confide in their hearts and push their arms. Such feelings are getting deeper and deeper, and the pen in his hand, God has made the ghost begin to pour out...
This is where the literary dream began.
With the collapse of the "Gang of Four" and the restart of the college entrance examination system, a teacher's college accepted a commoner from a dark alley and his upside-down literary dreams. Breathing in the ink scent of "Youth", "Bud", and "Rushing Stream" in the library, I read like a drunkard, wrote without sleeping and forgetting to eat, ran to the post office every other day to post manuscripts, and went to the transmission room countless times a day to "wait for good news". The rejection letter of the magazine is always "enthusiastic": the author comrade, respected as a reader, such as holding the Yan Yan; recently because the editorial department is crowded, do not dare to hide, so endure the pain of cutting love, still with bi return ... Finally, there is the bright red seal of the newsroom, like a cuckoo burning in the spring wind.
One year during the winter vacation, I went home for the New Year with a heavy rejection. In the noisy carriage, I gathered my cluttered luggage at my feet, staring through the window and staring at the deep sky that was empty. The neighbor who liked to talk found my silence, and Ji'er saw that I had a net pocket at hand—a corner of the red envelope of the editorial department of "Youth" was revealed in the grid, and the flow of words stagnated, and the stomach gossip froze on the mouth. This is probably the "interpersonal environment" of my year - eyes above the top, lonely and cold, completely living in another dimension, head cocked, thinking that the bird is coming.
Did the Bird really fly?
The early summer of 1983 was my third year of teaching on the island. One morning class, I was lecturing to the students about Mr. Bingxin's "Little Orange Lantern", when I suddenly saw my wife holding her swaddled daughter under a large elm tree at the entrance of the classroom and looking at the podium frequently. I cast an inquiring look, but she lowered her head and laughed at her daughter", "um-ah"; when I picked up the textbook and continued to lecture, she raised her bright eyes and looked at the lectern one by one. When the bell rang at the end of class, she walked toward me with a smile, reached out and felt a money transfer slip from her swaddling, and whispered: Your novel has been published.
"Orient", a large literary magazine edited and published by Zhejiang People's Publishing House. In the third issue of 1982, the three words "Yu Zhigang" jumped out of the catalog of its novel "debut".
Later, I learned that this delayed issue of "Orient" was actually the final issue number that bid farewell to readers!
Bury your head in the "sand" of history
In the past 40 years of pen cultivation, I have published many works in "People's Literature", "Flower City", "Meiwen", "Prose", "Mountain Flower", "Essay", "Jiangnan", "Feitian", "Fujian Literature"; reprinted works are found in "Selected Essays", "Overseas Edition of Essays", "Xinhua Digest", "Readers", etc., and "Selected Essays" are more frequent. He has also received the "honor of being reluctant" and will not repeat it. The process of creation is more painful than happy.
A while ago, the famous poet Rong Rong came to Xiangshan to share a new book, saying that "writing is a happy thing" and reminding the friends in the audience, "If you feel pain, don't write again", because life is not easy. I don't believe that happy and easy writing can write good works, of course, there are level problems, qualification problems, there are personal emotions, personality and other special factors at play.
Because of the thin foundation of life, or not "grounded enough", I feel that writing novels is more "painful", so I ended in this field and quickly turned to prose creation; later, because of the growth of experience, I found that my heart was no longer "pure", my thoughts were not so simple, and in prose , "telling the truth" became more and more false and more and more tired, so that I fell into a long period of "struggle" and quit writing.
So he threw himself into the history of literature and buried his head in the "sand" of history.
Historical prose, in my creation, "three accounted for two", lengthened the sensitivity time and blurred the depth of field of space. Do the dojo in the shell of the snail, which is the shell of history and the shell of culture, so let's put the soul in it. Reading the books of the ancients, traveling with the ancients, without having to start asking questions, there is a little more casualness: with Confucius raising the bar, saying that he has a scab on his face; wrestling with Han Yu, he found that he had a dark disease under his armpits; with Uncle Li," he "crossed the move" and grabbed his "lizard tail". Human nature is an iron law, and even if their thoughts (learning) shine, there are also eosinophils wandering in their veins. They are both wise and mortal, so that we can bathe in the purification and "see the wise and the wise"; if we encounter "supermen", gods, people who ride the clouds and fog, and float immortals, what can my generation do except look to the dust and worship?
This is "criticism", in fact, it is also introspection. Han Changli Zhuoran everyone, the article Bing Bingxiu, the rule of learning diligently, but it is still inevitable to be ignorant of conscience, tell lies, fall into words, like me and other small writers, small public knowledge, small cultural people, pulling the banner of culture to seek fame and interest, how many words against the heart, how many bad things have been done?
Ask yourself, the process is still painful.
Dream of returning home with good companionship
My new book, The Strange Confucius, has just hit the shelves, and this is my second collection of historical essays since the publication of "Smoke on Paper" in 2004. 18 years apart, and coinciding with the age of my ears, its appearance, of course, has the meaning of "Baqiao folding willow". The book has not been decorated in any way, but the paper, ink color, and glue are superior, and there are more blank spaces in the layout, which is convenient for readers to comment at will when browsing - the article is left to the reader to criticize, which is the original intention of this "annotated version".
I aspired to build the "best Chinese" and put a lot of stupidity into language rhetoric. The Mandarin expression of the book is the mainstream of the language of the book, and the words are infiltrated by the words, and they are also composed of local familiar languages, colloquialisms, slang language, and even internet language that has been criticized by linguistics professors. I pursue a free, indulgent, and broad narrative space, and I like the language of the flowing rivers and the beautiful oceans, although I can't aspire to it. In addition, Han Yu's driving words into a line and hard words are my learning models, and Xie Lingyun's "getting carried away" and not being able to say enough is the aesthetic realm I want to hope for. Articles that are too straightforward to write are already boring, and it is extremely necessary to be vigilant when writing too smoothly, too easy to read, and too catchy.
This may also be one of the reasons that put me in "pain".
Remembering the ridiculous experience of hoarding words on the "wall of the house" when I was young, I couldn't tell whether I loved words or literature. Language and language are the use of language and writing, and "literature" still has to wait for the ever-changing cherry blossom-like words, love it, spoil it, boil it and consume it, and make it a study of "the great cause of the country".
It was like a unrequited love affair.
Touching the simple cover of "Strange Confucius" is like seeing the face of the old wife, original, matte, old and old--the inexplicable kindness surged in my heart.
That's enough.
First Instance: Ying Xiayan
Second instance: Fang Zilong
Third trial: Wu Qichao