Text/Figure Jiang Xu
Regarding reading and seasons, the first article of "Shadow of Dreams" writes what should be read in winter, what should be read in autumn, what should be read in summer, and what should be read in spring.
In the past, I did not think much of this content, thinking that the author was a bit far-fetched, but now that I revisit this paragraph, I still can't fully understand this reading idea, but I have a little understanding of the delicate relationship between reading and state of mind.
Some ancient poems, which a person read on a spring night, probably have a different flavor. For example, "Sitting alone in a secluded cage, playing the piano and whistling." Who knows the forest perch, the bright moon comes to take pictures. There are some delicious verses that are suitable for tasting with Jiayou, such as "three or two branches of peach blossoms outside the bamboo, peach blossom flowing water mandarin fish fat." I forgot when and in what state of mind I first read Wang Mojie's "A Night in the Mountains Rain Tree, Trees and Hundred Springs", such as standing at the edge of the deep mountain spring. You don't have to explore its creative background, the corresponding seasons, and you don't have to study the poet's writing style, you just need to chew these ten words with your heart, like a fish diving into the deep sea, diving into the scene and world constructed by ten words - in the mountains, there is no hustle and bustle of cars and horses, and human figures are rare to see. The mountains and forests are quiet, and the birds chirp. it's raining. The rain doesn't stop, you listen quietly, ticking, and rushing. You didn't lose sleep, but listened to the rain in the mountains overnight. In the sound of this rain, you forget all the mundane things outside your body, and in the sound of the rain, you dissolve the entangled self like the moro by the river. Time is so mellow that you will be as awake as in your dreams, and as you are when you wake up in your dreams... Good peace of mind.
There is also Huanggu Mountain's "Peach Plum Spring Wind A Glass of Wine, Jianghu Night Rain Ten Year Lights." "Zheng Banqiao's" mountain light fluttered because of the rain, and the river turned back to the evening tide. ”
I like such verses, such rainy days, and I have never had the opportunity to see and hear the rain on the mountain, so I dream to satisfy my desires. In the dream, I came to the mountain, which is a flat land with a wide view, a cliff on one side, and a high forest on three sides. Later, it rained heavily, and I felt particularly comfortable when I was drenched by the rain, so I found a piece of paper and put the current mood and feelings into the pen. The words were quickly wet by the rain, drenched, and watered. I was vaguely worried in my dreams—I couldn't remember. When I woke up, I forgot all about it, and I only remembered the sentence I wrote at the beginning: Watching the rain on the mountain, listening to the rain, feeling different from the bottom of the mountain.
"The mountains and fruits fall in the rain, and the grass worms under the lamps sing." These two steamy verses, for me, are a bookmark sandwiched between the chapters of memory.
In the winter of the first school year of teacher training, near the winter vacation, the school issued a notice asking everyone to return the books in the library. At that time, the Chinese class happened to teach the excerpt of "Dream of the Red Chamber", and as a chance, I borrowed this literary masterpiece and planned to take it home to read slowly, "for a full winter vacation." I really risked the school rules and regulations, and stuffed this imperial book that I had only touched for the first time until I was seventeen or eighteen years old into my bag, and secretly and smoothly carried it home.
In the era without WeChat, in villages without the Internet, the stories in Daguanyuan were enough to make me sleep and forget to eat. Every day, from waking up to falling asleep, except for eating and some small needs that can only be solved by myself, I am basically in a state of glue with this book. Every page is covered with dense text, almost ten times a day. At night, my grandmother had gone to sleep first, and at her urging of "sleepy, sleepy, how not sleepy", I still sat at the table, slowly and quietly turning the yellowed pages.
I forgot why, perhaps to avoid my grandmother's constant urging (because the lights were on and consuming electricity), and a few nights later I turned off the lights, lit candles, dripped two drops of wax oil, fixed them on the table, and continued to sit under the window without curtains. Occasionally, my eyes temporarily shifted away from the writing sprinkled with black sesame seeds, and when I looked up, I inadvertently saw myself reflected in the dark night outside the window. It is so quiet, the night is quiet, and the heart is quiet. The winter night was long, and at that time I didn't feel cold at all, and even felt that the small corner haunted by candlelight and the lingering ink fragrance provided a different kind of warmth.
In the book, Lin Daiyu said that she disliked Li Yishan's poems the most, except for the sentence "Leave the lotus to listen to the sound of the rain". People who like to listen to the rain, listen to the rain. Shi Xiangyun probably couldn't comprehend the wonders of the remnants.
I forgot if it rained on the winter nights when I first read the Red Chamber, probably not, and if there was, I would always leave an impression. It was also that winter, and under that window, that I used clumsy brushstrokes to depict a few bare, well-branched Metasequoia trees on the other side of the river. Those Few Metasequoia trees accompanied me to waste a rainy afternoon.
Many years passed quietly. Every time I read "the mountains and fruits fall in the rain, and the grass worms under the lamp", I will naturally think of those winter nights. For this passage of the river in front of the door is as clear and as shallow as the year, I am willing to recall and describe it again and again. Because, at that time, a thought is pure, a mind is pure. It was a pure reading time in the innocent years, leaving a double nostalgia.
How many good times in life, at that time, only felt ordinary. Looking back, on those winter nights, although there were no mountains and fruits falling outside the window, and no grass and insects chirping, they were also filled with the quiet and idyllic atmosphere of Wang Mojie's poems.
