Heavy rain poured down the city,
Go to the Temple of Earth to look for traces of a writer.
Even if you can't see people,
And you can think about his words,
Fictionalize his back,
Remember his smile.
Stetson (1951-2010)
Text/Jenwenger
Going to the Temple of Earth alone is not to look at the scenery, but to see a person.
The car arrived at the street outside Andingmen, the sky fell heavily, the dark clouds pressed the city, and the raindrops were like bullets passing through the leaves, making a broken and tragic sound. The rain of the city, the ocean generally besieged the city, the tall buildings became shorter, the vehicles sank, and the streets became rivers.
Rain is a master of rendering the atmosphere, and it sets the stage for my walk. The rain gave the world a vague face, and let the full stomach of the heart be cleansed. Pedestrians in the rain are depressed alone, and even the buses that start again and again are sleepy and slow, and there is a kind of doubt and anxiety that they can't find the other shore.
The rain that falls from the sky infects the natural worries, and sometimes some inexplicable feelings are really indescribable, because there are some things you want to say that you can't say clearly, you can't understand. For example, when I came to the capital city of Houmen, which was as deep as the sea, I could have looked for a more wonderful place to go, but I didn't want to go anywhere, just like a long-lost deceased person, but I had to rush to the Temple of Earth again and again.
What is the connection between the Temple of Earth, the place where the ancient emperors sacrificed their shrines, to me? Is my walk really that pure? Such questions cannot be answered and need not be answered.
The rain slowly fell, giving people a change of mood. In a dry place, the water vapor that comes to the face seems heavenly luxury, and the wet grass and trees make the city appear rarely fresh. Entering the garden, standing on top of this piece of imperial earth, the full atmosphere makes people feel the solemnity and tranquility of the surroundings. For hundreds of years, it has been like a martial arts master, using an unchanging face to cope with the ever-changing world.
A reckless tourist, delusional and impure, hurried to the Temple of Earth, seemingly out of place. But for some reason, every time I entered Beijing, I couldn't control myself, and I had to go to the Temple of Earth, just like a ritual that could not be omitted, and only when I went there would my heart be at peace.
I like the feeling of being alone there doing nothing, it's a very unique feeling, it seems like nothing happens, but there's something in mind. I know that the world is changing every moment, and life is aging for another second compared to the moment that just passed. Like a leaf hanging overhead, it is not yesterday's leaves, nor last year's leaves, but changing leaves. But the cool breeze in the shade of the trees is exactly the same as last year, soft and whispering.
The wind has stopped, the rain has stopped, except for the sound of trees, insects, and chirping, in this 37.4-hectare garden, looking back and forth, in fact, nothing is seen, but there is a feeling, as if everything has been seen.
In this place where philosophies are born, I cannot make either/or judgments, under the sky, above the earth, this garden named after the earth, like a Zen gate case, immortal. Someone has an epiphany and contemplation here, and looks at it from afar, and although the trees are high and the surroundings are dim, I feel that there is always a strong light overhead. In this world, many people, many things, have left regrets that have passed by, I have traveled thousands of miles to come to this garden, but I will never see that person again in this life and this life. I remember that December 31, 2010, the last day of the year, the moment when the old and the new alternated, he threw down the wheelchair that accompanied his life, threw down the pen that shocked his heart, and walked into the distant place of clouds and waters.
For the wise man, he had foreseen this day, and he left a philosopher's mark in the text: "Therefore death is a matter that does not have to be rushed, and death is a festival that will inevitably come." ”
I know that people can't be too demanding, as long as they get there, their hearts will be solid. No matter how time passes, there will always be his breath in this place. Take a walk in the garden, take a look, even if you can't see people, you can still think of his words, fictionalize his back, and remember his smile.
The word sir must be used as a sign of respect for him. The first thing I read was "Autumn Remembrance", and I remember that it was a cold night, dim incandescent light bulbs covered with cobwebs, and I sat in the corner by the window. Later, I successively read "Notes on Retreat", "Fate like Strings", "Sick Gap Broken Pen", and "I and the Temple of Earth". Mr. Kan wrote, "Some things are only suitable for collection. Can't say, can't think, but can't forget. They cannot become language, they cannot become language, and once they become language, they are no longer them. They are a hazy warmth and loneliness, a mature hope and despair, and their territory has only two places: the heart and the grave. For example, stamps, some are used for letters, some are just for collection. ”
Many years ago, I went on a business trip to a remote town, and in the waiting room of that cramped little station, I picked up a notebook with a rough edge, hesitated to open the notebook several times, and saw that the pages were some excerpts of the text, neatly written and full of piety. At first I had no interest in this worn-out book, and opened it out of the boredom and curiosity of the waiting time. But when I opened the book and went through a passage of text, I couldn't put it down anymore. I didn't expect to meet Mr. Mister's text in such a scene, which is excerpted from "Me and the Temple of Earth", and each paragraph is preceded by a small black triangle as a marker.
"I can see clearly even now how I will miss it once I have to leave it for a long time, how I will miss it and dream of it, how I will not dream of it because I dare not miss it." 」
"Man's real name is: Desire."
"This shore will always be crippled, otherwise the other shore will collapse."
"For more than four hundred years, it has eroded the exaggerated glazing of the eaves of the ancient temple, faded the vermilion that was showing off on the walls of the doors, collapsed a section of high walls and scattered jade carved fences, the old cypress trees around the altar have become more and more vicissitudes, and the wild grasses and vines everywhere have flourished freely and frankly."
……
Tick-tock! The harsh sound of the horn woke me up, and a dirty bus entered the station with a body of wind and dust, and the passengers rushed to the ticket gate like a wave. I stood up and looked around, and the noisy waiting room was empty. The passengers were all crowded to the end of the final shift, and I couldn't bear to drop the unclaimed notebook in the face of it. Just like that, a notebook full of the painstaking efforts of the copycats was loaded into my backpack. Since then, this notebook has followed me to the north and south, never leaving a single step.
Whenever the journey is lonely, I will take out this book and look at it back and forth, over and over again, page by page, corner by corner. I hope to find a little clue in it, a little useful clue, so that it can be returned to its original owner. However, the owner seemed to be deliberately hidden, treating private things as public goods, leaving no personal information. It seems that this is a wise man, who has known from the moment he wrote that the world that is immersed in the wind and dust will last forever.
I thought it was over, but who knows once I was looking for something and found a ticket in the cover of that notebook. This is a hard-seated train ticket from Nanchang Station to Beijing Station, and there is a clear gap on the edge of the ticket, which is a mark left by the ticket inspector, and the date displayed on the ticket is July 1, 1995. This man must have liked Mr. Li's writings, and he had taken his notebook to Beijing to look for the Temple of Earth, or to visit Him directly.
An afternoon passed quickly, and I walked to the exit of the Temple of Earth, thousands of miles away, and was about to leave again, but I was not afraid, and the departure was only a temporary farewell, which meant that I would soon return again. A melodious bell wafted from behind the woods, and the sound waves were like water, reverberating for a long time around the Temple of Earth.
I stepped on the sound waves like water, walked down the steps, and a leaf flipped over and floated to the ground, conveying the hint of the soul returning here.
-END-
(Source of this article: Literature Newspaper)
Writer Stetson
I'm with the Temple of Earth
Stetson
One
I have mentioned in several novels an abandoned ancient garden, which is actually the Temple of Earth. Tourism did not start many years ago, and the garden was deserted like a field that was rarely remembered.
The Temple of Earth is close to my house. Or maybe my house is very close to the Temple of Earth. In short, I have to think that this is fate. The Temple of Earth had been there for more than four hundred years before I was born, and since my grandmother had brought my father to Beijing when she was young, she had lived not far from it—moved several times in more than fifty years, but always moved around it, and moved closer and closer to it. I often feel that there is a taste of fate in the middle: it is as if this ancient garden has been waiting for me for more than four hundred years.
It waited for me to be born, and then waited for me to live to the most arrogant age and suddenly crippled my legs. For more than four hundred years, it has eroded the exaggerated glazing of the eaves of the ancient temple, faded the vermilion on the door wall, collapsed a section of high walls and scattered jade carved fences, the old cypress trees around the altar have become more and more secluded, and the wild grasses and wild vines everywhere are also lush and open. At this time, I must have come. One afternoon fifteen years ago, I entered the park in a wheelchair and prepared everything for a soulless man. At that time, the sun was getting bigger and redder along the eternal path. In the calm light that fills the garden, it is easier for a person to see time and see his own figure.
I haven't left the garden for long since I accidentally entered it that afternoon. I understood its intent at once.
As I said in one of my novels, "In a densely populated city, there is such a peaceful place, like a painstaking arrangement of God." ”
In the first few years after my legs were crippled, I couldn't find a job, I couldn't find a way, and suddenly I couldn't find anything, so I shook my wheelchair and always went to it, just because it was another world from which I could escape one world. I wrote in that novel: "When I had nowhere to go, I spent all day in this garden." Just like commuting to work, when others go to work, I shake my wheelchair and come here. "The garden is unattended, and people who cut short distances during commuting hours pass through the garden, and the garden is active for a while, and then it falls silent." "The garden wall cut a shade in the golden air, and I drove my wheelchair in, put the back of the chair down, sat or lay down, read a book or think about things, and slapped a branch of the tree from side to side, driving away the little insects that I did not understand why they came to this world." "The bee stopped steadily in mid-air like a small mist; the ant shook its head and grasped its tentacles, suddenly thought through something, turned and sped away; the ladybug crawled impatiently, tired and prayed, and then spread its wings and took off in a flicker; there was a cicada on the trunk, lonely like an empty house; dew rolled on the blades of grass, gathered, and bent the blades of grass and fell violently to break away the golden light." "The garden is full of grass and trees growing vigorously, and the creaks and creaks are endless for a moment." This is all true records, the garden is deserted but not decaying.
I could not enter except for a few temples, I could not go up except the altar and could only look at it from all angles, and I had been under every tree on the altar of the earth, and almost every meter of grass on it had my wheel marks. No matter what the season, what the weather, what time, I have been in this garden. Sometimes I stay for a while and go home, sometimes I stay until the ground is lit up with moonlight. I can't remember exactly where it was, and I thought intently about death for hours on end, and with the same patience and in the same way why I was born.
After thinking about it for several years, it finally became clear that a man, born, is no longer a question to be debated, but only a fact that God has given him; God, when he gives us the truth, has incidentally guaranteed its outcome, so that death is a matter that need not be rushed, and death is a festival that is bound to come. After thinking about it like this, I was much more at ease, and everything in front of me was no longer so terrible. For example, when you get up early and stay up late to prepare for the exam, and suddenly remember that there is a long holiday waiting for you in front of you, will you feel a little more relaxed? And thankful and grateful for such an arrangement?
All that's left is the question of how to live. This is not something that can be fully figured out in a certain instant, not something that can be solved at one time, I am afraid that I will have to think about it for as long as I live, just like the devil or lover who accompanies you all your life. Therefore, after fifteen years, I still have to go to the ancient garden, to go under its old tree or to the edge of the grass or by the decadent wall, to sit silently, to think, to push away the noisy thoughts in my ears, to peek into my own soul. For fifteen years, the shape of this ancient garden has been sculpted by people who cannot understand it, but fortunately there are some things that no one can change. For example, the sunset in the stone door of the altar, the moment when the silent radiance is tiled, every bump on the ground is reflected brilliantly; for example, in the most lonely time in the garden, a group of swifts come out and sing and cry out the heavens and the earth; for example, the footprints of children on the snow in winter always make people guess who they are, where they have done something, and then where they have gone; for example, those dark cypresses, they stand there calmly when you are melancholy, they still stand there calmly when you are happy, They stand there day and night from the time you were not born to the time when there is no you in this world; for example, the torrential rain suddenly comes to the garden, stirring up a fierce and pure smell of grass and dirt, reminiscent of countless summer events; such as the sudden arrival of the autumn wind, and then an early frost, falling leaves or fluttering songs and dances or lying calmly, and the smell of ironing and bitterness spreads throughout the garden. The taste is the most unclear, the taste can not be written can only smell, you have to be immersed in the smell to understand. The taste is even difficult to remember, and only when you smell it again can you remember all its emotions and meanings.
So I used to go to that garden.
Two
Now I think about what kind of problem I once gave my mother when I always ran to the temple of earth alone.
She is not the kind of mother who loves her son and does not understand him. She knew the bitterness in my heart, she knew that I shouldn't be stopped from going out, she knew that it would be worse if I stayed at home, but she was worried about what I was thinking all day in that deserted garden alone. I was so bad-tempered that I often left home like crazy, and came back from the garden and fell into a demon without saying anything. Mother knew that there were some things that were not appropriate to ask, so she hesitated to ask but finally did not dare to ask, because she did not have an answer in her own heart. She expected that I would not want her to go with me, so she had never asked for that, and she knew that I had to be given a little time to be alone, and there had to be such a process. She just didn't know how long the process would take, and what the end of the process would be. Every time I was about to leave, she wordlessly helped me prepare, helped me get into a wheelchair, and watched me shake the car out of the courtyard; what would happen to her after that, I had never thought about it.
Once I shook the car out of the courtyard, remembered something and came back, saw my mother still standing in the same place, still in the posture when she sent me away, looked at the corner of the wall where I turned out of the courtyard, and did not react to my return for a while. When she sent me out again, she said, "Go out for an event, go to the Temple of Earth and read a book, and I said it was fine." Many years later, I gradually heard that my mother's words were actually self-consolation, secret prayers, tips for me, pleading and exhorting. It was only after her sudden death that I had time to think about it. When I was not at home for those long hours, how restless she was, combined with pain and horror with a mother's minimal prayer. Now I can conclude that, with her wisdom and perseverance, in the night after those empty days, after the sleepless night, she thought about it and finally said to herself, "Anyway, I can't help but let him go out, the days to come are his own, and if he really wants to do something in that garden, this suffering will have to be borne by me." ”
In those days—it was a period of years, I thought I must have prepared my mother for the worst, but she never said to me, "You think for me." In fact, I really didn't think about it for her. At that time, her son was still too young to think about his mother, and he was knocked unconscious by fate, thinking that he was the most unfortunate one in the world, not knowing that his son's misfortune was always doubled by his mother. She had a son who had suddenly been paraplegic at the age of twenty, and this was her only son; she preferred to be paraplegic herself rather than her son, but there was no substitute for it; she thought that as long as her son could live, even if he died himself, she was sure that a man could not just live, and that his son had to have a way to his own happiness; and no one could guarantee that her son would finally be able to find this path. Such a mother is destined to be the mother who lives the hardest.
Once chatting with a writer friend, I asked him what was his initial motivation for learning to write? He thought for a moment and said, "For my mother." To make her proud. I was shocked and speechless for a long time. Looking back at my original motivation for writing a novel, although it was not as simple as this friend's, I also had the same desire as him, and when I thought about it, I found that this desire also accounted for a large proportion of all the motives. The friend said, "My motives are too vulgar, right?" I just shook my head, thinking that vulgarity is not necessarily vulgar, but I am afraid that this desire is too naïve. He added: "I really wanted to be famous at that time, to be famous and make others envy my mother." "I think he's more candid than I am. I think he was happier than I was because his mother was still alive. And I think his mother was also luckier than my mother, who didn't have a son with crippled legs, otherwise things wouldn't have been so simple.
At the time of the publication of my first novel, in the days when my novel was first awarded, how I wished my mother was still alive. I couldn't stay at home again, and I ran to the temple of earth alone all day long, with a headless depression and resentment in my heart, and I walked all over the garden but couldn't figure out how to figure out: Why can't my mother live for two more years? Why is it that when her son is about to collide and open a road, she suddenly can't stay up? Could it be that she came here to worry about her son, but shouldn't share a little of my happiness? She was only forty-nine when she hurried away from me! For a moment, I was even filled with hatred and disgust for God in the world. Later I wrote in an article titled "Acacia Tree": "I sat in the quiet woods of a small park, closed my eyes, and wondered, Why did God call my mother back early?" For a long, long time, confused, I heard the answer: 'Her heart is too bitter, and God saw that she could not stand it, so he called her back.' I seemed to be comforted a little, and when I opened my eyes, I saw the wind passing through the woods. "The small park also refers to the temple of earth."
It was only at this time that the complicated past appeared clearly in front of my eyes, and my mother's suffering and greatness penetrated deeply in my heart. God's consideration, perhaps, is right.
Walking slowly in the garden with a wheelchair in hand, the foggy morning again, and the day when the sun was hanging high, I only thought of one thing: my mother was no longer there. Stopping by the old cypress tree, stopping at the grass by the decadent wall, the afternoon when the insects were everywhere, and the evening when the birds were returning home, I only had one word in my heart: But my mother is no longer there. I put the back of the chair down, lay down, as if I had not slept until the end of the day, sat up, was in a trance, and sat down straight to the ancient altar full of darkness and then gradually floated up in the moonlight, and only then did I understand a little in my heart that my mother could no longer come to this garden to find me.
There have been many times when I have been in this garden for too long, and my mother has come to me. She came to me and didn't want me to find out, but as soon as she saw me in this garden, she quietly turned back, and I saw her back a few times. I had also seen her look around a few times, she had bad eyesight, she was looking for a boat on the sea with her eyes mirrored, I had seen her when she didn't see me, I didn't look at her when I saw her, and when I saw her, I didn't look at her, and after a while I looked up again and saw her slowly leaving back. I just can't tell how many times she didn't find me.
Once I was sitting in a low bush, and the bushes were so dense that I saw that she had not found me; she walked alone in the garden, past me, past some of the places where I often stayed, and walked dazed and urgent. I don't know how long she's been looking for, I don't know why I'm determined not to call her — but this is by no means a hide-and-seek as a child, maybe it's out of the stubbornness or shyness of an older boy? But this stubbornness only left me with regret, and there was no pride at all. I really want to warn all the boys who have grown up, don't be stubborn with their mothers, shyness is even more unnecessary, I already understand but I am too late.
The son's desire to make his mother proud is so real that the notorious idea of "wanting to be famous" has changed its image a little. This is a complex issue, so leave it alone. As the excitement of the novel's award dimmed, I began to believe, at least, that I was mistaken: the path I had opened up with a pen and paper in the press was not the one my mother had hoped I would find. I came to this garden every year, every month and month I wondered what the road my mother was hoping I would find was. My mother did not leave me any timeless philosophies or teachings for me to abide by, but after her death, her difficult fate, stoic will and unobtrusive love, with the passage of time, became more and more vivid in my impression.
One year, when the October wind stirred up the peaceful fallen leaves again, I was reading in the garden and heard two old people walking and saying, "I didn't expect this garden to be so big." "I put down the book and thought, such a big garden, how many anxious roads my mother has walked to find her son in it. For the first time in many years, I realized that not only had my ruts everywhere in the garden, but also my mother's footprints where my ruts had been.
Three
If you correspond to the four seasons in the middle of the day, of course, spring is morning, summer is noon, autumn is dusk, and winter is night. If you use musical instruments to correspond to the four seasons, I think spring should be trumpets, summer is timpani drums, autumn is cello, and winter is trumpets and flutes.
What if the sounds of this garden correspond to the four seasons? Spring, then, is the whistle of the pigeons floating above the altar, summer is the long song of cicadas and poplar leaves making fun of cicada songs, autumn is the wind chimes of the eaves of the ancient temple, and winter is the random and empty woodpeckering of woodpeckers. The scenery in the garden corresponds to the four seasons, spring is a path that is sometimes pale and sometimes dark, sometimes bright and sometimes gloomy in the sky swaying with strings of poplar flowers; in summer is a dazzling and scorching stone bench, or a shady and mossy stone staircase, there is a fruit peel under the steps, and there is half a wrinkled newspaper on the steps; autumn is a large bronze bell, and a large bronze bell was discarded on the northwest corner of the garden, and the copper bell is the same age as the garden, full of green rust, and the text is not clear; in winter, It was a few old sparrows with fluffy feathers in the clearing in the forest. How about the four seasons with the mood? Spring is the season of lying sick, otherwise people are not easy to find the cruelty and longing of spring; in summer, lovers should lose love in this season, otherwise they seem to be sorry for love; in autumn, when they buy a potted flower from outside, they leave the flowers in the home that has been separated, and open the window to put the sun into the house, slowly recalling and slowly sorting out some moldy things; winter with the stove and books, over and over again firm determination not to die, write some letters that are not sent. It is also possible to correspond to the four seasons in the form of art, so that spring is a painting, summer is a novel, autumn is a short song or poem, and winter is a group of sculptures. What about dreams? Dreaming of the four seasons? Spring is the cry on the tip of the tree, summer is the drizzle in the shout, autumn is the land in the drizzle, and winter is a lone pipe on clean land.
Because of this garden, I am always grateful for my fate.
I can see clearly even now how I will miss it once I have to leave it for a long time, how I will miss it and dream of it, how I will not dream of it because I dare not miss it.
Four
Now let me think, who are the people who have insisted on coming to this garden for fifteen years? It seemed like just me and a couple of old men were left.
Fifteen years ago, the old man could only be regarded as a middle-aged couple, and I was really a young man. They always come for a walk in the garden at dusk, and I don't quite know which side of the garden gate they came in from, but usually they walk around the garden counterclockwise.
The man was tall, with broad shoulders and long legs, and walked without squinting, from his crotch up to his neck, and his wife climbed one of his arms and walked, which could not make his upper body relax slightly. The woman was short, not very pretty, and I believed for no reason that she must have come from a well-known and rich family in the middle of the family; she climbed on her husband's arm like a delicate child, and she looked around as if with fear, and she spoke softly to him, and when she saw someone approaching, she immediately timidly stopped talking. I sometimes think of Jean Valjean and Cosette because of them, but this idea is not consolidated, and they know at a glance that they are old husbands and wives. Both people's dresses are considered exquisite, but due to the evolution of the times, their costumes can be called primitive again. They, like me, came to this garden almost rain or shine, but they were more punctual than I was. I could come at any time, and they must have come at the beginning of twilight. They wore beige trench coats when it was windy, black umbrellas when it rained, white shirts and black pants in the summer, and black tweed coats in the winter, presumably they only liked these three colors.
They circled the garden counterclockwise and then left. When they walked past me, only the footsteps of men sounded, and the women seemed to drift along with their tall husbands. I'm sure they must have had an impression on me, but we hadn't spoken, and neither of us wanted to get close to each other. In fifteen years, they may have noticed that a young man had entered middle age, and I watched an enviable middle-aged couple unconsciously become two old people.
There was once a young man who loved to sing, and he also came to this garden every day to sing, sang for many years, and then disappeared. He was about the same age as me, and he came mostly in the morning, singing for half an hour or a whole morning, and presumably he would have to go to work at the other time. We often met on the path on the east side of the altar, and I knew he was singing under the high wall in the southeast corner, and he must have guessed what I was going to do in the woods in the northeast corner. I found my place, took a few puffs of my cigarette, and heard him carefully sort out his singing voice. He sang those songs over and over again.
When the "Cultural Revolution" had not passed, he sang "The blue sky is white clouds, and the horses are running under the white clouds..." I can't remember the name of this song. After the Cultural Revolution, he sang the most popular aria in "The Cargo Man and the Lady". "Sell cloth - sell cloth, sell cloth - sell cloth!" I remember the opening line where he sang very loudly, and in the clear morning air, the freighter ran to every corner of the garden to compliment Miss. "I've made good luck, I've made good luck, I've sung songs for happiness..." And then he sang it over and over again, not letting the freighter's passion diminish a little. To me, his technique is not very good, and he often makes mistakes in key places, but his voice is not bad, and he can't hear a little tired after singing for a morning. The sun was not tired, shrinking the shadows of the trees into a clump, and drying the careless earthworms on the path. Near noon, we met again on the east side of the altar, and he looked at me, I looked at him, and he went north, and I went south.
Over time, I felt that we all had the desire to get to know each other, but we didn't seem to know how to open our mouths, so we looked at each other for a while and finally we all looked away and passed by; as many times as we went, we didn't know how to open our mouths. Finally one day, a day without any features, we nodded to each other. He said, "Hello. I said, "Hello." He said, "Go back?" I said, "Yes, what about you?" He said, "I should go back too." "We all slowed down (actually, I was slowing down) and wanted to say a few more words, but still didn't know where to start, so we all walked past each other and turned around to face each other. He said, "Then goodbye." I said, "Good, goodbye." They laughed and laughed at each other and went their separate ways. But we didn't say goodbye, and after that, there was no more of his singing in the garden, and I thought that maybe he meant to say goodbye to me that day, and maybe he was admitted to a professional literary troupe or song and dance troupe? I wish he had good luck, as he sang in his song.
There are also some people, and I can still think of some people who come to this garden a lot. There was an old man, a real drinker; he hung a flat porcelain bottle around his waist, which of course was filled with wine, and often came to this garden to spend the afternoon. He wanders around the garden, and if you don't pay attention you will think that there are several such old men in the garden, and when you have seen his outstanding drinking habits, you will believe that this is a unique old man. His dress was too casual, and his walking posture was not prudent, he chose a place when he walked fifty or sixty meters, stepped on a stone bench or a mound or a tree stump, untied the wine bottle at his waist, squinted his eyes when he untied the bottle, took a closer look at the scenery within a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree perspective, and then poured a large mouthful of wine into his stomach with a lightning speed, shook the bottle and hung it on his waist, calmly thought about something, and then walked down to the next fifty or sixty meters. There was also a man who caught birds, there were few people in the garden in those years, but there were many birds, and he pulled a net in the bushes in the northwest corner, and the birds crashed on it, and the feathers could not extricate themselves in the net. He waited for a bird that had been many and is now very rare, and when other birds hit the net he took them off and let them go, he said he hadn't waited for that rare bird for years, he said he waited another year to see if there were any other birds, and he waited for many more years.
In the morning and evening, a middle-aged female engineer can be seen in this garden, and in the morning she crosses the garden from north to south to go to work, and in the evening she passes through this garden from south to north to return home. In fact, I don't know her profession or education, but I think she must be an intellectual who studies science and engineering, and it is difficult for other people to have her simplicity and elegance. As she walked through the garden, the surrounding woods seemed to be more quiet, and there seemed to be a distant piano sound in the light daylight, such as the song "Dedicated to Alice". I hadn't seen her husband, I hadn't seen what the lucky man looked like, I had imagined it but couldn't imagine it, and then suddenly I understood that it was better not to imagine it, and that man had better not appear. She walked out of the north door to go home, and I was a little worried, worried that she would fall into the kitchen, but maybe the scene of her working in the kitchen was more beautiful, of course, it could not be "Dedicated to Alice", what kind of song? There was another man, my friend, who was one of the most talented long-distance runners, but he was buried. He was imprisoned for several years because he was careless in the Cultural Revolution, and after he came out, he found a job pulling a scooter, and all kinds of treatment could not be equal to others, and he practiced long-distance running when he was extremely depressed.
He always came to the garden to run, I used my watch to time him, and every time he ran and waved his hand at me, I wrote down a time. Every time he had to run twenty laps around the garden, about twenty thousand meters. He was looking forward to his long-distance running achievements for real political liberation, and he thought that the camera and words of journalists could help him do so. In the first year, he ran fifteenth place in the Spring Festival Ring Race, and he saw that the photos of the top ten were hanging in the news window of Chang'an Avenue, so he had confidence. The next year he ran fourth, but only the top three photos were hung in the news window, and he was not discouraged. In the third year he ran seventh, with pictures of the top six hanging in the window, and he kind of resented himself. In the fourth year, he ran third, but only the first place photos were hung in the window. He ran first place in the fifth year — he was almost desperate, and there was only a picture of the Tour de vibe in the window. In those years, the two of us used to stay together in this garden until dark, scolding bitterly, scolding and going home in silence, and then telling each other when we broke up: Don't die first, and then try to live and watch.
Now he's not running, he's too old to run so fast. The last time he played the Tour de Circumference, he finished first and broke the record at the age of thirty-eight, when a professional team coach said to him, "If only I had found you ten years ago." He smiled bitterly and said nothing, but came to this garden again in the evening and told me about it calmly. He hadn't been seen for years, and now he lived far away with his wife and son.
None of these people are in the garden now, and there are almost a new batch of people in the garden. The old man of fifteen years ago, now there are only me and the old husband and wife left. For a while, one of the old husbands and wives suddenly did not come, and only men came to walk alone in the twilight, and the gait was obviously much slower, and I was worried for a long time, afraid that something had happened to the woman. Fortunately, after a winter, the woman came again, and the two men were still walking counterclockwise around the garden, one long and one short, two figures just like the two hands of a clock; the woman's hair was much whiter, but she still walked like a child on her husband's arm. The word "climbing" is used inappropriately, maybe you can use "匀", I don't know if there is a word that has both meanings.
Five
Nor have I forgotten a child— a beautiful and unfortunate little girl. Fifteen years ago, on that afternoon, I saw her on my first visit to the garden, when she was about three years old, crouching on the path west of the palace to pick up "little lanterns" that had fallen from trees.
There were a few large luan trees, and in the spring a cluster of small and dense yellow flowers bloomed, and when the flowers fell, they produced countless small lanterns like three leaves hugging each other, and the small lanterns were first green, then white, then yellow, and matured and fell all over the ground. The little lanterns are so delicate that they are cherished, and adults can't help but pick up one and pick up one. The little girl was talking to herself as she picked up the little lantern; her voice was good, not as sharp as it was at her age, but round or even thick, perhaps because the garden was too quiet that afternoon. I wonder how such a young child came to this garden alone? I asked her where she lived, and she called out to her brother, and a seven- or eight-year-old boy stood up in the thick grass along the wall, looked at me, saw that I didn't look like a bad person, and said to his sister, "I'm here." "And he leaned down again, and he was catching some bug." He catches mantises, grasshoppers, know-it-alls and dragonflies to please his sister. For two or three years, I often saw them under those big luan trees, and the brothers and sisters always played together, played harmoniously, and gradually grew up. I didn't see them for many years. I think they are all in school, and the little girl has reached the age of school, and she must have said goodbye to her childhood, and there are not many opportunities to play here. This is very normal, there is no reason to rest too much on the heart, if not one year I saw them in the garden again, I would surely slowly forget them.
It was a Sunday morning. It was a clear and heartbreaking morning, and after many years, I found that the beautiful little girl turned out to be a mentally handicapped child. I shook the car to the big luan trees, and it was the season when there were small lanterns all over the place. I was suffering from the end of a novel, not knowing why I had to give it such an ending, or why I suddenly didn't want it to have such an ending, so I ran out of the house, trying to rely on the calm in the garden to see if I should give up the novel. As soon as I stopped the car, I saw a few people not far in front of me teasing a young girl, making strange appearances to scare her, shouting and laughing and chasing her to intercept her, and the girl ran east and west in panic among several large trees, but did not let go of the skirt that was rolled in her arms, and her legs were exposed and seemed to be unaware.
I saw that the girl's intellect was somewhat defective, but I had not yet seen who she was. I was about to drive forward to relieve the girl when I saw a young man riding a horse in the distance, so the guys who were playing with the girl fled in the wind. The young man put his bicycle near the girl, glared at the few guys who were scattered and fled, and breathed heavily without a word, and his face was as pale as the sky before the rainstorm. At this time I recognized them, and the young man and the girl were the little brothers and sisters of that year. I almost screamed in my heart, or wailed. The things of the world often make God's intentions suspicious. The young man walked toward his sister. The maiden let go of her hand, and the skirt fell down, and many, many small lanterns she had picked up spilled on the ground and spread out at her feet. She was still pretty, but her eyes were sluggish and lacked brilliance. She stared blankly at the group of scattered guys, looked at the emptiness of the extreme place, with her intellect it was impossible to understand the world, right? Under the big trees, the broken sun is dotted, and the wind blows the small lanterns everywhere, as if it is dumbly ringing countless small bells. The brother helped his sister into the back seat of the bicycle and took her home wordlessly.
Speechless is right. If God had given both beauty and mental retardation to this little girl, there would have been only speechlessness and going home.
Who can figure out the world? Many things in the world are unspeakable. You can complain about why God has sent so much suffering to this world, and you can fight to eliminate all kinds of suffering, and enjoy the nobility and pride for it, but as long as you think about it one more step, you will fall into a deep confusion: if there is no suffering in the world, can the world still exist? If there is no stupidity, what glory is there in wit? If there is no ugliness, how can beautiful maintain their luck? If there is no evil and inferiority, how will goodness and nobility define themselves and how will they become virtues?
Without disability, would soundness become boring and tedious because it was commonplace? I have often dreamed of the complete elimination of disability in the human world, but I can believe that the sick will bear the same suffering instead of the disabled. If the disease can be eliminated in its entirety, then this suffering will be borne by ugly-looking people, for example. Even if we can eliminate even ugliness, even ignorance and meanness, and all the things and deeds that we do not like, and all people are equally healthy, beautiful, intelligent, and noble, what will happen? I am afraid that the drama of the human world will all come to an end, and a world that has lost its differences will be a stagnant water, a desert without feeling and without fertility.
It seems that there will always be differences. It seems that suffering is only accepted—the whole repertoire of mankind needs it, and existence itself needs it. It seems that God is right again.
So here lies the most desperate conclusion: Who will play the role of those suffering? And who will embody the happiness, pride and joy of this world? It is no reason to resign yourself to chance.
As far as fate is concerned, it is fair to say nothing.
So, where is the road to redemption for all unfortunate fates?
If wisdom or enlightenment can lead us to the path to salvation, can all people attain such wisdom and understanding?
I often think that ugly women make beauty. I often think that it is the fool who lifts up the wise. I often think of cowards as a hero. I often think that it is sentient beings who have incarnated the Buddha.
Six
If there is a garden god, he must have noticed that for so many years I have been sitting in this garden, sometimes it is relaxed and happy, sometimes it is dull and depressed, sometimes it is beautiful, sometimes it is lonely, sometimes it is calm and confident, sometimes it is weak and confused. In fact, there are only three questions in total that alternate to harass me and accompany me. The first is to die? The second is why live? Third, why should I write?
Now let me see how they have been woven together so far.
You say that you see through that death is a thing that does not need to be rushed, a thing that will not be missed no matter how much you delay, and then decide to live and try? Yes, at least that's a key factor. Why try it out alive? It seems that it is only because of unwillingness, rare opportunities, do not try white, do not try, the legs are finished anyway, everything seems to be finished, but death is very trustworthy, try will not have any additional loss. Maybe there's an added benefit, isn't it? As I said, I'm much more relaxed and free. Why write? Writers are two words that are valued, and everyone knows that. In order to let the person who is hiding in a wheelchair deep in the garden one day have a little glory in the eyes of others, and can have a place in the eyes of everyone, even if it is more or less justified to die at that time. At the beginning, I thought, this doesn't have to be kept secret, and now it doesn't have to be kept secret.
With my notebook and pen, I went to a least disturbed corner of the garden and secretly wrote. The singing lad kept singing not far away. If anyone came up, I would close the book and hold the pen in my mouth. I'm afraid I'll end up embarrassed if I can't write it. I want face. But you wrote it, and you published it. People say that what I wrote is not bad, and they even say: I really didn't expect you to write so well. I said to myself there are many things you didn't expect.
I did have a whole night of happiness that I didn't close my eyes. I wanted the guy who sang to know, because his songs were good after all. When I told my long-distance runner friend, the middle-aged female engineer was gracefully walking through the garden; the long-distance runner was very excited, and he said well, I am desperate to run, you are desperate to write. Now you're in the middle of the spell, thinking all day about which thing you can write and who can make you write a novel. It is the devil, where I go to think of where, in the sea of people only look for novels, if there is a kind of novel reagent, see people drop two drops to see if he is a novel, if there is a novel developer, it is good, pour it all over the world to see where there is a novel, the devil, then I am completely for the sake of writing to live. As a result, you published a few more articles and made a little name, but at this time you were more and more panicked. I suddenly felt like a hostage, just a little bit like a person but overdone, like a hostage, caught by a conspiracy to be taken hostage, not sure which day to be executed, not sure which day to be finished. You worry that before long you'll dry up your mind and you're done again. Why can I always write novels? Why is it that the material of life suitable for fiction can always be sent to a paraplegic? People are in danger of exhaustion running around the world, and why can I sit in this garden and write one article after another? You think of dying again. I want to take it when I see it. Being a hostage is too tiring, too nervous, too precarious. I survived to write, and if writing wasn't what I should have done, I wonder if I'd be too stupid to live any longer? You think so you're still racking your brains to write. I wrung out some more water and got out of a towel that was about to dry. Panic day by day, the feeling of being finished at any time is much more terrible than the end of the egg itself, the so-called fear of thieves stealing is afraid of thieves, I think people are better than dead, not as good as not being born, not as good as not having this world at all. But you're not going to die. I thought again that it was a matter of not having to worry. But doesn't the need to rush prove to be a necessary delay? You always decide to survive, what does that mean? Yes, I still want to live. Why do people live? Because man wants to live, in the final analysis, this is what he really calls: desire. But I'm not afraid of death, sometimes I'm really not afraid of death.
Sometimes ,——'re right. Not being afraid of death and wanting to die are two different things, sometimes there are people who are not afraid of death, and there are no people who are born without being afraid of death. I'm sometimes afraid of life. But being afraid of living does not mean not wanting to live! But why do I still want to live? Because you still want something, you think you can still get something, such as love, for example, sense of value and the like, the real name of the person is desire. Isn't that right? Shouldn't I get something? Didn't say no. But why did I live in panic, like a hostage?
Later you understand, you understand that you are wrong, living is not to write, but to write is to live. You get the idea that it's in a pretty funny moment. That day you said that it was better for you to die, and a friend of yours advised you: You can't die, you still have to write, and there are still many good works waiting for you to write. Then you suddenly understood, and you said: It is only because I am alive that I have to write. Or maybe it's just because you still want to live that you have to write. Yes, I was less panicked after saying that. Like you see through the ease you get after death? The most effective way for a hostage to take revenge on a conspiracy is to kill himself. I saw that I had to kill me in the market first, so that I wouldn't have to participate in the rush to buy the genre. Do you still write? Also write. Do you really have to write? People can't help but find some solid reason for survival. Aren't you worried you're going to dry up? I don't know, but I think the problem of being alive can't be solved until I die.
Well, you're no longer panicking, you're no longer hostage, you're free. Forget it, how can I be free? Don't forget that man's real name is: desire. So you have to know that the most effective way to eliminate panic is to eliminate desire. But I also know that the most effective way to destroy human nature is also to eliminate desire. So, is it to eliminate desire and panic at the same time? Or do you keep your desires and preserve your life at the same time?
I was sitting in this garden, and I heard the god of the garden tell me that every passionate actor is inevitably a hostage. Every spectator who knows how to appreciate cleverly smashes a conspiracy. Every boring actor is because he always thinks that the play has nothing to do with him. Every unlucky spectator is because he always sits too close to the stage.
I sat in this garden, and the god of the garden said to me for many years, "Child, this is nothing else, this is your sins and blessings."
Stetson and friends
Seven
If there are some things I haven't said, Temple of Earth, don't think I forgot, I haven't forgotten anything, but some things are only suitable for collection. Can't say, can't think, but can't forget. They cannot become language, they cannot become language, and once they become language, they are no longer them. They are a hazy warmth and loneliness, a mature hope and despair, and their territory has only two places: the heart and the grave. For example, stamps, some are used for letters, some are just for collection.
Now that I'm rocking my car and walking slowly in this garden, I often have a feeling that I've been running out alone for too long.
One day I was sorting through my old photo album and saw a picture I had taken in this garden more than a decade ago—the young man in a wheelchair with an old cypress tree in his back and the ancient altar in the distance. So I went to the garden and went to find the tree. I quickly found it by looking at the background on the photo, and by the shape of its branches in the photo, I was sure that it was it. But it was dead, and on it was wrapped a thick vine with a bowl of mouth. One day I met an old lady in this garden, and she said, "Yo, where are you still here?" She asked me, "Is your mother okay?" "Who are you?" "You don't remember me, I remember you." Once your mother came here to look for you, and she asked me if you saw a child in a wheelchair..." I suddenly felt that I had been playing in this world alone for too long. One night, I was sitting alone under the street lamp by the altar reading a book, and suddenly from the dark altar came a burst of screams; surrounded by towering ancient trees, the square altar covers hundreds of square meters of empty and open to the sky, I can't see the person who whistled, only the scream whispered in the starry night sky, sometimes sad and sometimes cheerful, sometimes entangled and sometimes desolate, perhaps these words are not enough to describe it, I soberly heard it ringing in the past, ringing in the present, ringing in the future, swirling and drifting forever.
One day I will hear me go back.
At that time, you can imagine a child, he is tired of playing but he has not played enough, and he has some new ideas in his heart that he can't even wait until tomorrow. It can also be imagined as an old man, walking unquestionably to his resting place, walking hard and complaining. You can also imagine a pair of lovers in love, saying to each other again and again, "I don't want to leave you for a moment", and saying to each other again and again that "time is not early", the time is not early, but I don't want to leave you for a moment, and I don't want to leave you for a moment.
I said no, I don't want to go back. I can't say whether I want to or don't want to, or it doesn't matter. I can't tell if I'm like that kid, or like the old man, or like a lover in love. It may well be this: I am all three of them at the same time. When I came, I was a child, he had so many childish thoughts that he cried and shouted to come, as soon as he came to see the world, he immediately became a lover who did not want to die, and for a lover, no matter how long the time is fleeting, then he understood that every step and every step, in fact, step by step is on the way back. When the morning glory first blooms, the funeral horn is already blown.
But the sun, every moment of his life is the setting sun and the rising sun. When he was extinguished and walked down the mountain to collect the desolate remnants, it was when he was burning on the other side and climbing up the mountain to spread the fierce light. On that day, I will also walk quietly down the hill, holding my crutches. One day, in a certain mountain depression, it is bound to run up to a bouncing child, holding his toy.
Of course, that's not me.
But, isn't that me?
The universe, with its unending desires, refines a song and dance into eternity. What kind of human name this desire has is negligible.
May 11, 89
9??
This article was first published in Shanghai Literature