Night Rain 丨 Red Snow: Gao Qing's Bright Flame (Reading Notes Eight)

Raise this cluster of bright flames

(Eight Reading Notes)

Red snow

Good days are just around the corner

On the journey of life, there is no lack of a cluster of vigorous flames to make a splendid journey.

When we are unconscious, stupid, and miserable, a piece of paper made up of words is like a budding spring willow, giving us an enlightenment, a guide, a vitality, making pedantic and intelligent, and making ignorance wise, this is a book unfolding in front of me, a good book that civilizes thought and enlightens the soul.

The book is a mirror that illuminates the conduct of our predecessors and successors, influences the temple of our morality, and records the hooks and sinks of time. I was holding high on this flame, all the way, and the "How Steel is Made" made me raise my once lost head in the bumps.

Poverty, once tore at my fragile self-esteem, deprived me of the time to go to the campus and absorb spiritual food; disease, once dimmed my years of pulling out. In the black land of spring and autumn, in the roaring chant of the distant mountain chainsaws, in the helplessness of small merchants and vendors selling sweat to exchange for chai rice oil salt sauce vinegar tea, filling the belly, returning to the tent standing alone in the depths of the wasteland, returning to the kerosene lamp like a bean, reading poetry books, looking at the moon and watching the stars, and washing away the lead.

As soon as I picked up this fragrant ink fragrance, the frustration faded, the desolation was clear, and the sunrise in the east was so fresh and vigorous.

Good books always appear in the age of famine, and the tipping point of the desire to be full appears in the thousands of weathers of floating clouds and sunshine, in the dueling arena of nobility and humility. Human beings flee from the beasts, and they can't destroy the inferior roots and ugliness, but the thought of a good book comes out at this juncture to help you, instigate you, correct you, your eyes are confused, your heart is ignorant, you are likely to be one foot in the door, step past the abyss of eternal disaster, retreat is the door of the sun, flowers bloom, until the fruit pressure is low.

We who are not perfect people are moving towards perfection; we who are not philosophers are accumulating the energy of life. With each step we take, we are extending the length of the cultivation and constructing the classical thickness. The words that Golsky said to us: "Love books, it is the ladder of human progress." "Deep into my bones, I climbed the ancient tower of the present world on the shoulder of the book step by step, picking up the vast star bucket, so as to illuminate the unknown road ahead."

There are no books, no sweaty hardcover books and luxurious books, but our dreamy xuefu five cars, the motor that is working hard, roaring in the vicissitudes of the world. I remember that on the wall of the classroom where I was in my third year of high school, there was a huge couplet posted: Shushan has a road and a diligent path, and learning the sea is endless. It was right behind us, always blinking coldly, like a supervisor, urging us to go far away.

Who dares to slow down the book of this divine tree, we cross our feet, to pick the knowledge peach that can never be picked, we pay for a lifetime, like the miners, go deep into this endless alleyway, catch fire in the stones, catch the scattered flying fireflies. When the light stored in life is gathered into a raging fire, our prostrate labor is shaped and bone-pinned, and we find the pleasure of tillering and scattering flowers. At this moment, it is impossible to exchange how many banknotes are used.

Hoarding and amassing wealth is a kind of publicity and pain in our time, but after all, it is the virtue of a few people and is insignificant. With the passage of time, the opportunistic scrooges have mostly sunk in the dust of history, just as some myths have become jokes, and some jokes have become myths. Only the bookworms and craftsmen who put books in their heads, although they have sat on the bench for ten years of cold, have always maintained the height of admiration.

What else to pray for? With a true love for books, with an ambition of steel, what accusations do you care about, and the loneliness and the passing of youth, books are on the top, and good days are behind.

A nimble flame

The city I live in is a city of immigrants. It is precisely because of its unique oil charm that it has attracted countless gold diggers to flock to it. Thus, the barren grass and the dry saline beach, under the bite of mechanical sharp teeth and the high endurance of the crowd, began to retreat in ignorance, poverty, and panic.

It is not so much that man has created history and rewritten the reality before us, but that man's wisdom and knowledge are becoming a flame in the wind, and its brilliant light illuminates the pendulum of time.

Man, if he does not get some enlightenment, does not open the imagination cells of the brain, the history of crawling is probably still in the ancient history, diamonds for fire, male and female weaving, become an eternity, leading us to wood for fish, or do greedy bear paws and fish can have both the beautiful dream. Those who dared to eat crabs and tomatoes became sages, carved pictographic symbols on top of stubborn stone bamboo boards, and served as a medium for human communication, so they became masters. Philosophers are nothing special, what is special is that they set off earlier than us and go farther, laboring their bones, starving their bodies, good at drawing nutrients from nature, and classifying these nutrients into tillers and synthesizing them into a social encyclopedia.

Society is constantly being released and developed in the expansion of our knowledge, and human beings continue to step on the shoulders of giants to climb to higher goals.

Sitting in the space where the spring sun shines directly into the pages of the book in the afternoon, I think about the past life and the afterlife, and feel that this hustle is better than tranquility, and impetuousness is more than a silent world.

Books are the fiery flames that dismember darkness and burn ignorance and numbness.

Every day, I come and go in and out of this six-story building, practicing the same kind of religious practice to pass the busy days. Fortunately, on Monday and Thursday afternoons, the door of the reading room on the sixth floor had opened early, and the teacher in charge, Mr. Shi, was kind and enthusiastic to send every borrower of books. If I could successfully complete my intense official duties, I would be on time to be examined by the master's gaze in the bookcase, or sit in a corner and check the flying notes of the life of the sufferer. Thankfully, in such a large enterprise with materialistic desires and the livelihood of more than 10,000 people, there is also this heart for the obsessive reader to create a space for the obsessive reader, to cultivate the life, cultivate the soul, and there is a dedicated gentleman, doing the work of benefiting others.

Entering the reading room, it is better than the mercenary intention of the market, and the fake gentlemen in the dance hall are very good. Now some brain melons have gone straight to profits, those earthly entanglements, trivialities in life, all began to move away from the wise, the street crossed waist to the mobile phone shouting something, much like a fictional sketch is walking. Money, is indeed a good role, he is a stop on the street, has surpassed the brilliance of the two or eight beautiful women, stirring people's hearts, the face is crimson, so that this flowery world is even more charming.

The tillers of economic power have been clearly distinguished, and they are naked and displayed in the same sun. Just when most people lament that they are so poor that only the money is left, after having ill-gotten gains, they can't wait to tear off the fig leaf of human nature to expose the original inferior roots, jump into the quagmire of spiritual garbage and can't extricate themselves. In fact, those foxes and fake tigers are pretentious and shallow, they are not hungry for knowledge in their bones, but they rub shoulders with knowledge because of some factor, and once the previous achievements are abandoned, their painful expressions are like a willow tree after autumn.

I dare say that if you have books as a preparation for life, you will have a little more connotation, you will regard knowledge as wealth, and you will never panic when the wind blows.

The sun in the library is still so bright, we walk in and out every moment of the day... The days are running forward like water. However, such a day did not last, and due to the simplification of the organs, Teacher Shi was naturally diverted. The door to the library reading room has since been guarded by a brass lock. Walking up to the sixth floor, the deep corridor is like a bottomless abyss, and I suddenly feel that my eyes and my heart are much darker. Perhaps a sign that within half a year, the company was weak in competition, and the declining economy and the reality of ruin were caught off guard.

This nimble flame is really extinguished.

I had to follow the light of the flames again, looking for the overflowing fragrance of books, what could stop the yearning for light. It was in the station of one library after another that we stopped, oxygenated, and went to the next one.

A door

The sun was already late autumn, and the harvested rice was on its way back to the warehouse.

Cities adjacent to farmland still have a commercial atmosphere.

I drifted around, driving a spiritual carriage back to the past.

The reeds are old and vermilioned, my cabin is like a wounded deer, the wind is tightly hunting helpless loneliness, the desk lamp on the case is tired, and a sad gaze wanders from morning to night. The endless checkered paper, the endless ploughing of the mulberry land, the spirit of words through the veins of my soul, sinking into the dantian. The wind rings in the ears, profits rise and fall like frogs, pure admiration goes into vulgarity, and the balance of utilitarianism and benevolence slowly tilts.

Close the door.

Inside and outside the door are two distinct landscapes. Open the book, open the aphorisms and proverbs of a lifetime, and condense the inch of fate. In the long corridor of deep history, the noisy sound came to me from far and near--the clear spring of the "Book of Poetry", surging and rushing, all the way to the text of the spirit, through the sonorous melody of the ancient Huazhang; "Leaving the Sorrow" is like a red chrysanthemum, encountered a flood attack in May, Dr. Qu's voice is asking: The road is long and its cultivation is far away, I will seek up and down! The protracted Scream is clearly audible in the whirlpool of the New Culture Movement, with daggers and throwing guns hitting the throat of the feudal empire. Yes, there is no road on the earth, and the more people walk, the more it becomes a road.

The Qingbo of the Hulan River was worried about Ai Ai, and he did not expect that the girl surnamed Zhang's willingness turned into a river lamp to turn on the fireworks on both sides of the river, and the vivid image of "The Field of Life and Death" told what... In the blink of an eye, it is winter again, and in the blink of an eye, it is the season when thousands of trees stretch their youth. I still wandered around with persistent beliefs, and only inexhaustible spiritual food in my bag.

National folklore is a shawl to withstand the cold, no matter where I go, it warms me. Together with poetry that goes deep into folklore, it is another bloodline of my life.

Finally back to reality, a bookstore, a tube of bald pens, an old-fashioned computer is all I have. So I closed the door, separated from the worldly fetters, separated from the invasion of copper smell, calmed down, and sank into the book, like a meditating monk facing the wall.

We're all in the cage

I have always been dismissive of some of the novels of male and female love in the early years, not to mention that there is a language barrier in reading, and I think that those texts are more than sentimental and not serious enough. Lu Xun was an exception. This is because of his political novels and essays. And Qian Zhongshu did not take root in my bones, before which I always listened to some literati and petty bourgeoisie shouting the sentences in "Siege of the City": the people inside want to go out, and the people outside want to come in.

It doesn't just mean love. It is enough to reveal such a sentence, not to mention that the women in the text have their own dispositions, as if labeled, and what is more admirable is the wonderful metaphor in the text, which is really wonderful, just like the whole work is set with dazzling gems, providing the reader with the pleasure of appreciation.

What Mr. Qian Zhongshu said was quite euphemistic and polite. How much better are we than monkeys coming down from trees? The environment we live in is like a cage. We want to go out, constantly struggling, love, career, friends... This simple yet complex environment will never pass away.

But what if we don't go out? In your own space, practicing words, punching... Read books, drink tea, sit with wives and children, and enjoy a happy world. Now, the seemingly prosperous literary works are rising and falling, but the moisture can be dried up, the floating flesh is removed, and the deformity of the branches and dwarfs are presented, and even the people in the circle are blushing.

It is important to write about what we are familiar with, about life in progress or in modern times, so as not to let the painless mess come out of the cage.

"The Siege" is a mountain in front of us, and it is still very lively to read, not the splendid embroidery of words, but the story and philosophy; not the kind of closed boudoir that cannot enter the lobby, remove the hijab, and look at it very well.

There is a state of me and no self

At first, I read a few pages of "The Realm of Having Me without Myself" recommended to me by my friends, and I felt very twisted, full of dry fragments of thought, and I wanted to give up. If you beat the spirit and read it again, you can't sustain yourself, and you enter Zen in a trance.

An ethereal, all-encompassing sword of sunlight, a door that is opening: the outside is shining brightly, and the inside of the door is cloudy. I was at the critical line, peeking into the limits of déjà vu. We want to say, but we don't say it, we are familiar with it, but we are unaware, much like "a child who breaks the heavens", really like "this sister I have seen before", we often germinate such a realm: suddenly imagine ourselves like Christ, leading us to meditate on Mass!

Life is far away from us because our fantasies go beyond the event itself, just as "normal is an exception"; life is close to us, because none of us can take refuge in heaven, we keep to ourselves, sentient beings seek the unknown, man is trapped in mystery, even if the wrong way is wandering, even if the other shore is boundless; we are in the "card game", we are in the assumption, wearing the cross of happiness and pain to run through life... This is a model text that can not only be understood, but also can be spoken, and it is more economical than politics.

What Shi Mengze (Mengze) told us is a Buddhist sutra that can be accepted in its entirety or its essence. Because we all have thoughts, there is an error between who and who.

Reading confusion

Nostalgia is the root of everyone's heart, and it is not certain when it will be committed. After eating the sky flying on the ground, we suddenly felt that there was nothing as tempting as the faint and fragrant knotty soup, the browned yellow millet rice, and the turquoise mountain wild vegetables.

After reading a large number of literary works, at the moment, I feel confused and confused, there are few real long-form masterpieces that make me confident to read them, and even some novellas and short stories can only be browsed like flowers and dragonflies, and I definitely do not have the patience and interest of watching "Sunny Days", "Red Flag Spectrum", and even some villain books. It is also difficult to find the intoxicated feeling of sitting in the field, standing in the downtown area and watching "Life", "Black Horse", "Here is a Magical Land", and "Ordinary World". The novellas that have brought me to tears several times are currently only Li Cunbao's "Flowers Under the Mountain" and "In the Mountains, The Nineteen Graves".

What is the reason? Are we growing up, or something else? Some people say that the current crops are sprinkled with pesticides and fertilizers, and although the yield has gone up, it has destroyed the original taste and will also bring people strange lesions. Some people also say that in the early years, they ate several meals of big fish and meat a year, and now they are in the New Year all day long, and their appetite has of course dropped sharply. I thought about it again and again, and I thought there was some truth.

But what about literature? There are still some things in the deep bones that are secret, so you may as well talk about it. A group of avant-garde writers listed in the press, they produce amazing output, producing mysterious and empty urban life, artificially weaving absurdity and bizarreness, playing avant-garde, stream of consciousness in writing, a theme, that is, to make people read hard, and even simply reject readers. Some people say that this is profound. The publications kept pushing, and put them in the position of eye-catching. There are also some circles between young and old people - young people are not young, middle-aged writers, they are not old, wielding a board axe to dance around, it seems to have a look, but the style of the work continues to go down three ways, the color is also like makeup, and then open the beauty, can not withstand the time to delete.

Most of his works are restored to their originality, back to the old room, where there is nothing but a double bed. Of course, the protagonists of the novel are all vicissitudes and very romantic, and they are all old, but they have taken the peach blossom luck, interfered with the third party, and interpreted the pursuit of marriage freedom and other nice words. Sex, sexual intercourse, these darlings who had previously hidden behind the scenes, now let the writers shake their hands to pull the curtain open. Flip through the tomes after those bricks, which one lacks the casual work of those cattle?! Can you write anything else, that in life except for the things in bed, you are all impotent and weak?

Once elegant literature and art slip into the gray stalls, in addition to the writer making an ill-gotten fortune, the main thing is to harm the body and mind of the vast number of readers. Obscene works, showing a high and cold face, but always let people stay away.

The essence of literature is not a record, it is not preachy. A novel and a poem are to uphold the dual morality of politics and life, or a frame of scenery, or a plate of home-cooked food, to meet the needs of the public's vision and appetite, or to guide people to think deeply, or to inspire people to constantly improve their lives. Some people ignore the enlightening purpose of literature to serve the people, and they inevitably go astray.

Novels, poems, or essays are published for people to see, and if you regard obscurity as advanced, and describe dreams as personalities, it is a bit of a suspicion of rape of public opinion.

If you have to take it out, regardless of people's appetites, I suggest that a special journal be set up to provide a publishing position for the novels and poems written by the next four or five generations, but it must be refrigerated, buried in a very primitive altar, buried in the ground, and then unearthed, which is the most appropriate.

Say it to make people remember

When reading, there are two kinds that may toss and turn me out of sleep, one is of course the kind of work that goes deep into the bones, as if opening a window, and the other is of course the current various newspapers and periodicals are full of articles, gods, and clouds, like the old man's cotton pants waist is loose and crumbling. The damn thing is that I am not a guy who is blind to it, I have to call it true, and I will eventually suffer myself.

I once came into contact with a person who controlled a newspaper supplement, and strictly said that he read a lot, especially the works of foreign masters almost let him read it once, and he grew a lot of knowledge. It should not be a bad thing to learn more, but this guy must take the model of who is who abroad every time he selects a manuscript. If it is like something written by a foreigner, he says yes, but it is not like it, then pick up the stick and sweep it through. Much like a craftsman who works in an earthen workshop but has a bad temper. He was very bullish and spoke quite loudly, either scolding China for having no poets, or saying that a novelist had no culture. As soon as this kind of thinking was strange, he also went step by step to produce some poems, published them in his own edition, and self-righteously said that he would guide the trend of contemporary literature.

A region has a historical origin of a region, and one side of the water and soil nurtures the other side of the human fireworks. Always write those "born elsewhere", play word games, even if you take the tone is very Western, but it is also a parrot tongue, but also make the reader very upset, is not to smash their own rice bowl, the peers are also implicated.

I am not against exploration, only exploration can improve. But our roots are Chinese, and our mother tongue is Chinese characters. Remember! Only the national is the world. Sadly, some of the writers who appear frequently in the press have not been able to make people remember their works, even if they can do it.

This night, I read another article about this kind of thing, as if I had fallen into the hands of a peddler again, and I couldn't sleep and had insomnia.

Hold on

Like a small company commander with a small pistol in his hand, I shouted this weak-hearted sentence, and I felt a little dizzy. Maybe I'm emboldened for myself. It's all for that position.

The age of the daughter is the age of fatigue and timidity, as long as she makes a little trick to quench Mei's thirst, she will sing and run forward. However, it is a bit funny for me to say this sentence with dewdrops of passion.

"Hold on!" Rilke was the first to utter the words, followed by a tail — "It means everything!" "People who are in the literary camp have a sharp mind. I am not the kind of person who has the insight but does not say anything, after years of rinsing and sculpting, standing by the stream of poetry, looking at the moon in the sky, looking at the shadow in the water, the horse has been tired, the person has been haggard, the road is still far away, I really should cheer myself up, then insist, insist!

All the scenery is on the other side of the mountain, and the sun always comes at dawn. Someone really couldn't stand it. First of all, I kept my absurd hair without long hair, and I was anti-realist, thinking that I was a master. Then take shortcuts in the ultra-short way, rush to make quick profits, rely on memorizing a few foreign translated poems, or read some of Thesky's novels, and feel foreign; and some literati, like a lame salesman, bump into the doors of some so-called famous artists in the east and west, and write an article that is not up to the word. As soon as you hit the eye, you will see the flaws, as obvious as a mung bean fly joining the ranks of butterflies. It was very embarrassing for the Butterfly Family. After a while, his own face also showed an embarrassing flush. I have to go to the roots. Some of the people who are left behind are self-inflicted, and they have set themselves up, but they have no city but are hard to charge Sven. The literary works of the self-extinct people, the symbolic, abstract and absurd techniques used unfavorably, result in self-defeating, and the elaborate night pot can only be enjoyed by itself, and it cannot be taken under the eyes of the people of the whole country.

So who do you blame?

There are also a few "tailors", with personal hobbies, who have trained a group of poets and poets who seem to have foreign blood relations, and as a result, they have forgotten the market adjustment and prediction, and like the brewery production line, they wholesale out in boxes. Do not transform and do not adjust the formula, after a few years of drying, diners have long lost their appetite, they still do not know. Smashing the brand, not to mention, but also stirring up the market has no vitality, had to go bankrupt, roll cover and leave.

The misleading of individual masters is also quite harmful, and the whole sentence of nonsense is made, and the editor puts it in the headlines, like Fan Wen, let the latecomers follow suit, and it is strange not to be bad.

Don't pull the flag, who can think of what genre to write when writing? First let us sink, sink to the bottom of life, sink under the sea of books, pick up some pearls or something, and then inlay them to the right place, with this little light shining, our road will not go astray.

We just kept going.

【Introduction】Hongxue, whose real name is Qin Axechen, is a native of Ningxiaopu Tunsheng, Bayan County, Heilongjiang Province, who later moved with his family to Huzhong in Daxing'anling, and graduated from university and settled in the red grassland. He is a member of the Chinese Writers Association.

His works have been scattered in more than 100 newspapers and periodicals in China, such as People's Daily, People's Liberation Army Daily, People's Liberation Army Literature and Art, Poetry Journal, Stars, Caotang, Grassland, Selected Poems, Yalu River, etc., and he is the author of the poetry collection "Sunshine Scattered among the People", "Monuments Without Words", the prose collection "The Nearest Place is Far Away" and the legal news collection "Witness".