Shi Tiesheng Yuan Longping Mo Yan misses his mother 丨 The word "mother" is just a call, which also touches the heartstrings

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother's Day

"Man, even if you live to be eighty or ninety years old, you can still be a little childish with a mother."

"When a mother smiles, the world smiles at him, and when a mother sings, the world sings to him."

Mom not only gives us life and guards us to grow up, but also teaches us to grow and shapes our souls. When it comes to moms, we often don't need more words, "The word 'mom' is just a scream and also touches the heartstrings." ”

Many famous artists have written about their mothers with deep affection, and the latest publication of Unity Publishing House, "The Study of Maternal Love: Famous Artists Remember Mothers", is a collection of essays on the theme of maternal love. Behind each article in the book there is a unique mother, simple, elegant, industrious, wise, gentle, strict, they have different life experiences and life wisdom, and they also have different ways of educating their children, but after reading these articles, you will find that they actually have one thing in common, that is, selfless love for children.

Today is Mother's Day, let's read Shi Tiesheng, Yuan Longping and Mo Yan's mother together, and wish the mothers of the world happiness and health!

Acacia tree

#史铁生

When I was ten years old, I won first in an essay contest. My mother was still young at the time and was anxious to tell me about herself, that her compositions were even better when she was a child, and that the teacher did not even believe that such a good article would be written by her. The teacher came to the house and asked if the adults in the family had helped. I was probably not yet ten years old. ”

I listened with disappointment and deliberately laughed: "Possibly? What is it that may not be enough? She explained. I pretended not to pay any attention to her words at all, and played ping-pong balls against the wall, making her angry enough. But I admit that she is smart, that she is the best-looking woman in the world. She was making herself a dress with blue and white flowers.

At twenty years old, my legs were crippled. In addition to painting Easter eggs, I thought I should do something else, changed my mind a few times, and finally wanted to learn to write. My mother was not young at that time, and for the sake of my legs, she began to have gray hair on her head. The hospital has made it clear that there is no cure for my illness at this time.

My mother's full mind was still on treating me, looking for doctors everywhere, inquiring about folk remedies, and spending a lot of money. She always found strange medicines for me to eat, for me to drink, or to wash, compress, smoke, or moxibustion. "Don't waste your time! It doesn't work at all! "I said, I was only thinking about writing novels, as if that thing could save the crippled man from his predicament." Try again, how do you know it will be useless without trying? Every time, she said, she held out hope reverently.

However, for my legs, as many times as I hope, I am disappointed. The last time, my crotch was burned. The doctor at the hospital said that this was too much of a suspense, and for paralyzed patients, it was almost fatal. I wasn't too scared, I thought it was better to die, and it was painful to die. My mother panicked for several months, guarding me day and night, and as soon as she changed her medicine, she said, "How can it be hot?" I'm still paying attention! "Fortunately, the wound is getting better, otherwise she would have gone crazy."

Later she found out I was writing a novel. She said to me, "Then write well." "I heard that she was finally desperate to heal my leg." "When I was younger, I also liked literature the most," she said, "and when I was about the same age as you are now, I also thought about writing," she said. She reminded me.

We both tried our best to forget my legs. She went everywhere to borrow books from me, pushed me to the movies against the rain or snow, and held out hopes as she used to find me a doctor and inquire about folk remedies.

When I was thirty years old, my first novel was published, but my mother was no longer alive. A few years later, another of my novels was awarded, and my mother had been away from me for seven full years.

After winning the award, more reporters came to the door to interview. Everyone was well-intentioned and thought I wasn't easy. But I only prepared a set of words, and I felt upset when I said it.

I shook the car and ducked out, sitting in the quiet woods of the small park, thinking: Why did God call my mother back early? Confused, I heard the answer: "Her heart is too bitter." God saw that she could not stand it and called her back. My heart took a little comfort, I opened my eyes and saw the wind blowing through the woods.

I shook my car out of there and wandered the streets, not wanting to go home.

After my mother died, we moved. I rarely went to the little courtyard where my mother lived. The small courtyard is at the end of a large courtyard. I occasionally rocked the car to the compound to sit, but did not want to go to the small courtyard, pushed the hand cranked car to enter the inconvenience, the old ladies in the courtyard still treat me as children and grandchildren, especially thinking that I did not have a mother, but did not say, just some gossip, blame me for not going often. I sat in the middle of the yard, drinking the tea of the owner and eating the melon of the west family.

One year, people finally mentioned their mother again: "Go to the small courtyard to see, the acacia tree planted by your mother has blossomed this year!" "My heart was shaking, but I still pushed that it was too difficult for the hand-cranked car to get in and out. Everyone stopped talking, busy with something else, talking about the house where we used to live now lives in a small family, the woman has just given birth to a son, the child does not cry or make trouble, just staring at the shadows of the trees on the window.

I didn't expect the tree to be alive. That year, my mother went to the Labor Bureau to find me a job, and when she came back, she dug up a freshly unearthed "mimosa" on the side of the road, thinking it was a mimosa, planted in a pot, and it turned out to be an acacia tree.

My mother had always liked those things, but her mind was all elsewhere. The next year the acacia tree did not sprout, and the mother sighed once, and was reluctant to throw it away, still letting it grow in the tile pot. In the third year, the acacia tree grew leaves again and flourished. The mother was happy for many days, thinking that it was a good sign, and often went to serve it, and did not dare to be careless. Another year later, she removed the acacia tree from the pot and planted it on the ground in front of the window, sometimes nagging, not knowing that the tree would not bloom until several years. Another year later, we moved, and the grief caused us to forget the little tree.

Instead of wandering the streets, I thought, let's go and see the tree. I also wanted to see the room where my mother had stayed. I always remembered that there was a child who had just come into the world, who did not cry or make trouble, and stared at the shadows of the trees. Is it the shadow of the acacia tree? There was only that tree in the courtyard.

The old ladies in the courtyard still welcomed me so much, pouring tea in the east house and lighting cigarettes in the west house and delivering them to me. Everyone didn't know about my award, maybe knew, but didn't think it was important; still all asked me about my legs and asked if I had a formal job.

This time, I really can't shake the car into the courtyard. The small kitchen in front of the house is enlarged, and the aisle is so narrow that a person pushing a bicycle in and out has to be sideways. I asked about the acacia tree. Everyone said that every year it blossomed and grew to the height of the house. With that said, I can't see it again. If I ask someone to look at me behind my back, it's not impossible. I regret not rocking my car in the first two years.

I walked slowly down the street with my car in no hurry. Sometimes people just want to be alone for a while. Sadness also becomes enjoyment.

One day when the child grows up, he will think of his childhood, he will think of the shadows of the trees that are shaking, he will think of his own mother, and he will run to see the tree. But he wouldn't know who planted the tree and how.

Mom, the rice is ripe

#袁隆平

The rice is ripe, Mom, I'm coming to see you.

Originally wanted to accompany you quietly to talk to the conversation, the villagers in Anjiang are really too enthusiastic, the day is so hot, they have been accompanying, thank them.

Mom, you are in Anjiang, I am in Changsha, far away. I always think of you in my dreams, thinking of this place in Anjiang.

It is difficult to predict that you, a lady who is accustomed to the bustling city, will eventually stay in such a remote mountain village forever. Remember that? In 1957, I was assigned here from the university in Chongqing, and it was you who accompanied me, with my face pressed against the map, my fingers following the dense thin lines, and I searched for a long time to find such a small dot on the map. Then you sighed and said, "Child, you are going to suffer when you get there..." I said, "I'm young, and I still have a violin." ”

What I didn't expect was that for me, in order to help me with my children, I dragged you to Anjiang. In the end, it is you who suffers! Where are you used to walking in the countryside! I always remember that every time you have to hold your hand, you dare to walk through the field path in front of the house and behind the house.

Anjiang is everything to me, but I forgot that for you who have lived in a big city all your life, 70 years old, everything has to be adapted again. I have never asked you what is difficult, I always thought there would be time, there will be time, and when I am idle, I will accompany you well... Even when you left, I was busy with meetings in Changsha. That day happened to be the Mid-Autumn Festival, peers from all over the country came, it is not easy to engage in hybrid rice, I am the convener, how to accompany everyone to spend this festival, ah, but the son will always owe your mother you...

In fact, I know that that time is already your last moment. I always hope that Mom, you will last two more days. Who knows, even if I rushed to Anjiang before dawn, I still couldn't see your mother for the last time.

It's too late, it's all too late, and I really regret it. Mom, at that time, you must have waited for me for a long time, looked forward to me for a long time, you must have a lot to say to your son, there are many things to explain. But how can I be so confused! For so many years, why can't I do less field, do one less experiment, one less day errands, sit down and quietly accompany you. Even if...... Even once.

Mom, whenever my research has achieved results, whenever I talk and laugh in the international forum, whenever I receive one trophy after another, I always say to people, the person who has the deepest impact on me in this life is your mother!

I can't imagine, without your English enlightenment, in a state of isolation, how could I read the world's most advanced scientific literature and use a vision beyond that era to search for the genetics masters Mendel and Morgan? I can't imagine that in those turbulent years, from Beiping to Hankou, from Taoyuan to Chongqing, without your persistence and encouragement, how could I get a systematic modern education and gain the courage to soar freely in the great rivers? I can't imagine that without you telling me about Nietzsche at the cradle, about this great philosopher with high vitality and willpower, how could I have firmly believed in thousands of failures that there must be a seed that can make thousands of people say goodbye to hunger?

They say, I changed the world with a seed. I know that this seed was planted by your mother when I was a child!

The rice is ripe, Mom, can you smell it? Is AnJiang okay? Do the fields there still have a familiar laugh? After 21 years, I vaguely saw that the little grandson held your hand and walked past the back of the rice wave; I also want to tell you that the mother, who has never cultivated in her life, crosses the palm of her hand, the straw piles up on the field, the grain peels in the sun, and the paddy field smells orange and yellow under the western sun. These are all the words that my son wants to say to you, and I can't finish them...

Mom, the rice is ripe, I miss you!

Mother's singing

#莫言

I was born in a remote and backward village in Gaomi County, Shandong Province. At the age of 5, it was a difficult time in Chinese history. The first memories of my life are of my mother sitting under a pear tree with white flowers, pounding wild vegetables on a white stone with a purple-red mallet for washing. The green juice flowed to the ground and splashed on the mother's chest, and the air was filled with the bitter smell of wild vegetable juice. The sound of the mallet hitting the wild vegetables, dull and damp, made my heart feel a tightening.

It is a picture with sounds, colors, and smells, and it is the starting point of my life memory and the beginning of my literary path. I use my ears, nose, eyes, and body to grasp life and feel things. The memories stored in my mind are all such three-dimensional memories with sounds, colors, smells, and shapes, and living comprehensive images. This way of feeling life and remembering things determines the face and character of my novel to some extent. What makes me even more unforgettable in this memory picture is that my mother, who is full of sorrow, actually hummed a small song in her mouth when she was working hard! At that time, in our large family of large populations, it was the mother who worked the hardest, and it was the mother who suffered the most hunger. It only makes sense that she was crying while pounding wild vegetables, but she sang instead of crying, a detail that I can't understand very well to this day.

My mother had never read a book, did not know the written word, and the suffering she had suffered in her life was really difficult to describe. War, hunger, disease, in the midst of such suffering, what kind of force supported her to survive, what kind of force made her sing when she was hungry and sick? Before my mother was alive, I always wanted to talk to her about this issue, but every time I felt ineligible to ask her questions. For a while, several women in the village committed suicide in a row, and I inexplicably felt a great fear. At that time, our family was in the most difficult moment, my father was framed, there was not much food in the family, and my mother had a recurrence of an old illness and had no money for treatment. I was always worried that my mother would go down the road of self-sufficiency. Whenever I returned from work, I would shout loudly as soon as I entered the door, and only when I heard my mother's answer did I feel a stone fall to the ground. Once when I came back from work in the evening, my mother did not answer my cry, and I hurried to the cow pen, the mill, and the toilet to look for it, and there was no trace of my mother. I felt the most terrible thing happen and couldn't help but cry out loud. At this time, the mother came in from outside. My mother was very upset with my crying, and she thought that a person, especially a man, should not just cry casually. She asked me why I was crying. I was vague and didn't dare to say my concerns to her. My mother understood what I meant, and she said to me: Son, rest assured, Yama will not go if he does not call me!

Although my mother's words were not high-pitched, they suddenly gave me a sense of security and hope for the future. Many years later, when I recalled my mother's words, my heart was even more moved, a solemn promise made by a mother to her worried son. Live, no matter how hard it is! Although my mother has been called away by Yama, the courage to struggle to live in the face of suffering contained in my mother's words will always accompany me and inspire me.

I once saw on television an image that I will never forget: after the Israeli artillery bombarded Beirut, the billowing smoke had not yet cleared, and an old lady with a gaunt face and a dirt-stained body took out a small box of turquoise cucumbers and a few green celery from the house. She stood by the side of the road selling vegetables. When the reporter pointed the camera at her, she raised her fist high and said in a hoarse but unusually firm voice: We have lived on this land for generations, even if we eat the sand here, we can live!

The old lady's words made me feel thrilled, and the great concepts of women, mothers, land, and life churned in my mind, making me feel an indestructible spiritual force, and this belief in living even if it ate the sand was the fundamental guarantee for mankind to live endlessly through all the calamities. This kind of cherishing and respect for life is also the soul of literature.

During those years of hunger, I saw many scenes of human dignity lost because of hunger, such as a group of children surrounding the village grain keeper to learn to bark in order to get a piece of bean cake. The custodian said that whoever learned the most like it would be rewarded with bean cakes. I was also one of those kids who learned to bark. Everyone learned a lot. The custodian threw the bean cake far away, and the children rushed up to grab it. This scene was seen by my father. When I got home, my father criticized me harshly. Grandpa also criticized me harshly. Grandpa said to me: The mouth is an aisle, whether it is the taste of mountains and seas, or the bark of grass roots, eating into the stomach is the same, why learn to bark for a piece of bean cake? People should have backbones! Their words did not convince me at the time, because I knew that the taste of mountains and seas and the bark of grass roots and trees were not the same when eaten into the stomach! But I also felt a sense of dignity in their words, which was human dignity and human demeanor. Man cannot live like a dog.

My mother taught me that man should endure suffering and live indomitable, and my father and grandfather taught me to live with dignity. Their education, though I did not understand it well at the time, gave me a standard of value for making judgments in the face of major events.

The years of hunger have made me experience and insight into the complexity and simplicity of human nature, made me realize the minimum standards of human nature, made me see through certain aspects of human nature, and many years later, when I picked up a pen to write, these experiences became my precious resources, and the reason why there are so many harsh descriptions of reality and relentless analysis of the darkness of human nature in my novels is inseparable from the past life experience. Of course, in revealing the darkness of society and dissecting the cruelty of human nature, I have not forgotten the noble and dignified side of human nature, because my parents, grandparents and many people like them set a shining example for me. The precious qualities of these ordinary people are the fundamental guarantee for a nation to not fall in suffering.

Read more

The Study of Motherly Love: Famous People Remember Their Mothers

(Click on the cover page to participate in the pre-sale)

About the Author:

Yongxin Zhu, PhD candidate, professor. He is currently a member of the Standing Committee and Deputy Secretary-General of the CppcC National Committee, and a vice chairman of the Central Committee of the China Association for Promot He is the author of "Zhu Yongxin's Educational Works" (sixteen volumes), "Research on Chinese Educational Thought", "Dilemma and Transcendence - A Review of Contemporary Chinese Education", "Future School", "Spring Dating: Notes of Zhu Yongxin, Member of the Standing Committee of the National Committee of the Chinese People's Political Consultative Conference", "Mission and Responsibility: Records of Zhu Yongxin's 2019 Performance of Duties by Standing Committee Member of the National Committee of the Chinese People's Political Consultative Conference", "Shuxiang CPPCC Mantingfang: Transcript of Zhu Yongxin's Performance of Duties in 2020", etc.

Introduction:

From the perspective of education, the editors of this book have compiled a book of essays selected by Lao She, Ji Xianlin, Shi Tiesheng, Tie Ning, Yuan Longping and other famous artists recalling their mothers, and commented on each article from the perspective of education to find out the laws of love education.

The theme of this book is clear, moving people with love, touching people with emotion, and through delicate and warm brushstrokes, real emotions evoke people's endless love and longing for their mothers, and even the regret of "children want to raise and do not wait". Every time I read one, it seems to recall the bits and pieces of being with my mother as a child, and also tell the enlightenment and influence of my mother on myself, love and majesty, so that readers can truly appreciate the warmth, simplicity and selflessness of maternal love.

The whole book highlights the educational significance of maternal love and guides parents and readers to understand the essence of education and the significance of maternal love education. This book is not only a masterpiece of prose, but also a heart-warming "dialogue" between educators and people from all walks of life on the issue of mother's education.

— END —

I knew you were watching!