This little book begins with a light. One day eight years ago, the flame of the kerosene lamp suddenly flashed out of the depths of my memory. Through the light, I saw the look of my mother-in-law who made me cry. I also saw that the words that had been blocked behind her were illuminated and rolled towards me.
After my mother-in-law passed away, my plan to write a commemorative article for her was shelved again and again for twenty years. This time, the lighting was taken care of all the way, and "Mother-in-law" was completed in one go. After this essay was published, some people told me that they read it more than once, and others told me that they cried while reading it. In fact, I have been sentimental in this way during the writing process, and I decided to write down the family affection and nostalgia together.
I grew up in the country and have settled in the city for many years. My father and mother have always lived in our hometown, and they are getting older and older. I know that no matter what words I write for them, it will not relieve their loneliness. On the contrary, it may make them tired and annoyed. Instead of hiding away and writing articles, I might as well go back to my hometown to spend time with them. After being entangled in this way, the result was that there was no follow-up text about family ties, and the number of times I went back to my hometown did not increase.
That gleam of light is an eternal foreshadowing, always caring for you. In recent years, I often look at the sea of ??lights at night and believe that the light in a certain window is the kerosene lamp from the early years. I also often deliberately mishear the sound of the street during the day, making it the sound of water in the ravine and the echo. I probably want to use this childish way to mobilize my earliest memories, review my initial growth, and protect my immature nostalgia.
In the past year, I stopped hesitating and wrote "The Suning Farm", "The Cattle Farm" and "My Chinese" in one go.
I have slightly revised "Mother-in-law" and compiled it into one volume with three new articles.
I spent eight years listening to the voice of a child that I had used for more than ten years, and my voice suddenly changed.
I use four essays to connect the footprints of my childhood and move forward.
I used a chapter title as the title of the book precisely because I heard people say that the path of a lifetime depends on language.
I said in the article "My Chinese" that I lost the first word I recognized in my life. At this moment, I decided that the word had been found and it was "I". This group of essays all carry the airs of a big man, but it seems that "I" are so small and humble. I finally figured out that this "I" is a dustpan lying flat under the moonlight, a piece of grain left on the drying ground, a cry involving the cow's nose, and a short story slipped out of the villain's book... …
In the past few decades, I don’t know how many words I have thrown around and thrown around. Those nouns about farm tools, verbs about farming, slang and proverbs about rural customs, together with warmth and joy, as well as hardship and sorrow, drifted away in the wind behind me...
Perhaps, I Only by using this "non-fictional" text can we preserve a stone mill, a courtyard dam, a backpack, a schoolbag and a nursery rhyme, retain the old things that are about to go away, and partially put the complicated thoughts into place. Only when you settle down can you gradually recognize and truly find that little "me".
A person’s growth experience will eventually participate in the history of a generation.
A person’s rural memories may arouse some people’s nostalgia.
There is an old saying in the countryside, a seedling of grass is nourished by dew. I can’t tell whether it is my writing that feeds my nostalgia, or my nostalgia that feeds my writing. Perhaps, they are dew to each other and nourish each other. They take care of each other and will definitely attract more people's attention, just like my affectionate words were deeply loved in the beginning.
In any case, I have spoken out as much as possible about my unfounded concern for the past, my boundless attachment to my hometown, and my immature sadness about my destiny. I think there is at least one person, there must be one person, who is still willing to listen to what I have to say and experience this recollection, yearning and remembrance with me. No matter whether our rural experiences are similar or different, more or less, some or none, he is willing to work with me to protect this dignity, innocence and compassion.
The best thing is that there is a second person, a third person, and more people who are willing to open this real book.
As for authenticity, it should be noted that I have used pseudonyms for individual characters in the book. The reason why I do this is because my hometown will always be there, and I must take care of every road back home.
There is still a lot I need to do for this. However, this seems to be all I need to say here.
Ma Ping
Ma Ping, born in Cangxi County, Sichuan Province in 1962, is currently the director of the Creative Research Office of the Sichuan Writers Association. Member of the Chinese Writers Association, member of the Presidium of the Sichuan Writers Association, and a first-class writer.
He is the author of the novels "Caofang Mountain", "Fragrant Car", "Fragrance of the Valley", and novel collections "Wheat-Colored Summer" and "Shuangzhazi Street", etc. "Caofang Mountain" won the 5th Sichuan Literature Award. In recent years, he has successively published long prose essays such as "Mother-in-law", "Shaning Field", "Cattle Farm" and "My Chinese". Among them, "Shaning Field" with nearly 20,000 words has been reprinted in full in "Selected Prose Magazine".