Splicing Autobiography (Life): A Questionnaire of mine
What is your age and main job?
Age: twenty-five.
Main works:
In recent years, some new artistic explorations have been made and nearly 400 poems, essays, lyrics and fairy tales have been published. Among them, I feel better about myself: I am a wayward child, Water Village, Return, Early Summer and Ten Lyrics. 10 lyrics won1979.10-191.12 "Star Poetry Creation Award".
Who influenced you the most from childhood to adolescence?
What constitutes the original me?
Is it an Anhui ballad sung by an old woman when she washes clothes at night? Did my aunt tell us the story of the Warring States Period when she coaxed us into taking a nap? Did my sister make paper, apples and glasses? Is it a cloth kite that dad can't fly? Did the teacher take me home with a small colored book? Are you classmates?
What is this?
The biggest and most irreplaceable, of course, is my mother. My sister and I both worship my mother.
When I was a child, I always missed my mother. I miss her, just like a small piece of wood in the sea missing the landing site. No matter how far away my mother is, it seems that as long as she hums gently, I can hear it, as long as she walks towards me, I can feel it. I remember one winter, I had a habitual high fever, and my mother came to wrap me up and put me in a stroller. The car was covered with white gauze. She pushed me to the infirmary. The world is asleep, only the stars are big and bright, the cars creak and my mother tells me fairy tales. What a beautiful fairy tale, I can still see it now. The world in fairy tales floats in the night sky with white water vapor. ...
Motherly love is the core of my character. I am eager to believe-beyond believing in my own beliefs; Eager to give, but also eager to get; Longing to live in selfless people and the world, longing for sacred faith, longing for freedom and beauty; Longing to overcome death in the light wave of love.
What is the main factor of personality change in your life?
I can't imagine my life, I can only recall the 25 years I have experienced.
In my life, there is a fanatical monsoon, which makes me fall in love with the patterns on the back of ladybugs, the feathers of waterfowl and the dreams rising in nature. It makes me fall in love with the north and south of the motherland-those farmers who are as silent as dusk, those children carrying straw baskets, and the dust makes their smiles moving and makes me fall in love with my children. She will be afraid of the flying of black butterflies and love her relatives ... my love, sometimes.
It is the love of life and nature that has changed me, washed my soul, kept me away from vulgarity and gained a new life. Of course, the blindness caused by fanaticism also made me suffer, which made me undergo several major mutations. Pain makes me learn to think, and cold reception makes me self-respecting and tough.
Could you please confirm your temperament?
I seem to be a multi-temperament Federation. I like jumping like a child, meditating in the dusk like an old man, and comforting the world with a peaceful voice. My blood, under the harsh ice, will suddenly burn violently because of fighting and only love. I am hesitant and agile; I am withdrawn and can communicate with many people. I am changeable and will never change. Because every temperament is subordinate to the temperament in power, I feel quite unified.
Would you please confirm your role?
My personality and temperament are all the same, and they are all from the Federation. But the difference is that this Federation has a dominant commander-in-chief, which I inherited from my mother, Don? Don Quixote's personality: kindness, courage and unyielding desire that does not conform to the trend.
At what age are you basically stereotyped?
Maybe, now.
What kind of personality helps you to succeed? What is holding you back?
Stubborn self-confidence seems to help me, so that I can always redouble my efforts to resist pressure and blow. I think it's a pleasure to press and hit it with one blow.
I can only say "seems". Because I can't prove the quality of this role yet. I know the road to success is still far away.
I used to be lazy in self-tolerance, which seriously hindered me.
What personality traits do you think this job should have?
I think people of all personalities can reach a certain height in the art world as long as they go their own way and sincerely. Introverts may develop gentle art; Extroverts may develop heroic art.
In my opinion, no matter what kind of artist wants to really reach the peak, he must have a minimum quality and nature, that is, he will not give in, he will not be confused by worldly interests, he will not be forced by power, he will never auction his heart, and he will walk towards truth and dreams even in the face of the abyss of destruction.
In this sense, Qu Yuan is the highest model of all artists.
What's your hobby?
I have had many hobbies: reading all kinds of strange books; Swimming; Lying on the deserted grass, silently watching the clouds; Catch all kinds of beetles, butterflies and moths as specimens; Conduct some unsuccessful chemical experiments; Melting some nonferrous metals to cast portraits; Watch TV sketches and record vivid moments; Collect painting pages; Play badminton or go underground continuously. ...
I like doing too many things. It's a pity that I can't even look at it now. In terms of time, I am a big "pauper", and I will carefully calculate every penny-every minute to maintain my studies and pay off the debts left by my past "profligacy". I am so poor that I can only live for a lifetime. I can only do one thing in my life-learn to write. Sometimes, I feel cruel, but I feel helpless. Before human beings solve the problem of longevity, it is probably difficult for me to have any "spare time" for other hobbies.
Your motto in life, or what?
I think people are alive with a mission, so we should do what we should do, for ourselves and for others.
I hope I can do my own thing, purify my soul, leave fruit when the young petals drift away, so that life will not wither because of aging. I will use my life to pave a meadow, build a garden of poems and fairy tales, let children blend in with nature and future smiles, let people believe in beauty, believe that today's hope is tomorrow's reality, and believe that the world will fall in love with ideals and become ideal partners.
I hope I can finish these. I am eager to go to the last moment without shame. On the road of life and creation, I like China's old saying more and more: "I would rather die than surrender."
1April 5, 982
I gently opened a reader's letter, very short, written in the form of a poem-
How I want to know you! /You are a mystery in the fog; /How I want to love you! /You are a star in the sky.
-Readers
No address, no signature, what's going on? Have a sincere heart when needed.
Friend, when you need me, it is also the time when I need you.
I will tell you in this edited autobiography: my past, present and imagined future. You will know that my poem and I do not belong to the fog and distant stars, but to you, to the people, to the long and heavy night of our nation, and to the common needs of mankind-tomorrow.
2
I am a child in autumn.
There is a Tibetan White Pagoda near the Beijing Hospital where I was born.
three
When I was two years old, I invented a language almost like a bird, and no one could understand it except my sister, who was two years older than me.
My gestures were quick, and my parents were anxious to call my sister, who flew over to translate. Once she misspelled a word, and I stood in front of the mirror and got angry for a long time.
four
I gave up the language I invented and began to talk, laugh or cry like all children. I often cry because I always don't want to go to kindergarten. Later, I found that this kind of effort was futile, so I changed my way. I put my face on the cold glass counter and refused to leave like a snail-I wanted to buy books.
My mother always meets my demands for compensation for losses. My books are piled up in the kindergarten.
five
The night in kindergarten is very quiet. I was lying in a small square bed with another child, and we played "staying up late". ...
I failed to win the game.
After dawn, the child mysteriously told me that while I was asleep, he folded a swan with paper in the moonlight. I was suddenly moved-"moonlight"? "Moonlight" is so strange that I will never forget the word "moonlight". It awakened all my feelings about that night.
Of course I don't know, it belongs to poetry.
six
Like all children aged six or seven, my understanding of poetry is limited to rhyme.
A beautiful postcard aroused my desire to write poetry; Strictly speaking, it's not writing, it's dictation (because I can't write yet), which was written by my sister. She was wearing a holiday red sweater that day. ...
The full text of this poem is:
The stars are shining/the moon is smiling. /Me and my sister! /Wait for Dad to come back.
After writing the letter, my sister and I walked a long way in the spring breeze and had a great effort to put the letter in the high mailbox.
The postcard from my father's office caused a sensation.
seven
Everything has a real beginning.
I went to school and walked on the way after school.
Rain makes the world so clean and pleasant.
I put my schoolbag on my chest and walked past a familiar tower pine.
I froze-it was so beautiful! The tower pine is green, and the branches and leaves are covered with shiny raindrops; Every drop of rain reflects the world, and there is a beautiful rainbow swimming in the blue sky. ...
My heart seems to be covered with raindrops.
The feeling of being awakened by "moonlight" began to shine again.
I told my father this feeling; Father is very happy. He put his big gentle hand on my eight-year-old forehead. He told me it was a poem.
eight
"I want to be a poet in the future!"
This inexplicable sense of glory, like the afternoon sunshine, makes my back hot.
The well-dressed head teacher is teaching us to recite a poem. I think it's time to call me; The teacher really called: "Gu Cheng!"
I stood up slowly and looked at the ceiling of the old newspaper, as if looking at the huge blue sky and the rising airflow, which made me a commander in chief. ...
I was shocked by my own voice. I don't know how I ended the recitation, but I remember that when I sat down, I had to hold my knees with my hands to stop the trembling with excitement.
After class, all the students were excited to learn from me, shouting.
nine
Students gradually think that I am not very talkative. They even think that I am better at embarrassment than the most silent female classmates.
In fact, at that time, my mind was full of noises that came out of nowhere; My heart is driven, constantly changing its position with the world; I'm sorry ...
Falling leaves running in the street, broken posters, chimneys thinking silently, and stars facing the lights of the earth have replaced the shining raindrops in my heart; I began to think about infinity and finiteness, nature and society, the meaning of life, death, the mysterious door. ...
These are "sins" and cannot be said; In the school that teaches "Quotations", I was silent. Silence for a long time has become a habit.
10
At the age of eleven or twelve, I began to record my feelings and inspirations to nature with fragments of some sentences. Are they my original artistic language? I don't think so. Because all my passion and soul were tied to the wings of insects.
It was an evening, and the propagandist who copied the book dragged the heavy sacks away. I sat alone in front of the empty bookcase, and I didn't know what I was thinking. The light was getting darker and darker, and my hand moved, and I suddenly touched something under the old newspaper; I turned on the light. That is a famous popular science book-Insects by Fabres.
It was this surviving insect that made me an avid insect lover overnight. Millions of insects make up an infinite magical world-the golden glow on the scarab, the color of black pottery on the cicada's back, and the strange patterns on ladybugs and butterflies float in my dreams every night. ...
I am rich, and I have collected so many specimens-the poetic language given to me by nature.
1 1
Language is not enough. What life needs is a world.
I vaguely felt its call.
I trudged through the gray streets of Beijing, pulling the city bricks with a thick wire. My body is building an "anti-repair" underground Great Wall, and my eyes are looking at the sky.
I'm thinking about Boolean's words:
"I have one of the biggest dreams. I want to have a laboratory in the wild-a small piece of land, surrounded by all sides, lonely and desolate. Finally, I got this paradise. In the secluded place of a small village, there are many weeds: lying grass, Erythrina flowers, Brahman ginseng sand piles, community trees hiding diggers and bee hunters, and songbirds and frogs living near the green warbler pool. In May, they formed a deafening army of music. ...
"There are so many dear friends, so I gave up the city and came to the countryside ..."
Yes, our family is going to the countryside.
12
I'm imagining,
The illusion is shattered;
Fantasy always forgives disillusionment,
Disillusioned, but never give up fantasy.
—— 1969 Before Beijing left
Sometimes, poetry is smarter than the author.
I believed this when a rickety truck pulled my family and luggage into a village made of grass and mud.
The first night in this country was tragic. Things were scattered in the earth yard and on the village road, and the whole family was arranged on a small heatable adobe sleeping platform. Everything is very quiet and dark, as if the world no longer exists. We began to learn to think about the first words invented by human beings-water, fire and light. ...
Bye, J. h？ Fabers.
13
No burning, no food; The water collected from far away is too bitter ... where are the books? Of course not.
My fantasy and I have become as fragile as dead branches.
Just then, spring came-
Icicles smashed on the steps and broke into brilliant pieces; Snow water flowed out of the village, reflecting the deep blue sky in the north; Purple and green grass, smiling, appeared on the roadside; The cries of geese and wild pigeons filled the whole wasteland. ...
My soul melts little by little and becomes a stream and waterfall of poetry. ...
The volcano erupted.
The snow melted.
Spring water gushed from the wrinkles in the rock.
Splash waterfalls connect the rainbows in the sky.
……
14
I really seem to have entered the world of light-the sun rumbles in the sky, pouring white-hot light on the vast river beach, on thousands of small round lakes on the river beach, and on my peeling hands and swollen shoulders. ...
I seem to have disintegrated, my skin is no longer my boundary, and the earth can no longer capture me through gravity. I'm so free, floating in space with the hot air-
..... no purpose/rippling in the blue sky/letting the waterfall of sunshine/washing my skin black/ ...
Night arrival/I sailed into the harbor of the Milky Way/Millions of stars looked at me/I left behind/New moon-golden anchor/…/wheel with buttons/let time drag/greet the world/…/Night is like a valley/sun is like a peak/…//I printed my footprints/seals all over the earth/the world melted into/my life.
When I finished writing Fantasia of Beach Life word by word with my fingers, my father, who was swimming in the bend of the river, had come behind me. He said: The pig we released is gone.
15
My father and I often compare poems in the pigsty. He wrote a song "Fish in the Marsh" and I wrote a song "Wild Goose with Bullets". After writing, we played for a while, and then stuffed the poem into the earthen stove with straw. The pig food fermented on the earthen stove is steaming. ...
Father said: flame is the only reader of our poetry.
I wrote this sentence on the stove with charcoal and wiped it off with my fingers.
16
The sickle gnawed at my hand, and I found that the blood bead was so beautiful and shining with the brilliance of ruby; I can't mow the grass ... those button-like flowers looked at me sympathetically, as if with transparent tears. ...
I walked along the winding path to the village, thinking about the eyes of those little flowers. They have no names, no one knows them, they can't avoid the disaster that God has given them ... they are open, open, not for anything.
I wrapped my fingers at home and copied all the surviving poems into a book; A few words were written on the cover-"unknown little flower".
17
The wind belonging to the north blew off those nameless flowers on the grass beach for the third time.
Our family moved, like fallen leaves, and was blown by the "wind" to a county town near the mountain and the sea.
Autumn, spring, a whole spring without rain; The soil and stones on the mountain were turned white by the sun. When I was fifteen, I volunteered to carry water on the mountain with many farmers. I am barefoot, too, in order not to slip on the steep mountain road. How heavy! On my bleeding shoulders, it is the sloping sky, the trembling land and the country. ...
I fell, and the iron drum roared into the valley; I was stopped by two stout farmers. They looked at me sympathetically for a while, then confiscated my shoulder pole and assigned me as a "student" who had not been to school for more than three years to write a poem.
This is the first time I have written such a poem. I walked to the small blackboard with a piece of white lime, ashamed to look at the busy people around me. Write what? Write flowers? I smiled and wrote a few words that were the most popular at that time-
A broad shoulder carries a thousand pools of water.
Stride into Chung Shan Man ...
18
I finally came to a "mountain", which consists of books and picture books:
Qu Yuan, Tao Yuanming, Li Bai, Du Fu, Cao Xueqin …
Hugo, Balzac, Andersen, Hardy, Dostoevsky, Jack? London, simonov, Roman? Roland, Whitman, Hemingway ...
Titian, Da? Finch, Michelangelo, Rembrandt, Lie Bin, Rodin …
Under countless suns, the night disappeared and I almost forgot to sleep. I have been watching, reading, and rushing to the land of great men; I didn't fall until the reveille sounded faintly and the roar of the sea rang in my ear. ...
This is my second "love" after entomology.
19
Between poetry and painting, I hesitated for a spring; Then summer came, and I chose painting. An important reason for choosing it is that painting is more practical.
In order to survive and for art, I went to the city; I walked into a cold little north room, stupidly sharpened my pencil and drew those plaster balls and broken vases. I feel bored, but I keep pushing myself. Finally put up with it once. I tore open the black sunshade, and in an instant, I understood the color.
20
The world is not sketch, but color.
I began to face the society. I want to know everything and the truth in the world.
I read all kinds of books and talk to all kinds of people.
Another big moonlit night. I came back from a friend, and my blood was burning because of discussing the fate of mankind. I sat alone ... Finally, I opened a book about dialectics.
When I closed the book, it was already dawn, my hands and feet were cold, and the hot morning light didn't seem to warm them-I had left myself.
When I struggled to stand up with the table, I thought I was already a Marxist.
2 1
The Paris Commune was established in my heart.
I burned myself and transformed myself with my unique dedication.
I eat coarse grains, don't eat meat and sugar, try to reduce sleep, read philosophy, history and Marxist-Leninist works, and argue with others about some macro and micro issues that can't be verified. ...
Finally, I became a good worker and worked hard. ...
22
In those years when I forgot about art, I really seemed to have the characteristics of a universal screw
On a suffocating summer night, I stood by the assembly line in my big rubber boots, and my hands kept turning over hundreds of pounds of melted sugar. I kept falling asleep and was constantly awakened by the heat. ...
On a snowy day with few pedestrians, I saw the street with bare shoulders ... The room was warm and my other disciples were telling terrible yellow stories around the stove. ...
-I proudly humming a song, staring at a big movie advertisement I just drew. ...
-I stood nervously on the sloping tin roof 16 meters high, painted with antirust paint. ...
-A tree with a diameter of one meter bent my crowbar. ...
-The planer crashed with a bang and shattered. I instinctively jumped up and unplugged the wire. ...
-I turned black, and falling smoke and melted asphalt painted me as the blackest black man. ...
-I turned white, and the quicklime powder had a fever in my trachea. ...
-I slept on the wet grass covered with a small piece of plastic film, and behind me was my companion's amusement model made of zinc plate. ...
-I'm at a loss with the award. Sprint first, shot put first, senior member ...
I stood behind a counter in Wangfujing and politely handed my tennis shoes to a foreigner who wanted to buy running shoes. ...
-while looking for the official seal of the trade union, he calmly said to the person who went through the formalities: study again, study again. ...
-I closed the door and walked into the heavily guarded Ministry of Culture. ...
-I rode a discouraged tricycle and dragged a dying one-armed old man to the hospital. ...
…………
Fate makes me look at this huge society from all angles.
At last I arrived at the square.
23
That's1Tiananmen Square on April 5th, 976.
At dusk, golden flames and blue feathers rise alternately; In the cheers, my dedication reached a climax-I applauded, I shouted, I want to cut off the fire hose, and I want to burn this darkest moment with the people. ...
The radio is ringing. I was knocked down by a large group of sturdy militia; When I touched the hard ground, I suddenly understood my mission in life. ...
24
I said to the party branch secretary who is keen on cultivating me: "I want to write, my life is not enough."
The secretary is somewhat puzzling.
It was a long time before he said, "So, what about work?"
25
My sister, who just found a job, handed me a few pages of poetry. She said, "Look, someone wrote a poem, like your nameless flower!" " "
I read these poems in the silent sunshine, strange poems. ...
After reading it, I stayed alone for a long time; Looking at the dead branches for a long time, the silent clear sky; I watched, in order to believe, believe the truth, goodness and beauty buried by myself and habits. ...
Finally, I lifted the sheets and wiped the dust off this unknown flower with a handkerchief. ...
26
Dandelion, a regional tabloid, boldly chose several poems from Flowers of the Unknown.
Dandelions were soon sold out.
27
A new field is slowly unfolding-
Many elders looked at me kindly. ...
Many outstanding poets and I met in a smile. ...
Among the new masters, elders and friends, I began to recall those forgotten languages, began to feel ignorant and insignificant, and began to look around the world today. ...
28
There is an imaginative thing in the world called "cloud"; It takes some distance for a "cloud" to become a "cloud". When people really get close to it, it becomes "fog" ...
In the fog that needs to be clarified, I came to the Jialing River.
The bank of the river is steep, and the boulder comes to an abrupt end in the collapse, forming a dangerous suspense; In the polluted river, Wu Peng's boat is dancing with thin paddles and is going away; On the mountain road, an old man came pulling an old wooden ox cart; In the valley not too far away, there are two cemeteries, one for the predecessor who died in the fire in 1949, and the other for the colleague who died in the war in 1969. They all called for this mountain and this river. ...
I sat on the shore for a long time and thought a lot. ...
29
I'm thinking about my motherland.
Thinking about what she has given us and what we need to pay.
Think about her history, her greatness and misfortune.
I put some of my intuitive impressions and thought fragments into a poetic note-the moon in the daytime.
30
The moon is like a small hail, melting in the warm breath; The whole Jiangnan is whispering in the drizzle, and I feel her infinite beauty. ...
I heard/the singing of birds and the praise of leaves/the knocking of wood saws/the singing of paddles/the melody of orchid leaves and arch bridges/the wind, and asked in a low voice on the edge of the earth/……………………/No footprints/no footsteps/The doors lined up like keys/made a series of light noises:/……! ——……! -/I see/I have two lives/one is not over yet/one is just beginning. /……
Perception of beauty always goes beyond mechanical thinking; In a damp shade of trees, I began to write my third self-edited collection of poems-Water Town.
3 1
After unremitting posting, some poems in Water Town and Moon in a Day were published in Poetry Magazine, Stars and Chang 'an.
The unexpected echo startled me. Nearly a hundred newspapers and periodicals published commentary articles and debated around two extremely short notebook poems. Both poems express a specific psychology-
A generation
The night gave me black eyes.
I use it to find the light.
far and near
you
Look back at me.
Look back at the clouds.
I think
You looked at me from a distance.
You observe the clouds up close.
The former received some praise; The latter received some criticism.
Both criticism and praise have prompted me to have a deeper theoretical study. I began to read books on philosophy, aesthetics and psychology systematically; My faith is gradually strengthening. ...
32
When my faith assembled, my unit disintegrated because of various crises, and I joined the ranks of the unemployed.
I'm unemployed. I'm waiting. I need rice, vegetables, sunshine, quiet time to study and create, talk happily between relatives and friends, and give and receive selflessly. ...
My waiting is busy.
Everything in the motherland is a colorful hieroglyph. Tell me what to do. Time is pressing. -24! I started at the age of 26! What's your task?
My waiting is busy and I can't stop for a moment; I belong to the generation that must struggle for survival.
My most gratifying moment is to cover up my past "poetry collection" with a new lyric poem.
-The world is colorful, On the beach of dreams, Victims? Hope ","Twelve-year-old Square " ...
The last two books are fairy tales and poetic fables-The City of Khan and The Legend of a Foreign Country.
33
No, this is not an illusory legend, this is the real tomorrow.
Tomorrow-
When the world reached the ideal shore, all the ships of the United States and China dropped anchor, leaned together meekly and anchored in the deep-water port forever. ...
Friend, where were you then? What are you doing?
You may come up to me in new clothes, smiling happily, with no doubt in your eyes. At that time, we will lean against the white trestle together and watch the flashing fish in the deep water. We may talk very late, very late, until 10 thousand artificial stars fill the night sky. At that time, my countless hopes may be only one, that is, don't mention this spliced autobiography again, because it should have been forgotten a long time ago.
The most beautiful thing is tomorrow-our tomorrow.
1May 983