Introduction: I am not a person who is born with spirituality for words. This is a reality that I realized in the third year of pursuing literature, but it doesn't mean that I am desperate on this road. On the contrary, there is another village-another picture given by literature is slowly unfolding before my eyes. Compared with the meaning given to me by literature itself, the person who has a literary dream and looks up at the moon in a messy alley teaches me more heartache. Therefore, after ten years, I still go my own way and never waver. Today, literature has been passed down for thousands of years on the scale of trillions of volumes and has become the belief of many people. On this pilgrimage road, the epic story just bloomed like rolling waves.
20 18 The last girl named Zuo Deng successfully signed the contract. Her work "I fight depression in a mental hospital" was published the following year. I heard that the copyright of the film and television has been signed.
2065438+September 2007 was definitely a dark month for Zuo Deng, who was only 2 1 year old. For some reason, Zuo Deng's depression was induced. After a series of sensational events such as onset, diagnosis, serious illness and suicide, she was sent to a mental hospital. It was there that she wrote the book chapter by chapter while fighting the disease, and sent it to the creative platform one after another. To our great surprise, her words are humorous and describe the "farce" between doctors and patients after the patient got sick with joy. Such a huge contrast convinced me that there must be a healthy and sunny self hidden in her body.
In her book, depression is not only a disease, but also a sickle of death, which can harvest all one's energy and hope and make one a desperate prisoner in a dirty and sticky mud. This kind of feeling, even if you win the two-color ball prize, can't call back a person's love for life. It makes people suffer from a disease called "living", and then produces a strong desire to die.
The first time I walked into a mental hospital was from her book. I first learned the terrible rumor about it. It was just a rumor. In fact, it is a lovely and warm place. Most people with mental disorders are often the last people who want to hurt others. On the contrary, they are sensitive and considerate of others. Sometimes, they would rather hurt themselves.
On the cover of this book, Zuo Guang printed two sentences. In a word: we are not thinking too much, but sick. Another sentence is: Living is the most basic survival instinct of ordinary people, but defending to the death is our dream.
Zoden is just sick. Between life and death, she escorted herself to the gate of hell again and again. There is always a voice in her heart urging her to execute "I'm dying!" I'm dying! I am going to die! " However, there was another one who tried to pull her back and shouted at the top of her lungs: This world is worth it.
In the chat with Zuo Deng, she was secretive about her family. All I know is that she has two parents who are too busy to take care of their homes, and a brother who dawdles all day. After she got well, she took the initiative to talk to me about this, and even used the imperative sentence "You have to hear me out" to divert my attention from the topic I led elsewhere. I know, she is not saying anything, and she doesn't want to get some kind of response after I feel * *. She's just comparing herself with me-proofreading with a normal person to see if she's really cured. So she has never had such in-depth communication since she knew the answer. I follow her circle of friends. She skateboarded in the lighted square and complained that the Oreo sundae made by the dessert shop was too sweet. There is always morning light, clouds rolling and clouds relaxing, and there is always night like flowers, and neon blooms under the endless stream of city ribbons. She often stands on the overpass, opens her arms in that background, looks up at the sky at a 45-degree angle, and laughs happily. Just like the book she wrote in the most difficult time, when all misunderstandings and even malicious ridicule came to her, she longed for others to understand that she was only ill, and hoped that literature would bring us normal people the greatest goodwill.
She really did everything. Her kind, lovely and spotless smile shocked me very much. When it falls between the lines, it is a person who survived, saw clearly, and still loved the big picture.
Riding on the battery car, the poem disappeared, and an address became the place where Wang Jibing, a 5 1 year-old takeaway, went. The poet, who has published many works, said: In a hard life, poetry is the steep other side.
He spent most of his life working part-time. Dropped out of junior high school, entered the construction site, and then followed his father down the river to get sand. As a young man, he was once confused and didn't know how life could stand out from the rest of the world. Until he read Sanmao's novel in the bookstall, he was infatuated all morning. This book inspired and inspired him deeply, as if a bright moon rose from his ignorant mind.
He is addicted to reading and writing. Every day, a tired body and a numb soul can stretch and revive between his lines. Although, a ballpoint pen hanging on his dirty tooling often becomes the laughing stock of the workers. Although, his father always scolds him for doing nothing when he sees him writing and drawing. However, he persisted as always, guarding the bright moonlight that covered his heart.
Until one day he went home, shoveled away the ruins of the hut and found a pile of ashes below. At that moment, he felt that the sky was falling and there was no darkness. The anger in my father's heart was irrepressibly ignited in real life, which reduced his handwritten 200,000-word manuscript to ashes and destroyed all his dignity and hopes. Not all parents in this world will be proud that their children are eager to learn and have their own dreams. Poor life made Wang Jibing lose the rights of his peers at the age when he should have gone to school. If life is a big gamble, he will never get a good hand.
After marriage, he and his wife fled to other places, leaving only 500 yuan. They have picked up waste products, sold a pair of socks for one yuan, and sold fruit on the street. Because there is no place to live, they can only live in a shed made of wooden stakes and canvas. It is a real home, which will sway when it encounters wind and rain. He wrote his works on unpacked cigarette cases, on cartons selling fruits, and on paper used to make a fire and cook. No one knows the value of those words, including himself, and throws them away after writing. Until one day he came into contact with the computer, the forum gave him a "voice opportunity", and someone on the Internet made suggestions and criticisms, and he responded enthusiastically and thanked him. Gradually, his works, like gold sleeping in the river bed, were washed away for a long time and finally found and recognized by more people.
After his works received widespread attention, he once wrote: Too many past events, like whips, left scars on my heart, which made me touch it with my hands from time to time, and I felt itchy after scarring. Being able to grasp the inspiration and calm down to write a poem is his most itchy and comfortable moment.
Now his two children, one is admitted to the university and the other is about to take the college entrance examination. He also needs to cultivate them so that they can grow wings enough to soar in the sky, and he hopes to add icing on the cake to them one day.
In the evening, he always looks up when he steps onto the battery car for delivery. If it weren't for the bright moon, the bright moon in his heart would rise as usual.
Shi walked out of the cancer hospital and looked at the clear sky with a sigh of relief. From that moment on, she made up her mind to live in a hurry in the street like a normal person. She stuffed medical records and chemotherapy documents into her wallet. Back home, no one can persuade her to go back to the hospital. She lives and works like a normal person in the countryside and refuses to be treated as a patient. She accepted the fact that those eyes, far or near, or those eyes that "look at others with special respect" will never go back. When I was free, she sat on the stone pier in the yard, holding a book in her hand and staring at the pages for a long time. Only the husband knows that this home is not her destination, and the considerate wife is in Cao Cao's heart, in the Han Dynasty.
In the past six months, this new moon, who has no medical insurance in Beijing, has been more desperate in the process of returning to her hometown for treatment. Breast cancer has metastasized. There are nearly 30 times of chemotherapy, radiotherapy and chemotherapy and long-term medication in the treatment plan. Even if everything is done, the five-year survival rate is only 20%.
Countless nights, endless fear poured in, making her cry in despair countless times. This woman has endured countless hardships all her life, fearing that her illness will make her walk without dignity and that her husband will be lonely.
Not everyone has the ability to treat diseases, especially serious diseases. Death is a matter of time. Shi figured it out. When she was about to fall down, she took her husband back to Beijing to spend the rest of her life, and at the same time continued to work and do what she wanted to do most-literature class in Picun village.
In the 1990s, she married into a family that could hardly be called home, which was nothing at all. My father-in-law is ill in bed, and my eldest brother and sister-in-law are mentally retarded, often suffering from madness. Once, the eldest brother set fire to the hut, and the eldest sister clapped her hands and booed, leaving the whole family with nowhere to live. Her husband has suffered from pulmonary heart disease since childhood. On their wedding day, he hemoptysis at home, and he needs oxygen for a long time, so he can't count on manual labor at all. But she never regretted choosing this marriage, because she married love and married him who also loved literature.
This time, 54-year-old Shi was carrying a big bag and a heavy ventilator. She would rather walk slowly than follow her husband or let him see her sweating.
Shi once worked as a nanny in a professor's house. She tried to get the other person to introduce one or two friends who know how to write to guide her. The professor told her without hesitation, "You are a poor nanny. Reading those books makes people laugh." I can't write it after reading it, and no one reads it. "Before she got cancer, this was a conversation that hurt her the most. She read all the cold reception in the world from the professor's eyes and heard her heartbreaking voice. She shouldn't have overreached herself and ruined literature.
Soon after, the news that Xiao Yu, a close friend of his hometown, committed suicide once again made Shi afraid of literature. This woman, who has loved literature as much as herself since she was a child, is still obsessed with reading and writing after marriage and has become a laughing stock in the eyes of the villagers. After dinner, her conversation became a sandbag under her husband's iron fist. Under the oppression of cold eyes and force, she survived again and again, and pursued literature devoutly, making her think that everything she suffered was nothing but flesh and blood. Rich spiritual wealth comes from her hard work on the fertile soil of pen, ink, paper and inkstone, which bears fruit between the lines. She finally finished writing a novel. When she showed it to her Chinese teacher who had a crush on her when she was a student, she got the following comments: the structure was not good, the plot was nothing new, there was no thought and it was meaningless. A pile of rubbish. These words are like an outstretched pair of scissors, cutting off the last straw Xiaoyu held in her trembling hand. She set the manuscript on fire and never "plowed the fields" in the literary world again. One day, she drank a bottle of pesticide like a sword.
Since then, I have been a nanny and a new moon with peace of mind. The only way to tell her directly is to keep a diary. However, due to the instability of work and residence, many of them got lost in the migration. For many years, she and her husband have kept the habit of reading. From the book, she found the story that she still didn't give up her ideal after working hard everywhere. She thinks that the person in the book is herself.
As long as a person is willing to do it, why should he be afraid of others' cold eyes and ridicule, and why should he worry that his courage and tenacity will not be appreciated? Literature once again fell from the sky, leaving a rope for the stone that was displaced and suffered from human suffering. She climbed up and saw the golden glow, which lit up the clouds on the horizon and finally revealed the joy of "seeing all the Chang 'an flowers in one day".
Shi, who had to attend a literature class, once again set foot on her "hometown" Beijing, and failed to find a job for two months. Employers in the employer circle are afraid to hire her because of her physical condition. She and her husband started the business of cleaning worn-out shoes again. When business is good, they don't like it, but privately discuss what books to buy in the bookstore after the booth closes.
The roads in Pi Village are not closed either. They have to delay business for at least half a day and close the stall early. After many twists and turns on the road, they can reach the place before the literature class. It's not cost-effective to take a taxi back because the class is too late. Shi will also take a ventilator with him and squeeze into a hotel in 80 yuan for one night at night with her husband. This is undoubtedly a luxury for the couple.
In literature class, Yuan Ling, a teacher who came to class, said to her: Real records have their power. For an instant, she seemed to touch something. The special chance of suffering from cancer made her determined to pursue her literary dream on the non-fiction road. Life begins and ends, but literature can last forever. It belongs to the present and future generations, just like the four classic novels. Although it is a personal creation, it is not owned by individuals.
She also got a lot of enlightenment on the road of pursuing literature. Once, a teacher who came to talk about new poetry said: Use distinctive adjectives, and the topic should be shocking, such as Yu Xiuhua's Sleeping Half of China, Shocking the World. Stone couldn't help laughing out loud. She smiled and lost in thought. She enjoys this sense of tearing between life and literature. She looked around, the high place was still the bright moon in the sky, and the soft yellow moonlight covered her with fine gauze. She wants to be the second "Fan Su encounter" in Pi Village.
One morning, she felt a small lump on her neck and suddenly realized that breast cancer might have metastasized to cervical lymph nodes. On that day, she bought a stack of notebooks and made up her mind to race against time. Life is too long to know what to do. Life is too short to let go.
Writing has a history of nearly 8,000 years. We in China often say that a thing can be sanctified after a long period of practice. I believe that words have this property, and literature composed of words is the belief that we human beings pursue.
Moreover, I don't think the faith we pursue is to get a kind of liberation. Compared with many popular words, such as rolling in and lying flat, most of us experience a kind of "folding" in our lives.
Life from nine to five is a kind of folding, suffering from illness is a kind of folding, providing for the elderly is a kind of folding, and unequal pay and gain in the workplace is also a kind of folding. In short, all aspects of life have forces from different directions to "fold" our will.
All beings suffer, and literature is just pity for the existence of all beings. Different from the gods in various religions, the spirituality of literature enables each of us to participate in it. Because of faith, we are both creators and pursuers. In our minds, our "folded" life can be extended, continued and even sublimated through literary forms, which makes the meaning of life have more dimensions. It can be said that thousands of years of literary inheritance has been creating everything.
Otherwise, you see, when you open the Buddhist scriptures or the Bible, what you actually see is literature composed of words. Whether it records the beginning of HarmonyOS system or the man created by God, literature comes first.
We love the literature we created, and even think it is perfect and sacred, and there is no room for any stain. In this way, literature has humanity and divinity. It deserves our protection and makes us believe. It can be said that everything we advocate comes from literature.
But why is it a literary journey? Because all beings are suffering, and suffering is the bottom taste of all life. Because I am afraid of suffering, I am born unwilling to suffer. Murphy's law says that everything you are afraid of will happen, and the more you worry, it will happen sooner or later. When we pour bitter water into literature, literature has its own flavor, which is fascinating and makes many people become "ascetic monks" on the road of literature.