Tonight, it has been raining.
I lay in the oldest tile house in the school, and I didn't feel sleepy at all. Rain with different timbres came from the tile back and outside the window at the same time, which inadvertently brought my thoughts back to those distant memories related to rain.
I lived in such a humble room when I was a child. Only in that remote mountain village, my small tile house with bamboo structure did not show its modesty and simplicity. At that time, I was probably the happiest, addicted to the small world that gave me unlimited freedom and fun. Whenever it rains at night, I lie on a wooden bed covered with mosquito nets and listen. The ringing jingle on the tile back and the rustling sound on the bamboo branches, as if the rain would change the timbre of music, gave me the earliest imagination that made my heart beat. The night in the mountain village is silent, and even the slightest sound will reverberate in the empty valley. So music is always amplified by strange nature and my simple thoughts, creating a symphony-like glory. The quiet night suddenly became very lively, and for a time, my heart was filled with inexplicable excitement with the jump of the rain. But every time I get too excited, I'm always spoiled by that hateful dog barking.
One summer vacation after junior high school, the weather was sultry at noon. I sneaked under the neem tree behind the house to catch the squeaking cicada. The neem tree is prickly, so I have to climb it carefully. I'm not afraid of thorns stabbing me. I'm just worried about leaving evidence of sneaking out. Because it's not easy to go up once, plus the shade and cool mountain wind, I'm happy to stay a little longer while catching cicadas. It was at that time that I was surprised for the first time to find that the gray-black tiles on the roof of my house were arranged so tightly and neatly that it gave people the illusion of flowing, too much like ripples when the breeze brushed the water.
Unfortunately, the mountain wind suddenly became crazy, and soon it began to rain cats and dogs. I squatted on the branch and danced with the swaying trees, and I was wet all over. The wind finally stopped and it rained heavily. I squinted at the back of my tile, which was covered with countless white splashes. Moss, grass and withered black and semi-yellow leaves on the tile ditch all flowed and slipped under the eaves. After a little hesitation, I fell vertically as if I had made up my mind. I seem to hear their shouts ... and the dark gray-black tiles gradually light up under the impact of rain. The whole mountain village is shrouded in misty water mist, and occasionally a corner of the roof is exposed, just like a dream. But listening to the rain in the rain, there is only messy reverberation. My ears are full of messy voices coming from all directions, whether you like it or not. But it didn't make me feel sad. I seem happy to feel everything in front of me in the drunken confusion behind my ears. In that half-dream and half-awake state, I unexpectedly got a clearer impression of the rain. Everything aroused by rain is an illusion of life that we can hardly notice or appreciate at ordinary times. The old, the new, the ugly, the beautiful, the dirty, the clean, the dark and the bright are all alternating unconsciously.
The rain in my hometown always makes me taste a little sweetness in the faint melancholy. However, in the summer vacation two years ago, I experienced a trace of unspeakable sadness in the rain in a foreign land. That was my last night with her so far. It was also after my father urged me several times that I regretted going home the night before. It rained heavily that night, too, and I had a hard time asking her out. I stood waiting downstairs in a building of their company, and I was soaked to the skin on the way out of my residence. In the cold wind and rain, after experiencing anxiety, confusion and hopeless waiting, she suddenly appeared in front of my eyes like an angel. When I saw her, I was overwhelmed by uncontrollable joy and cowardice. She was holding a small umbrella that I couldn't see clearly at that time, but I still stubbornly believed that it was the most beautiful umbrella I had ever seen in my life. I hurried to her, and just as I was about to get close to her, she seemed to subconsciously move the umbrella cover slightly to my side. I timidly but reluctantly leaned against her umbrella and walked to the food stall together. Rain came into my eyes and hit my face. It's painful, but I'm full of happiness!
It was a booth near the main entrance of their company, with a narrow facade. There are seven or eight long tables in a small place, and wooden chairs with backs for three or four people are placed on both sides of each table. We sat opposite each other. There were only two of us in the narrow space, and the light in the shop was extremely dim, but I never dared to look at her. I just glanced at her in a false way when I looked around the furnishings in the store, and occasionally used a signboard to order food to cover up my embarrassment. Of course, I can't help shivering when I'm soaked through. I don't remember what I ordered, but I must remember fried noodles and snails, especially snails. Because I touched that damn thing for the first time in my life, and I still don't understand the benefits of eating it. But that night, after I barely ate a few mouthfuls of fried powder that I found hard to swallow, I just ate the originally boring snail next to time. Now that I think about it, I'm afraid she thinks how much I like it.
We seldom talk, and she is very reserved and silent. All I can hear is the torrential rain outside in the south of China, which has stained my cold heart a little. My eyes are burning and my nose is sore.
I don't remember when I walked out of the food stall or whether we said goodbye. All I know is that when I walked into Tian Yu, I suddenly looked back, as if I didn't want to give up my life, but she turned away under the cover of an umbrella and drifted away.
(The first draft of Zhong Lingyu 200 1.3 was revised on April 28th, 2005 and finally revised on May 30th, 2009).
Standing by the window, the air is slightly damp. Every vivid moment outside the window will gently touch my thoughts.
Birds fly around and whisper softly, but your smiling face?
Sunrise and sunset, the clouds are rolling and the gentle breeze haunts my heart, but the color of your smile?
Always trying to see you clearly, trying to understand your flashing smile, always trying to interpret your smile in words. I always want to read you as prose or poetry, but what kind of style are you similar to? Or just some scattered words that are not easy to put away?
What color is your smile?
When I am happy, I look at you with joy. Your smile is cool green, fresh but not cold, quiet but not lonely.
When I am dull, I look at you thoughtfully. Your smile is shallow sky blue, vivid but not ostentatious, clear but not luxurious.
When I am sad, I look at you faintly, and your smile is warm orange. Longing but not frivolous, warm but not addicted.
When I am enthusiastic, I look at you obsessively. Your smile is soft pink, romantic but not empty, beautiful but not enchanting.
What color is your smile?
When the wheel of fate is lost, is there a deep gray in your lost smile? Once wandering in the fog at low altitude, what is your mood at this time?
When the voyage of life is hit hard, does your quiet smile also precipitate unspeakable bitterness? Can the faint smile that once flashed in the sun hide a helpless sigh?
At night, even the bugs are gone, and your lonely figure is outlined by the window. Fireworks flashing between your fingers can light up your tired smile?
Approaching you, your smile is clear and bright, just like the sky just washed by rain. Will there be clouds floating in the blue sky?
What are you thinking, where is the corner that your smile can't touch? When the brilliance of the moon adorns every magnificent dream at night, is your smile full of moonlight-like expectations?
What color is your smile?
I know that there is pain in that smile that the nightingale can't sing.
I know that in that leisure, there are also fragments that time can't clean up.
Your smile is a comfort that I remember repeatedly in my heart. Without your smile, I can only walk through the years flatly.
Your smile is the softest background under my eyes. Without the nourishment of your smile, I can only dim the poetry at the bottom of the pen.
I am so attached to your smile, where there is your pity, your gentleness, your firmness and your persistence. From your colorful smile, I collected a piece of tenderness like snow, waiting for your bloom and your brilliance.
You just smile quietly, and I just stare at you deeply.
Perhaps, all of a sudden, you are like a song with a long hair fluttering, crossing the gap of the season, approaching me on an ordinary or passionate day, and singing softly all the way ... (Zhong Lingyu's first draft was revised in Nanchong in March, 2008.11.6).
E-mail is another name for a woman by people near the water, just like "woman" in Nanchong population, like "sister" and "daughter", like a mountain, like a piece of water.
All the women in the mountain village are called "Mei Er". They have a daughter, who is also called "Meier". Adults call it a little girl next door, and old people call it a married woman. The phrase "sister" is so sweet and strong, just like steaming corn soup in an iron pot. The diffuse fragrance makes me feel drunk without tasting it.
My grandmother is a native of Dongshui. She hasn't changed her Dongshui accent for decades. But it was her "little daughter" who shouted to her cousins with Cao Dong accent, which made my brothers and I taste the bitterness of being a dusty villain. Because after that melodious sound, grandma will fondle their heads with her loving hands. Cousins who are not the same as us on weekdays, can't be mentioned in the same breath, and it comes naturally at once.
When the aunts of this family come back with their husbands and children, the cries of "little girls" by the old people are the highest courtesy of their parents. In the eyes of aunts, there were crystal tears gurgling down at once. They seem to have forgotten their shyness, and the green flag under their feet was smashed to pieces by the tears rolling down, which made the little girls jealous.
For the daughters-in-law in the village, the old people also call them "sisters", but only with their surnames. My mother lost her father at the age of two, and she soon remarried alone. Ten years later, she grew up with her grandmother. I don't know if her grandmother called her "Mei Er", but unfortunately, after she got married here, she was called "Mei Liner" by the old people. Such a nickname has been heard until she died at the age of 52.
I don't know how my mother spent her childhood, because it was also the most painful and fragile part of her short life. But as long as I can remember, my aunts and aunts in the mountain village always love to run to my door and shout: Is Lin Mei-er at home? They are always twittering in their mother's wooden building with large and small cloths, asking questions. Whenever this happens, my mother will tilt her head and gently rub the needle and thread for sewing cloth shoes into her hair, and a warm and blushing smile will immediately emerge on her delicate face.
The happiest time for the whole family is the night when my father came back from studying in the county town and brought back candy. But mom won't forget her neighbors. She grabbed a lot of candy and stuffed it into her pocket. Then she raised the oil lamp and put it out in the eyes of our three brothers. Soon, in the cry of "Lin Meier" full of gratitude and love, you will hear your mother's footsteps. Mother's generosity is often staggering. She will take out everything in the house, such as oil, salt, sauce, vinegar and children's clothes. Poor living conditions have made mothers and villagers deeply feel each other's hearts.
Maybe because my father is a teacher, my mother doesn't seem to care much about our study. But a few days before the middle school entrance examination, my mother sat next to me every night. It's late at night, although it's midsummer, but the night in the mountain village is particularly cold, and my mother is still doing needlework. As soon as I looked up, a bowl of steaming noodles was placed in front of my eyes. My mother's eyes were full of kindness and strength. When my mother woke me up the next day, there were poached eggs that my mother had just cooked in the bowl. Up to now, whenever I sit alone at night, I always feel that my mother is by my side, swaying her thin figure in the book. My mother gave me the courage to move forward with her warm and broad mind.
Mother is less than fifty years old and obviously old, but she is always full of vitality in front of us. On holidays, my mother is still busy with all kinds of things, but as soon as she sees her toddler son, she will immediately put down what she is doing, squat down and hug my son intimately and listen to him chirp. At this time, my mother's tired face will ripple with girlish sweetness and happiness. Mom, I want to ask you, do you remember your beautiful girlhood at this moment?
Six years ago, on that snowy night, you couldn't help but suffer from illness and sudden death. The silent mountain village echoed with the heartbreaking cries of children and grandchildren, and the villagers sobbed: Lin Meier, Lin Meier ...
In the six years full of thoughts and sadness, sometimes I comfort myself. My mother died of illness. Isn't that lucky? Because she always lies on the tolerant mountain and the affectionate river.
When the girls in the mountains are old, they will sit on a small earth dam with hay and bask in the winter sun. I am always in a trance and see my mother sitting among the old girls, sewing cloth shoes. From time to time, she will tilt her head and gently wipe the needle and thread of sewing cloth shoes on her hair, and her delicate face is still warm. Mother, in the pure and soft sunshine in winter, the old shadows of you and your aunts always fall softly on the ground, just like the water in the stone ditch next to the earth dam, clear and gurgling water.
Perhaps, the sister of the mountain village is really the sister of the mountain and the daughter of the water. And water, perhaps, is another way for girls to live a pure life. (Zhong Lingyu 94.4 was revised in Linshui County in September 2003)
One late spring evening, I was pacing the campus again.
I feel sad when I step on the red residue after the rain on the ground. As the year approaches, we should stop indulging in hurting the spring and cherish the time. It's just that the messy rain and the red falling on the ground seem to touch a vague emotion in my heart. I examine my emotions ... Weiyangge's dreams are far away, and some of them just belong to inexplicable vicissitudes. As if belonging to the youth of sixteen or seventeen, it has been rising further and further in the cold wind and drizzle. Rhododendrons are noisy in the branches, swaying in full bloom in the rain, and occasionally falling to the ground, turning into spring mud. I just took a look, but emotional contagion, hurt by a burst of spring scenery, couldn't extricate herself for a long time.
Back in the dormitory, I worked hard until late at night. There was no one around, only a faint song accompanied me. A familiar old song came from middle school. Is that the end of campus folk songs? ! We listened to orchids, stepped on the waves, listened to grandma's Penghu Bay, fell in love with picking betel nuts, and fell in love with our last love. It's just that people and things that I once thought had faded away in my heart are now slowly emerging. I gradually recall my youth, and a strange feeling is brewing in my heart. I tried to suppress this fantasy of flying, but my heart was like a runaway wild horse, and the more I rushed, the worse I felt. Then, after all, it is my weiyang song!
As if all of a sudden, a young boy came in timidly. Is that the young me? ! I looked at it inexplicably, speechless. Looking at my young self, many dusty memories are vivid. I used to be a passionate and naive teenager who was worried about adding new words! "At that time, I was young and thin, riding a horse and leaning against the building." "Now that I'm gone, it's hard to dream!"
How much did you learn from yourself when you were around? Protect yourself, okay? Harmony in life? Know more truth? Or is it easier to hide depressed emotions, pretend desire and be invisible? I know I have grown a lot, but I don't know how much I have lost. In the life of indulging in work, I am wrapped in thick cocoons, weaving all kinds of beliefs and dreams. Now think about it, it is natural! Mature? Grow up? Or find a better haven and an excuse to escape from reality? Ask yourself, when was the last time you moved or cried? I am inexplicably afraid of my amazing rationality and fading susceptibility.
I once stepped into the threshold of teaching and educating people with a warm and romantic heart. What attracted me here at the beginning was not for the sake of livelihood and fame at all-it was just an encounter with an egret in the rainy afternoon in the south of China. After work, I paced by the pool, and thousands of drops of rain made exquisite ripples on the surface of the pool. Suddenly, in the misty rain, an egret gracefully crossed the pool surface, dreamlike and fascinating. I suddenly thought of my father, who was plowing leisurely among a group of children in Shan Ye. That night, several friends in need got together; Maybe it's because of drinking, being keen on intestines and saying something to each other. Even through drunkenness, I said the grandiose words of returning to China from Guangdong to teach. I will leave the next day. The result is three years.
Life at school is like a set of procedures that will never go wrong. The rules are amazing. Intellectually, I boast that I have grown a lot, but what about life? I left myself with endless doubts. Perhaps, there is simply the problem of meaningless life. Even if there is, everyone's interpretation should be different. Even so, with the heart of going out to make a living, I suddenly have a strong attachment to the grass and trees here. What I want most now, and what I fear most at the same time, is probably the red peach blossom in the corner of the campus-the two short works of kiwi fruit tree hung by schoolchildren-the parting color!
It suddenly dawned on me that the past years faded away and became a broken and vague past. Suddenly, there was an impulse in my heart. Under the temptation of young memories, I began to write down some memories in the form of poetry. I vaguely remember that at the age of fourteen, in the third grade, those wild sentences I made up echoed in my ears:
Green grass on the beach
The wind is swaying in the cool river.
A few frivolous shirts.
Drunk, out of step
Occipital bone with crossed arms
Listen to a thousand words.
Crazy laughter
Lou's back is wet.
Jump into the clouds
A new word
Call a beautiful lady.
This is my young song! (Zhong Lingyu was in Linshui County on August 6-6, 2005)
I have always thought that Chinese class can be a beautiful paradise. It has the sonorous agitation of music, the exquisite melody, the lines and colors of calligraphy and painting, the charm of images, the humor of debate, the wisdom of machines and the broadness and delicacy of feelings. The beauty of Chinese is that it can be a grand symphony or a soothing ditty. It can be solemn and elegant, or it can be natural and interesting. China people refuse poverty, preaching, rigidity and meaningless pseudo-knowledge. Chinese is beauty, beauty experience, beauty learning and beauty creation.
Chu Ci in the Book of Songs, Tang and Song poems, classical Chinese and vernacular Chinese, and narrative lyric comments are all beautiful. Zhuangzi, Confucius and Mencius, Du Li, Liu Han, Su Shi, Wang Anshi, Ouyang Xiu ... they are all the acme of beauty. Their language is full of words, and they read and recite every day. Is it comparable to the giants? Lu Xun, Guo Moruo, Lao She, Zhu Ziqing, Bing Xin, Yu Dafu, Ba Jin and Lin Yutang are all the essence of beauty. Every word in their language is moody. Do they want to sit in the spring breeze?
The bright Milky Way with Chinese language overhead and the solid land of Chinese language make students afraid to look up and disdain to bow their heads. I always deceive myself with the excuse of being busy with the senior high school entrance examination, and I don't understand or taste the real taste. Over time, they rejected this kind of beauty cultivation from their bones, and the whole body and mind were immersed in endless mechanical repetitive exercises. As we all know, learning Chinese by practicing the meaning of questions can only get twice the result with half the effort or even get twice the result with half the effort. Once I completed the task of entering a higher school, how many wonderful Chinese phonology did I leave in my mind? I don't know whether I should cater to them by doing leisurely work of writing and reading questions, intoxicated with ease, or should commit the crime of killing youth and making mistakes in life to cater to them, which is deeply sad.
Chinese learning or language learning is essentially an imitation activity. Each of us learned to speak when we were very young, just because we were curious, listened attentively to the people around us, and then imitated and spoke. Never learn any grammar rules first, and then speak according to them. Of course, our Chinese learning is not as simple as learning to speak. But it at least gives us a beneficial enlightenment: listening, reading and imitating more and building a keen sense of language are always the only way to learn Chinese.
In their energetic and creative age, they confine themselves to those specious repetitive tasks and stifle their original active thinking in the so-called standards set by those hateful problem makers. I didn't read a few books well and didn't say a few words well, let alone noble sentiments, independent personality and free spirit! Just like eating, let you only analyze the reasons why people want to eat every day, find out the nutritional components of food, and practice the posture of eating well, just don't let you really pick a few mouthfuls of rice. It's strange that you are all sallow and emaciated! Why indulge in that superficial, overhead and scripted so-called analysis? Why are you obsessed with the so-called "exercise book", rigid in thinking and deviating from the law of language learning?
We in China used to call it "reading" or "learning" reading, which I think is more appropriate. "Reading" means that we should turn on our voices and read this book. Our fundamental mistake in learning Chinese is "not reading", and the most basic and simple way to correct this mistake is "reading"! Give me back the sound of the book, give me back the vitality of youth!
When students set foot in the sea of books, they will naturally find that every book is like a person. She has her own feelings, her own style and her own tone. However, those really excellent works all have the tone and rhythm of music. The most prominent aesthetic feature of China's literature is "appealing to hearing". Needless to say, the rhythm of poetry and prose is flowing, the novel is clear and smooth, and the characteristics of auditory art are obviously preserved. Even good diaries, letters and speeches can make people feel the classic charm and classic timbre. I will always be grateful to those teachers who consciously or unconsciously ask me to "read" strictly, and to those teachers who are addicted to "reading" themselves. They made me listen to many enduring books and received good reading training since I was a child. When I grow up, although it is always inconvenient to pick up a book and make a sound, there must be a voice in my heart that is addicted to chanting. Moreover, when I raise my pen from time to time, the rhymes and melodies of the books I read as a teenager will immediately haunt my ears, which will make me daydream infinitely.
However, whether listening to a book, reading a book or reading a book, it is inseparable from imagination. Reading literary works requires imagination in particular. The author condenses the colorful world into words through imagination, and readers must rely on imagination to fully release the connotation in words. Otherwise, there will be no emotional pulse and beautiful pleasure in our reading, and there will be no profound understanding and sentiment. Jin Shengtan, a litterateur in Qing Dynasty, read "Song Wu Beats Tigers" and read several passages describing Song Wu who had drunk enough wine. Regardless of the official announcement, he bravely went straight to Jingyanggang: "Go to the gang step by step. Looking back at the moonlight, it is gradually falling. " Jin Shengtan commented here: "A horrible scene! At this time, there will be no tigers coming, and I will cry. " What a passionate imagination this is! Obviously, he has completely integrated into the scene described by Shi Naian, and Wu Erlang, who is mentally and slightly drunk, went to Jingyanggang. We can imagine here that Jin Shifu must be sweating and panting when he was studying. This kind of reading is the real taste.
Students may think that we are all young and don't understand many things at all. Why are we still watching and reading? It is true that understanding those works with profound meanings often requires life experience. But when we have enough life experience, we may have no leisure or leisure to read them. We use our frolic time to see, read and recite some literary treasures, which is to store a sum of spiritual wealth in advance for our future. Cultural things can be fermented. With the growth of age, rich experience and profound understanding, those things will decompose, precipitate and clarify in our minds. When you think of them again, the essence and theme will naturally be understood. I remember Feng Zhi, who was called "the most outstanding lyric poet in China in the 20th century" by Mr. Lu Xun, once said: "I recited The Analects of Confucius and The Book of Songs when I was a child. It was really painful at that time, and I spent a lot of wonderful childhood in those incomprehensible words. But as an adult, I gradually understand its meaning. It's like eating olives, and it's bitter and sweet. Now I don't regret the books I recited when I was a child. " Seriously!
Everyone's works poured out indiscriminately, all because of thousands of books in their chests. No one has become a master of literature because he is familiar with the methods of the article. There is a fable about Ji Chang learning archery. Wei Fei taught him to "learn quickly first", and then taught him to "learn from small to broad". Ji Chang became a famous archer without learning archery first, but practicing internal skills first, thus achieving the goal of "shooting without shooting". Lu You said that "the poet's kung fu is beyond poetry", which is also the truth. On weekdays, we enter the problem group and read books. When I was writing for the exam, I racked my brains and searched my stomach. How ridiculous! What a pity!
When can I see the students swimming in the sea of books, believe Ma Wenshan? When can I hear their golden sound? And when, let me admire their eloquence, cooperate vertically and horizontally, lean on the horse and wave?
When I was 30 years old, in this era when all beings were busy seeking profits, my dream was still difficult to stretch out from the cold and hard ground and quietly bloom. However, can such a beautiful and moving dream bloom as scheduled in this era when simple material desires almost penetrate the whole social body? (In May 2006, Zhong Lingyu was in Linshui County)
An unruly genius in Shanghai in the 1940s, a lonely and charming beauty, fell lonely on the eve of a dull and lonely Mid-Autumn Festival.
A whole century of noisy and gorgeous fables has since disappeared.
But who can easily erase the once brilliant bright color from memory, and who can lick her down the throat like a grain of rice at the corner of her mouth?
Zhang Ailing who is "special" and "different", Zhang Ailing who is "indifferent" and "detached". Zhang Ailing, born in a big family, is full of deep, declining and sentimental atmosphere; The rules of a lady with a frown. Zhang ailing, who is unsociable and unsociable. Interwoven with the classic charm of the perfect combination of rebellion and desolation, tradition and modernity.
She is an empty air, a flowing soul, an immortal legend and a flashing rumor. Countless family changes have made her lonely everywhere, and emotional flowers and plants have made her love and hate. As a result, the world is bustling and lively, and she just reveals it gently. After the curtain of prosperity, the desolate desert of life suddenly appeared. All dying, dying, dying beauty has become a kind of melancholy that can never be touched. This is the eternal legend of Zhang Ailing, who pushed the beauty of words to the highest level and peeped into the subtlety of people's hearts.
Zhang Ailing, who is brilliant and intelligent, has been sketching out her ideal life all her life, but she has lived in an infinite ideal all her life. Life is boring and trivial, secular interference and noise, deception and conflict between people ... all this is like a net, which binds a talented beauty who lives with feelings and ideals, makes her break her head in front of a powerful secular world, and finally turns into dust and dirt, becoming an old book full of dust and dirt.
Daughter plays the piano, man leans on the sword. The story of the legendary swordsman can happen in any dynasty, and no matter how time passes, it will never erase people's ideal of beautiful love. It will not make women lose their desire and pursuit of romance, nor will it make men give up chivalry and softhearted. Zhang Ailing, who is free from vulgarity, also failed to escape the fate of life. I've been waiting all my life for a perfect match. However, I "traveled all over Qian Fan" and "was full of love and water". Finally, I met a man who didn't understand my daughter's feelings, but she stubbornly lowered her "noble head". And the lingering with your heart is a half-life loneliness! Perhaps, "beauty is unlucky since ancient times", perhaps the heart is higher than the sky and life is thinner than paper! ?
Time flies and the stars are flying fast. What shines on us is still the homesickness of the bright moon and fallen immortals in Qin Dynasty. Outside the window, at this time, the moonlight is like water. If there is a lilac tree there, there must be a woman walking under it with an umbrella, just like a lilac girl in a rainy lane. She should be a cheongsam, travel-stained Zhang Ailing, right?