Author: MCA
/kloc-One afternoon at the turn of spring and summer in 0/4, I saw a red book in a student dormitory of Nankai University, which was full of stinky socks and the triple edition of foreign academic popular books such as Interpretation of Dreams. At first glance, the huge black font "1986-1988 China modernist poetry group" on the cover immediately passed through my eyes and entered my cerebral cortex. 1 hour later, I got my wish and brought this thick book home. It should be said that, for me, this book is an introductory textbook for my contemporary China poetry. In the enviable editor-in-chief name on the cover, I remembered the word "Meng Lang". There is a simple reason. In the article, he is an important poet. Among all the editors, only his name doesn't look like his real name.
More than a week ago, I called Meng Lang on the other side of the Pacific Ocean and asked him when he could return to China. He hesitated and said, "I have something to do here. Wait a minute, wait a minute. "
After seeing the little red book, my mood surged for a long time, because nine times out of ten I couldn't understand the poems in it. This feeling that my intelligence is lower than others makes me unhappy, so I try to understand these "modernist" poems. As a result, he went astray and became an enthusiastic reader and amateur of contemporary China poetry.
Later, I learned that this little red book has a great background, and its background is a carnival called "China Contemporary Poetry Exhibition". Looking at the introduction of many schools of poetry shown in the book, I began to imagine those young artists who put pen to paper, stunned by the classics of heaven and man, and lamented the believers. Yes, I want to be one of them. I want to have my own style.
A few years later, I finally met Meng Lang, a travel-stained man. He just returned to Shanghai from the south, looking helpless, tired and calm, and enjoying the pleasure of secular life secretly. My first impression was disappointment: "They all call you a bearded Meng Lang, so you are a moustache." Meng Lang's laughter embarrassed me for a while, followed by a bigger laugh.
I wonder if this kind of laughter can be regarded as a unique expression in the 1980 s But behind that relaxed self-confidence, is there still a little bit of self-dedication?
Meng Lang's life is not happy, and it goes from bad to worse. Shortly after winning the title of "China's First Poet Laureate" selected by many poets, he went to the United States. His life there will not be very good, I can imagine. Because for life and reality, his posture will never be open arms. He just left his sharp and bloody side to the world, leaving himself endless fatigue and frequent emptiness. After he felt that China could not provide him with more strength and enemies, he chose to leave and chose another windmill that looked bigger.
In that little red book, which was later regarded as recording the most important poetic phenomena and works in the middle and late 1980s, there is another name that I will never forget. "Jing Bute" (and "coquetry", a group of red humorous poems with strong China characteristics, which he founded) is a pen name, but I still don't understand its meaning. In the winter of 2000, I asked Jing, who had just returned from Denmark, what was the allusion of his pen name. Jing Bute, with his bald head and his trademark monk-like smile, explained some dirty words of old Shanghai to me in Shanghai dialect transformed from Nordic language. As far as attitude towards life is concerned, scenery is more like a concentrated symbol of the literary atmosphere in the 1980s. After leaving the old country 13 years, he came back again. He was vulgar, but he still kept his bald head blatantly. In the first few days, he could hardly find the right way to express himself in Chinese.
He was 23 years old that year, almost as young as literature. He left Shanghai, became a monk in Fujian, and fled a clean place a year later. In the hot jungle of Xishuangbanna, Yunnan, he opened an "anarchist hotel" with broken pots and smashed, and soon sat on it himself. Before that, many people were shocked and unhappy with his poetic works and freewheeling literary style.
But he soon got tired of it. This time, his directness and determination are even more surprising. It took him nearly three years to travel alone through the endless jungle in Xishuangbanna, wandering in Southeast Asia where mosquitoes and miasma are everywhere, having been in prison, and leaving the prison of the military government for Denmark by chance. And these, as traitors to the rules of life and art, he always maintained a kind of peace and joy.
I don't know what brand that era left on him, let alone arbitrarily say what he brought to that era. Perhaps, like Meng Lang, they all left the torrent of history in another way like their friend, a former young man: "Thousands of miles away, worship Xia Yun."
Yes, since the awakened one, such as the Buddha, told us that birth, illness, death and death are the great stream of reincarnation, since gourmets, such as Faust, can't make a good time in stop for a minute, and since the alcoholic Krujak who died young once shouted "Always on the road", why can't we go away before we get old?