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Metaphor: cobblestones, education and brilliance/Jiang Feng

In the winter that belonged to Dario Buddha, our story had just begun. Almost every evening after school, we take a bunch of Sugar-Coated Berry for a walk. It was so cold that winter that we couldn't bite a bite of hawthorn. The whole string of Sugar-Coated Berry reflects the faint moonlight, like a luminous beam. We don't talk most of the time. When we want to talk about something, we will talk about literature. Perhaps this is the most wonderful thing in the world. Even better, we seldom mention a writer or a work. We talk about such literature with good wishes, just as we talk about snowflakes in the valley: pure and ideal literature that no longer bears the burden of literary history. Only once, Tan Kaifeng inadvertently mentioned the only writer we talked about: Wang Xiaobo. Then we found out that he was our common writer. We found Wang Xiaobo's legal parents in literature with great interest: Calvino and marguerite duras. The former is a writer Wang Xiaobo has always been proud of; Part of the latter theme was extended in his golden age. Six weeks later, on the night when winter was coming to an end, Tan Kaifeng told me that if Wang Xiaobo were still alive and not ruined by his almost ambiguous style, he would fly to Stockholm sooner or later. But that year belonged to dario fo, an anarchist who called himself a clown.

That night, when we heard icicles falling from time to time under the eaves, he told me that he found himself talented enough. Later, when the wind blew, he stopped talking. When we came to the fork in the road, I asked him what he could do with his talent. I never said that he didn't respond. "It's not that he wants to study hard on a whim, is it?" I thought it was interesting until I locked the car. Then he caught up from behind. He shouted to me at a distance of tens of meters in the dark: "Hey, I didn't tell you, I said I would write a novel."

To tell the truth, I really didn't expect him to have such an idea. So the half-locked bike was reopened. I remember we talked late and didn't come home. As soon as the dark clouds covered the new moon, he remembered our pen name: Shuangfeng. The name looks ok, but the problem is that when it is mentioned in front of many people the next day, I know that it is easy to associate with drought-tolerant animals in the desert or the charming figure of beautiful women. After that, Tan Kaifeng reread Ci Hai. Halfway through, I found two more words: Hundred Mountains, Mountains. To tell the truth, I didn't know anything before, and now it's hard to read, and every time I print an indistinguishable novel and put it on "Hundred Mountains", I don't know whether it represents 200 or 400 mountains.

Now there are several printed manuscripts marked "Hundreds of Mountains and Rivers". It's been so long that I can't remember which ones I wrote. Each manuscript is printed on sixteen pieces of paper in five big characters, and none of them is dated, as if it were allowed to travel freely in time from the beginning. There is a story about beggars. Write a stubborn beggar begging from door to door, but he is blocked by a closed door. He used various means, such as shouting, knocking at the door and playing dead, but it was always a door that could never be opened. It's time for him to go home when the sun goes down, only to find that he can't afford to kneel at home. I think it may have been written by me, which is very reminiscent of Calvino's original fable, and I'm glad to let the story end so dramatically. If it was Tan Kaifeng, he would never do this. He thinks that sometimes it is more sad to find out the truth than to cover it up. To this end, he will let the beggar kneel down directly, even if he kneels down to his bones, he will say that this is the most suitable ending. At least I think so. His stories always have that dark castle atmosphere.

I still remember one of his poems. I remember him howling at the edge of sunset. Then I want to know what the theme of this poem is. I remember there are only four lines in the whole poem: "A man in a quagmire yells at his companion/A lonely man cries at the sky/Stepping on his head may jump over a swamp three meters wide/He passed, very good." He's dead. "He answered my stupid question like this:" I'm really not qualified to write instructions for my own things. "This sentence is from" attend to city ",then he will advise you to go to the fair, because every item there is accompanied by instructions. But the problem is that if Gu He can't write such a poem, I will feel powerless. There was a time when I always thought he might be a continuation of a poet. I later told him that according to Strindberg's claim to be the soul of Allen Poe, it could be related to Ginsburg. " Really? After listening, he said, "But did the head teacher come this morning?" "

Before that, he began to skip classes and ran out almost every Wednesday or Friday morning. When he had nowhere to go by bike in the street, he found that skipping classes seemed to be his only purpose here. Just as he is uncertain about his future, wandering on the road always feels like he is looking for himself. Sometimes he will ride for 45 minutes to Nanhu Lake and throw some Shui Piao at it with stones, and it is often like this: he can only stay in the jungle for 10 minutes, and then go back to school. The first sentence when I saw my classmates was: Did the head teacher come this morning?

If I recall him now, I can't understand many things about him. For example, he always boasts about how good he is at playing ball or playing chess, but the reality is that he is not the best, but has gone far in the opposite direction to Excellence. And I think he can be said to be his most outstanding talent in literature, but he rarely admits it. He never shows his novels to anyone except me. Once, people tentatively asked him what he thought of Byron. Others asked him with the feeling that he might find a shining gem, but his answer disappointed everyone present. He casually said, we remember Byron now, not because of his beautiful poems, not because of his maverick personality, but because he was the first person who dared to acquiesce in his having sex with his half-sister. But he told me alone that Byron is immortal, and the person who wrote such a perfect poem is immortal; And we will all be forgotten, which is sad. No matter what kind of work we write, it will inevitably be forgotten. This era is being forgotten. I think this is one of the most incisive literary theories, but I just don't understand why he refused to mention it in front of everyone. It was not until a few years later that I found a similar explanation in a book I read (it seems to be Schopenhauer's): excessively belittling a person's ability is the best way to hide his talent.

Then I couldn't figure out whether it was worth spending an hour and a half in the jungle by the lake for ten minutes. "I found that it only takes a quarter of an hour of peace to lead to eternity." This is what he told me by accident later. When we said this, we were sitting on a big snowball in the middle of the playground, which was a snowman piled up by excited children at night. We pushed the snowman's head with jujube eyes very late, sat back to back on the snowman's round body and stared at different skies. The whole sky is blood red, snowflakes fall from the sky, and the stars in the red sky are dim. He muttered in a low voice, like a rolling wind. Lovelorn, nothing. Tan Kaifeng, the whole world is shrouded in bitter almond-flavored love. Think you're not that talented? This is terrible, really, this is the key to the problem, I said to him. This is what we were afraid of from the beginning. Although I have never mentioned this matter, even so, the word "Jiang Lang is exhausted" always appears in the deepest part of our memory. That night, the night he fell in love for the third time, he was horrified to see it flashing. "If so, I'm finished," he said in a sad tone. "I will accomplish nothing and become a beggar; And you are different, you are still the first. " Are you talking about me? I can't think of anything to answer This is what I hate. If I had to choose between my studies and literature, I think I would choose the latter. We didn't say anything then. I grabbed a handful of new snow and felt its coolness in my hands. Yes, choose the latter. He suddenly asked me why I kept silent. I said that some people said a lot, but actually said nothing; Some people didn't say anything, he has said everything. It's true, all I said is: we can't give up, we can't be without talent. "What I've been worried about," he said after the wind stopped, "is that I don't want to continue studying. I am afraid that my talents will be as smooth as pebbles in this river. " "Maybe it's been going well for a year." Really, as soon as I opened my mouth, I realized that this winter no longer belongs to dario fo, and the Swedish Academy of Literature passed it on to the Portuguese Saramago, the first Portuguese.

I now find that among the manuscripts signed "Hundred Mountains Qian Shan", No.47 should be written by him. This is the last article we printed. The story is that because the car broke down on the road, he couldn't push the bike at first, but then he tried to pull it away, and there was nothing he could do. At last he had to walk home with his bike on his back. "He took everything he could." These are the exact words in it. "He is riding a bicycle now, always imagining that he is feebly burdened with a heavy fate. If he doesn't ride a bike, he will feel this way one day, but the problem is that the car is on his shoulder, and all the assumptions are invalid. He can only keep going, even if he loses his way. " Just as he struggled like a beetle, I completely remembered. I remember that the hero of this novel is Gregory Samsa, and the characters in his other novels are called K and Joseph K.

It has been two years since I wrote to him. In that letter written on a safe night, I repeatedly mentioned the good old days. So after Proust's description occupied the first half of the letter, I didn't know what to say. Because I want to say too much, I have to write out what I don't want to say first. Then I felt that I had nothing to do, so I kept playing with my hands in the light. A wild goose flies on the wall forever. The night outside the window flows quietly around me like melted chocolate. When the bell rang on Christmas Eve, I hurried through the second half of the letter. There I first mentioned Han Han, who is only one year older than us. I said that we can find an "unusual talent" in his articles, but the problem is that we can hardly find anything more amazing except reading talent beyond our age. At the end of the letter, I advised him not to give up writing. If reality, surrealism, modernity and postmodernism are really the rise of "ultra-modernism", I support you to be your follower. It's true. That year, I have been lying. My love letters to teachers, parents, friends and even a girl are full of untrue compliments. I think I will always tell the truth. In that letter, I told him that I would always follow you.

Waiting for his reply is so long that his letter has no reason to be called a timely reply. Actually, it's hard to say from the content. There is only one sentence in the whole letter, which depicts a beer cup hanging in mid-air. Bubble-filled beer overflowed along the outer edge, and five drops of falling wine were lit in the blank below. The only sentence is: There is no doubt that you are brilliant. If I remember correctly, this is the last sentence of my letter to him.

Like many of his practices, I am confused about the content of this letter. On that sleepy Saturday afternoon, I suddenly found that the four intervals of five drops of wine were the same length. Anyone with a little knowledge of physics knows that it is impossible in free fall. The spacing below should be much larger than that above. I have to interpret it as the uncertainty of time. Because of this, in the following months, I read all the texts of Borges on time and space. But I didn't find any answer except that I was more confused about God's account.

Our story sailed nonstop to the end, only to stop in another autumn. As soon as the rain stops, autumn may be over. The rain naturally showed its last glow, so that when I woke up at night, I didn't know whether it was thunder or telephone ringing. It's Tan Kaifeng's phone. He said he didn't expect this to be a call to my home. This number has been coiled in his mind. He told me that he and a dog were trapped in a telephone booth by a rainstorm, and just broke up with a girl like Barbie by phone here. "This is necessary," he said. "We are like characters in Pirandello's plays, playing our own stories and having to find an ending for ourselves." He thinks calling this unknown number is the most appropriate ending to end their love.

In this way, I became part of their story. The wind kept blowing in the rain. In the morning, the floor may be covered with snails. The pages of the "idiot" on the desk cabinet were blown off by the wind. I have been insomnia for several days. I always write novels tirelessly in the middle of the night Burn them first thing in the morning. Burn it, along with this hundred thousand rubles. My mother has always opposed me, and I woke her up on a sleepless night. She was at a loss when she found that I didn't sleep. I told her: I've been thinking about it, and now I understand, mom, I want to write a novel. As if to soothe my sleep, she said something at that time, and I almost cried for it all night. She said, "Let's talk about it later. It is not necessarily a bad thing that a person can publish one or two books in his life. "

After a burst of thunder, I asked him if he remembered his metaphor. "What? I don't remember. " "Metaphors about pebbles, education and talent," I asked him. "Seriously, I can't remember." He paused for a moment to answer. I can't remember clearly, but I should have forgotten it a long time ago. If I hadn't stumbled across the manuscript marked "Hundred Mountains", I wouldn't have remembered it. Forget it, or just write you down and write something we have in common. It's hard. I haven't spoken, and Dostoevsky's nightmare always haunts my mind. What does "beer glass" mean? In which letter? ""Waiting for your overflowing talent. " "What about the four equal intervals of five drops of wine?" "What's the matter?" "It shouldn't be the same, at least physically. "Hey, you know," he finally smiled, "my physics is still the same, and I failed. "However, what surprised me was not his answer, but his voice became soft and I didn't understand it, just like a smooth pebble. For a moment, he suddenly stopped laughing. I feel like crying. " You can't cry. "I told him." You know, I'm finished. I can't write anything now. ""I'll be finished, Tan Kaifeng. It's only a matter of time. Let's finish senior three, and then die together, completely. "

This is the last thing to do. The two boys didn't cry when they should. Wait, if one day I can really fall into such a porcelain bottle and break it, I will cry, and I will cry with you, the "idiot" in the novel. The curtains were blown up by the wind, like sails leaving the harbor. I put the microphone on my cheek like Proust. We have all forgotten this metaphor: pebbles, education and talent. This is the time when the prophecy comes true. My mother also uses various metaphors. She always compares the way to the university to a single-plank bridge. She said that in order to get there, I have to put down all my baggage, which is called love, friendship, happiness and so on. If all this is forgotten, she just forced me to throw this down. I'll throw it, mom, and someone will catch it. When people open this package layer by layer like China's box, they will find that it is just a tall beer glass-waiting to be filled with my overflowing talent.

note:

1, Dario Buddha:

1997 won the Nobel Prize in Literature for creating a series of plays that mocked the powerful in the way of medieval jesters. Winter take refers to the annual1February routine award ceremony.

2, "no longer bear the history of literature" literature:

Hemingway's quite classic sentence: "I belong to literature, not to the history of literature."

3. Wang Xiaobo's "almost ambiguous style":

"Ambiguous" means that Wang Xiaobo often appears vague in his description of sexual behavior. "Style" is just something you can't get rid of. Similar to Faulkner's exposition of sherwood anderson, "style" constantly encroached on the novelist's mind even before the content was formed. In the later silver age and bronze age, it can be seen that Wang Xiaobo has been unable to get rid of the shadow left by the golden age. From style to structure, Wang Xiaobo almost fell into the whirlpool of writing for the reproduction of "style".

4. "The legal parents in literature are Calvino and Marit Duras.";

Calvino is actually quite reluctant. The only similarity between Wang Xiaobo and him may be their respect for novels. Vonnegut, another writer that Wang Xiaobo never mentioned, is strikingly similar to Wang Xiaobo.

5. Gu Cheng's original poem goes like this: "Someone asked the poet to explain/his unfortunate poem/the poet replied:/You can go to the Canton Fair/the products there are equipped with commentators."

6. Ginsburg:

His howling should be said to be the limit of readable poetry.

7. "He (Byron) was the first person to acquiesce in his affair with his half-sister";

In fact, Byron only lived in the same house with his half-brother and sister for a while. He just avoids people who talk about it.

8. Saramago:

1998 in the award speech of the Swedish Academy of Literature, I still remember a very interesting metaphor: most writers have been writing things with similar styles all their lives, so that a high wall has been built around them, and the result will never come out. He said, "Obviously, Mr. Saramago is not such a writer."

9. Gregory Samsa is the Beatles in Metamorphosis:

The names of the protagonists in Kafka's three novels all begin with the word K, and "Joseph K" is only the protagonist in the trial. At first I just wanted to add syllables. I reread it and found it unnecessary.

10, Unusual Talent:

Kawabata Yasunari's evaluation of Kenzaburo Oe's first novel The Luxury of the Dead. Interestingly, it was these two people who pushed the tide of Japanese literature to the world twice in different times.

1 1, "the smartest choice":

1972 when burr learned that he had won the prize, the first thing he asked was, "Why me, not Gunter grass?" Later, some people called Glass, Nabokov, Lusa and Aitmatov as the four great masters connecting modern and later generations. Obviously, the Swedish Academy Literature Prize was awarded to Glass at the end of the century only to save the reputation of a hundred years of imperfection.

Pirandro 12:

The reason why some people are still reading Pirandello is that he was the first writer to put modern techniques on the stage. The most important thing is irony, which constantly makes the characters realize that they are only characters in the play, or makes the characters in the play confused because it is difficult to find their own roles outside the play.

13, Proust:

He described himself as a sickly person several times in Memories of Time Past, and he could only do things like women's memory and writing. Later generations regard his delicate style as strong evidence that he is gay. This article naturally doesn't mean this.

14. At the end of the paper, the scene of burning100000 rubles in Idiot and the sadness of China's broken porcelain vase are connected with this article by simple counterpoint. It can be said that Dostoevsky is the most outstanding Russian novelist, and his world outlook and exploration of modern consciousness in his novels far exceed that of lev tolstoy. However, because his novels are unreadable, people study him more and seldom read him. Obviously, Tuoshi doesn't want to attach importance to the role of structure and plot in the novel. He often describes some subtle emotions and conversations that have nothing to do with the plot. In the hundreds of pages of Crime and Punishment, he even set the plot back and drew circles in the murderer's mind. It should be said that Tuoshi was the only writer in the19th century, and even one of the few writers in the 20th century who stayed away from readers in order to write so close to their own hearts.