Miss Mr. Lu Xun
Forty-five years later, a voice has been in my ear: "forget me." The voice is so gentle, so serious, so familiar, but often so harsh. I don't know how many times I have said to myself, "I will never forget my husband." But what do I remember in forty-five years? !
Forty-five years ago, on an autumn night and an autumn morning, I stood quietly in front of my husband's coffin in the mourning hall of the National Funeral Parlour, and looked at his kind face, closed eyes and thick black beard through the half-glass coffin, as if I were asleep peacefully. Surrounded by wreaths and flower baskets, there is no interference, and Mr. Wang sleeps among the fragrant flowers. I watched it twice for four or five minutes, and my eyes were blurred. I think I see my husband smiling. I thought, what if Mr. Wang opened his eyes and sat up? How I wish to live first!
What happened forty-five years ago seems to have happened yesterday. Whether I forget it or not, I always feel that my husband has been watching me with his eyes open.
I still remember that in the days when dark clouds covered the sky, in the age when man and beast were indistinguishable, some people regarded Mr. Lu Xun as a god, and some people regarded his words as a spell; His works were taken out of context to hit people, and his name was used as an ornament for new "comrades-in-arms" and "confidants". When the incense was strong and the spell was read out loudly, I was branded as a "reactionary authority" and my husband's "sworn enemy", and even the right to commemorate my previous life was deprived. There is a statue of Mr. Wang on the grass of the writers association branch. I often work in the garden, pulling weeds and cleaning sewers. A narrow "gas chamber" served as our "bullpen", and six or seven writers crowded together to write "confessions". Sometimes I can't write anything, so I just put down my pen and dream. I have no right to worship God, but I will think of Mr. Lu Xun whom I came into contact with. I said goodbye to him that autumn afternoon. I accompanied seven or eight thousand people to send him to the cemetery. In the twilight, I saw the coffin covered with the flag of "soul of china" sink into the grave. In a corner of the bullpen, I saw him again. He hasn't changed. He is still such an amiable little old man, an ordinary man with no style, no shelf and no bureaucracy.
I'm still thinking about the past, some very, very small things.
I'm just a young writer. I edited a literary series for the first time. I saw my husband asking for a manuscript, and he agreed. In a couple of days, he asked someone to give me a message to accept the collection of short stories he was writing. The first episode of the series was compiled, and the publishing house published an advertisement introducing the content. Finally, there is a sentence: the whole book will be published before the Spring Festival. Mr. Wang delivered the manuscript quickly. He told people: they are in a hurry and I can't keep them. In fact, it was just an empty talk from the man who scribbled advertisements, and even I didn't notice it. This shows that Mr. Wang is very serious and responsible for any work. I can't help thinking of my sloppy work. I made up my mind to learn from my husband, only to find that no matter reading proofs, Bao Shu, reviewing manuscripts, compiling picture books, no matter big or small, whether it's my own business or someone else's business, my husband takes it seriously and is truly meticulous. He printed books for people, designed the covers himself, and packaged and mailed them himself. Every process has his painstaking efforts. I secretly learn from him, and the more I learn, the harder it becomes. Through a few friends, I know my husband better. The more I know, the more I love him. My thoughts and my attitude are gradually changing. I feel the so-called subtle power.
When I first started writing, I didn't feel too heavy when I picked up the pen. I write only to pour out my personal love and hate. However, when I took this job, I gradually understood that fighting with a pen was not a simple matter. Mr. Lu Xun set an example for me. I admire Gorky's hero Dank the Warrior. He took out his burning heart and showed people the way. I regard this picture as the highest realm of writing, which is also inspired by my husband. I encouraged myself to tell the truth. Lu Sao was my first teacher, but it was Mr. Lu Xun who lit the way for me with his burning heart for decades. I can see clearly: in him, writing is consistent with life, writers are consistent with people, and characters and literature are inseparable. All his books are telling the truth. He explored the truth and pursued progress all his life. He has the courage to dissect society, and he has the courage to dissect himself; He is not afraid to admit his mistakes, let alone correct them. Every article of his has stood the test of time, and he really gave his heart to the readers. I didn't feel at home when I met him for the first time. His eyes and smile reassured me. People say his pen is as sharp as a knife, but he is infinitely kind to young people. A friend edited a publication under the guidance of Mr. Wang. He was once in trouble. Mr. Wang said to him, "I'm sorry to see you lose weight." Mr. Wang introduced the manuscripts of young writers and printed their works at his own expense. Mr. Wang has lived among young people for a long time, working and fighting with young people, distinguishing right from wrong and distinguishing between ourselves and the enemy. Mr. Wang likes young people, but he never gives in to them. Mr. Wang always has a clear distinction between love and hate, and he never compromises on matters of principle. Some people approach him and then leave him; Some "friends" or "students" became his enemies. But he never stopped moving towards the truth.
"Forget me!" This familiar voice rang in my ear again, sometimes mild and sometimes severe. I remember how many times I made up my mind that night and that morning forty-five years ago. Say "never forget", in fact, I have completely forgotten. But in the silent mourning hall, people's determination to Mr. Wang's body cannot be erased. Sometimes I feel gentle, as if encouraging me, and sometimes I feel harsh, that is, I borrowed my husband's scalpel to dissect my soul.
Twenty-five years ago, when I moved and buried Mr. Wang in Shanghai, I had an autumn night dream, and the scene in the dream is still very vivid. I see my husband's burning heart, and I hear the fiery language: for the truth, dare to love and hate, dare to say and do, dare to pursue. ..... But when Mr. Speaker was used, his image was distorted and the memorial hall was monopolized, did I stand up and say a word? When Yao waved a stick, I was locked in the bullpen. What can I do but be passive to Nuo Nuo and Nuo Nuo?
Ten years of catastrophe, I regard the rebels as "cows" and call myself "cows". It has become a habit to write "checks" and "accounts" in the "bullpen" with peace of mind. In the past two years, I gritted my teeth and dissected myself, only to remember that my husband had compared himself to a "cow." But Mr. Wang "eats grass to squeeze out milk and blood." What a beautiful heart and broad mind! As for me, in the middle of ten years, I was just a tearful "cow" who was slaughtered by others. But even the slaughtered cattle will suddenly run as long as they can break the rope.
"Forget me!" After forty-five years of ups and downs, I returned to the mourning hall in universal funeral parlour. Although the funeral home on Jiaozhou Road no longer exists, the kind face under the glass coffin is still vivid and imprinted in my heart. It is because I think of my husband again that I have the courage to live. It was because I forgot my husband that I suffered all kinds of misfortunes in those years. I will firmly remember this lesson.
Over the years, I have heard people say: If Mr. Lu Xun is still alive … Of course, we all want to live first. Everyone wants Mr. Wang to be what he thinks he is. But sir is always sir.
For the truth, dare to love, dare to hate, dare to say, dare to do and dare to pursue. ...
If Mr. Wang is still alive, he will never give up his "golden nothingness". He is a writer, a great writer and loved by the people.