At night, I like to read a book quietly.
This book is “A Dream of Red Mansions” written by Cao Xueqin.
Yes, when the night falls, with such a heart-thumping “Dream of Red Mansions” to accompany me, and a cup of tea in front of me, the night seems quite flavorful and not so long.
In “Dream of Red Mansions”, there are some confessions from the soul, some words that are suitable for both refined and popular tastes, and even more all-encompassing life modalities. The unique character’s name is vivid and fresh, making people want to reach out and touch it gently.
I like the talented words in “Dream of Red Mansions”, the spiritual style, and the classical atmosphere. I was reading such a book, talking to those rich souls, listening to the vicissitudes of life many years ago. I vaguely feel that the person who shed bitter tears alone and the characters in his writing have walked into my heart.
I like to read the book “Dream of Red Mansions”, especially when I am free at night, this book is in the place closest to me and within reach.
I sat in front of the small window, silently flipping through the yellowed pages of “Dream of Red Mansions”, as if flipping through a heavy spiritual history. The breeze tapped on my window lightly, making my reading more clear. I always read a few pages, then stop, close my eyes slightly, and think about it over and over again, so that the vivid figures in the Grand View Garden will naturally emerge one by one in my mind. At this time, the book was quietly opened on the table, the soft light was shining quietly, a breeze blew through the small window, and the pages of the book swayed gently, like a butterfly spreading its wings and wanting to fly.
The night is quiet, there is no bright moonlight or bright stars in the teacup, there is only the color of elegant tea and the fragrance of books quietly overflowing, reflecting the lights, the water is sparkling, and the ripples are thin. As time goes by, the dreams in the Red Mansion, filled with laughter and soaked in tears, are always displayed vividly, as if the wind blows across the lake and splashes crystal clear water. What a deep dream of the Red Chamber, I wandered in it like a gentle wind.
I heard what seemed to be a faint sigh of the old wooden door, which opened slightly behind me. Is it the quiet visit of Night Breeze, or the sincere knock of the person sitting under the oil lamp in Xishan, Beijing, writing a book?
I walked out and stopped under a tree, deeply sucking the fragrance of flowers in the quiet night. The moonlight is bright, the shadows of the trees are swaying, and the sound of the wind blowing is like a lover’s confession of joy or pain. That round of moon was chased by colorful clouds, vaguely performing a romantic legend. No one returns from afar, and no one goes far away. On a clear night, like the washed moonlight, lines of words soaked in bitter tears once lived in a simple hut. The hut used to tremble in the howling wind, but it has become a moving scenery in the years of wind and rain. The words blended with the thin figure of that person and the silent and dark night, which made me try hard to distinguish them all the time, but I couldn’t distinguish them. Therefore, in my feelings, I always felt that no one came back from afar, and no one go far. However, the sighing sound in the dream of the Red Chamber echoed deeply in the empty heart, endlessly.
The person named Cao Xueqin, I think, is the most affectionate scholar in the world.
Everything comes from words, from thinking, from wine, and also from dreams, and even more from a kind of confession of love and pain. The flowers on the tree fall down, and the falling flowers are the bones of the world, and the lingering romance needs to be buried in the pure land. I seem to have seen that dusk when the cuckoo was speechless, the woman who buried the flowers, Lin Daiyu, lightly closed the heavy door, and hoeed away. She was feeling sorry for the flowers and hurt herself, and she was also looking for the way home.
The love and hate in the world are so passionately fused together, and the beauty and silence in the years are so painfully recited into poems. Going back into the room, I sat under the lamp again and held up the big book “Dream of Red Mansions” written by Cao Xueqin. The dew on my body and Cao Xueqin’s words dripped into rain, giving my hut and my heart Rendered wet.
