Since I was a child, I have liked to stare at the clouds in the blue sky, as the poet Yuan Mei of the Qing Dynasty said: “I love to take care of the blue sky, how many white clouds are born?” Especially the clever clouds in July and August are poetic, picturesque and dreamlike. , Has a great attraction to me, I can look at the clouds for several hours without getting bored.
Although the observers look to themselves, the flying ones fly, and the sky is separated from each other, but in the long-term affectionate vision, through the artistic and spiritual induction, a certain tacit understanding can often be achieved between each other. I am accustomed to making analogy associations between the flowing clouds and the clouds in my eyes and the various things I touch. For example, when I read Xiao Hong’s works and understood his travels and life experience, I naturally connected the people on the ground with the clouds in the sky. Seeing a cloud that is still in the sky, I think of a little girl who has solved things quite early, without maternal love, without a partner, sitting alone in her grandfather’s back garden every day, holding her hands and staring at the clouds; Yun turned around and rushed to the distance. I think this is like a young woman rushing out of the feudal family cage, escaping from marriage, and beginning her painful and tenacious struggle career. Sometimes, when two floating clouds overlap each other affectionately, and then drift away irrelevantly, I think of the fit of two rebellious souls—they meet by chance in the thorny land, trek together, and each other. Later, they parted ways. When I found a cloud of clouds gradually melted in the blue sky, and disappeared quietly, I couldn’t restrain my sorrow, and mourned deeply for this thoughtful and talented woman-she was lost in the sky, she was frantic with sorrow and sickness, and a scent of fragrance. The soul is scattered in the remote shallow water bay… At this moment, she will immediately remember the verse of her best friend Nie Gangnu: “Who can paint Xiao Hongying, and see a ray of glow in the blue sky!”
It is this deep memory, and Out of love for Xiao Hong’s works, I hope to understand the prototype of his life, the so-called psychology of “seeking flowers because of honey”, which urges me to come to the fascinating Hulan in mid-August, the best time to watch the clouds. , Tracing the years of female writers sixty years ago.
Oh, the Hulan River, this river of blood and tears, a river full of joy, still carrying the fragrance of the mud on both sides, surging endlessly, beating a seductive wave of life. Crossing the bridge, a wide road led us into the county seat in the green. Dongerdao Street, crossroads, tea shops, pharmacies, everything seemed familiar, everything changed greatly. However, perhaps because of high expectations, when I stepped into Xiao Hong’s former residence, I was a little disappointed.
A few dark and vague photos, some old objects used by the writer, are sparsely placed in the five main rooms. The original back garden of 2,000 square meters, which was covered with traces of Xiao Hong’s tracks, tears and dreams, has now been covered with a series of private houses. What is even more regrettable is that the female writer who left a million-character work has not collected a single page of manuscript or a line of handwriting in the showroom.
Reminiscent of the Imperial Village School where the great Russian poet Pushkin attended-in Leningrad today, despite the vicissitudes of the 170 years, including wars and wars, Pushkin’s workbooks and writing poems are still intact. Keep it there. In contrast, I deeply feel that we have not fully fulfilled our responsibilities in collecting and preserving the author’s manuscripts and relics. Of course, you can also consider another line of thought: Qianchen Mengying of this rebellious daughter was originally not at home. In her own view, the “home” was wiped out before this land fell into enemy hands. She drifted away like a white cloud, her world was at the end of the sky. “The people of the past have already taken the white clouds, and there is an empty Yellow Crane Tower”, that’s it. Clouds are the landscape in Xiao Hong’s works. There is no manuscript, why not read the cloud outside the window?
”The white clouds are still the autumn of the Han Dynasty”, looking up at the sky, it is no different from what the female writer described back then. The sky is still blue, high and far away. Large masses of white clouds, like snow-capped mountains, sheep, cotton piles, and sprinkled silver. I think that if it catches up with the evening, I will definitely see the dizzying “burning clouds” that change suddenly.
I remember Mr. Shen Congwen said that clouds have local characteristics. Clouds vary in color, shape, personality and demeanor. During the ten years of wandering around the world, Xiao Hong traveled to most of China, and once traveled far to Dongying. She would not fail to see the colorful clouds over Qingdao that Mr. Shen praised so much, she must have experienced the “green hush” of the clouds and the sense of lightness, gentleness, and music; she should also notice that the Guanzhong area grabbed a hand. The yellow clouds that seem to be able to form a nest; the transparent and beautiful floating clouds in the southern country; the simple and simple tropical clouds that seem to be washed with snow from the mountains; the beautiful clouds over the Tokyo Bay like a cherry blossom rain; I am afraid they can all The strange thoughts that triggered her, but none of them were written down. When the outrageous rivers and lakes and the excitement of the wave of travel came to an end, the “trembling, fluttering light band” mindset and “strokes like a brush with a steel halberd against the clear sky” fade away, and the embarrassing sense of loneliness, loneliness and loss When it struck, she was like Duke André, who was once the main battle force in “War and Peace”, wounded and fell to the ground, looking affectionately at the sky above, and returning to her dream home with the flying white clouds. Seeking solace, slowly chewing on childhood memories-the inexhaustible wealth in this life journey. For Xiao Hong, although his childhood was extremely boring and lonely, and his homeland was not warm to speak of, his “human affection in his hometown” is like the description in a poem: “Paper full of affection for servant women, ten years of dreams Hulan.”
A hung homesick, infatuated, the farther away, the louder the echo. Thus, “a narrative poem, a colorful landscape painting, and a string of poignant ballads” was conceived and born in “permanent vision and pursuit”.
