Completely poetic faith", I'm going to cry here! That is, for this "poetic faith", he insisted on taking advantage of the convenience of aviation to achieve his long-cherished wish of "wanting to fly"! "The plane is very stable," he said, "and if something happens, it's my fate!" "He really believed in fortune so poetically!

On November 19, our good friend, the new poet loved by many, Xu Zhimo, abruptly, unbelievable, and cruel, died in distress on the plane. On the morning of the 20th, the news struck the hearts of many friends like a pinprick, and suddenly the morning was as dark as ink, and the throat of mourning choked everyone's throat.

Shima ...... Die...... Who has ever thought about these two sentences together! He was such a lively person, such a person who had just stood on the peak of his prime. Friends were often amazed at his activities, his childlike spirit and seriousness, who would have thought that he would die?

Suddenly, he broke out of our common world and sank into eternal silence, without giving us a little forenotice, a little preparation, or a room for hope at the last end. This kind of determination that is almost close to forbearance, I don't know how many friends' hearts were numbed that day? Now that undeniable fact still mercilessly blocks us in front of us. No matter how painfully we mourn his tragic death, and how desperately we wish to still have access to his original voice, the truth is that there will be no change in order to be considerate of our sorrow; And he will no longer have to move because he can't bear our mourning! This embarrassing eternal silence and depression is the cruelest part of death.

We are not superstitious, we are not religiously looking at this curtain of death, and we are not sure at all. We don't call when we open our mouths, we don't fall asleep when we close our eyes, we hover on the edge of reason and emotion, we can't expect what will happen later, and we just perpetually be stunned by this death, swallowing dry tears, waiting for time to exploit the sharpness of mourning, scabbing the wounds of each of our mourning. Didn't many of the friends who got the news at the beginning of that afternoon all go to Mr. Hu Shizhi's house? But except for wiping away tears and sitting silently, no one has any idea, and no one knows what to say, about this death!

No one has an idea, no one has a word! Truth does not allow us to plant any hope, emotions do not allow us not to mourn this sudden misfortune, and reason does not allow us to have supernatural fantasies! Silently facing each other, silently sitting around...... And Shima is still dead and has not looked back, there is no news, there will never be a return, there will never be a news again.

None of us absolutely believe in fate, but who is not surprised by this unpredictable life, and how can we not feel the fragility of manpower and the limitation of wisdom in the face of the traces of many facts. Is there a certainty in the world? Is the world all accidental? When will we be fully sure of this eternal question?

Unfolding in front of us is just a bunch of hard facts:

"Yes, he sent me a telegram on the morning of the nineteenth......

"On the morning of the nineteenth, yes! Said to go to Nanyuan at three o'clock in the afternoon and send a car to pick up ......

"The telegram was sent from the Nanjing airfield at nine o'clock......

"It was just after he started flying......

"I sent a car to pick it up and waited until half-past four...... Said the plane didn't arrive ......"

"Didn't arrive...... The airline said there was fog in Jinan...... The big ......" is just an hour's difference; At 3 o'clock in the afternoon, there is fog in Jinan! Who would have believed that such a different reality could have happened in just one hour, Shima, my friend!

I still saw him the night before he left Pingping, and at that time he didn't know how to travel south the next morning. The plane had been rescheduled three times, and he had said that if he changed it again, he would not leave. He and I came out of the same tea party and broke up at the mouth of Zongbu Hutong. In this tea party we invited Dr. Berry for the Pacific Conference, because he was the sister of Manshufeier, the female writer whom Shima loved most in his life, and Shima was very attentive; I hope to get some more traces of Manshufer's early years from Berry's mouth, but because of the time constraints, we hurriedly dispersed after tea. I had a date in the evening and went out, and when I came back late, I heard that he had come again, and when my husband and wife had just left, he sat down by himself for a while, drank a pot of tea, wrote some words on the table, and left. I went to the table and looked at it—"I'm going to fly at 6 a.m. tomorrow, and I'm not sure if I'm going to ...... here."

I was stunned, and I was unhappy for a while, but I was busy giving him a call.

"Don't worry." He said, "It's very safe, I still have to keep my life to see greater deeds, how can I die?" ……”

That being said, he's been dead for two weeks now!

Now this fact is getting stronger and more fixed and undeniable day by day. Shima is dead, and this simple and cruel reality has long since added the color of time, and it has been growing for a week, two weeks......

I shouldn't be here to moan incoherently about the sadness of our friends. In the final analysis, the reader will look at our words, that is, like Shima's invitation to Shima, and hear something about Shima from our mouths. I understand this, but I am afraid that I will not be able to satisfy you, because the things about him are beautiful and make young people know that there is a rare personality here, and there are so many that it can not be expressed in a few thousand words. No one has to admit that there are not many people like him in the world, whether in China or abroad.

I know him, it's been a decade, he was at the London School of Economics, and he hadn't been to Cambridge yet. The first time I met him, it was the first time he met Mr. Dickinson, who had influenced him to move to school. Needless to say, he and my father talked the most, although they were not far apart in age, and they became confidants as soon as they met. After he arrived in Kangqiao, he was introduced to the Royal Academy by Dickinson, and his classmates at that time were my sister-in-law, Wen Jun Yuanning. Until the last two months, Genning had often told many of his jokes at that time, and although they were jokes, it was also one of his earliest surprising impressions of Shima. Shima's serious poetry does not contain the slightest hypocrisy, and his kind of stupidity, that kind of childlike innocence can be surprising. One day, Mr. Genning said, was studying in the school building and it was pouring rain outside—the kind only an island country like England has—when he heard someone knock on his door and a drenched guest jumped in outside. Needless to say, he was Shima, and as soon as he entered the door, he pulled Yuan Ning and ran out, saying Come on, let's wait on the bridge. This stunned Genning, and he asked Shima why he was waiting in this heavy rain. Shima's eyes widened, and he said happily like a child, "Look at the rainbow after the rain." Yuan Ning not only said that he would not go, but also advised Shima to change his soaked clothes as soon as possible, and then put on a raincoat to go out, the humidity in Britain is child's play. Shima didn't wait for him to finish, and ran away on his own.

Later, curiously, I asked Shima about the truth of this story, and he smiled and nodded to admit the truth of the whole story. I asked: So what about the following, how long have you been standing on the bridge and waiting, and have you seen the rainbow? He said he couldn't remember, but he actually saw the rainbow. I interrupted his description of the rainbow in surprise and asked him why, and he knew that there would be a rainbow. He replied with a smug smile, "Completely poetic faith!" ”

"Completely poetic faith", I'm going to cry here! That is, for this "poetic faith", he insisted on taking advantage of the convenience of aviation to achieve his long-cherished wish of "wanting to fly"! "The plane is very stable," he said, "and if something happens, it's my fate!" "What a poetic belief in his fate!

Shima, my friend, death is just a new journey, and we haven't been there, so we can't help but be overly suspicious that death may be more bitter than this life, "We can't easily conclude that there is no sunshine and human warmth on that side." "But the most embarrassing thing I said earlier is the eternal silence. We were born in a time when there was no religion, and we were so uncertain about this death. Many days after this will be spent thinking of you, and I am afraid that it will be all dim suffering, and there will not be a little light, unless I also have your beautiful poetic faith!

My personal sorrow has come to disturb many of my vivid memories of his life, and my friends forgive me.

The poet Shima doesn't need me to say more, many of his poems are the scales to evaluate him. The history of our new poetry is so short, I am afraid that his judgment is still among our children and grandchildren. I'm going to talk about Shima outside of poets. People say that Shima's personality is just casual romance, and Shima's poems are all lyric poems, which can be said to be fair to people who don't know him, and from the point of view of his friends, he is really sorry for him. Shima is a very eccentric person, romantic of course, but the essence of his personality is his sympathy, kindness, and grace; There is no one who is not kind to him, there is no one who cannot be accommodated, there is no emotion that he can never sympathize with. I don't say I understand, because isn't it true that many people like to say that Shima is the most incomprehensible? That's what I said about him.

We ordinary people like to talk and understand; If we can understand, we will sympathize, and if we don't understand, we will be very lonely and even cool. Sympathy for what we can understand, we think it is appropriate; We don't sympathize with what we don't understand, and we think it's fair. Shima is not, he does not exaggerate excessively whether he understands or does not understand. As long as he knows that there is an emotional existence, no matter who it comes from, under what circumstances, whether it is intellectually appropriate or not, he can express some sympathy, and he can really understand that forgiving others is different from himself. He never harshly blames those who are different from him by the scales of strict morality. His gentleness, his grace, is a shame to many, and I can honestly say that at least he is much greater than most of us; He feels that all kinds of human emotional actions are different, and the value of the magnified human vision, sympathy should not be limited to the scope we delineate. He's right, friends, after all, how many people, how many things, how many emotions can we understand? Which thing, which person does not have a multifaceted view! For this reason, it is not strange that Shima has many friends; It is also a very natural result that all those who know him, regardless of their depth, have special feelings for him. On the other hand, he himself has received little sympathy in the course of his life. Not only that, but he also had a few times because of his little ideals, and his foolishness was almost not tolerated in society. But he has never been so stingy with his sympathy for others, his temperament, he has never been stimulated to change from mean and violent, who can not admit that he has a superhuman magnanimity.

The most touching characteristics of Shima are his unbelievable innocence, his foolishness towards his ideals, his earnestness in appreciating art, and his realism in experiencing emotions. He stood in the rain and waited for the rainbow, and he was willing to fight for his freedom of love in the face of social condemnation; He took a tortuous train to the countryside to Baihadai, he abandoned the temptation of doctors and the like to roll up his schoolbag to England, just to worship Russell as a teacher, he took risks on the way of life for a peculiar circumstance, and henceforth abandoned all his old occupations, and only tried to write a few new lines of poetry—the fortune of the new poetry attempts in recent years was not too enthusiastic, and cynicism was just commonplace—he could often walk a few miles to pick a few flowers, and spend many twists and turns to see a friend and say a few words; These, and many, are not mysteries that we can easily understand. I say mysterious, but in fact, I may be stupid and stupid! In fact, he is just more serious than us, religious, stupid, stupid! He was glad that his wings of joy could touch the heavens, and he was sorrowful, and his sorrow was bottomless. The measurement of ordinary evaluation has no effect in his hands, and he has his own opinion on the importance of the stakes, which is purely the principle of artistic emotion that is out of the ordinary, so it is common to hear friends say that he always likes to say with a sigh: "That's Shima, what can you do!" "Is he really a weirdo? Friends, no, not at all, he is just more affectionate than us, more enthusiastic than us, more naïve than us, more faith in all things than we do, more in God, in man, in spirit, in nature, in art!

Friends, we have lost not only a friend, a poet, but also a very rare and lovely personality.

As for whether his work is all lyrical? Is his interest limited to emotions? It's even more wrong. Shima's interests are extremely wide-ranging. There are a few things that are strange to those who don't know him. He was very fond of mathematics in his early years, he always loved astronomy, he knew a lot of the names and parts of the stars in the sky, and he liked to watch the stars on summer nights, and several times he took the train with books on the science of the universe. He translated Einstein's theory of relativity, and in 1922 he wrote an article on it that appeared in the journal Mindor. He often joked to Sicheng: "Mr. Ren Gong's knowledge of the theory of relativity is still obtained from my Xu Jun Shima masterpiece, because he said that he has read a lot of Einstein's philosophy and has never understood it, and only after reading Shima's article did he understand." "I was recuperating in Xiangshan this summer, and he often came to chat, and one day we talked about his childhood school and the situation of studying economics at Clark University in the United States for two years, and we couldn't help but laugh for a long time, and later he also said that in the "preface" of his "Tiger Collection". But strange! Unlike many geniuses, who went to school at an early age, he either failed or was rejected, he was always honorable, and I heard that once a very strict economics professor at Cornell's summer school wrote a letter to a professor at Clark University to compliment his students about a difficult subject. I'm not exaggerating here for Shima, because in fact, it's only for this incident that Shima himself laughed a lot this summer!

In addition, his interest in theatrical painting is very deep, not to mention drama, which is so close to poetry, and his genius for appreciating painting is also considerable, several painters of the late Impressionists, he has a very precise love and dislike, and he is also very familiar with those of the Renaissance, he loves Bautticelli and Davenqian the most. Naturally, he often admits that literati paintings are often indirectly influenced by other people's papers, and his is influenced by Roger Fry and Walter Pater. As for the architectural aesthetic, he often apologized to Sicheng and me, saying: "I'm so sorry, my architectural knowledge is all Ruskins' set." "He knew we hated Ruskins. But in order to see the ruins of an ancient building, a stone carving, he was more enthusiastic than anyone else, and he could appreciate it more calmly.

He loves colors, although he can't paint himself, during the summer vacation he once sent me a few letters from Hangzhou, he himself called them "descriptive watercolors", he wrote in English in great detail the colors of the mulberry fields in the west, every minute of tender green, every color of goose yellow, he carefully observed. On another occasion he looked at the broken wall in my garden and was silent for a long time, and then he told me that he was silently appreciating that he wanted to describe the evening sun on the wall and the vines that had just entered autumn.

He has a passion for music, both Chinese and Western, not only for his hobbies, but his enthusiasm has awakened Beijing's attention to music once—perhaps only once—for the only time. No one will forget that year, Krasla went to Beijing to play the violin in the "True Light" for more than an hour. (2) He also has to be regarded as "good" at old dramas, and in the days when he was in Beijing, we went to listen to several plays together one after another, and when we came home, we had a lively discussion, which was more sincere and energetic than any drama review.

Who would believe that such a person, such a person who is so faithful to "life", would leave us so early and forever to join another world, and be silent forever, no longer breathing!

I don't dare to write any further, wouldn't Shima be upset to hear a child much younger than him talk about him in an old-fashioned tone? Here I have another very embarrassing recollection, that year he wrote in the same newspaper the tragic death of my father(3), this dreamlike life took a few turns, but once upon a time, it was my turn to hold him in the middle of the night. What kind of life is this? What storms? What road? Shima, your most unfortunate liberation is not happiness, not wisdom, I should envy you.

(1) Originally published in the 9th edition of the "Beiping Morning Post" on December 7, 1931. This is Lin Huiyin's first prose, and there were many articles mourning Xu Zhimo at that time, but Lin Huiyin's article was the most affectionate. She vividly expressed the emotion of losing her soulmate.

(2) Refers to the American violinist Fritz Kreisler, and "True Light" refers to the True Light Cinema, which is now the Children's Theater - Liang Congjie

(3) refers to Xu Zhimo's article "Wounded Old Man" written in February 1926.

Commemoration of the 4th anniversary of Shima's death (1)

If my tears had involuntarily overflowed my eyelashes at that time, I knew you would forgive me. You should believe that I will not surrender to sorrow, and I will always believe in the stubborn faithful to life, even if life is as you say below:

Just by the two narrow paths, they are counted as rails,

Carrying this weight, dream-like tiredness!

Today is the fourth anniversary of your escape from this world! Friend, what are we going to honor you this time? The first two times I sadly surrounded your photos with fragrant flowers, suppressed sighs and sorrows under my throat, and friends and friends looked at each other boredly, completing a form of commemoration, as if it were a stupid failure. For the act of that time, which borders on sentimentality, and is not religious solemn, has no effect other than to point out the distance between you and us, the distance between life and death; It is almost completely impossible to achieve any real commemorative significance.

Last year, today I unexpectedly passed by your hometown from southern Zhejiang, in the drowsy night, I stared at the dark platform outside the door of the independent train, silently recalling many discontinuous fragments of the past, until the life and death actually became a blur, life and a train-like winding series of questions in the vast expanse. I think of your:

The train grabbed the tracks and ran in the night

Over the mountains, over the water, over the ......

If my tears had involuntarily overflowed my eyelashes at that time, I knew you would forgive me. You should believe that I will not surrender to sorrow, and I will always believe in the stubborn faithful to life, even if life is as you say below:

Just by the two narrow paths, they are counted as rails,

Carrying this weight, dream-like tiredness!

It was then that I remember the train slowly dragging out of the platform, one by one, and I followed the sour poetry, the "moaning of the car", "across the wilderness, over the pond,...... Villages that have passed the silence. "At the second stop, half of my hometown.

This year, it's the turn of today! The world is still in a mess, and how many places are black clouds full of thick tendons and the opposite side of the ideal is rushing, and I am not talking nonsense, when I write:

Faith is only a fine incense,

That idea can no longer withstand the west wind

The rustle blows through the plane trees

Friend, you say it yourself, if you were sitting on me now, facing the sun in this window: watching the shadow of the chrysanthemum painting on the wall; Leaning under his arms two stacks of this morning's newspapers; From time to time, I faintly listened to the sound of gunfire and bullets outside the Chaoyang Gate; Consciously, subconsciously, to understand the mystery of life and death, what kind of poem should you write to commemorate a dead friend?

At this point, I was completely confused! It is customary for me to say that everything is like the intention of creation, and in the final analysis, it is fate, but I know that everything in the road is like having our own shadow imprinted in it! I also know how many patterns are put together by chance every day, but I also wonder who is at the mercy of the people. In my opinion: death is a chapter of tragedy, and life is the backbone of a tragedy! The characters in our group of dramas have contradictory personalities and personalities; Reason and emotion are incompatible; Ideals and reality clash face to face, and the side or side of the opposite side becomes sorrowful. The days are moving forward day by day, and yesterday and yesterday are piled up into an inescapable background, making the walls or qi around us, so strong and so ethereal, that each of us stands in every time of the day so main, and so small and powerless!

I can barely find a word to say at the moment, because, really, I'm just a complete fool; I feel that life and death are the same as incomprehensible and incomprehensible.

But I want to tell you that although it has been four years since you left the world where we are communicating, and you have stopped participating in the main force of the changes in the situation, no one can deny that you are still standing in our misty background, which is indirectly a kind of strength, especially in terms of efforts and beliefs in literary and artistic creation. Indirectly, you let the natural rhyme, the color, the wind and the moon from time to time, and all the emotions of man's lawlessness, continue to live among us, still intertwine with us the disputes of this life, and continue to live with the ideals. You're not too far from us. Your figure hangs here and there forever, as fleeting as you did when you were alive, love stops when people don't expect it, laughter that brings courage is always so loud, and there are poems that have been sung by your passion or anxiety, one by one, still revolving in the hearts of many.

Speaking of your poems, friend, I was about to say something more to you in earnest. Don't be impatient, sooner or later we'll have to make it clear. The former has long been a fact, and the latter has been unpleasant to say in the past four years, and I have not spoken of a pertinent or honest comment, although praise and criticism of you began within a week or two of your death. But each of them did not hold a balance like pure literature and art; Some like you as a person; Some question your private morality; Some only respect the ideas and philosophies expressed in your poems, some only love those weak and delicate sentences, and some must involve the regularity of your personal life in every discussion, or assert that you are frivolous, or cite you as extravagant! Friend, I know that you never mind this, and that you have long experienced the shallowness, honesty, or meanness of many people, and that you have not only never been angry, but have often shown pity and forgiveness; Your heart is always so pure; The head is raised so high; The chest is always so complete and sincere; There is always so much indomitable courage on the arm. But now the situation is slightly different from before, since you are no longer here, you are your friend, and you are misunderstood, misinterpreted, and even abused, and sometimes you can't help but feel sorry for you.

But don't get me wrong, I have a narrow heart, and I see irrelevant things as important, and I also know that misunderstandings, misinterpretations, and insults are irrelevant, but friends, when we all need someone to understand us, we really understand us, even if we are hurt and scolded for our weaknesses and mistakes, then the whole of us adds more meaning, and the overall achievements of a writer's literature and art need a kind of essay, a peaceful judgment on art and art.

You said in the "Preface" of "Tiger Collection" that "there is nothing worse than writing poetry in the world", but you didn't explain that writing poetry for Lu is a tragic thing, so let me make a footnote now, okay? I think it is very common for a person to put the complex emotions he feels and the life he has tasted into the boiler of his ideals and beliefs into a few melodious and sonorous words (even a few small songs) to satisfy his own instinctive artistic impulses for the sake of a foolish tendency. In every place and in every era, there are constantly such people. Most of the people who take turns to be such people are more sensitive than ordinary people because their emotions are more than ordinary people, and the impulses that occur for this emotion are not practical—or not all practical—pursuits, but only require the satisfaction of that kind of art. Speaking of which, the motives of the poet are so simple and pitiful, as you say in your "Preface", "We are all good beings who are subject to domination"! Although some poets, because their achievements are particularly high and broad, including the artistic and intellectual impulses of the majority, or the entire era, have since put a mysterious halo on the world, so that the word "poet" invisibly hangs a sublime color. In this way, those who generally strive to express or depict in rhyme the intertwined emotions and thoughts of man in nature are regarded by human prejudice as the banner of exaggeration, which requires the most callous ridicule and distrust of his contemporaries to extinguish it in order to save human dignity and health.

I admit that writing poetry is a dismal business, a struggle in isolation among people, but because I know the Tao too clearly, your simple faith and sincere attempts in this field, fighting for your peers, protecting their emotional stupidity, praising their artistic creation, and never seeking vanity, I think you have always been very carefree. As you yourself say: "your head is full of blood" and you "have not bowed your head", you yourself believe that "a little soul is still struggling there", and "you still want to make some noise under the pressure of practical life".

To put it simply, friend, your motivation for writing poetry is frank and involuntary, and your attitude in writing poetry is honest, brave and stubborn. This is clear to everyone when discussing your poems.

As for the technical and artistic attainments of your poems, no one can judge categorically while the new poems are still wandering in the wrong way, but there is one thing I would like to remind those who are now discussing new poetry that the new poems, because of their unconditional intangibility so broad that there is almost no definite definition of the era, have turned into a period of discussion of the content of appearances, so as to the organization of the imagery of syllables, rhymes, feet, chapters, sentences, etc., according to the poems that have been tried in this regard. Your first two collections of poems are the basis for the most insightful material for these discussions. The foreign vernacular saying goes, "The horse has to be placed in front of the carriage", isn't it? Without some attempts to put the results there, theorists can't keep sending out a bunch of empty promises there, can they?

You yourself have always been not only there to stubbornly try and work hard, but you will also use all your lively enthusiasm to encourage others to try, to encourage the "times" to get up and try - this kind of work is the most suspicious of the limelight, and only you have the courage to stand up to it! I still remember when you wanted to print a collection of poems, I pinched a sweat for you, and to be honest, I was embarrassed for you among the literary old-timers, and I also remember my anxiety when I first heard that people were looking for you to run the "Morning Post Supplement", but you actually grabbed two drumsticks with a straight face and grabbed two drumsticks to open the way for literature and art to blow the way and even sweep the floor, spread flowers, regardless of the criticism of the old power and the suspicion of the new force, you did your "things are man-made, do it and say it again" that kind of energy, which is rare elsewhere in the future.

Now that you are gone, these things are gradually blurred in the memory of people, and your poems and essays are scattered in small collections, pressed behind new books with very fresh covers, and whoever talks about you either so-so admits that you are a powerful force in the past, or takes it as a skill to be able to find fault with your poems (essayists rarely mention it, and perhaps "essayists" are not as honorable as poets and are not worth noting). Friend, this is a helpless thing, but I am not discouraged at all, because I have my faith.

I think that our motives for writing poetry are as simple and foolish as I said above, because at a certain time, or at a certain moment, we are keenly exposed to the sharp edge of life, or occasionally touch the clouds and stars on the peak of the ideal, and we can't help but make up a series or two of sentences close to music in the language we are accustomed to, to comfort ourselves, to liberate ourselves, to pursue the transcendent true beauty, and most of the reaction of the poet reader must be as honest and innocent as ours who write poetry, and only want to enjoy the pleasure of music in the middle of our sentences. Exposed to some of the essence of life, mixed with beautiful visions; Build a pontoon bridge between our emotions and theirs; Take our inspiration and add some freshness to their lives; Knead our pain and sorrow into their own melancholy comfort!

Whether our works will last forever depends on whether they will live in the hearts of those whom we never know, the readers of our works, and the lonely people who do not know each other at all times and everywhere, which have their own laws and do not need our attention. Your poems, as far as I know, are still floating here, and your shadow is unevenly tied to those verses, and the other end is imprinted in the hearts of many people who do not know each other. Friends, don't underestimate this indirect existence, many enthusiastic people will increase their consciousness for your existence. The sad thing is only for your closest friends and like-minded friends, and the fact that you are not among them will always be a void that cannot be filled.

After you left, everyone proposed to set up a "Shima Prize" for you to continue your desire to encourage others to work hard in poetry and writing, barely symbolizing your enthusiasm for literary and artistic creation, so that young people who do not recognize you will always retain their affection for you. If you don't feel that this is too cold and not hot enough, I hope you will forgive your friends for their painstaking efforts, and give us the courage to do these stupid things with a smile in the dark.

November 19, 24 years, Peking (2).

When I arrived in Shanxi, the sky was transparent blue, and the white clouds were so fluid that people could forget a lot of things. Not to mention the mountains and rivers, small fortresses, villages, a corner of the temple reflecting the sunset, a tower! The scenery is beautiful, and it makes people panic and heartache.

I haven't been out before, and it's not easy to move before I leave, but after I get out, I don't know how to go. All the things I see in the past ten days are pictures, and the days are all ancient things that can be sung. In the dark night, I watched the craftsmen from Henan who came to Shanxi in the mountain field, surrounded a big red furnace to strike iron, and the sparks and sonorous sounds dispersed into four black shadows. In the middle of the micro moon, he walked to the abandoned temple of Tianlong, and drew a "lamp" to secretly take care of the face of Guanyin, which was calm. For hundreds of years, those who have not moved their emotions are like a smile under that flash.

We have walked a lot because of the visit to the historical sites, and under various circumstances, we have felt the rise and fall of the past and the present. Reading the monument in the grass, occasionally touching the Bodhisattva's hands and smiling in the middle of the brick pile, can arouse some unusual feelings. Various romantic locations in the countryside, beautiful and innocent; The middle figures maintain their honest bright colors, the old one is on crutches, the small one is bare-chested, and the road is dotted with their bright eyes and smiling faces. We came from the city of Beiping, look at the east, walk west, the sunset is on our backs, it is really the same as falling in another world! The clouds, the sky, and us seem to have lost all barriers. I laughed happily when I was happy, and the laughter spread all the way to the river and the mountain, and to the forest, to the village! I felt a kind of flatness, perhaps vast, stretching parallel to the ground, and the edge of the very edge of the feeling, and the edge of the earth, forever stretched forward......

I don't know how to say it, it's just crazy talk, people are impatient to listen to it. I don't know how to describe some of the actual situations, but in short, in the distance, there are people at work in a field, and there are green, yellow, and purple on it, and branches growing on it; On every hillside, people are walking, herding sheep, facing the sun, carrying the sun, projecting and turning light and shadow; In every small city, there stood a tower in front of it, and a small temple slept beside it, and there was a stone tower held up there, and the gods and men were obedient and contented, guarding their corner of the heavens and the earth. Near the ground, it is even more lively, a street is full of people, the child has three pigtails on his head, four pigtails, and even five or six pigtails, the clothes are so simple that there is only a red belly left, and there are always two or three flowers that her grandmother has picked on it!

Under the shade of the trees in front of the Niangniang Temple, who can you stop from coming to see the excitement? Mr. Teaching came out, the soldiers in the army came with horses, several women shyly holding hands, also twisted to stand aside, children scrambled to squeeze, watched us take pictures, pulled the tape measure to measure the plane, Mr. Teaching helped us to expand the inscription. Speaking of this and that temple, there are many ages, and no one can tell when it was built! There were so many people who spoke that it was really difficult for us to do our work, but we were all very happy, and the children were eating with their rice bowls in their arms, and at the same time they were looking at it with their eyes wide open, and they did not relax at all.

When we left, it was always delivered by a village, and the daughter-in-law pointed to it and told the old woman, and the children had to follow for a while. Kaizha Town, Xiaoxiang Village, Daxiang Village, which place is not the same lively, seeing the statue monument of the Northern Qi Tianbao for three years, we carelessly, leaked a surprised shout, they are bent back in the township, the old people, they also showed a smug smile, knowing that the baby in their lining, actually scared this strange visitor. "It's too old, isn't it?" They asked proudly. "Much more." We happily replied, "Almost 1,400 years." "Ah, fourteen hundred years!" We were all proud.

Let's take a look at the temple rebuilt by Jin Yuan here and the temple rebuilt in the Ming Season, discuss the peculiarities of the style, the spirit of the statue, and the procedures, and the sky will gradually get dark, and the mouth will feel thirsty, and the stomach will feel hungry, and then we will remember that the day is round and full and almost over. When we come back and lie in bed, the beautiful and vivid impression is still hanging in front of our eyes, guiding all kinds of suitable dreams, and at the same time, the vegetables and fruits we ate at dinner are fed and enriched, and our energy for tomorrow is until a big sun shines on our faces.

(1) This letter was originally intended for a private person, but was published as a literary work by the recipient in the 96th (12th edition) of Ta Kung Pao Literary and Art Supplement on August 25, 1934. Her perseverance, fortitude, and dedication to her ideals are evident in this private letter.

Outside the Window(1)

I didn't expect that no matter where you go, you will never sit inside the window. It is true that many fashionable scholars often proudly put on the spirit of "investigation", put on scientific glasses, and occasionally go to a strange place to look, but the invisible window still exists.

Where do you start? When you want to speak, everything is so slim that you can't find a source.

At this moment, sitting right under my eyes sat the backs of four countrymen: one with a dark white cloth wrapped around his head, two faded blue cloths, and another bald head. They propped up their knees, half-squatted and half-sat on the ground, resting on the short wall along the stream. Each of them had a simple thing in his hand: a white stick, a basket, and the other two were in the shade of the tree that I couldn't see clearly. No doubt they have already walked a long way, and in a moment's time, after smoking a pinch of dry tobacco, they will have to walk a long way. The scent of orchid smoke frequently followed the breeze and hit my senses, and there were a few voices of Shanxi bangzi in the blur, although the place where they sat was outside the iron screen window of my porch.

Outside the iron screen, the words are not here. It's always outside the window, it's either a screen or a glass window, in short, outside the window!