The Mid-Autumn Festival should be cool, but this year it is not, it is actually hot for more than 100 years. This cannot be considered autumn, and without a decent autumn, the whole year is regrettable.

I was so sad that I received the "Wenhui Reading Weekly" published on the same day, and saw that my friend Mr. Huang Zongjiang had an article mourning a female poet who had just passed away this year. The poetess died at the age of seventy-eight, but Mr. Zong Jiang said as soon as she began to write: "You have never seen her, you don't know how beautiful she is and how beautiful her poems are." Mr. Zongjiang also quoted an obituary written by the poetess on her deathbed, which was long and to the effect that: I have a small wooden house, like a fresh mushroom in a fairy tale, clinging to a century-old tree, holding a small umbrella to shield me from the cold and midsummer rain in the depths of winter. In the cabin, I reminisced and pondered, if the love and hatred of good and evil in the world could not be distinguished, I would rather float in the eternal silence of space.

After reading this self-prepared obituary, I immediately felt that the heat was completely gone, and I fell into a kind of poetry of late autumn. It was undoubtedly very lonely for the elderly poetess to live alone in a log cabin before she died, but she was so lonely and so beautiful and returned so elegantly. I immediately picked up the phone and wanted to give this obituary as a holiday gift to a few friends, so that they could share a cold and lofty autumn color in the hot Mid-Autumn Festival.

I was holding the microphone and reading slowly, when suddenly an international call came in. A well-known Chinese newspaper in a foreign country called, and the editor's lady said: "Mr. Yu, do you know, Zhang Ailing is dead." A man died in an American apartment, several days ago, just found, found on the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival. Our newspaper is ready to pay a full page in her memory, in which a telephone interview with you is arranged. You know, her work is based in Shanghai, so don't push it off. The press release is tight, so let's get started. I said, "This is all too sudden, please let me think about it, and call again in half an hour." ”

In this half hour, I thought a lot. According to my age, I am not qualified to mourn her, but I have seen with my own eyes that as soon as the international dance master Mr. Lin Huaimin arrived in Shanghai, he excitedly declared: "I came to find Zhang Ailing's Shanghai", and he is not very old; Lin Qingxia also happily told me that most of her knowledge and love for Shanghai came from Zhang Ailing; In the first half of this year, I roamed around the cities of Malaysia alone, and the newspapers in each city arranged for me to meet and discuss with local readers, whose questions frequently appeared Zhang Ailing's name, and these readers were even younger. In China, as we all know, a group of doctors of literature in Beijing who have just returned from their studies spontaneously selected the masters of Chinese literature in the twentieth century, and Zhang Ailing's name is ranked very first, and there are many rights and wrongs in the selection, but Zhang Ailing's arrangement is rarely controversial...... All this shows that Zhang Ailing enjoys a kind of liveliness beyond her years, and she is still quietly alive, far away from this liveliness.

In the history of Chinese and foreign literature, there are many stories of loneliness in front of her and lively stories behind her, but there are few like Zhang Ailing, the whole world is lively for her, but she hides, so that no one can find her, and even the neighbors next door don't know her. This kind of self-exile and self-buried loneliness is not forced by external forces, but a profound intention. To what extent it is profound, we need to think about it with more materials.

Thinking of this, the phone rang. I picked up the microphone and said, "She died lonely, just like she lived lonely." But literature does not reject loneliness, and it is she who tells history that there is still a corner of Chinese literature in the twentieth century without much fire. It is in this corner that a sensitive soul, a delicate ecology, and the charm lives on. I don't know much about her, but I dare to conclude that when her soul floats in space these days, the first stop must be Shanghai. Shanghainese should raise their heads and greet her. As I spoke, I listened to the sound of the computer operating on the other end of the phone, and then listened to the editor repeat it.

After hanging up the phone, I thought that Shanghainese people might think that she died a miserable death, but in fact, all this was chosen and set by herself, the way she died, including her dress and posture. She even smiles at the corners of her lips, humorously imagining the look of her friends and readers when she drags on for a few days and is finally discovered. She thought about everything, and what power was helping her, so that she chose this ceremony in autumn, and extended the end to the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival. "I want to go back with the wind", maybe this is the last verse she recites? Just like the female poet introduced by Mr. Huang Zongjiang, she thinks that she has floated from a fairytale cabin to eternal space.

Compared with them, what is really pitiful is the superficial pride, trivial hope, boring anger, and depressed loss in the literary world. The poor people must still be pitying them upside down, discussing after dinner how they should change this patheticism. Perhaps, one of the suggestions is that they should have returned to the literary world a long time ago and had a happy old age. However, our old lady is too assertive to listen to this. They were weary but still elegant, and they had only two things in mind: either a cabin or space. Elsewhere, they can look at it as they please, but they don't stop.

The scene here is very similar to the old fisherman in Hemingway's "The Old Man and the Sea", either a log cabin or the sea, and other places have nothing to do with him.

The old lady's cabin was empty, and there was no need to look elsewhere, they would just go to space.

Just thinking about this, the sky suddenly cooled down, the moon turned from turbid yellow to cold white, and the unknown autumn insect screamed, like autumn.