In the 1980s, as the director of the village committee, his father was the most famous "writer" in Fangyuan village and even the whole Ganting commune. In order to learn to create, my father often rides the bicycle awarded to him by the commune to the post office in Linfen City to buy literary magazines, so that he has saved several cabinets full of "people's Literature", "works", "Youth" and "Fenshui" (the predecessor of "Shanxi Literature"). There are literary magazines all over the house. As crazy about literature as he is, there is a good peasant friend in his village. thirty years later, his father gave up literature, and the uncle who learned to write with him is still writing the popular "a bag of tobacco novels" at that time.
The literary magazine, which was snubbed by my father, later became my extracurricular reading. What impressed me most was Zhang Xianliang's "Spirit and flesh" in "people's Literature". The illustrations were as shocking as the title, but it was a pity that I could not understand what was written at that time. When I was in the fourth or fifth grade of primary school, one day after school, I flipped through a magazine with its front and rear cover off. I saw a short story "the Desktop" written by an author named Jia Pingwa. When I read it, I was moved, and I felt that it was well written. I have the impulse to imitate. For the next few years, I firmly believed that the writer who wrote "Desktop" would become famous.
However, I had not read a decent masterpiece of foreign literature until I was 22 years old in 1995. The most boastful thing before was that when I was in junior high school, I read the eight-volume Dream of Red Mansions under the lantern in the melon shed. I read "Last Night Xiaoxiang heard ghosts cry", the lamp shadow swayed, the dead leaves outside the shed rattled in the wind, and the cold hair stood on end. In order to cover my tuition fees, I went to school as a melon farmer when I was 14. I looked at melons in the melon shed every night. In the morning, I used a small flat car to pull a cart of watermelons and melons to set up a stall on the national highway at the gate of the barracks and set up a small dining table with the largest watermelon as a signboard, covered with grass rings under the watermelons. At least a scholar, disgraced, let my eight-year-old brother Marton sit on the small chair behind the table. I hid in the back of the flat car to spread a sack and lay on it to watch Zhang Yang's "second handshake." When someone came to buy melons, my brother called me: "Brother, stop reading, come out and call watermelons!" I cheered up and came out to bargain with people like an old hand, swung a watermelon knife and opened a triangle, and confidently said to the buyer, "look, sand is not sand?-did you say no sand, no money?"
That summer vacation, I fell deeply in love with Ding Jieqiong, a beautiful and graceful intellectual woman. I cried for her and haunted her dreams for many years. Although the last page of the second handshake was gone, it left me endless reverie.
After I was admitted to a technical secondary school, I kept my hobby of contributing to newspaper supplements in junior high school, so that I could not only subsidize my life, but also win the favor of my female classmates. The Shanxi Radio and Television School I studied sounds like a literary school, but it is actually a genuine technical secondary school of science and engineering. Perhaps the library has a lot of classics, but my poor literary talent is at a stage when it is impossible for me to enter the door. I simply do not know what books to borrow, nor can I read any Western classics. After four years of mixing, I remember that the book I borrowed was a collection of Bing Xin's essays, and what I really understood was Dumas's La Traviata, which was attracted by her curiosity about prostitutes' love. At that time, there were two literary events that caused a national sensation, one was the death of Lu Yao and the "ordinary World" won the Mao Dun Literature Award, and the other was Jia Pingwa's "abandoned Capital" because the spaces in it became banned books. The "ordinary world" was so thick that I didn't pay attention to it at that time, but the pirated "waste capital" curled up in the quilt with a flashlight and got a nosebleed.
I went back to my hometown after graduation and worked temporarily in the county newspaper. I finished reading Lu Yao's "ordinary World" in tears. I felt the great spiritual power of literary works for the first time, but also from that sentence, "the morning begins at noon." knowing that being a writer is actually a hard career. At this time, a guy named Qiao Wenbo, who graduated from Jindongnan Teachers College, claimed to have graduated from the Chinese department, with the image of a young man in literature and art and the boldness of a literary master, but in real life he was even more strapped than I was. One night, I took a box of instant noodles to the dormitory of the county party committee building where he lived and wanted to talk to him about literature. He asked me arrogantly with his thick black hair: "have you seen one hundred years of Solitude?" I had never heard of it, and he said in disbelief, "you don't even know M á rquez, do you?" I bravely said that of course I knew, but I had seen it for too long and forgot. He pulled out a not-so-thick green book from under his pillow and said, "take it." That was the first time I touched one hundred years of Solitude, a pirated book that influenced countless Chinese writers, including Nobel Prize winner Mo Yan. Unfortunately, I am immune to it, because my foundation is too weak to be aroused by him to write.
The first thing I was most proud of in my life was that in 1997, I spent all my savings to pay half of my brother Marton's college tuition, and tried my best to provide him with the cost of living. the end result was to save my literary dream with no future. Marton, a student of Grade 97 in the Chinese Department of Shanxi normal University, after listening to the class for a semester, found that his own brother, who claimed to be a writer, actually knew very little about literature. like a mentor, he bought some of the master works he heard in class. bring bad compensation to his poor brother in exchange for the cost of living that month. Marton is a child who loves books. He carefully wraps the cover of the masterpieces he bought at the Rulin Book Store at the school gate with pictorials, and then writes the title and author on the spine in his strange font. Among the books he bought me, one was translated by Wang Yongnian, the Garden of bifurcated paths-the Collection of Borges novels. I couldn't read many famous books, but I read this one very comfortably, and got the pleasure and enjoyment of baptism. Borges, a blind old man known as the writer of writers, showed me the first path to the palace of literature with his stick in the literary garden where the path bifurcated.
It was in 1997 that the death of a young writer caused a sensation in the Chinese literary world. Marton timely brought his "time Trilogy" to my brother, who was blind in a small county town. Like many young writers at that time, I was attracted and opened at once. From the first sight of Wang Xiaobo's works in 1997 to the decade in 2007, almost all of my novelettes imitated Mr. Wang Xiaobo's style, with 8 articles of 300000 words. How infatuated and admired I am. I am a boring person. I have a hard taste of what is meant by "interesting" from Wang Xiaobo's works. I have almost all his versions of his works. In those years, what was thrown everywhere at home was "gold", "silver", "bronze", "black iron", sitting casually on the sofa, leaning against the head of the bed, or squatting on the toilet. Pick up a book, turn to any page, you can immediately read it and laugh. Sitting in the garden of Shanxi Daily, reading "Hongfu Night run", I buried my head and was almost suspected of being out of my mind. A "Golden Age" is enough to represent Wang Xiaobo, but the Bronze Age's "unparalleled search", "Hongfu Night running" and "Wanshou Temple" are really Wang Xiaobo's "wonder of the world", which is second to none among contemporary Chinese writers. Mo Yan is also hard to match.
I can't remember where the first Les Miserables came from, the front and the back, or the second Cosette, to be exact. I just remember picking it up under the eaves of my hometown on a bored rainy day. Then it was sucked in like quicksand, and romanticism stirred up my unbelieving soul. I remember the names of Hugo and the translator Li Dan deeply. I couldn't stop. After reading it, I went back to find the first Fantine, and saw a picture of Hugo on the insert. He looked exactly like the master of literature in my mind. After that, I was obsessed with reading Hugo for many years, collecting and buying all his complete works and works. Wherever I had a bookshelf, there was a collection of Hugo essays. He was recognized as the romantic godfather, but his tragic fate of Fantine, the bishop's redemption of Jean Valjean's humanity, and his lengthy comments on religion. And the defeat of Napoleon's Waterloo is such a direct attack on the spiritual destination and the nature of human society as well as the suffering of life. For many years, I suspected that Hugo was not a man but a god. Like Wang Xiaobo, Hugo has a great influence on me, and none of my works can get rid of their great shadow.
On the other hand, I consciously spoke to the times with my works and tried to express the society with literature, but it originated from the reading of Zhang Ping's "Skynet" and "the murderer" (the movie is called "Tiangu"). What touched me most was the "murderer". This long novel is very modern in title and structure and has a high-quality literary pursuit, but it speaks to the process of China's legal system. It embodies a writer's superb literary talent and sincere people's feelings. For many years, the perfect combination of literary literacy and social feelings has become my ideal pursuit.
In this way, in the constant transposition of the identity of the reader and the author, I enrich my spiritual garden through constant reading until I also enter middle age. Just a few days ago, I happened to catch a glimpse of the hands of my father who gave me life and led me to literature. I don't know when they have become so thin that they have been calloused by holding the handle of a hoe and the handle of a pen. At that time, my father was copying homework for his granddaughter. I was surprised to find that he did not know when he had become the hand of the elderly. For a while, decades passed before his eyes, and tears moistened his eyes. I thank my father and all the writers and masters who let me get the true meaning of life from reading. It is because of literature and reading that my spiritual garden has not been destroyed by the passage of time. Those colorful flowers and leaves are becoming more and more abundant.
Author: Li Junhu
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