Chapter 3 3

A man is a mystery, man is unknowable. Man wanders alone in his mysteries, without a traveling companion. Within the framework of imprinting my family, I draw human boundaries. In an apartment within the defined walls, he does a fixed-pay job with "ordinary" written on his forehead. From nowhere, the spring breeze of love blows, and the fence of the boundary drifts away. "Permanent Unknowable" came out. I found him special, magical, extraordinary, incomparable. To get close to him, we need to build a bridge of songs and give a welcome speech in the language of flowers.

The eye says, "You are beyond what I see." Xin'er said: "The other side of sight and hearing is full of mysteries—you are the messenger from the other side, like the stars appearing in front of the earth when the night falls." So, I can clearly see the "unknowable" in me, the feeling I haven't found, which is constantly being renewed." A wandering monk came along the street and stood at your door and sang: "The unknowable bird flies into the bamboo cage." Then the foolish heart said, I catch what I can't catch. After you showered, with your wet hair loose, you stood in front of the window.

The "things you can't catch" are originally on your eyelids looking far away, and the "things you can't catch" are originally in the softness of your wrist wearing a bracelet. You send it to beg for alms, and it never returns; you don't know the friar is singing your story. You are like a tune, going back and forth on a single string. The monochord is the cage of your face, shaking in the spring breeze. I roam around with the qin in my chest, coloring it, folding flowers, melting it in my heart. I forget its shape when I play it, and the string dances and disappears.

"Unknowable" escaped into the universe, played in the lush forest, and lived in seclusion in the golden flowers. You, unknowable bird, dwell in the cage of reunion, in the newly decorated cage. The place where the wings are full and the flight is delayed, I don't know where the bird's nest is, its tryst is on the other side of the pole, in the disappearance of all landscapes. Linniao's last song, sinking into the dark night. The air is stagnant, the leaves do not shake, and the transparent stars seem to land on the mystery of the old neem tree's cicada's sudden breath.

At this time, you suddenly grabbed my hand with great excitement and said, "I will never forget you." In front of the unlit window, my body is blurred. Under cover of shadows.You let go of your hesitation about pouring out your secrets. The palace of your love at that moment stands on the foundation of my boundless memories. The joys and sorrows of that moment are played by the strings of time, drifting to the endless afterlife. At that moment, my ego gained infinity in your sincere feelings. With your trembling voice, the penance of my life tastes the nectar of success. Compared with countless things in your world, I live more fully and live more vigorously.

Everything beyond that moment is insignificant. There is death outside of that moment, and one day I will step down from the stage of image splendor. In the world of palpable joys and sorrows, the shadow of my memory surrenders to the tangible infinity. Under the flame tree in front of the door.It is vital that you water it yourself every day. From now on, it doesn't matter if you push me into the endless chaos of the universe outside the branches and leaves, I will wait. I recently moved. Two cottages make up my new home. The cottage was just to my liking. Now I will tell you why.

Gao Tang boasted that he was "big" and dismissed the real "big" contemptuously. My hut does not boast of being "big", nor does it follow the example of stupid dude disciples, and arrogantly participates in "infinite" competitions. I have no intention of satisfying the desire of the sky inside the house; I want it in its place, and it is whole outside. The environment is quiet. "Far away" came to me. Sitting by the window, I can't help thinking about it—the so-called "distant" is actually beautiful. "Far" is in the middle of beauty.

Beauty is limited to definitions, but also transcends various boundaries; it is with needs, but it lives alone, in every day, and it belongs to eternity. I remember that one afternoon, the sedan chair I was riding across the field; there were eight bearers in total. I saw a bearer, like a black marble god; every step he took, he crossed the humbleness of his profession, like a roc soaring high with a broken rope on his feet. God bestowed upon him great honors for his beauty. Yuankong is the closest to people; if you close the window lattice, you will not be able to see it. In a secular family, greed is a barrier, imprisoning greedy things in a nearby cage.

Forgetting greed hurts love, just like forgetting that weeds crush crops. I write poetry and paint. I play my game around "far away"; I adorn it with various costumes, like a great poet who adorns the horizon with dusk and dawn. There is no greed, no self-interest, and no self in what I do. In the rich "distant" work, there is my Guangyu all the time. At the same time I beheld the sweet image of death, the still distance, the waveless sea around life. Abundance has its place, its relief. I'll talk about other things later. The first thing to tell is: I have received the tea leaves you sent.

It is in my character to delay replying. I write letters as much as I paint. It does not report events. It is the message itself. Images roam the world, and the paintings I make are also images, stepping out of the "unknown" and walking to the door of the "familiar". It's not an image. The complex formations and complex combinations in the heart are either condensed into ideas, or displayed in images, and the net of words finally captures those heavenly birds alive. Xin'er listened quietly in the wind, looking for the rationality of looking for voice. Today it opened its eyes wide and set foot on the road of the world of lines.

It looks, it says: "I see." The world is the journey of "form". Walking in front of the eternal sane, he also said silently, "I see it." In front of the stage at the beginning of time came the order "Raise the curtain!" The curtain of mist rises slowly, and the image of the dancing girl takes the stage; Indra, the god of thunder with a thousand eyes, sees it clearly. What he saw was creation, and the grand festival he saw lasted through the ages. In the boundless sky, the passengers of "lines" take the light boat of time and dance the dance of "body" in front of the dark background; the voice of the silent "infinite" is expressed in the language and hints of the "limited" without sentences, and there is a volume The beauty of "immeasurable" wealth of joy in a flower basket - it is not content, not thoughts, not words; it is only an image, shaped by light. The sound of the first moment of creation in the beginning of time is transmitted to my heart today, and one by one, the mask of the beginningless night is revealed: "Look!" I have been talking to myself in secluded places all these years. ③ Move from there to another dark place. ④ I draw by myself. The universe is full of seats for the gods to watch, and I am beside him, making objects for viewing. ① Lani Devi once took care of Tagore's later life. She recorded the poems dictated by the poet when he was dying. ②In this letter, Tagore expounded his view on painting art. ③ Refers to writing poems. ④ refers to painting. I've been obsessed with lines lately. The rhetoric is a wealthy woman with a wealth of money, and she has a sharp tongue and a sharp tongue, and it takes a lot of effort to appease her. Xian was born in a poor family and has a docile temperament. It costs me nothing to associate with her. Directing the branches to bloom and bear fruit is to fulfill the responsibility happily.It is an interesting profession to lead the light and shadow under the tree to dance. The dead leaves are falling and fluttering one after another, the colorful butterflies are fluttering and flying, and at night, the fireflies are dotted, flickering and flickering. In the banquet halls of the jungle they are suave guests, unchallenged by anyone. The rhetoric is strictly disciplined, and he is not polite to me.Lines never blamed me for laughing out loud. I left many things alone, lost letters, and ran into the image-cultivating inner house when I had free time.As a result, the bohemian who has been hiding in his heart for many years has a sharp increase in courage. He painted without thinking about the right and wrong of the world, and ignored the praise and criticism of the public. I am in a good mood. My paintbrush doesn't fit the "famous" cage. Fame does not restrict my will. From the very beginning, it did not allow the original chair to rest on the painting chest, and it did not persuade me to maintain my honor. That reputation dragged my bloated body, and it was useless. In order to protect most of the achievements, it sent guards to stand at the door; before the serious business, it built an altar, on which were placed layer by layer the demands of thousands of masters. However, the proud fame is gone today.Like the season king's crayons, my brushes are free. ①Suting Ronald Datta (1901-1960), Bengali poet. ②In Bengali, words and wealth are the same word, here is a pun. Letter to Durza di Prasat You want me to talk about the experience of creating songs, I am afraid to talk about the experience, but I have to talk about it. Man has succeeded in creating language with his intellect. Human perception is mute and elusive, much like a lonely universe. The big mute expressed his mind with gestures, without explanation. The secluded universe has rhythm and expressive techniques, and the sky is densely danced. In the infinite time and space, atoms and molecules stipulate the track of dancing, dancing in the "limited", shaping countless images. The fiery emotion in its heart travels from flowers and plants to the stars, looking for its own metaphor. When people's emotions are so strong that they cannot be controlled, they must look for words—silent words, techniques, hints, dances, and music.Overturn the original meaning, twist the rules. People write silent voices in poems. When human perception chooses music as a carrier, it detains the lightning-like active atomic group-like movement in the "limited", teaches it to move, makes it spin and dance magically, and the dance captured within the "limited" obtains An image shaped by song.Wordless image groups gather in the hall of creation."Passion" wearing anklets participates in the Holi Festival, and the image of dancing girls coordinates the rhythm of the guests. Those who express understanding with words, notes, and lines are scholars. Songs are written for those whose heart says, "I taste, feel sorrow, and see images." They are poor in theory, but have music in their veins. If you have a chance, you can consult the hermit of Narot ④; not to master the tricks of fanning the flames, of course, but to reach the new shore of the theory that is not bound by definitions. ① Refers to the long-cherished wish of painting. ② refers to publishers, critics and readers. ③Bangladesh music theorist. ④A hermit in Indian legend, who is proficient in music, but likes to tell stories and cause quarrels. Letter to Chahruchandra Wadajasa We really expected the end of grief? In fact, we are also proud of mourning the dead. Our strongest emotions cannot bear the abiding truth—there is no consolation in this sentence, and the painful pride is beaten. Life spreads all its savings in the course of time; under its ever-turning wheel, the traces of deep feelings will be obliterated. When our loved ones pass away, our only request is: "Remember me." However, life has countless expectations, and its appeals gather from the four eyes and the direction of the heart; in the present cluster, the only wish of the past must die. The pain of the deceased is relieved, but the last words remain. Sadness stubbornly continued to deceive life, and arrogantly said to the messenger of life, "I will not open the door." The fertile soil of life grows all kinds of crops, and the willful sorrow occupies a temple common in it, letting it become a desert of will, not paying taxes to life; regarding the legacy of death, suing fleeting years, although losing every day, does not admit defeat ; even to bury the heart in its grave. Generally speaking, arrogance is Ji Le, and a stable Ji Le is the pride of mourning the dead. Wealth, fame, all desires contain dreams, and strong dreams run through the desires of sorrow. ①Editor of the literary publication "Stranger".Many of Tagore's works have been published in this journal. When I was a child, I used to draw my own portrait on the door of my heart. I rode a wild horse, without stirrups, and without a muzzle, galloping at dusk over a barren land infested with thieves, the horse's hooves kicking up dust, and the earth behind me waving its veil and calling. The first evening star twinkled on the horizon. In a sleepless waiting hut, there is a burning, lonely light. Like a sign of the dawn, it appears in the night when the cuckoo crows for the first time, and will enter my life, lingering in my heart. For me, at least half of the world is strange. Its wonderful colors colorfully enrich the horizon of my heart; the love that is coming makes me indulge in dreams of normal and abnormal things happening. The imagery of love blends seamlessly with the joy of adventure in an epic age. Now I have a general idea of ​​the world, but much of what I get is from newspaper clippings. On the tongue of the soul, the taste of the unknown is dead, and I can no longer taste the impossible in the possible, the strange in the familiar, the unknown in the known, and the myth in the chatter in the temple of love. Among the lovers, I have forgotten the outstanding one who lived on the beach of the seven seas. She was bewitched and fell asleep. To wake her up, she needed to find a golden rod. ① Refers to the mistress in the fairy tales the poet read as a child.