Chapter 9 9. The Wall of Summer

9. The Wall of Summer 78 During the time when the painter disappeared temporarily, the news of the poet continued.Poet L is a message.Whether you see him or not is secondary, you will hear him and feel him.Space is of little importance to the poet L.He is a desire, a question, and a torment of time. Without this desire, this question, this torment, there is no time. I've heard from him since he used coal to paint a little girl's hair on that pier.His frank wish was ridiculed, and his innocent words in the grass became a tool for others to threaten him. At that time, I felt that he already existed.Going home along the long embankment, seeing the huge sunset filled with tenderness and anxiety, I think it was from that moment that the news of the poet could no longer be ignored.

L was a precocious child who dreamed of women earlier than the other children. This is not necessarily the genius of the poet. When L was one year old, grandma let him sit on the grass and put fruits, pens, books, toy pistols, money, a copper seal, a hammer, and a picture of a beautiful woman around him. Try this kid's ambition.But to the disappointment of grandma, L, who was still a baby, grabbed the picture without any hesitation, and looked it up and down carefully in his hand.What mattered was that, of all those things, the picture card was the farthest from him, and Grandma had purposely placed the picture farthest away from him, but he ignored everything else and went straight to the picture card.The people present laughed and said that the child must be a womanizer in the future.Grandma sighed and comforted herself and said, "Lust, it's lucky he didn't catch that square seal again. It would be troublesome if you catch these two things together." One-year-old L didn't understand why people laughed, and sat on the grass upside down Looking at the picture, everyone's laughter excited him. He danced and raised the beautiful woman above her head and shook it desperately, like shaking a flag, clattering like a girl's laughter. I remember that the brilliant clouds in the sky flew away, and the grass The sun is shining and the wildflowers are blooming...

I remember my mother holding L standing on the shore of the lake, the ice on the lake was melting, surrounded by a group of men and women, he could tell the beautiful from the ugly of the women, I think L was about two years old then.The ice layer melted, and there was a crackling sound when it broke, and the blue water of the lake was rippling again.Those women were vying to hug him, touch him, kiss him, and play with his little manly flower bud. I remember that L first avoided, curled up in his mother's arms, and watched all these women, and then Suddenly he opened his arms to one of them.That one must be the prettiest of that group.Amid the laughter of the men, the rest of the women couldn't help being embarrassed and scolding.Hit and pinch L's ass hard and hard until he cries...

L, I remember that he prefers to play with girls. I remember that there were a few girls who were about his size in his yard when he was young. The five-year-old L always misses them.Normally, he was spoiled by his grandma, who kept his word and wailed for the slightest disappointment. He was irritable and even moody.Five-year-old L has a whole body of bad habits.But as long as the grandma said, "Look, look, the little sisters and the little sisters are here, they are all here to see you", the five-year-old L walked out of the unreasonable troubles, and immediately calmed down from the earth-shaking crying, Obediently, listen carefully, look around, refreshed. "L--L--! Little L, are you home?" In the sun, in the sky, far away, or very close in the green shade in front of the door, their melodious call came, "Little Brother L—Little L Brother—hey, L, what are you doing?" In the changing clouds, on the swaying leaves, or behind the low wall in the moonlight, or in the loud cicada song in the afternoon, or on the steps, carefully When the rain-beating umbrella surface moved away, there were girls' voices calling him from far and near. Then he became quiet and happy, and ran out the door, and welcomed the girls in, and took out all his good things, spread them on the table, dumped them on the floor, and threw them here and there without sparing them.The five-year-old L is like a different person, playing with the girls peacefully and peacefully, and the five-year-old poet is like a little page, like a little servant, obedient and loyal to the girls.Grandma smiled and sighed again, "Oh! This child will be ruined in the hands of women in the future." I remember that at that time, L believed that what Grandma said was right. Grandma's words were very correct. The word "ruin" is so beautiful and charming, he felt ignorantly: yes, yes, he wants, he wants to be like that, he just wants to be ruined by a woman

Seven-year-old L, a seven-year-old poet, may not have known the word "truth", but I remember he believed that the truth was on the girls' side, in the girls' hands, and in their hearts.Especially the girls who are older than him, much older than him, they are the embodiment of truth.He chased after a group of big girls all day long, like a fool, the big girls of thirteen or fourteen didn't pay much attention to him, and didn't understand him very much.That's okay, and the seven-year-old poet doesn't mind.Wherever they go, L follows them, one or two of them even hate this little boy who is only seven years old, but L likes them, if at that time L knows that there is a word "truth" in the world, I think in his As far as people are concerned, following them is right, watching them is the whole truth.If they didn't mind, L would stay by their side even without eating, and no matter how grandma yelled, he wouldn't be able to call him home.Those big girls, if they hated him, he would retreat to the base of the wall and stand at a distance, watching them play without making a sound, liking what they liked, worrying about what they worried, and still being happy in his heart.If they need him, for example, they lack an assistant, oh, that is the happiest time of the poet L, and that is the time when the truth shines brightly.He helped them shake the skipping rope, pull the rubber band, and help them pick up ping pong balls.The rubber bands he put on his forehead were only equivalent to their waists, and he raised his heels and straightened his arms to lift the rubber bands above his head, which was only as high as the ears where they were holding the rubber bands. Standing on the stool, if it was taller, he climbed the tree.The big girls praised him, so the seven-year-old poet was encouraged and shouted from the tree: "Do you still want to be taller? It's very simple. I can sit on the wall. Do you believe me?" When the girls ignored him, ignored him, and he climbed up the wall.This time, unexpectedly, the big girls cried out in shock. L, with his keen sense of a poet, heard that the exclamation still implied praise, appreciation and admiration, so he swaggered on the wall, full of pride, without any thought of fear.The big girls shouted and jumped in fright just like the little ones, stopped their games, gathered together, looked up at the poet, and began to really worry about him: "Be careful——! Be careful! L——!” “Come down—! Come down, little L——!” In this case, L climbed up to the room again, and danced on the room, as if dancing, and sang a song he composed himself, hoping The women's exclamations and admiration were stronger, expecting their concern to be deeper.But the big girls suddenly became serious: "If you don't come down again, we will all leave and leave you alone!" The poet stopped, wondering secretly, and then went up and down from the room to the wall, from the wall to the tree, with an idea He plucked the unripe fruit from the tree and threw it to his women.The big girls under the tree were laughing and laughing again, their beautiful dresses were fluttering, and they were scrambling for the sour fruits here and there. "Pick some more! L-L pick some more!" "Hey—little L, get more, yes, pick some big ones!" "Hey, L—I don't have any yet! I want some big ones Okay, little L——?" What a joy, what a glory, what a splendid time!The L among the leaves and the poet in the blue sky and white clouds felt unprecedented sweetness and pride...but the success fell short.I remember that when L came down from the tree, his trouser belt broke, and the little boy L's trousers fell like a waterfall, and fell to his feet in a blink of an eye, and the seven-year-old poet was not wearing any trousers.Falling short of success is almost ruining a great river and mountain!I saw, and I can still see, the bud of his unopened man standing steeply in broad daylight. L never expected that the glorious feat a few minutes ago would end in this unprecedented humiliation a few minutes later before he could savor it carefully.He believed that it was a great humiliation, and he really didn't understand why such a catastrophe came suddenly.Amidst the happy laughter of the big girls, the poet rearranged his clothes and wept...

79 ten years old. L was ten years old and fell in love with a girl who was also ten years old. It was the poet's first love. If that winter afternoon, that cold weekend of snowmelt, the nine-year-old Z was in that unexpected building, in the room of the girl, also nine, heedless of a voice speaking to the girl Son said—"Why did you bring him in, huh? Who asked you to bring them in?" If Z didn't feel the beauty and coldness of that voice, but put all his thoughts on that lovely girl, Then it is entirely possible that he is not nine-year-old Z but ten-year-old L. That girl is no longer nine years old like the painter, but ten years old like the poet L.

If, towards the end of that afternoon, nine-year-old Z walked out of the dreamily beautiful house without hearing the voice again—“How she brought in the wild children outside . . . Come in..." Then he is ten-year-old L.Or he heard—"... how she brought that child... that child outside... how she brought them in..." But he didn't heed it, never remember it, or never had time to think that the sound mattered , he stood on the steps wholeheartedly saying goodbye to the girl, wholeheartedly looking forward to seeing her again, happiness, happiness has already filled the boy's heart and there is no room for that kind of voice, so such a boy , is no longer nine-year-old painter Z, but ten-year-old poet L.

That winter afternoon, it was no longer a winter afternoon. Ten-year-old L bid farewell to ten-year-old girl. It was no longer winter, and the cold weekend of the snowmelt season quickly dissipated before my eyes. L walked past a small oil and salt shop, walked across a stone bridge, and walked along the river bank in the glow of the setting sun. I remember that the eyes were full of greenery, the huge cicada song was warm and lingering, and it was a midsummer scene... But if so, who is that dreamy girl? In this way, she is no longer just a possible future female director N. She is a different mood.

She looks like the future female director N and the future female teacher O.Another mood, vacillating between girly N and girly O.This emotion is sometimes close to N, sometimes close to O, but it can't really be attached to either of them. In this way, in the eyes of the young poet's first love, I vaguely saw another girl——T.When O and N were temporarily involved and overlapped in my midsummer mood, unable to be separated or independent, the young poet's frantic first love confused them for T. There is a reason why this emotion is vaguely condensed into T: One day, when I learned that the poet L was only unrequited love, T did not love him, but T loved another person, on that day, O and N met Also separate from the fuzzy T, separated from each other, independent and clear; the one who loves F is N, and the one who loves WR is O.On that day, L's first love ended, and the vague T ceased to exist.As for whether the vague T can become a clear T, whether it can be a definite T and an independent T, it is still unpredictable.

Now, along the sunset by the river, along with the touch of a boy's first love, along with the soft and hearty breath of "sand la la... sand la la..." leaves in the midsummer evening wind, the poet whistled all the way home and kicked all the way home. Looking at the stone, I think about it, and feel that the sunset and the evening wind have been affectionate since ancient times, and I am a happy person now and in the future.The poet L walked all the way, looking back at the beautiful house, where there was a girl T. 80 Maybe for two years or three years, what L would like to do the most is to get oil, soy sauce, vinegar, and salt for his mother.Because, there is a small oil and salt shop next to that beautiful building.

Decades ago, there were many such small oil and salt shops, with a facade, mottled doors and windows, and mottled counters. Behind the counters sat an old shopkeeper who had experienced many vicissitudes.Oil is stored in tin barrels, soy sauce and vinegar are stored in wooden barrels, and wine is stored in porcelain jars. The utensils used to scoop these liquids are called "lifting". The handles are very long and sink slowly into the barrel or porcelain jar There, when it hits the liquid surface, it makes a deep sound, once and for all, it is the sound of that small shop for many years.I can still hear that deep voice.The Xiaoyouyan store faces north and south, and there is no sunlight in the store.Occasionally, one or two pedestrians who take shelter from the rain will hide in the shop. L hopes that the oil and salt at home will be used up soon, so that he can go to the small oil and salt shop.Carrying a big bamboo basket full of oil bottles, big and small, the young poet went to visit the little girl in his heart with a happy face.The house is located on the other side of the river, walking along the river bank, with bushes and weeping willows forming rows. Occasionally, two or three fishing rods point to the center of the river, and fishermen hide in the bushes. It's the chirping of the birds, and it's been a long walk along the river bank, but it's the happiest moment for the poet, and he doesn't think the road is long.Then on the small stone bridge, you can see the orange-red house, as bright as the sunset, next to the small oil and salt shop that has gone through vicissitudes. The old shopkeeper poured the oil into L's bottle without mentioning it.It would take a while to fill up all those bottles, so the boy L ran out of the oil and salt store, stood outside the red courtyard wall, stood in front of the green courtyard gate, and looked into the beautiful building with emotion, excited and frank. .No, he didn't pay much attention to that house, the bright colors didn't matter, the mysterious interior didn't matter to him, because instead of Z the painter, L the poet now.To the poet L, the house is extremely beautiful only when the girl appears, and it is only because the girl may appear that the house is important and unusual, which makes him long to walk into it.Since that winter afternoon, although the painter Z will never forget the house, he never visited it again.The painter Z no longer comes here, but the poet L who keeps coming here.The poet is not satisfied just seeing her in school, L feels that she is too far away from him among so many people, too alienated. L wants to see her at home, wants to talk to her alone, or just wants to be seen by her alone.It is good to realize any of these three hopes. Sometimes these three wishes can be realized at the same time: T alone in the yard jumps rubber bands, kicks the shuttlecock, and jumps "house". "Hey, I'm here to help." "Why did you travel so far to get gas?" "Then... just leave it alone." "Qiaoxi, on the other side of the river, let me tell you that there is an oil and salt shop very close to your home." "I know." "Then why did you run so far?" "My pleasure." "Are you happy?" Girl T laughed, "Why are you happy?" "The soy sauce here is good," the poet corrected himself. T stares at L blankly for a while, then laughs again. "You do not believe?" "I do not believe." The young poet had an idea: "The soy sauce elsewhere is made from beans, but the soy sauce here is made from sugar." "Really?" "of course." "Oh, is it!" "Let's hop 'house' together, shall we?" Good, or bad, all good.As long as the boy L can talk to her, that day is a memorial day. In this way, almost two years, or three years. In two or three years, there was not a day when L didn't think about the girl and wanted to see her.But the oil, salt, sauce and vinegar at home are replenished every day. There wasn't a day when I didn't want to see her.At the age of twelve, or thirteen, L came up with a clever idea: running. In the name of exercising, long-distance running.It’s about three kilometers from his house to that beautiful house, and it takes about half an hour to run back and forth—including jogging three times around the red courtyard wall, and constantly looking up at the girl’s window, including the one outside her window. Under the tree he took a breath of hope.Still those three hopes, the hope of young L has not seen any change. The girl is changing.Bright, quiet, strong every day.She doesn't like jumping rubber bands and "houses" so much anymore.She was sitting on the steps, reading a book, quietly, fascinated... This is too much like O.On the porch she dances alone, from side to side of the porch, twirling, skirts unfurling, falling, light steps...it's a lot like N.But this is Maiden T.Playing with her little brother in the yard, studying ants on the ground with him, and laughing lively and kindly like a little mother... In my wish, O should be like this, and O should be like this.Often, she sang and played the piano in her own room, still the same song: when I was young, my mother taught me to sing, and in her loving eyes, there were faint tears... This song reminded me of N .But make no mistake, she's a T now. "Hello!" L called her from the balcony with his face up, and asked her, "Is it 'when I was young' or 'when I was young'?" "It's 'when'," T poked his head out of the window, "it's 'when I was young'. Are you here again?" "No. I'm running, you know? Long-distance running." "How far?" "From my house to yours." "Oh really! Running all the time?" "Sure. 'When I was a kid,' or 'When I was a kid'?" "'Baby'. When I was a baby, mother..." Maiden T sang softly again quickly. The poet will always remember this song, from childhood to old age. "Are you tired? Would you like to come in for a drink?" "No, I'm not tired at all, and I'm not thirsty." As soon as he said this, L regretted it, but he couldn't change it. "Do you run every day?" Run every day.If he didn't see the girl T, L didn't feel depressed at all. He believed that T must have seen him, must have heard him, and knew that he had come.Therefore, L arrives at her window on time every day, must be on time, make that time the time he must arrive, make that time the proof that he must have been here, make that time no longer have any other meaning, just him and her time.If T didn't show up, L believed it was because she couldn't get away, for example because her parents didn't let her come out because she hadn't finished her homework. When L started to run back, he said to his girl in his heart: I have been here.I come every day.You can't find out that I'm not here for even one day... This is indeed a clever plan, otherwise L would have no excuse to go there every day.This trick makes the young poet have mysterious and wonderful expectations every day. 81 This trick came about on a Sunday when L was 12 or 13 years old. During the summer vacation when he was twelve or thirteen, L spent all day reading in the house.Suddenly, it seemed that some kind of inspiration opened up in his heart and eyes. He discovered that there were so many books at home, and he suddenly understood them and was fascinated by them.There are so many moving love stories by his side all the time, ah, ah, ah, for example, "Anna.Karenina, "The Idiot", for example, "Song of Youth", and many more, such as "The Enmity of Monte Cristo", ... There are many more that I can't remember for a while.He was reading eagerly, while regretting, how could he have not discovered their existence for so long?How could he have been unaware?What a strange thing.The poet L is inexplicably moved when he thinks of them silently being with him in the past.He read one after another, lying in bed from early morning until late at night, fascinated by the tortuous, sad or tragic love stories in the book.As a result, the summer outside the window is also unpredictable. The summer outside the window can be sunny with continuous rain, or gloomy with bright sun. The warmth or coldness of L's heart, the clearness or gloom in his eyes have nothing to do with the weather, the wind and rain, or the position of the sun, and are completely determined by the plot in the book.The young poet "sit in a steamer when it's hot, and lie down on ice when it's cold", enjoying the torment of those stories like a pendulum.His mother called him in the summer outside the window: "L, don't read it! Go out, hey, go outside for a walk." "L, do you hear me? Go out for a run, the book is not what you think." Of course it will be the thing that makes L most unable to let go.What he admired and even envied the most was, of course, the tough Arthur who had gone through all kinds of hardships, the "gadfly" with a crippled leg and a terrible scar on his face.What he misses, loves and never forgets most is the heartbroken Gemma, and the one who makes him sympathize most, needless to say, must be the beautiful and pale Gemma.His mother called to him in the summer evening wind: "Did you hear me, L! You're going to be a nerd if you look at it like this! Your eyesight will be broken! Go out and run around wherever you go, wouldn't it be good?" L took the book I closed the book and put it on my chest, thinking in the vast summer cicada song, could I be that Arthur?Is it possible to endure such pain?Would the little girl in that dreamy and beautiful house have quietly drawn the curtains so that Levarez would not see a blood-red sunset?My mother pointed at the starry sky on a summer night outside the window and said: "I have never seen a child who reads like this. Oh, I really can't do anything about him." Then she called him: "L——! Turn off the lights, come here quickly Sit under the moon for a while, and the evening primrose will bloom, how fragrant it is.” Gemma, who was in tears, L thought, that suffering Arthur should be comforted in his suffering, why can’t he be more tolerant? .The young poet thought, if I were Arthur, I believe I would tell Gemma who I am, so that her suffering heart should finally find some comfort. In the summer moonlight, in my heart, I continue to tell the stories that have ended.His mother called him on a sunny summer morning after the rain: "L, L! Get up, get up and come out and see how fresh the air outside is..." L was pulled out by his mother, stretched and yawned.Mother gave him a spank on the butt like a wolf cub, and said, "Run!" Mother said, "Run wherever you want, and don't come back for half an hour." L first walked away full of thoughts, as if he was not awake.It was Sunday, and there were few people on the street, but from every door, every window, and every home, there were more joyful and mixed voices than usual.The road and the roof are still wet, the color is dark, the trunk is also wet and almost black, the canopy shakes almost silently but the leaves are dazzling and brilliant, the river has swelled after a night of wind and rain, and the river is full of clear sky and comfortable Running... L was walking full of thoughts, and suddenly had an idea, and then I saw him run. As soon as the poet started to run, I found that he was heading in the direction of girl T. 82 But one day, no one can remember which day it was, and the three hopes in the past suddenly seemed so thin, crude, and not enough.Just seeing that fifteen-year-old girl every day is no longer enough, just being with her occasionally and saying a few innocuous words is no longer enough.How is it not enough?What is not enough?What is not enough?Fifteen-year-old poets do not know.But the answer already exists in the fifteen-year-old's life, but the fifteen-year-old boy has not yet noticed it.The answer exists at the moment of birth of life.That day, L left that lovely house, ran slower and slower, lost the excitement of the past, ran past the small oil and salt shop, ran across the stone bridge, ran on the river bank, ran slower and slower, and lost the joy of the past.The answers already exist, just waiting to be discovered by the teenager.The answer has even been revealed, just like the truth has already been revealed, but to discover it, it needs: when the summer sun is sinking, the boy follows the past home, feeling lost. Feeling lost is the moment for young people to convert to the truth. L sat down on the embankment, not wanting to go home. Watching the sunset disappearing at the end of the river, watching the houses on both banks become silhouettes, and only the figures of pigeons flying in the sky, the waves of the river dimmed and disappeared, and only the continuous gurgling sound was heard.Feeling lost, at this moment when I first experienced loneliness, a faint ray of pain suddenly stimulated a burst of incomparable joy.At this time, I discovered that the light of truth had already revealed clues in his desire, and the moving nude of a young girl had entered the poet's night dreams and daytime fantasies more than once.This fantasy ignites the poet again like a soul. Once this fantasy appears, it will be endless and turbulent, irresistible, making the young man recklessly obey her temptation, her shock, and pursue the moving mystery... The poet L sees the girl's mysterious naked body with enthusiasm, a ray of snow-white light appears in the darkness.Everything was set off by her and lost its color.Snow-white light, but that's all. Boy L has definitely never seen a naked woman.In the darkness, the light came towards him, and he tried his best to see her clearly, to see every part clearly.But the ray of light drifted and could not be gathered.He could feel her breathing, the airflow and sound of her breathing, he could hear her footsteps, the rhythm of walking or jumping, he could see her face but couldn't see her expression clearly in the dancing light, he saw her beautiful The outline of the neck and body, but no matter what, he can't imagine the most mysterious parts. He even doubts whether those mysteries exist, whether they are growing calmly in a certain space at this moment.Could it be that the pain and dreams of young L must exist logically in the fluttering dress?The boy tried to describe those parts, portray them, and make the most alluring and vivid curves truly present, independent between darkness and light.But it was in vain for him to concentrate and tremble with excitement.Also still doubtful.The girl's chest is still just an abstract text on the book, a brilliant and ethereal ball of white light is about to gather but then dissipates. L deeply doubts whether he can really meet them one day, will he die before seeing them?What about the hips?The vigorous and bright uplift, and the deep and tortuous sinking... L can't imagine what month and year the day of reuniting with them will be.The faint ray of pain lingers in the intoxicated fantasy. At that time, the poet L was convinced that he had sinned deeply, but he was powerless to resist, and the tender flowers of youth quietly swelled in the summer night on the river bank.No, the word "hip" is so lifeless, so rigid and indifferent that the poet cannot accept it. These two words have no gender or character, and they cannot even have a name.It should be another two words, although it seems a bit vulgar, but it is more intimate, much closer, with life, with the temperature of flesh and blood, breath and emotion, and with a hazy state.But the poet feels that these two words are probably profane to lovely women. There should be a more beautiful word, which belongs only to the part of women, and those parts belong to them and belong to the truth. 83 Then, a revolution came.At the time when the young poet was in love, a great poet dreamed of a red planet.Painter Z quietly walked out of the crowd and then disappeared into the crowd. At that time, poet L and I drifted with the crowd, shouting the couplet.Revolution, however, is poetic. L, like Z, dislikes most of the subjects in school and dislikes the endless exams.What excites the poet most about the coming of the revolution is that he doesn’t have to take those boring classes, and he doesn’t have to sit in a small classroom and memorize endlessly. The poet L vaguely feels that the real life has come earlier, and A real revolution. In those days more than twenty years ago, L woke up with passion every morning.No sooner had the dream faded away than he was refreshed, and the day's fantasies came to him.Watching the window gradually brighten, he felt that today—just before the sun went down—something must happen, that good fortune was coming to him, that something mysterious and wonderful was about to happen.Some warm emotions, some joys and sorrows and lingering stories, some beautiful and even sad light, will follow one after another and linger.The farewell promised by the heart, the reunion just around the corner, the burning eyes, the hesitant words, the delicate and unrestrained footsteps... all will come and will come.The footsteps suddenly hesitated on the grass, obsessed, shy, surprised, with a sudden panting, and fell from the sky, the secret that had been hidden for a long time was revealed in the summer evening, leading him to a path with a blurred background, a strange but warm place, maybe South, and involved him in a story, not a specific one, but certainly a story about girls, a story about a woman's life.Maybe...like Gemma and Arthur...and that kind Montanelli and that lovely Martini...but Joanma doesn't want to marry Paula, and when Arthur comes back thirteen years later it will all be misunderstood They will all clarify...Especially Arthur should not get involved with the ballerina woman, Gemma and Arthur must wait...The river that sent Arthur away may be forgotten, and the bloody sunset in South America can also be forgotten, The humiliation in the juggling troupe—those "boom-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha-cha," the drums, the hunchbacked clown's tearful laughs, forget it too, forget it, but don't forget the summer nights of childhood As long as Mrs. Paula entered the lonely and dark bedroom of Levalez and accompanied his pain, she was Gemma again, as long as the tears flowed silently on Gemma's beautiful pale face, Arthur Will be back... until the gunshots... then Arthur - I or L's hope - should remind Gemma, should tell her that the lovely Martini has loved her for years... L, obviously, was not really a poet at this time. L and I were crowded in the sea of ​​people and shouted the couplet with the current. It was July 1966.Then in August, my old grandmother left the city and was sent to the countryside alone.I wrote about it in "Grandma's Star," about my grief and anxiety.From the terrible news that came out of the temple on that summer night, until this August when grandma left us, I often felt like this: thinking of the future, I felt dangerous, scared, very scared, and didn’t know what to do, how to be safe.I didn't see her when grandma left.I remember I didn't go home all July, I didn't dare to go back, I didn't know how I should treat my old grandmother, I knew I loved her, and I knew she was a landlord I should hate a landlord if I didn't Hate her then what am I?This was all I thought about when I was shouting that couplet.I kept it a secret from all my classmates, lest they find out, lest they ask who my grandmother was, what class?what ingredients.So people just ignored me, like that horrible kid in elementary school, who kept me in isolation—a bird condemned to flock.I feel that terrible child has grown up too, always following me, everywhere, never giving up on me, and I will never be his match.Be vigilant at all times, but this concealment makes me feel guilty, dishonest, hypocritical, and deceitful all the time.I would have liked to speak of my sins to the poet in private, as if I had known his inappropriate thoughts about women and I had forgiven him, and had his understanding.But he doesn't seem to understand me, he's not really a poet yet. In August, the blazing sun, red slogans and flags all over the sky, dust, slogans, and the harsh noise of microphones are followed by shocking news, and thousands of sweaty arms and fists are raised to the sky.When the crowds cleared up, I was still standing alone in the square, not knowing how to escape my sin.I finally sat down in the shade of a low wall and began to fantasize...if only I were an orphan with no birth... Maybe I really am an orphan... a pair of orphans of revolutionary ancestors, they entrusted me to My current parents, they ask my current parents not to tell me the truth, not to reveal my life experience before I am sensible, their lofty hearts will think of me like this...but now it is okay, now I have to say it, one day , my current parents called me to their eyes and said to me, "Son, we have to tell you, don't be sad, you are the real successor of the revolution, the descendant of the red, so you have to be strong, your biological parents and they They died for justice and for the equality, freedom and happiness of all people in the world", and then they took out the relics of the pair of revolutionary ancestors... But it is also possible that the pair of revolutionary ancestors did not sacrifice, and everyone thought they were dead. They're alive, they've narrowly escaped death, they've been looking for their long-lost son for so many years, and they finally found my current parents and thus me.Of course they have been looking for my current parents in order to find me and their own son. "Call them, call them father, call them mother..." No, no, please don't, let's not do this, I still want my current parents, the pair of ancestors should be sacrificed...或者，那一对先辈为什么不会是我的叔叔和婶婶（或者舅舅和舅母）呢？就像Z 的叔叔那样，忽然回来了，老革命，高干，他会帮帮我们，改变奶奶和我们的处境……（多么可笑，历史有时候过于滑稽，二十年后我知道也还有人作着类似的幻想，只不过他们希望的不再是革命先辈，而是海外关系了，希望他们海外的父母终于找到他们，或者希望忽然从天而降一门海外的亲戚，从而改变他们的处境。）我坐在那矮墙下幻想，就像诗人坐在河岸的暮色中幻想着性爱。但是诗人娇嫩的花在夏夜里热烈地开放之时，我的幻想却在烈日下以渐渐地冷却告终。我知道我的幻想仅仅是幻想，不可能成为现实，我长得既像我的父亲又像我的母亲，而且也像我的老祖母，毫无疑问。夕阳西沉，广场上的彩旗开始在晚风中轻轻飘扬，远远近近的高音喇叭数重唱般地响起来，开始播放一个反革命女人伤风败俗的丑闻，说她和她的反动丈夫在卧室里非但不拉上窗帘而且有时还开着灯，说她常常只穿裙子不穿裤权站在阳台上，令革命群众无比厌恶……。 这时我看见母亲在广场的另一边向我招手。 母亲说：“城里，好多地方在抄家了。” 母亲说：“听说有的地方打人了。” 母亲告诉我：“咱们那条街上还没什么事。后面的街上，有一家给抄出了两箱绸缎，还有一块金条。” 母亲推着自行车，我跟在她身旁走。I was silent. “那家人都给谁上卡车，和那两匹绸缎，所有的家具，一块儿都拉走了。” “听说只剩下那家的小儿子。那孩子，都说平时可看不出他能这样，才十一岁，那些人让他上车的时候，那孩子哭着央求，说他没罪，说他并不知道他的父母成了这些罪恶的东西。那些人问他，你恨不恨你的父母亲？那孩子点点头。那些人就给了他一条皮带，那孩子就抽了他的父亲，又抽了母亲。那些人走了，邻居们问那孩子，你一个人到哪儿去呢？那孩子说，他要一个人留在这城市里，他不再要他那个家，什么家不家呀，他不要，他只要革命，他一个人也要继续革命……” 母亲说：“我们把奶奶送走了，送回农村老家了。” 母亲说：“听说有的地方打死人了。” 母亲说：“让奶奶去躲一下，然后再接她回来。” 我立刻大松了一口气。 那个晚上我回到家，觉得轻松了很多。Safety.平安的感觉。仿佛一个恶梦终于消散。安谧的夏夜，灯光也比往日柔和。sense of security.夜里，躺在床上，满天的星星在窗外老海棠树的枝叶间闪烁，我想了一下奶奶，奶奶她这会儿在哪儿？她只身一人会碰上什么？但是我不使自己想下去，我想明天，明天我不用再那么害怕了，我与地生没关系了，我可以清同学到我家里来了，学校里将不会有人知道我是奶奶带大的了。我不再想奶奶，我使自己不再想她，不再想她一个人此时正在何方，以及她会不会想起我……。 “那才是你的罪孽呵，”很多年后诗人L对我说。很多年后奶奶去世了，想起那个晚上，诗人对我说：“那才是你真正的罪孽呀。”我说是的。 but you know what?很多年前的那个晚上我就已经知道，那才是我的罪孽，那是真正的罪孽，不要说WR的勇敢，就便是画家Z的愤恨也要比这干净得多。 但是你仍然感到轻松了。 Yes.感到安全。 虽然丑恶依然是丑恶，但是别人并不知道，是吗？ Exactly so. 于是安全了，是吗？为了安全，我们得小心地掩盖我们的羞耻。 否则怎么办？ 诗人看着我，很久很久沉默不语。 84 诗人L沉默不语。很久很久之后他忽然问道：“可是为什么，性，会是羞耻的呢？” 我一下子没懂，思路怎么一下子跳到这儿来了？ 他问得非常认真，出人意料：“从什么时候，都是什么原因，性，成为羞耻了呢？自然的欲望，男人和女人的那些美丽的部位，从什么时候和因为什么需要遮盖起来？” 真不明白，为什么忽然想到了这个问题。 诗人说：“你敢说一说你的性欲吗？或者叫作肉欲，或者还叫作淫欲——听听吧，已经都是贬意的了。” 诗人说：“可是为什么呢？人体那些美丽的地方，怎么会成为羞耻的呢？从什么时候，乳房、腰腹、动人的大腿和茁壮的屁股需要隐藏？蓊郁烂漫的毛丛中男人和女人的器官——呵想想吧，他们可曾有过意味着赞美的名字吗？没有，除了冷漠的科学用语就是贬意的不堪入耳的称谓，使她们毫无生气，使她们丑陋不堪。呵，我现在就找不到符合我心愿的他们和她们的名字，因为没有，从来没有，没有这样的词汇这样的语言，但这是为什么呢？他们其实和健壮的臂膀一样美呀，她们其实和纤柔的脚趾一样美和温柔的双唇一样美呀。脱去精心设计的衣装那才是真正的美丽，每一处肌肤的滚动、每一块隐约的骨胳、每一缕茂盛的毛发那都是自然无与伦比的创造，矫饰的衣装脱落之时美丽才除净了污垢，摆脱了束缚，那明朗和幽暗，起伏，曲回，折皱，处处都埋藏着叫喊，要你贴近，贴近去吸吮她呼吸她，然后观看，轻轻地动走起来互相观看，步履轻捷，每一步都是从头到脚的一次和谐的传递，舒畅的流动，人体这精密的构造，自在地伸展，扭摆，喘息，随心所欲，每一根发梢都在跳跃，这才是真正的舞蹈，全部的美妙连成一体为所欲为，坦荡的毛丛中那是男人和女人的天赋和灵感，爱的花朵，爱的许诺，生死攸关的话语。恨，还有虚伪，不能使他们挺拔，怀疑不会让他们开放……男人和女人昂扬盛开的花朵那是最坦诚的表达呀，可是从什么时候因为什么要遮掩起来？甚至不能言说？连想一想都是羞耻？男人和女人，为什么必要躲避起来才能纵情地渴求，流淌，颤抖，飘荡，相互呼救？自由自在狂放不羁的千姿百态，最纯洁无邪的心醉神驰，只有互相的需要，不顾一切地互相需要，忘记了差别弃绝了功利互相彻底给予，可为什么，为什么那倒是见不得人的？” 诗人百思不得其解。 诗人说：“亚当和夏娃懂得了善恶，被逐出伊甸园，为什么他们首先感到赤身露体是羞耻的？他们走出那乐园，走入人间，开始走入人间同时开始懂得了遮掩——用一片叶子遮住那天赋的花朵，为什么，走入人间和懂得遮掩这两件事同时发生呢？” 诗人说：“我知道人的丑陋和罪孽，因而我知道人会有羞耻之心。但是我不懂，为什么亚当夏娃首先要遮蔽那个地方？羞耻为什么以此为最？” 我看着诗人，心里相信，L就要成为真正的诗人了。 我从镜子里看着他，心想，在这些话语后面，诗人的思绪正在走向什么地方，诗人的消息有了多久的流传？ 我从玻璃上，借助月光，看见诗人并不出众的身体，朦朦胧胧他年轻的花朵低垂着满怀梦想，我感到诗人的目光里必是流露着迷茫，我想，从那个八月之后，诗人L怎样走到了今天…… 85 很多没有改造好的阶级异己分子被送去农村，有些反动分子不甘心失败而被打死了，有些“混蛋”妄图报复因而也被打死了，有些老革命被发现原来是假的（原来是内奸、特务、叛徒）也被打死了，很多人被抓起来，有些人被打得受不了从楼上跳下去摔死了，那个八月里死了很多人。那些血淋淋的场面我有幸没有目睹。只是打死了这三个字像小学校里的读书声那样传来，曾让我心底一阵阵颤抖，十五岁的少年还说不清是为什么颤抖，但留下了永不磨灭的阴冷和恐怖。很多年以后我才明白，是因为那三个字的结构未免太简单了，那三个字的发音未免太平淡，那节奏未免太漫不经心了。人们上街买菜，碰见了，说谁谁给打死了，然后继续排队买菜，就这样。亲朋好友多日不见，见了，说某某某被打死了，或者跳了楼、卧了轨、喝了敌敌畏，就这样。died?died.然后说些别的事，随随便便说些别的事。打死了，这三个字很简单，说得平平淡淡。多年以后，我习惯了每天早晨一边穿衣服一边听广播，我听见广播中常常出现这三个字，在越南和柬埔寨、在阿富汗、在拉丁美洲、在中东、在所有进行着战争的地方，广播员平平静静地报告说在那儿：“昨天，XX游击队打死了XX政府军XX人。”或者：“前天夜间，XX军队在与XX组织的一次交火中，打死了对方Xx人。”听起来就像是说打死了多少只老鼠和打死了多少多少只苍蝇。小时候我还是个少先队员的时候，我和我的小伙伴们每天就是这样互相询问的：“你又打死了几只？”“我打死了XX只。”每个星期就是这样向老师汇报的：“我们小队本星期消灭了XX只老鼠，打死了XXX只苍蝇。”可那是“只”呀，多少多少只，听起来要合情合理些，不是“人”。 “打死了多少多少人”，“多少多少人被消灭了”，好像那些人生来是为了被消灭的，除了麻烦各位把我们消灭之外我们再没有什么事好做，好像人都难免是这样一种害虫，以备在恰当的时候予以打死。当然这些，十五岁的少年还想不到，那一阵颤抖很快就过去了。 十五岁的诗人对那幅对联没有再多的印象，他的出身不好也不坏。革命，最初正如他所盼望的那样，诗意盎然。譬如说：大串联。全国的大串联。全国，几乎所有的铁路线上都运载着革命师生，日日夜夜风起云涌，车站上和旅店里住不下了就住到教室里和车间里，老太太们也都动员起来为串联大军做饭、缝被子，公路上到处都能看到串联的队伍，狂热的青年们高举着领袖像，唱着歌，意气风发地行进，无论是晴空下还是风雨中，高举着各式各样“战斗队”或者“战斗兵团”的旗帜行进，红色的旗帜，和璀璨的年华，和广阔且神奇的未来……那正是L梦寐以求的。诗人L、F医生、女导演N、女教师O、T、甚至画家Z，我们都曾为没能赶上革命战争年代而遗憾，我们都相信，如果需要的话我们也能悲壮赴死，保卫红色江山和无产者的天下，如果敌人是那般猖狂我们会大义凛然走向刑场。L从家里拿了十元钱，给妈妈留了一句话，写在纸条上用图钉钉在门上：“妈妈，太棒了，我要去串联啦！来不及当面告诉你了，我现在就得走了。这一次革命让我赶上了，妈妈，我不会无所作为！”那年诗人十五岁，相信是离家去革命，像Z的叔叔当年那样，像一辈辈历史上的英雄那样。我想，如果敌人给你用刑呢你怕不怕？L说我不怕，随即L眼前出现了一群少女，对，他的战友，她们为他流泪，也许她们会闭起眼睛，为他唱歌，喊着或者是心里喊着他的名字……诗人说：我不怕。敌人用鞭子抽你，像电影里那样，几个彪形大汉，鞭子都蘸了水，我说，那样的话你怕吗？L说我不怕。那些少女，那些漂亮、善良、柔弱的女人，女难友，隔着铁窗向他投来深情的目光，对他寄予厚望，从他伯宁死不屈中理解着爱情……L想我不怕，我什么都不怕。他们要是，用烧红了的烙铁，烙你呢？吱吱的，有一股血肉被烧焦了的味呢？诗人说：“我，我想我可能……不过，他们为什么不杀害我呢？”不，他们要你把供，要你变节、背叛，如果敌人用竹签子扎你的手指呢？不断地扎你的十个手指呢？L看看自己的手指……诗人没有回答。 诗人L不再想这些事。他那时多么简单，那种年龄，乐得想什么就想什么，想怎样想就怎样想，不愿意想什么就可以不想。 他跑过河岸，跑过石桥和那家小油盐店，他想问一问T去不去串联，愿不愿意和他一起去？诗人L想象着和她在一起，一块儿离开家乡的情景，以及此后的境遇。在飞驰的列车上她就坐在他身边，车窗外回落月出她仍然和他在一起，在异地他乡，日日夜夜，在陌生的城市，偏僻的乡间，在大江大河，海边和海上，无边无际的原野，大森林，走不尽的莽莽群山，她都和他在一起，在危险里当然也在胜利里，在理想和革命中，他和她在一起……。但是她不在家。 “她已经走了呀，”她家的阿姨说。 “走了？走哪儿去了？” “去串联了呀。” “什么时候？她什么时候走的？” “三天啦，对呀，三天了呀。” “呵，是吗” “你是谁呀？找她有什么事呀？” “我……呵没事。那她，她去了哪儿？” “那可不知道呀。还能去哪儿呀？总归是中国呀，全中国 不错，全中国。诗人在车站的广场上等车的当儿，翻开地图，全中国，巴掌大的那么一块地方（比例尺是1：40000000），L无心去想那七个零意味着什么，诗人只是相信，少女T就在这里，在这里一定能够找到她。但这里一公分等于四百公里，这里有九百六十万平方公里。 这又是一个征兆，一种密码的透露。有一天，诗人的消息就将在这块土地上到处流传，时间一般连贯的诗人的欲望和痛苦，在这块广袤而古老的土地上到处流传，随时设想着和他的恋人不期而遇，蓦然重逢。 86 在那次远行中，一定发生了什么不同寻常的事。绝不仅仅是他又长高了，那时他每个月都长高一公分，他在隆隆震响的列车上度过了十六岁生日，不是这样的事，绝不这么简单。那次革命大串联回来，L的心情或者思绪，有了不为人注意但是明显的变化，他一定遇到了什么特别的事。他炫耀甚至带几分吹嘘地讲他在那几个月中的经历，演讲、辩论、巧妙地驳刺对方啦、夜以继日地刻印传单啦、南方的芭蕉和竹林、草原上的马群还有大西北的不毛之地、还有真正的战斗——武斗，和不幸成为俘虏，不过这没什么他们又如何如何机智地化险为夷……但滔滔不绝之际他会忽然沉默，心不在焉，心事重重，这是以前所没有的；目光无比迷惆、惆怅，以前可是没有过；目光垂下去呆呆地定在一点，很久很久仿佛其中又闪动起激情和兴奋，但霎那间目光又散开了，像一只受惊的鸟儿很久很久无处着落…… 到底发生了什么事？ 从诗人后来的消息中推测，他必是在那几个月里走出了童贞。那几个月里，某一辞不及防的时刻，他还过了一道界线。 who?点破了他的童贞的那个女人，是谁呢？ have no idea.no one knows.永远无法知道。 L自己也没有看清她，不知道她的名字，在昏暗的车箱里只知道她是一个成年女子，也不曾问过她最终要到哪儿去。车箱里只有两盏马灯，由此来看那可能是一辆运货的闷罐车，而且是夜里。车窗很小，只打开一道窄缝儿，从L的角度偶尔可以看见一颗很亮的星。列车在大山里走，山时而遮蔽了那颗星，时而又放出那颗星。夜幕漆黑看不见山，那颗星忽然隐没便知道那是山的遮蔽，忽而它又出现便知道山在那一段矮下去。两盏马灯，东一盏西一盏有节奏地晃荡，有谁站起来移一下位置，巨大的影子便晃荡得四壁全是。大家都躺在地板上，挨得很紧，挤着。马灯近旁的人一直在嘁嘁嚓嚓地谈话，有时大声地笑。其余的角落都很静，或有鼾声。L睡不着，他身旁睡着一个姑娘，一个成年仅是非常年轻的姑娘。除了母亲，L还从未如此贴近过女人的身体，心里动荡得不能入睡。只隔着两层单衣，L感到了她肉体的温热和弹性。开始很紧张，希望她不认为这是有意的，希望别人不认为他是有意躺在她身边的，完全是偶然，他希望别人也都注意到这一点；另一边就是墙了，他已经紧贴着墙了，他真是没有办法，否则他会与她再分开些的。L笔直地躺着，一动不敢动，不敢翻身，呼吸也放轻。但是他非常清晰地感觉到了姑娘的身体，闻到了女人的气味，不一定是香味，幽幽缈缈的让少年惊奇，让诗人身心震动。无法拒斥恰恰就像不能不呼吸。L的角落离灯光很远，昏暗得分不清睡着多少人。L试着放松一下浑身的肌肉，感到和那姑娘的接触面扩大了，慢慢地扩大着，更富弹力和温柔了，随着车箱的颠簸，能感觉到她某些部位的丰满和某几处骨胳的坚实。心嗵嗵地跳，L又赶忙抽紧身子。姑娘依然睡着，呼吸均匀，有节奏地吹拂他的皮肤。L再试着放松，一直抱在胸前的双臂放下来，再放下来，放在他与她之间，这样他的一只手触到了她。手毕竟最为敏感，手背也可以认出那是丰盈的女性的腿，但是手指不敢动，竭力用皮肤去感觉她的真确。河岸上的幻想又活跃起来，夏夜里的花含苞欲放。姑娘动了一下。L屏住呼吸。列车转弯时车箱剧烈地晃动。摇摆，那个姑娘，女人，随着车箱的倾斜她更紧地和L贴着了，车轮变换轨道车箱猛地倾斜一下，女人沉甸甸的肉体压住了L的胳膊，他想抽出来，想把胳膊慢慢地抽出来不要把她弄醒，但就在这时另一只手把L的手捉住了。L一惊，未及想出对策，却感到那只手在他的手里轻轻地扭动，揉搓，是女性的手，是她的，她的五个手指和他的五个手指渐渐绞在一起，L听见姑娘呼吸的节奏变了，她分明是醒了，或者一直是醒着，或者一直是在梦的边缘。L还是怕。L还是把胳膊抽了出来。昏暗中，L想看看她，但是看不清，不敢多看，但从那呼吸和手指上L猜想她一定很漂亮。她不动，也不躲开，没有一点儿声音。车轮轧得铁轨“咔哒哒——咔哒哒——”在他们身下震响，铁和铁磨擦的声音，尖厉，甚至有些恐怖。L再试着把手放下来，放在原来的位置，在那儿，她，那只女性的手仍在等着他。他把地抓住，她便又在他的手中轻轻地扭转，五个手指对五个手指，捏着，攥着，都有了汗，绞绕着不知如何是好似的。序幕不可能太久，激情朝着必然的方向推进，L的手慢慢向她的身上移动，向她的胸前摸索，她不反对，她一直都不阻挡，她是允许的。于是L触到了丰硕的胸，两个年轻的乳房，隔着乳罩，不很大，但是挺耸、充盈，顶部小小的突起那必是乳头了，一阵风暴似的东西刮遍了诗人全身。但L忽然又把手挪开，抱在自己胸前，龌龊和犯罪感在他心里掠过。他把手挪开，她不制止，那意思是相信他还会回来。不错，她的判断完全对，真理难以抗拒，那是真理。再回来时，乳罩松开了，他的手在整个光滑细腻的胸脯上畅行无阻，在微微的齐水上走边走过颤动的隆起和凹陷。火车“咔哒哒——咔哒哒——咔哒哒——”奔驰在黑夜的群山中，“空嗵嗵——空嗵嗵——空嗵嗵——”那是在过桥，“轧轧轧——轧轧轧——轧轧轧——”是钻过隧洞，少年的花朵在这动荡的节奏中昂扬开放。L在那缠绵温润的腰腹上停留，彳良久，正要走向另一处最为致命的梦境——更为沉重的山峦和更为深邃的渊壑，但这时，另外那只手制止了他，对他说：“呵，你还这么小。”那双一直微合着的眼睛，一定是在昏暗中睁开了，看着他。L心慌意乱无地自容。“咔哒哒——咔哒哒——”声音渐渐地小下去，渐渐扩散得缥缈，可能，火车走出了大山。那花朵很快收缩合拢了。 “呵，你还这么小。” “你几岁了？你还太小。” “你也就是十六、七岁吧？” L不记得是否回答了她。L害怕，心里不知在想什么。 列车忽然停了，临时停车。人们都下车去，方便方便，透透气，询问这是到了什么地方。四周是黑色的森林，林涛声，和被惊醒的夜鸟不安的啼叫。L随着大家下了车，离开了那姑娘，从此永远离开了她。未来，在处处稠密的人群里，谁说得准不曾再与她相遇过呢？但是肯定，那时，谁也认不出谁。 L在夜风中站着，直到火车的汽笛声响了，绿色的信号灯在黑暗中画着圆圈，他才又上了车。他换了个位置，但一路上他不断朝原来的那个角落偷望。他再没有看见她。天亮了，车窗打开，是个晴朗的天气。人们都坐起来，高声说笑，整理行装，终点站就要到了。L看见那个角落里没有她，虽然他并未看清她的脸，但是诗人相信那儿没有她。如果有，他一定能从目光中认出她，目光总会泄露出哪一个是她，但是没有那样的目光，没有。 为此，诗人，是惋惜呢，还是庆幸？ 87 想起T－－L心心念念的那个少女，诗人暗自庆幸没有发生更糟糕的事。火车之夜已成过去，已经结束，无人知烧。已经安全。火车上的那个姑娘已经消失，永劫不复，虽然她肯定就在这个世界上但L不知道她是谁，再也不可能知道她是谁。虽然她会记得火车上一个春情初动的少年，但她也再找不到他了。悲哀呢？还是安全？只要诗人自己把这件事忘掉，这件事就如同不曾发生。 我曾多少次坐在火车上这样想：眼前这些人，这些旅伴一个个多么真实，多么靠近，互相快乐、自由、善意、甚至倾心交谈，那一刻他们是互相存在的，但是很快你就和他们永别，再也找不到他们。他们从哪儿来到哪儿去都与你无关，他们的存在与你毫不相干。我曾多次坐在火车上，与一个个偶然相遇的旅伴东拉西扯胡言乱语（和熟人可不敢这样），觉得安全，不怕有人出卖你，不怕有人看不起你，因为陌生是一种保障。车到终点大家就各奔东西互不存在了。熟人有一种危险，陌生倒可以安全，这确实有点儿滑稽。 好啦，火车之夜如同从未发生，L心魂稍定，小心地看看四周。四周夏日依旧。 少年诗人初恋的季节，在我的印象里永远是夏天，河水静静地蒸腾，树叶在灼烈的阳光中微缓地翻动，风速很慢有时候完全停止，天气很热。我记得那季节里一幅永恒的情景：少女T走上阳台，阳光使她一下子睁不开眼，她伸展双臂打一个小小的哈欠。眼睛、牙齿、嘴，太阳在那儿照亮水的光影。她赶紧又捂住张开的嘴，同时目光变得生气勃勃，无烦无恼那样子真是可爱。她打哈欠的当儿睡裙吊上去，年轻的双腿又长又美光彩照人，一样有水波荡漾的光影。那是因为远处有一条河。她一只脚踏着节拍，柔软的风吹拂她，那样子无猜无防真是迷人。料必她心里有一条如河的旋律，有一片如水的荡漾。她倚在栏杆上在斑斑点点的树影中，双臂交叉背在身后，久久地凝望那条河，凝望太阳下成群成片的屋顶，眼睛里于是又似有一丝忧郁，淡淡的愁苦那样子刻骨不忘……所以我记得诗人仰望她的季节永远是夏天。要感谢那次临时停车，感谢命运之神及时的阻挡，否则不知还会发生什么事呢，那样的话诗人想，他就会失去他的心上人，失去梦幻般的那个女孩儿——对，少女T。这样想着，便是诗人忽然沉默不语的时候。 但是，否则还会发生什么事呢？这又让诗人频频坠入幻想，微微地激动，甚至惋惜。至少有一点儿惋惜。夏日的长昼里，火车上那个诱人的夜晚不断跳出来，令L意马心猿。诗人暗自希望那个夜晚不防重演，L不妨冲破那五个手指的阻挡，冲破她的阴挡更进一步．走向最惊心动魄的地方走进舍生忘死的时间，走进全部的神秘，那样就会走进全部的秘密了，他就可以亲吻她，会的，他会那样，一定，多么好，多么好呀多么诱人，感受异性的亲吻是怎样的温存、骚动、销魂，他要好好看一看她，看遍她并且记住，体尝一个女人欲动情驰毫无保留地把自己交给一个男人的美妙……唉，可是那次停车，那次可恨的临时停车，真讨厌！这便是诗人的目光定于一处，痴思迷想之时。 罪恶，但这是罪恶呀！十六岁或者十七岁，诗人的目光于是又惊惶四散，简直罪恶滔天，怎么会是这样？一面庆幸那个夜晚的消失，一面又惋惜它的夭折，一面梦想着少女T，一面又为那个萍水相逢的女人心动旌摇，L你怎么会是这样？十七岁，或者十八岁，诗人的目光像一只惊飞的鸟儿，在那永恒的夏天，不能着落…… L，他到底爱谁呢？爱哪一个？ 这是爱情吗？哪一个是？ What is love? 真的只是花期吗？雄蕊和雌蕊的交合？ 借助风、蜜蜂、和蝴蝶？ 千古之问。 88 永恒的夏天，狂热的初恋季节，L开始给T写信。 闷热的夏夜六神无主，无所作为，诗人的心绪无着无落。在灯下翻开日记本，想写些什么。拿起笔又放下，拿起笔，摘去笔帽。想写些什么但又放下，夏天仿佛使心迹漫漶。心好像没有边缘，不在J个固定的位置上，潮汐一般推波助湖心绪漫溢得很深很远。很大，又似很空，因而想写些什么，很想写。笔尖触到纸面，但还不知想要写什么，桌上的老座钟“嘀－哒－嘀－哒－