Chapter 18 18. Loneliness and solitude

18. Loneliness and solitude 174 A hearsay story: There was a small hole in the bathroom door covered with paper, and the three bathing women suddenly saw that the paper was gently pierced, revealing a lustful eye.Bath Girl Five screamed, grabbed the towel and hurriedly covered her body. Bath Girl 2 didn't cover her body, but quickly covered her face.Bath Girl 3 neither covered her body nor covered her face, she shouted at the eye in the hole: Hey, you fool, get out, get out! "Who was insulted? Who let the guy outside the door get away with it? 1, 2, 3, which one?" "1. It was the one who hastily covered her body. She admitted the insult, and her hiding and shame satisfied the desire of the rascal outside the door."

"2 protected herself. The nasty guy didn't know who she was, insulted by a nude who didn't belong, from which 2 has fled." "3 shattered that hooligan's attempt. That guy saw 3's naked body, but he couldn't see her being insulted. 3's expression, her attitude, limited that obscene desire to his old obscenity. So that eye on the door, if it doesn't see the inviolability of a beautiful nude, he sees nothing." A true thing: My friend G, who first arrived abroad, walked into a nude bath.there, men and women Young and old completely naked, lying, sitting, walking and running, talking on the beach

Laugh, play, and enjoy the sun and surf with ease.Only G wears swimming pants.He said: However, it feels like everyone else is wearing clothes, but I am the only one wearing clothes. is naked. G said in the letter: You walked into the naked crowd with clothes on, Just like you walking on the street naked, ashamed, wretched, and ashamed. G said: You have only two choices at this time, either you take off your clothes too, or run away quickly run. "It seems that public nudity does not necessarily mean shame. For example, there are nude models." "So, what is shame?"

"It is contrary to the rules prevailing in the group and the taboo established by the group. It is not accepted by the group." "You are unique, but you have to give in to unity. You are free, but you have to give in to taboos. Because you long to be close to the group, to be accepted by them. You fear being ostracized by the group." "Therefore you are alone, you are a unique but lonely soul. Born so. Born so. Always so." "Loneliness lures you to the group—otherwise it's not loneliness, you have to compromise, you have to know shame." "When did Adam and Eve walk out of the Garden of Eden? When you knew shame. It's the same when you put on your clothes and take them off. What needs to be covered is your lonely heart and soul."

"When does freedom end? 'Mama I don't show my ass anymore, Mama, other kids will laugh at me', when you walk into the world. It's not when you want to put on clothes, it's when you're afraid that people will laugh at you Time, you walk into the world." "Where are you? Your face, your name—you are here. You are recognized and judged by others, so you feel that you exist, you exist. You, me, him, it's the same." A theatrical (movie) segment: Actor A plays the leading role A.Actress B, plays heroine B.drama There are plots where the hero and heroine make love.

"So, lovers, are they A and B, or A and B?" "Actually A and B." "But A and B won't admit it. No one in the normal audience sees it that way." "No no, that's actually A and B." "Two 'actually', one refers to the body, and the other refers to the soul." "It's the body that makes the sex. It's the soul that makes the love. So the lovers are A and B." "If the plot in the play is that A rapes B, no one will think that A is a rapist." "It can't even be said that A and B had sex. A and B were just acting."

"Two unnamed bodies have sex, whereby A and B are acting and A and B are making love." 175 On the night of writing, the news from the poet came again: L was writing a long poem on the roads marked and unmarked in the 1:40000000 map.The wind that came out of nowhere stirred the fallen leaves all over the ground, and stirred up the thoughts of the night of writing. For the two children, that night that no longer existed, L was on the road, writing his poems with his pen and body and mind.Use dreams to write his hopes. Old dreams, and long hopes. As old as that dream and hope, there is a trap.

"Can you tell me? What separates me from many, many of those women?" "I love you. I only love you." "But that was by chance. Of all the women you liked, very by chance, I opened that door first. You said you were attracted to more than one woman, more than ten, and do you deny that you did? And When they are together, you said that you would also feel happy and feel hopeful in life, do you deny that? You fantasize about walking into their solitude, their beauty, and having sex with them. Stop, your desire will not be exhausted for a second, are you going to deny what you said?"

"You did not forgive me." "That's not the question. Maybe I want to forgive you more than you do yourself. But tell me, what's the difference between me and them?" "I love you, and that's why I'm telling you all this." "Yeah, you love me so you can tell me you love other people too? So you fucked me, why can't you fuck them too? You can't just because of the law, can you?" "No no, those are not love. I only love you, this is different." "What's the difference? What's the difference between me and them? The difference is that you fantasize about having sex with them, and you realize having sex with me, because the law only allows you to realize one, and this one is me, which is me by chance. "

"No, no, what do you think of me? You think of me as an adulterer." "But you said you suspected yourself of being a whore. You said it yourself." "I'm not that kind of person. I've always believed that only when you love can you have that kind of desire, and only when you love the one you love... can you have that kind of desire..." But be honest.Poet, you admire honesty: is it true? The poet swears, but is suddenly at a loss for words, feeling that he has fallen into a trap: either you are definitely a fornicator, or you don’t just love one, you may love many.The proof is actually simple: you've seen a lot before you've seen one, you're startled and attracted by their cuteness, and you're looking for one.You're looking for one you don't know in advance, and you choose among many possibilities.Of the many possibilities of sexual attraction and love you can only realize one, maybe because of the law, maybe not only because of the law.In short, it is because of something beyond your wish, not because of your uniqueness and freedom, but because of the prevailing rules and taboos. L was walking on the road, sitting on the side of the road, watching the trap in his heart and outside his heart.This time someone didn't push you into the trap, not like that summer all those years ago when someone stuck you to the wall.This trap is inherent in your life, it is your soul, it is your existence.Original desire, and original sin.Moreover, it seems that you are not the only one who fell into this trap. It seems that something fundamental has fallen into it. It seems that all the pure love in the world has fallen into it. The canyon of "conspiracy" has gone, bottomless.

176 L began to write a long poem.Write that he is in the south and north, under the banana tree or deep in the sunflower forest, in the vast buildings of the city, in the mountains, on the shore of the lake, in the distant woods and wasteland... write that he creates a pure land there, the poet and more than one, maybe more than ten A woman, there is no guessing about love. Beautiful love, why only one?Freedom and peace, why only one and one?Look devoutly at your inexhaustible eros and jump out of that trap.Acknowledge the dream, and worship the hope, say you love her and love them, say you will love all lovely women, and you fill the trap.That bitter and humble trap makes "purity" so flustered and embarrassed. Poet's long poem—old dreams and long hopes, of him loving all of them, of all of them loving him, of all of them in love: Nice body and not-so-good body, not just the body.Heart The soul is open on the open body, endless talk comes unexpectedly, open in the open open desire.My face, my name, put a concrete history and eternal Unending longing, open to you.So do you.You and him, too. This is the way between us, the God-given difference is to be able to get close.We all Was next door, exiled between walls.Under the smoky roof, lights up In the window of the light, in the middle of the squares that are numbered because of the sameness, is a One after another: the 24 hours of a day, the spring, summer, autumn and winter of a year, the longing of a lifetime.But longing and longing do not meet each other.Different faces, wishes and secrets, come to this pure land to find freedom and peace.The gaze of war is extinguished here.Express and listen.The door of the house swings leisurely in the rainstorm, and the winding path in the rain is just for you to walk.The distance is for this, and the strangeness is also for the parting of the reunion.We live for this.We have to farm, mine, weave, print, hawk and perform...and get back here.We still have to walk down the street, meet in a store, lose something on a bus, stand in the shade by a noisy subway station, watch the people go by...and get back here.We have to give lectures, tell other people's intentions about things we don't understand, and spend lifeless hours reading speeches slowly... pray that the sun outside the window will soon set, and we will go back.Or we are one of the drowsy audience, sitting in a corner, dimly lit, eyes closed, familiar words and unfamiliar language passing by, tired applause like no other...and then we go back.Time passed, someone arranged a date for us in the name of age, on the park bench, dodge eyes spying on each other, the police patrolled the fruit box, all the information is no longer news... The only surprise is to remember Here, remember we can come back.Thankfully, thankfully.If you are in the mountains, we would rather all go back to the mountains.If we're on the quiet shore, they all want to come back to it.If they go to the forest and wasteland, I will go too, and you will go too, and we will go back there too.A clear face is my symbol, naked body is my ceremony to walk to you, our expressions are free and peaceful, our expressions are wild and pure.The lake has risen.The forest is tangled with roots.The white bird, perched on a hilltop, rolls its innocent eyes to the prayer bells.If you come back and see us talking about love in the Kuilin, don't hide away, just walk gently, there is no doubt that this is exactly the place you should return to.If I come in, into the alone time, you just mind your meditation, no, no, don't you hurry up, yes, stay as long as you want, I'm just here to put the glass on your window, The winter wind is coming.Fallen leaves are like dead butterflies.There are countless bird's nests among the dense branches.The sound of the woodcutter's ax rang into the white sun, and the big tree fell suddenly, which made people feel distressed.We all have disabilities.Don't be afraid, don't let shame make you sad, we all have something dark in our hearts.My secret was posted on the wall that year, and I've wanted to come here since then, and I knew you'd be here waiting for me.Yes, we've been waiting for you to come, cry for that summer, there are no traitors here, no word, what is a "traitor"?A new type of toilet?What I told you, you can remember or you can forget.I tell you, you can tell others too.The autumn wind blows away the secrets.If you are that absurd eye on the bathroom door, don't hold your head up anymore, it's the secret that killed you, it's the secret that killed the word "traitor", it killed "desire" too. "Secret", it is in the pure land as in hell.We regret with you, so you are happier?Can the sobbing heart be stretched?Not forgiveness.We are all sinners, and we have experienced sin together when our desires were secretly cut off.One believer hates another believer, one kind of believer destroys another kind of believer.The rays and heroes of those victims.So here we are.We don't know where we're going as we walk through sin.This is the place, when I think of it, this is the place where we came here with the heavy sins on our backs.Who stabbed your pride on a winter afternoon?Either she hasn't come, or she has, but here you don't recognize the coldness of that night in her child's amazed eyes.The cold that seeps into your life melts away.The white bird gave us the measured route: north in summer and south in winter.or that The dreamlike house is here: in the north in midsummer, in the south in severe winter.That A white bird flies incessantly, in the great vault of sky overhead, restlessly Through the clouds and through the rain.So if you drop someone, here you can find it again to him.If someone leaves you, you come here to wait for him, he will definitely come... The long poem is interrupted.We followed the poet and looked at the pure land from afar.But when we approached excitedly, the poet stopped in his tracks. L knelt on the edge of the dream and hope, praying for a long time, and then slowly turned around, eyes full of confusion.It looked like a child returning home and found that his homeland was gone, full of ruins and barren hills; and like an old guide leading a group of suffering homeless people out of the swamp but into the desert, followed by hungry vultures in the sky Come. Because WR said: "Hey idle poet, congratulations on your 'paradise on earth'." Because F said: "There is no contradiction, it can only be a desert, nothingness. L, it can't be anything else." Because Z said: "Poor poet, your pure land is nothing but the self-amusement of a weak man." Because of 0 or N, they lowered those enthusiastic eyes, silently approving eyes. Because of C, he has the same desire as you, but he is afraid and dare not speak the same voice as you. L's long poem is unsustainable. 177 Nude baths are a drama. Drama may or may not require a stage.Drama is a dream that manages to come true.Drama is the idea of ​​realizing dreams.Try, so the drama was born.Thinking is drama.The place of thinking is the stage, so drama must be on the stage. For example, in that bathhouse, everyone is a screenwriter, director, actor and stage manager."Liberty and Peace" was played there.A dream has managed to come true there.But this "freedom and peace" cannot step out of the bathing stage, cannot step out of the rules of the drama, and cannot enter the reality beyond the "thoughts". Everyone in the play understands this. The rules of reality must be followed outside the baths. Take off your clothes when you enter the bath, and put on your clothes when you enter reality, which cannot be reversed.Drama and reality should not be confused. The characteristic of theater is not the stage but the unreality.Not reality is the stage, only the stage, eclectic but still the stage.You can't escape acting as long as you realize that's not reality. What about dream come true? That was nothing more than: dreaming disguised as reality.Nudity, in such a reality, becomes a nude garment. (A man named Roland Barthes was the first to see this, discovering the nudity.) Everyone knows that is far from reality, everyone knows that it is an agreed performance, everyone sees an insurmountable boundary, so on that bathing stage, you are not really naked, your soul has been hidden in Naked clothing. (Like 2's soul has escaped from its nudity. Like A and B, put on naked clothes named A and B.) Inviolable theatrical rules limit "Freedom and Peace" to one performance, people Performing in the nude. That is to say, freedom and peace are far from coming.People wear nude clothes to imitate dreams and pray for freedom and peace.That is the superposition of dreams, the realization of dreams, and the dreams of dreams still cannot be realized.Every show is like that.Every performance tries to annihilate this hypocritical theatre, to escape this compulsive stage. Where can I escape from this stage? love.Only there. There is no performance there, so it is not a stage, there is a dream and a reality.The only rule there is love.Love cannot be forced, love is freedom.Love is not to be concealed, love is peace.At that time, the naked body took off its naked clothes as a guard of honor for the soul to go to the soul. But can love get out of two people?Can you walk into me and you, and also walk into me and him?Can you go out of a limited time and space, into that diverse world, into all the me, you, and him who praise and pray for love?cannot. No, isn't love still like a promised drama?We are not performing, but we are still on the stage.We are reality, but we must keep distance and isolation from others.We are dreams, but our dreams are limited by reality.We are close and united, but we are still alone and alienated... So what is love?What is love? 178 In the unfinished part of the long poem, L had a nightmare: All the women the poet loves will leave the finished part of the long poem. They said: "Why are we all loving you? Why don't many men love us? Why not? Why can't we love many men?" L cried out in pain in the dream: "But you still have to love me! You Still love me, don’t you?” They said casually: “Okay, we love you too.” L shouted: “No, it’s not love too, it’s the favorite! You love me the most, at least one of you should be the most Love me!" They sneered and asked: "Favorite? But you, who among us do you love the most?" L was speechless, his heart was burning, and his fingers were bleeding from the ground.They laughed and walked away: "All right, all we love is our favorite, we just love you as we love them." They turned around, walked out of the completed part of the long poem, and walked into Wanwan. A head-scratching world. L looked at the noisy and surging crowd, and asked himself in a trance: "Love me as much as you love them, but which one is me? Which one is me in the sea of ​​people? Where am I? What is the difference between me and them?" ? Yes, the difference! Otherwise, how can I feel which one is me? Both are favorites? This is ridiculous. There is no difference, how can there be 'most' and 'not the most'?" We never see ourselves in the absence of others.It's like we've never traveled where there is no distance.I know what the poet wants to say: Only when there is a difference can one have oneself, and oneself is the difference; only when there is a distance can there be a road, and the road is the distance. L looked at the empty land, and shouted in the direction of the women: "Tell me, what is the difference between me and them? Hey, tell me! Otherwise, you are deceiving me!" In a trance, the poet seemed to see , his long-lost lover came from the crowd, looming towards him, and yelling at him in the same way... Therefore, in the unfinished part of the long poem, the poet continued to have nightmares.He dreamed that his long-lost lover had fallen in love with someone else. L couldn't see that person's face clearly in his dream for a while. L was not far from them, but separated by a swamp, L saw his long-lost lover passionately kissing that person.That person, who is he? In the dream, L couldn't figure out for a while: Is that person me, or someone else? L thought: Oh, that's me, right?that's me!He is not someone else, he is me! L shouted across the swamp: "Is that me? Hey! Is he me?" (This is how L asked in his heart when he had sex with his lover for the first time: Is this me? At that time, he didn’t even believe that this great happiness had really come. He kissed her all over while asking in his heart: Is this me? Is it me? Is the man she loves really me? Can a man in such an enviable love be me? He couldn't help asking: "Is this really me?" She hugged him tightly, kissed him, let him look at a woman and a man in the mirror, and said, "Yes, it's you, it's us. Look, that naked woman is me, and she sits on the naked man's arms." Here, that man is you, you are like this, you look like you are on fire... Oh, I like you, I love you, don't you believe it? That pair of skin-to-skin men and women are us... ") L still asks this question now. L remembered in his dream, and he had to ask again: "Is that me? Is that really me?" But there was no answer.Not too far away, the poet called his lover, but she couldn't hear it, as if L no longer existed. L's heart sank, and the pain was excruciating.Then he understood that that person was not him. L is calling her, yearning for her, while the man is whispering to her and getting her love, two completely different fates.So that person is not L, but someone else. L shouted: "What about me, what about me? Don't you see me? Don't you see that it's not me? Here I am! Don't you think of me? You've forgotten me? But I'm still here, I'm I'm still here, I've been waiting for you to come back..." Next, at the place where the long poem was interrupted, the poet dreamed of that terrible summer again exactly: his most precious little book was torn off and pasted on the wall... He broke free from the crowd, bowed his head Walking behind the head of the Provisional Revolutionary Committee, rummaging through schoolbags along the way, hoping to still find those letters of first love, those soul-stirring poems... 179 The helpless poet, returning to the completed part of the long poem, hopes to end it where it was interrupted, where L is happy and the poet is satisfied, and end it.However, the women who returned with him did not forget to bring back the nightmares in the unfinished part of the long poem. Reality prevails in dreams, just as dreams are recited in reality. They all said to him: "Who do you love the most?" Every one of his lovers said to him: "You can love others, but you must love me the most." They all said to him: "Love me, or leave me .Otherwise, you should have understood, how can I feel which one is me?" At different times, in different places, in the freedom and peace of two people surrounded by walls, every woman who fell in love with him Say it to him.The poet understands the same meaning expressed by their different voices: "You only love me, otherwise there will be no freedom and peace. I am afraid that you will tell others my secrets, and I am afraid that others will stick my secrets on the wall superior." L assured them: it won't be like this, really, it won't be like this. L swears to each of them: there will be no more that terrible summer among us. But everyone knows that this guarantee is useless.If you abandon me, you will break the oath.Guarantees and oaths just show that danger is always there.And, even if the guarantee were solid, are you free when you promise not to divulge some kind of secret?You are either free but not safe, or safe but not free, just like the "traitor" in the sunflower grove. L continues long where the long poem left off, falling in love with not one or even ten women.But he once told Dr. F that it was the most tense, cautious and frightening period of his life.When he was with 1, he had to hide 2 and 3. He walked on the street with 3 for fear of running into 1 and 2. When it was time to date 2, he had to find an excuse to say goodbye to 3 and 1, and there were 4 and 5 and 6 and 7... He wants to write to them and say that I am very busy recently, and call them, saying that I am going to a meeting now and I really don't have time. Please forgive me... He is like a thief no matter when and where , a villain, a liar, a schemer, a rogue, a liar, an obscene fellow, a potential "traitor," a headless fly in constant panic. One autumn, the poet L came back briefly from his journey, and said to Dr. F in the deserted old garden: "I have always had only two creeds, love and honesty. How simple it is: love and honesty. But What's going on? I've walked into endless deception and deception." After the autumn rain, the ancient garden was filled with the fragrance of grass, trees and soil. Dr. F was concentrating on tracking a group of migrating ants in the grass. "Hey," L said, "did you hear what I said?" "I'm listening," said Dr. F. "But I probably can't help you much." Thousands of ants lined up, stretching for hundreds of meters, carrying their accumulated food and unborn children to other places to start a new home. "Have you started working on ants again?" L asked. "Look at it occasionally." Dr. F said, "Our brain is like a colony of ants. Such a colony is desire." "What's the meaning?" "You can't go to any ant to understand the desire of the ant. Each one, it doesn't know where it is going, it is just instinct, it is a cell of the ant colony. Just like every brain cell in our It operates by blind instinct, and any cell has no soul, but when they are connected, they have a soul and desire." "I still don't know what you're going to say." "Do you know where 'I' is?" "Where are you?" "Well, that could be the same question. Where are you?" "Are you well, doctor?" "I can't count how many brains I have opened. Every time I can't help but think, where is the soul and where is the desire?" "Where?" "Not somewhere. Search every brain cell and you won't find where the soul is. It's in the colony, like this ant colony, in every ant's connection to every ant. I remember you As I said, it is a structure. Once the structure is destroyed, the soul is gone." "anything else?" "No more. Nothing else, I'm just stating a fact. Each of us is probably just an ant." L smiled: "No longer study your artificial intelligence? And, perpetual motion machine?" Doctor F stopped in his tracks: "If I say, I have found a perpetual motion machine. Are you still laughing?" "Really? Congratulations. Where?" Doctor F's fingers circled in the air: "Existence. Existence is a perpetual motion machine." "You are getting more and more mysterious." "It's not mysterious at all. You reminded me. Once I asked you, do you believe that artificial intelligence can create creatures with the same intelligence as humans, do you remember how you answered?" "Sex." L laughed loudly, "Yes, I said it, did you take it seriously?" "That's true. That's the way God gave us. So I found the perpetual motion machine from God again." "You'd better find love again. Did God tell you what love is?" "Lonely." "Lonely?" "This time it was C who reminded me. C said that nothing can prove love, love is the proof of loneliness." "C, how is he?" "what do you mean?" "Hmm... His illness can't be cured?" "No. At least not in his lifetime." "Lonely?" L looked at F. "Yes, alone," said Dr. F, "but not alone. He said it wasn't alone." In the ancient garden in autumn, birds make their nests on the trees, insects lay eggs on the grass leaves, and there is the sound of fruits falling to the ground at any time, and the footsteps of tourists become lighter.From the setting sun to the rising of the bright moon, the group of ants still marched in an orderly manner, one after another, hugging their food and children day and night... Dr. F said: "On this planet, the most human-like thing is probably an ant. One summer, also in this garden, I saw a real war... It was an afternoon, the sun was about to set When it was falling, over there, under a dead old cypress tree, I saw a battlefield full of corpses, a narrow strip of tens of meters, full of corpses of dead ants... in the gravel and gravel (their mountain bar), beside puddles (their lakes), in the grass (their forests), (foot rolls) huddled, motionless, casting small shadows in the afterglow of the setting sun... I thought it was What kind of natural disaster happened to the ant colony, but if you look closely, it is not. It is a war. The war is coming to an end. The official battle has ended, but sporadic battles are still going on. Locally, ants are still attacking, resisting, invading, or defending their territories or sticking to their beliefs..." "I can't tell whether you lament or praise?" said the poet L. "It's lamentation, but it's also praise." Dr. F said, "When we die, our delicate brain cells are probably like this 'corpse lying on the ground', (foot volume) curled up and motionless, and all desires disappear." "Psycho you!" L said. 18O The poet is on his way again.The news of the poet is far away, far away from the city and the crowd. In the mountains, wildflowers bloom on the open slopes at the foot of the mountain every year, exactly on time.In the swamp, at the source of the clear and pure river, butterflies flutter leisurely, dragonflies and damselflies sometimes break through the mirror-like water surface, and the black forest seems to block the noise of the world.On the other side of the forest, there are raptors circling, there are nests carefully sewn by weaving birds, and there are various delivery rooms, and some wet chicks are quietly born.In the wilderness, the sun rises and sets, young wolves squat in the dense grass, the wind blows and the grass is low, their eager eyes do not leave the beautiful deer herd, and their soft footsteps follow around the deer herd...The poet may be there.In the far and unknown distance, the poet is on the road, waiting and meditating. The same is true for the herd of deer in the distance. In order to expect the reunion, they are rushing to travel under the stars and the moon.I think poets should be able to hear their overwhelming footsteps.I have heard their whereabouts in the novel entitled "Sunday", and now, in the poet's meditation and waiting, I heard the eternal news of those beautiful animals: Before the end of winter, the herd of deer set off northward to the summer habitat.along the way it We are wading across a wide glacier. The glaciers have just thawed, huge blocks of ice are floating and swirling in the blue rapids Turning, rolling, and colliding, the roar resounded through the wilderness, extending to the distant Dasen Lin, there's an echo there.Herd of deer stunned, hesitant, scrambling on the river bank Whispering, probing, neighing...but in vain, the sight and ear are full of waves The sound, the crushing and cracking of the ice floes... The angle of the sun changed again.Can't wait, can't hesitate, deer The group slowly calmed down, and then jumped into the bitingly cold glacier one by one. A whole summer of sweet dreams awaited them beyond the river.they swim Yong's posture is fit and kind, anxious and resigned to fate.But the waves and ice floes are not pitiful Forgive any negligence, even the occasional accident.every year this Sometimes on this river, there will be some beautiful corpses floating on the white ice and blue waves In time, some are old, some are young, and some are still in childhood... The poet is there, I thought, and he will go.Hiking alone, carrying a bag, sleeping in the open or setting up a tent, lighting a beard, maybe a gun by his side... It doesn't matter, what matters is that in my impression he is going there, following the group of beautiful animals, continue his dream. A beautiful summer habitat, the gradually lengthening days provide ample sunshine.Streams of melted snow flowed under the new grass, shining everywhere. The deer roam freely, occasionally stepping into the stream is like plucking the strings of the wilderness, golden The similar trembling sound lasted for a long time. The herd of deer greedily eats the grass and twigs, preparing to be strong His physique is also chewing at night.But the wolves came too, and the wolves came after them, Keep sniffing the tempting news that floats in the warm wind. The buck's horns peel off their soft skin and become tough.they There is a premonition: something mysterious is about to come in life.what's it I don't know anything yet, I just feel anxious and excited.Listen to the mystery at the beck and call of the thorny bushes, they sharpen their Double horns.The doe quietly observed the behavior of the buck, and waited peacefully for that moment. carve…… The poet may be there.Disappointment at the unsustainability of long poetry sends him there, into a closeness to nature and wildness.The poet has been there as early as in my "Sunday". The wasteland turned yellow, and it turned yellow very fast.Bucks caught off guard Think, comprehend the mysterious arrangement overnight, admire and be grateful to God's Will, they sing in the autumn sun.The sense of smell is suddenly a hundredfold Sensitive, the strong scent of the doe inspires them and inspires the imagination force, making them full of passion and sleepless nights.the stag sings over and over again Singing love songs, asking for the promise of the doe, longing for their shelter, giving up the old Majestic, proud and reserved, prostrate at the feet of your lover, like a converted prodigal son She lost her tenderness and finally opened up her long-held wish. The dainty doe cunningly dodges the buck's entreaties, but as soon as she finds The male deer paused a bit, but the female deer showed their charm in time to lure the male deer. The deer couldn't stop.Fire up their lusts more, God asks the doe They flirt in this golden season, making sincere lovers, passionate 衰的丈夫和坚韧不拔的父亲…… 诗人就在那儿。从春天到秋天诗人都在那儿，像是信徒步入了圣地，彻日彻夜地注目在山林、河流、空天阔野之间，羡慕甚或是嫉妒着那自然的欢聚。诗人看见难以为继的他的长诗，在那儿早已存在，自古如此。坦露的真情，坦露的欲望，坦露的孤独走进坦露的亲近，没有屈辱。角斗，那也只是为了种族强健的未来。 溪流和钢琴。山谷和圆号，无边的原野和小号。fall 叶与长笛。月光与提琴。太阳与铜钹与定音鼓。公鹿的 角斗声仿佛众神的舞步，时而稍停时而爆发，开天劈地。 远处的狼群也在谛听，识别着山和溪流的色彩，识别 着原野的风，盼望着自己的节日到来。 开阔的角斗场四周，母鹿们显得不安，不时遥望太 阳，白昼越来越短了。公鹿也注意到了这一点，大地再偏 斜一点儿的话极地的寒风就将到来，那时一切就都来不 及了，它们必须尽快战胜对手和自己的情人欢聚一堂。 以往的艰辛的迁徙和跋涉都是为了现在，它们记得留在 冰河上的那些美丽灵魂的嘱托。鹿族的未来将嘲笑任何 胆怯，谴责哪怕一秒钟的松懈和怠惰。公鹿使劲用前蹄 刨土，把土扬得满身都是，舞动着华丽威武的双角如同舞 着祭典的仪仗。跪倒，祈求苍天再多赐给它一些智慧和 strength.苍天不语只让秋风一遍一遍扫荡一丝一缕的愚 昧。于是公鹿幡然醒悟，抖擞着站起来，迎候那些优秀的 对手…… 不不，那绝不是杀戮，角斗只是雄性的风流，从没有过致同类于死命的记载。诗人倾倒于这光明豪勇的较量：没有阴谋，没有记恨的目光，没有假面恭维、乔装的体面或纯洁。因为那儿，没有谁卑视你的爱欲，没有谁嘲笑一个灵魂对另一个灵魂的渴求，没有谁把你的心愿贴在墙上然后往上面吐痰。没有秘密和出卖，只有上苍传达的神秘律令。 小号轻柔地吹响，母鹿以百般温存报答公鹿的骁勇， 用舌尖舔平他铁一样胸脯上的伤痕。 圆号镇定如山，得胜的公鹿甚至傲视苍天。 母鹿并不急于满足他。要让他平静下来平静下来， 听一听落叶中的长笛，再次领悟那天籁之声。 失败的公鹿等待来年，大提琴并不奏出恨怨。 年幼的鹿子在溪边饮水，在钢琴声中对未来浮想翩 翩…… 诗人必定是在那儿，心醉神痴，留连忘返。他一定会想起他夭折的长诗，泪流满面。在那无人之域诗人痛哭但无声：为什么人不能这样？从什么时候，和为了什么，人离开了这伊甸乐园？ 直到傲慢的得胜者有些惭愧，母鹿这才授予他权利。 寒冷到来之前，鹿族的营地上开遍最后一期野花。stag 终于博得母鹿的赞许，日月轮流作它们的媒人…… 毫无疑问，诗人就在那儿。渺无人烟，静得能听见水的呢喃、草的梦语。诗人想到：这儿可能就是WR的“世界的隔壁”；可能就是那个失去记忆的老人曾经的流放地；长河落日，大漠孤烟，这可能就是Z的生父的漂泊之域。 在草地上在溪水边，情侣们度着蜜月，厮守交欢，并 不离开鹿群，并不需要四壁的隔挡，天下地上处处都是它 们的婚床。健美的身体随心所欲地贴近，吻着，舔着，嗅 着那销魂的音讯，穷尽爱的想象追随在恋人身旁。鹿群 静静地羡慕它们，平和善良的目光偶尔投向它们，祝福甚 或是寄予厚望。它们便肆无忌惮地挺起和敞开天赐的性 器，魂魄凝聚在那最富感受的部位，感谢苍天，走进梦境， 进入和容纳，喷涌和流淌，倾诉和聆听，胸腔里、喉咙里发 出阵阵如鼓之声构成四季的最强音，在阳光下和月光里 虔诚而忘死地交欢，交欢，交欢……在秋风和细雨里，日 日夜夜，享尽生命的自由和平安。 但是母鹿，在这喜庆的日子里不禁忧伤，它们知道这 奉献对公鹿来说意味着什么，母鹿凭本能觉察到不远处 狼群的期待，欢乐的交响之中闪烁着不详的梆声…… 诗人必定也看见了狠群，因为他在那儿，我的印象或者诗人的消息曾在荒原的处处。诗人摸一摸身边的枪，想到：这是人的武器，杀敌的武器。但这是杀敌也杀人的东西呀，因为人与人会成为仇敌！枪声，枪声和枪声，但在那之前是什么？只是手指扣动了扳机吗？ 终于，狼的日子来了。荒原的寒风一阵紧似一阵，传 播着公鹿疲惫的喘息。狼群欣喜若狂，眼睛里焕发出绿 色的光彩，展臂舒腰，向公鹿靠近，敏捷的脚步富于弹性 公鹿迅速地衰老了，力竭精疲，步履维艰。鹿群要往 南方迁移了，到越冬地去。公鹿跟在浩荡的队伍后边蹒 跚而行，距离越拉越大。母鹿回过头来看他，恋恋的，但 自己的腹中寄托着鹿族的未来，心被撕成两半。公鹿用 视死如归的泰然来安慰伴侣，以和解的目光拜托他往日 的情敌。它确信自己绝无气力在冰封雪冻之前回到南方 了，便停下脚步，目送亲朋好友渐渐远去。它知道狼已经 准备好了，它还记得父亲当年的壮烈牺牲，现在轮到它自 己了。公鹿都有一天要作那样的父亲，正如母鹿都有一 天要把心撕开两半，这不值得抱怨，这是神赐的光荣。male 鹿望一望山腰上等了它一夏天的狼，不免钦佩敌人的韧 性和毅力。 狼群一秒钟之前都还蹲着，一秒钟之后已如脱弦之 箭飞下山岗。精力充沛的狼们一呼而起，从四面八方向 老鹿包围，漫山遍野回荡起狼的气息和豪情…… 那毕竟是敌人对敌人的战争呀，毕竟是异类间的生死争夺。自然的选择，与生同来的死的归宿。诗人坐在山顶上，浪浪长风中目睹这可畏可敬的天演轮回。人也会这样，跟随自然造化的命途，让岁月耗尽精华，让病老引你去天国去来世的。这不是悲哀。只要那时你能恋恋不舍你的人群也就够了，在这自然淘汰的时刻，能像这老鹿一样祝福你的群类，独自安然赴命也就心满意足，那样，他的长诗也就能有一个朝向梦想的继续了。但是，我们竟会有“敌人”这个词！我们竟会说狼是鹿的敌人！我们竟会说水是火的敌人！我们竟会说困苦和灾难是我们的敌人！也许最后这句话是说对了，人才是人的困苦和灾难吧？因此我们有枪，还有枪林弹雨一般的目光。我们就是那目光，但我们害怕那目光就像鹿害怕狼，就像火害怕水。那目光比死还要可怕。我们抵挡那目光的办法是“以眼还跟”。我们扣动枪机，不是用手指，是用那目光。 老鹿明白，末日已来临。但它仍旧飞跑，它要引领狼 群到一个它愿意死在那儿的地方去。它朝鹿群远去的相 反方向跑，它要在最后的时刻尝够骄傲…… 诗人在荒原和在我的写作之夜，再次听见F或者C的声音：“孤独。”“孤独，但不是孤单。” 他看见了一头鹿的孤单，看见了整个人群的孤独。离开群类，那些美丽的动物面临危险，人呢，倒可能平安。离开群类对那头老鹿和对诗人L都是孤单，但回归群类，对动物是安全，对人却仍难免孤独。无论离开还是回去，人的孤独都不能消灭。 就快要结冰的溪流中，殷红的鹿血洇开，散漫到远 方，连接起夕阳。鹰群在天上盘旋，那是上苍派下的死亡 使者，满天的叫声如唱圣诗，迎接老鹿的灵魂回去…… 老鹿的灵魂独自走在回去的路上，坦然从命，诗人相信没有比这更美的结束了。它不是被逐出群类的，这至关重要。诗人在那儿，他看得见。他和我在沉默的荒原，想起白皮松下那个可怕的孩子，想起我们从童年就曾被逐出过群类，不是孤单，那已是孤独。我们一同想起女教师O的死，那还是一个疑案，但比死更不堪忍受的一定就是C所说的孤独，一定。而画家Z，童年那个寒冷孤独的夜晚扎根进他的心里，在那儿长大，不能“以牙还牙”但可以“以眼还眼”。Z走出人山人海，以及他走进低矮的画室、走进那根羽毛的孤傲中去，都是在“以眼还眼”。那羽毛敏感的丝丝缕缕，冷峻、飘逸、动荡甚或疯狂，无不是在喊叫着“尊严”，要洗去久远的屈辱。还有WR，他要消灭的是孤单，还是孤独？在O 飘逝的心魂里，以及在那条美妙而有毒的小鱼的残渣中，不光能看见Z的寒冷。在一座美如幻梦的房子和一片芜杂的楼区之间，悠然流淌的钢琴声与小酒店昏暗的醉唱之间，冬天比荒原上来得还早，万木萧疏的季节比这荒原上还要漫长…… 181 时间和孤独都不结束。无以为继的长诗，流进过一段性乱的历史。 L有这样一段历史，为世人皆知。 Z可能也有那样一段历史，不过少为人知。 性乱的历史，除去细节各异，无非两种：人所皆知的，和少为人知的。 182 诗人同一个又一个萍水相逢的女人上床，孤独的时间里从来就有这样的消息。如果长诗无以为继，而时间和孤独却不结束，这样的消息就会传来。 路途的喧嚣，都似在心里沉寂了。 L躺在陌生但是温热的女人身旁。城市抑或荒原的风，吹进阳光和月色，吹进均匀的光明或黑暗，掠过明暗中喘息的身体。是你，或者是她。来了，然后走了。再见，以及再也不见。疲惫的心，躺进从未有过的轻松里去。 别说爱。 嘘——，别说，好吗？ 别说那个累人的字。 别说那个黑洞洞的不见底的字。还没让它折磨够吗？ that's it.什么都别说。 are you happy?That's good. 现在我需要你，你也需要我。对，现在。 我需要你的肩膀，你的皮肤，你的温度…… 明天你在哪儿是你自己的事。 明天我也许还在这儿，也许不在。你们这些累人的家伙其实你们什么都不懂。 你只有现在。 understand?其实就这么简单。什么都让你们给弄乱了。 What's wrong with that? 这样有一个好处：不必再问“我与他（她）们有什么区别”了。没有那样的焦虑和麻烦了。负疚和悲伤，都不必。诘问，和解释不清的解释，都没有。那些徒劳的解释真的是多么累人哪！ 什么也都别想。 别人并不存在，如果你不想。 只要你不说，当然我也不说。 甚至不要记住。 让现在结束在现在。不要记住。 过去和未来之间多出一个快乐的现在，不好么？ 一个又一个无劳牵挂的现在……相似的肉体，相似的激动和快乐……赤裸着，白色的浪一样，呼啸和死去，温润而茂密，相互吞噬……一次，一次…… 但要有一种默契：不要弄清我的名字。 183 诗人在一个个没有名字的女人身边睡去，在那儿醒来。远处的歌在窗帘上飘。一只小甲虫在窗台上困倦地爬呀……时而嗡嗡地飞，嗵嗵地撞着玻璃。窗棂和树的影子随着窗帘的鼓落，大起来又小下去。他并不太挑剔，妓女也好，有夫之妇也好，像他一样的独身者也好，这无关紧要。只要有一个不太讨厌的肉体和他在一起就行了，只要有些性的轻松快乐就行了，那时他会忘记痛苦，像麻醉剂一样使痛苦暂时轻些。他不见得一定要与她们说什么，快合快散好合好散，并不为散而有丝毫痛苦，因为事先并不抱有长久的希望。他真是没有想到会是这样，和很多女人，一个又一个女人做爱竟会是这样，这样平静，你的是你的，我的还是我的，分手时并不去想再见也不去想再也不见。他有时甚至并不与她们做爱，如果她们会说话他就借此听听女人的声音——别人的声音；如果她们尽说些千篇一律的话，他就不让她们出声，只是看看她们确实投在灯光下的影子，或在心里玩赏她们不同的趣味和习惯。 诗人有时轻声问：“你叫什么名字？”他会听见两个至三个字，连接起来很像一个名字，但里面空空洞洞什么也没有。身旁赤裸的女人，没有过去也没有未来。纤柔的肩头、腿和脚、旺盛的臀和幽深的缝隙……都没有历史。 L问：“你的家，在哪儿呢？” L又会听见两个至三个字，看见一缕微笑，或者得到一篇谎言。 犯规。L知道，这是对这一种“自由”的威胁。因为一旦恢复历史，你就又要走进别人，走进目光的枪林弹雨，又要焦虑：我和别人有什么不同。 L就像浴室门上那只窥视的眼睛。而她们，都像那浴室中的2，捂住了脸，捂住了姓名和历史。唯一只无名的手沿着光滑而没有历史的皮肤走遍，走过隆起和跌落，走过茂密、幽深，走过一个世界的边缘。L知道，心魂非但不在这儿团聚，且已从这裸体上逃离。 What about yourself?也是一样。你到这儿来，是为了团聚还是逃离？ 诗人不再问，看着阳光下一个男人和一个女人的身体。但他和她都不在那儿。他和她的裸体在模仿团聚，他和她的心魂在相互躲避、逃离。他和她的历史在另外的时空里，平行着，永不相交。就像多年前在那列“大串联”的火车上，黑暗遮住了那个成熟女人的历史，然后永远消失在人山人海里，很多年后那个少年才知道：这才安全。百叶窗在一个男人和一个女人的裸体上投下的影子，一道一道，黑白相间，随着呼吸起伏，像是荒原上两匹歇息的动物…… 荒原上那些自由的动物，孤独未曾进入它们的心魂。它们来晚了，没能偷吃到禁果。没有善恶。那果子让人吃了。人先到一步，救了它们。让它们没有孤独，让它们安魂守命，听凭上苍和跟随神秘而已，生和死而已，繁殖，延续……是人救了你们，你们知道吗？ 人替你们承受了爱的折磨： 人替你们焦灼，你们才是安祥。 人替你们忧虑，你们才是逍遥。 人替你们思念，你们才是团圆。 人替你们走进苦难，走进罪恶和“枪林弹雨”，你们才是纯洁与和平。 人在你们的乐园外面眺望，你们的自由才在那羡慕中成为美丽。 你们不知道。或者像上帝一样，不理睬。 以致床上这两匹走出了乐园的动物，要逃离心魂，逃离历史，逃进没有过去和未来的现在。要把那条蛇的礼物呕吐出来。在交媾的迷狂和忘怯中，把那果子还给上帝，回到荒莽的乐园去。 但是办不到。 184 can't do it.写作之夜是其证明。 所有的写作之夜，雨雪风霜，我都在想：写作何用？ 写作，就是为了生命的重量不被轻轻抹去。让过去和未来沉沉地存在，肩上和心里感到它们的重量，甚至压迫，甚至刺痛。现在才能存在。现在才能往来于过去和未来，成为梦想。 （F医生终有一天会发现，人比“机器人”所多的，唯有欲望。过去和未来无穷地相联、组合、演变……那就是梦想，就是人的独特，以及每一个人的独特。） 我们常常不得不向统一让步：同样的步伐和言词，同样的衣着装扮，同样的姿态、威严、风度、微笑、寒喧、礼貌、举止、分寸，同样的功能、指标、效率、交配、姿势、程序、繁殖、睡去和醒来、进食和排泄、生存和死亡……不越雷池，循规蹈矩。我们被统一得就像一批批刚出厂的或已经报废的器材，被简化得就像钟表，亿万只钟表，缺了哪一只也不影响一天注定是24小时。我们已无异于“机器人”，可F医生他还在寻找制造它们的方法。 什么才能使我们成为人？什么才能使我们的生命得以扩展？什么才能使我们独特？使我们不是一批中的一个，而是独特的一个，不可顶替的一个，因而是不可抹煞的一个？唯有欲望和梦想！ 欲望和梦想，把我们引领进一片虚幻、空白，和不确定的真实，一片自由的无限可能之域。 看重我们的独特吧，看重它，感谢它，爱戴它乃至崇拜它吧。在'独特'不可能被'统一'接受的地方，在'独特'不甘就范之时，'独特'开辟出梦想之门。无数的可能之门，和无数的可能之路。'独特'走进这些门，走上这些门里的这些路。这些路可能永远互不再相交。可是倘其一旦相交，我们便走进爱情，唯其一旦相交我们才可能真正得到爱情。 是谁想出这种折磨的？ 因而焦灼，忧虑，思念，祈祷，在黑夜里写作。从罪恶和“枪林弹雨”，眺望自由平安。 眺望乐园。 乐园里阳光明媚。写作却是黑夜。 如果你看我的书，一本名叫作“务虚笔记”的书，你也就走进了写作之夜。你谈论它，指责它，轻蔑它，嘲笑它，唾弃它……你都是在写作之夜，不能逃脱。因为，荒原上那些令你羡慕的美丽动物，它们从不走进这样的夜晚。 185 在任何可以设想的、不是团聚而是逃离的床上，诗人不止一次梦见他的恋人回来：也许是从北方风雪之夜的那列火车上，也许是在南方流萤飞舞的夏夜。但是在这样的好梦里，往日的性乱使诗人丢失了性命悠关的语言。 铁轨上隆隆的震响渐渐小下去，消失进漆黑的风雪，这时，车站四周呈现南方静谧的夏夜。雨后一轮清白的月亮，四处虫鸣唧啾，微醺的夜风吹人魂魄，L看见，他的恋人站在小小的月台上向他招手，形单影只。“是你吗？”“是我呀。”魂魄飘离肉体，飘散开，昏昏眩眩又聚拢成诗人L，在芭蕉叶下走，跟随着恋人婷婷的背影。 月光亘古不衰地照耀的，就是她。 芭蕉叶上，透黑晶亮的水滴沿着齐齐楚楚的叶脉滚动。恋人的裙裾飘飘摆摆，动而无声，便在梦里L也觉得若虚若幻。恋人走进南方那座宅院，站下来，观望良久。木结构的老屋高挑飞檐，门开着，窗也开着。恋人走上台阶，步履轻捷，走过回廊，走过廊柱的道道黑影，走进老屋的幽暗。在幽暗的这儿和那儿，都亮起烛光。 is it you? 恋人转过身，激动地看着L。 是她：冷漠的纺织物沿着热烈的身体慢慢滑落……点点烛光轻轻跳动，在镜子里扩大，照亮她的容颜，照亮她的裸体，照亮她的丰盈、光洁和动荡…… 盼望已久，若寻千年。诗人满怀感激，知道是命运之神怜恤了他的思念，使她回来，使她允诺。但是，看着她，诗人千年的渴望竟似无法诉说。 性命悠关的语言丢在了“荒原”。 L颤抖着跪倒，手足无措，唯苦苦地看她。任何动作都已司空见惯，任何方式都似在往日的性乱中耗去精华，任何放浪都已平庸，再难找到一种销魂荡魄、卓而不群的语言能够单单给予她了。 写作之夜，我理解诗人的困苦：独特的心愿，必要依靠独特的表达。 （写作之夜，为了给爱的语言找到性的词汇，或者是为了使性的激动回到爱的家园，我常处于同诗人L一样的困境。比如“行房”或“房事”，古板腐朽得如同两具僵尸；“性行为”和“性生活”呢，又庸常无奇得尽失激情。怎样描写恋人的身体呢？“臀部”？简直一无生气；“屁股”？又失虔敬。用什么声音去呼唤男人和女人那天赋的花朵呢？想尽了人间已有的词汇，不是过分冷漠，就是流于猥狎，“花朵”二字总又嫌雕琢，总又像躲闪。“做爱”原是个好词儿，曾经是，但又已经用滥。） 诗人由衷地发现：上帝留给爱情的语言，已被性乱埋没，都在性乱中耗散了。 赤裸，和放浪，都让他想起“荒原”。想起在简陋或豪华的房间里，在肮脏或干净的床上，两匹喘息着的随遇而欢的动物，一个个逃离着心魂的姿势，一次一次无劳牵挂的喊叫。他看着久别的恋人，不知孰真孰假，觉得她的裸体也似空空洞洞一幅临时的幻景。他要走近她，又觉得自己没有姓名，没有历史，是一个任意的别人，而过去的L已经丢在了“荒原”未来的L已经预支给了“荒原”。他和她只是：过去和未来之间多余出来的现在，冷漠的人山人海里一次偶然的碰撞，随后仍要在人山人海里隐没，或许在时空里平行，但永不相遇，互相并不存在。 镜子里，烛光照亮着诗人沉垂的花朵。L在梦中无能地成为C。 恋人走来，在镜子里在烛光中，搂住他，像是搂住一个受伤的孩子。“没关系，这没关系，”她轻声说。她温存地偎依在他肩上，吻他，炽热的手抚遍他的全身，触动那沉垂的花朵。但是像C一样，触摸竟不能让他开放。 “不要紧，”她说。 他焦急地看她。 “真的，这没什么。” 他推开她，要她走开。 她走开，从烛光中慢慢走进幽暗，远远地坐下。 时钟嘀嘀哒哒，步履依旧。夜行列车远远的长鸣，依然如旧。拉紧的窗帘外面，世界想必一如既往。 诗人的花朵还是沉睡。那花朵必要找到一种语言才能开放。一种独特的语言，仅止属于爱情的语言，才能使逃离的心魂重归肉体。 找回这语言，在C要靠凝望，在L，要靠诉说。 这可怜的肉体已经空乏，唯有让诉说着的心魂回来。 你一定要听我说出我的一切历史，我才能回来。你要听我告诉你，我是一个真诚的恋人又是一个好色之徒，我才能回到我的肉体。你要听我说，我美丽的梦想和我罪恶的欲望，我的花朵才能开放。哪怕在我的长诗之外，听我的长诗，我才能走出“荒原”。这是招魂的唯一咒语呀，你在听吗？ "I am listening." 但诗人L犹豫着。他不敢说。只怕一说，南方的夏夜就会消散，风雪中小小的月台上，又会是空无一人。 186 如果他在梦里终于说了，L便从梦中惊醒，发觉他依然浪迹荒原。 鹿群远远地行进在地平线上，浩浩荡荡，涉过尚未封冻的长河回南方去。每一只鹿都紧追着大队，不敢离群。掉队者将死在北方。 它们只有对死的恐惧，害怕的唯有孤单、衰老，衰老而至掉队的危险。没有别的忧虑。它们没有孤独，那儿没有心魂对心魂的伤害、阻隔、防范，也没有依恋和思念，没有爱情。性欲和爱情在它们是一回事。其实没有爱情。性欲是与生俱来的一种性质，繁衍所必要的倾向。它们活着和繁衍着，自古至今从南方到北方，从北方到南方。就像河水，就像季风，就像寒暑的变动。随遇而安，没有梦想，无需问爱情是