Chapter 9 9. The Altar of Earth and Me

I have mentioned an abandoned ancient garden in several novels, which is actually the Earth Altar. Many years ago, before the tourism industry developed, the garden was as desolate and desolate as a wild land, and was rarely remembered by people. The Temple of Earth is very close to my house.In other words, my home is very close to the Temple of Earth.In short, I had to think it was fate.The Temple of Earth was located there more than 400 years before I was born, and since my grandmother brought my father to Beijing when she was young, she has been living not far from it—moving several times in more than 50 years. The second home, but it is always around it when you move around, and the more you evacuate it, the closer it is.I often feel that there is a taste of fate in this: it seems that this ancient garden is waiting for me, and has been waiting there for more than 400 years through vicissitudes.

It waited for me to be born, and then waited for me to live to the most arrogant age and suddenly cripple my legs.For more than 400 years, it has eroded the exaggerated glass on the eaves of the ancient temple, faded the flamboyant vermilion on the door wall, collapsed sections of high walls and scattered jade railings, and the old cypress trees around the altar are getting paler. It is secluded, and the weeds and vines everywhere are luxuriant and open. It must be time for me to come.One afternoon fifteen years ago, I rolled my wheelchair into the garden, which had prepared everything for a lost soul.At that time, the sun was getting bigger and redder along the eternal path.In the quiet light that fills the garden, it is easier for a person to see the time and see his own shadow.

Since I accidentally entered the garden that afternoon, I haven't left it for a long time. I immediately understood its purpose.As I said in a novel: "In a densely populated city, there is such a quiet place, like God's painstaking arrangement." In the first few years after my two legs were disabled, I couldn't find a job, I couldn't find a way to go, and suddenly I couldn't find almost anything. I just rolled my wheelchair and always went to it, just because there was an escape Another world of the world.I wrote in that novel: "I have nowhere to go, so I spend all day in this garden. Just like going to and from work, I roll my wheelchair here when others go to work. The garden is unattended, and during commuting hours Some people who took a short cut passed through the garden, and the garden was lively for a while, and then it fell silent."

"The garden wall cuts obliquely in the golden air—it is shaded, I drive the wheelchair in, put the back of the chair down, sit or lie down, read a book or think about something, stick a branch and slap it left and right to drive away those Just like me, I don’t understand why the little insects come to this world.” “The bee stopped steadily in mid-air like a mist; The worm got impatient with crawling, tired of praying, spread its wings, and flickered into the sky; a cicada sloughed on the tree trunk, lonely as an empty house; dew rolled on the grass blades, gathered, and bent the grass Ye crashed to the ground and threw away thousands of golden lights."

"The whole garden is full of noises made by the competing growth of plants and trees, and the fragments are endless." These are all true records. The garden is barren but not decaying. Except for a few halls, I can't go in, except for the altar, I can't go up but can only look at it from all angles. I have been under every tree in the Altar of Earth, and almost every meter of grass on it has my wheels. print.No matter what season, what weather, what time, I have stayed in this garden.Sometimes I stay for a while and then go home, sometimes I stay until the whole ground is covered with moonlight.I can't remember which corners of it are in it.For hours on end I was absorbed in thinking about death, and with the same patience and style I was thinking about why I was born.After thinking like this for several years, things finally became clear: when a person is born, this is no longer a question that can be debated, but just a fact that God gave him; when God gave us this fact, , has already guaranteed its result by the way, so death is something that does not need to be rushed, and death is a festival that will inevitably come.After thinking about it this way, I feel more at ease, and everything in front of me is no longer so scary.For example, when you get up early and stay up late preparing for an exam, and suddenly it occurs to you that a long vacation is waiting for you, don’t you feel a little more relaxed?And rejoice and appreciate such an arrangement?

The rest is the question of how to live, but this is not something that can be completely figured out in a certain moment, and it is not something that can be solved at one time. I am afraid that you will have to think about it for as long as you live. Devil or lovers.So, after fifteen years, I still have to go to the ancient garden, under its old trees or by the weeds or beside the decaying walls, to sit silently, to think, to push aside the noisy and chaotic thoughts in my ears. Thoughts, to peep into your own soul. In the past fifteen years, the shape of this ancient garden has been sculpted wantonly by people who can't understand it. Fortunately, there are some things that no one can change it.For example, the setting sun in the stone gate of the altar, when the silent brilliance lays flat, every roughness on the ground is reflected brilliantly; for example, at the most lonely time in the garden, a group of swifts come out to sing, calling the world into desolation; For example, the footprints of children on the snow in winter always make people guess who they are, where they did something, and where they all went; for example, those pale ancient cypresses, they stand there calmly when you are depressed When you are happy, they still stand there calmly, they stand there day and night from the time you were not born until you are gone in this world; The scorching and pure smell of grass, trees and soil reminds people of countless summer events; for example, the sudden arrival of autumn wind, and then - an early frost, fallen leaves or swaying and dancing or sleeping peacefully, spreading the sound of ironing and waking up in the garden. Slightly bitter taste.The taste is the most inexplicable.You can't write about the taste, you can only smell it, and you can only understand it if you smell it yourself.The smell is even difficult to remember, and you can only remember its full emotion and meaning only if you smell it again.So I often go to that garden.

Only now did I realize what kind of trouble I had caused my mother when I always went to the altar of the earth alone. She is not the kind of mother who only loves her son but does not understand him.She knew the depression in my heart, knew that I should not be prevented from going out for a walk, and that it would be worse if I stayed at home all the time, but she also worried about what I was thinking all day in that lonely garden.At that time, my temper was extremely bad, and I would often leave home like a madman, and come back from the garden and say nothing as if possessed by a demon.Mother knew that some things should not be asked, so she hesitated to ask, but finally dared not ask, because she didn't have the answer in her heart.She expected that I would not want her to restrict me to go with her, so she never asked for it. She knew that I had to be alone for a while, and there had to be such a process.She just doesn't know how long this process will take, and what is the end of this process.Every time I was about to leave, she silently helped me prepare, helped me get on the wheelchair, and watched me rock the car and turn out of the small courtyard; what would happen to her after that, I never thought about it back then.

Once I rocked the car out of the small courtyard; I remembered something and turned back, and saw my mother still standing there, still in the same posture as when she saw me away, looking at the corner of the wall where I turned out of the small courtyard. When I came back, there was no response for a while.When she sent me out again, she said: "Go out for activities, go to the Temple of Earth to read books, I said it's good." Many years later, I gradually heard that my mother's words were actually self-consolation, secretly Prayer is a reminder to me, a pleading and an exhortation.It was only after her sudden death that I had time to imagine.During those long hours when I was not at home, how she was restless, restless, with pain and panic and the minimum prayer of a mother.Now I can affirm that, with her wisdom and perseverance, in the nights after those empty days, the days after those sleepless nights, she must have thought it over and said to herself at last: "Anyway, I can't let him Go out, the future is his own, and if something happens to him in that garden, I have to bear the suffering.” During those days—it was a period of several years, I I think I must have prepared my mother for the worst, but she never said to me: "You think about me".In fact, I really didn't think about her.At that time, her son was still too young to think about his mother. He was stunned by fate and thought that he was the unluckiest one in the world. He didn't know that the son's misfortune would always be doubled by his mother.She has a son who suddenly became paraplegic when he was twenty years old. This is her only son; she would rather be paraplegic than her son, but this cannot be replaced; she thinks that as long as her son can live, even if she dies It's okay, but she is sure that a person can't just live, and her son has to find a way to his own happiness; and this way, no one can guarantee that her son will finally find it. ——Such a mother is destined to be the most miserable mother.

Once chatting with a writer friend, I asked him what was his initial motivation for learning to write?He thought for a while and said, "For my mother. To make her proud." I was shocked and speechless for a long time.Looking back on my original motivation for writing a novel, although it was not as simple as this friend’s, I also had the same desire as him, and after thinking about it, I found that this desire also accounted for a large proportion of the total motivation.The friend said: "Is my motive too vulgar?" I just shook my head, thinking that vulgarity does not necessarily mean vulgarity, I am afraid that this desire is too naive.He also said: "At that time, I really wanted to be famous, to make others envy my mother." I think he was more frank than me.I think he is happier than me because his mother is still alive.And I think his mother is luckier than mine. His mother doesn't have a son with disabled legs, otherwise things wouldn't be so simple.

When my first novel was published, in the days when my first novel won an award, I wished so much that my mother was still alive.I couldn't stay at home anymore, and went to the altar of the earth all day long, with endless depression and sorrow in my heart, and I walked all over the garden but couldn't figure it out: Why can't my mother live for two more years? ?Why was she suddenly unable to bear it when her son was about to collide and open a way?Could it be that she came to this world just to worry about her son, but shouldn't share my little happiness?She was only forty-nine when she hurried away from me!For a while, I was even filled with hatred and loathing for the world and for God.Later I wrote in an article entitled "Acacia Tree": "I sat in the quiet woods in a small park, closed my eyes, and thought, why did God call my mother back early? For a long, long time, I went back in a daze. I heard the answer: "She was suffering so much, and God saw that she couldn't stand it anymore, so he called her back. 'I seemed to have a little comfort, opened my eyes, and saw the wind passing through the woods. "The small park also refers to the Earth Altar.

It was only at this time that the various past events appeared clearly in front of my eyes, and the suffering and greatness of my mother penetrated deeply in my heart.God's consideration may be right. Walking slowly in the garden in a wheelchair, it was a foggy morning, and it was a scorching day, and I only thought about one thing: my mother was gone.Stopping beside the old cypress tree, on the grass and beside the decaying wall, it was the afternoon when insects were singing everywhere, and it was the evening when the birds returned to their nests, and I only muttered one sentence in my heart: But my mother is no longer here.Put the back of the chair down, lie down, sleep like half asleep until the sun goes down, sit up, in a trance, sit blankly until the ancient altar is covered with darkness, and then the moonlight gradually rises, and then I understand in my heart that my mother can't Come find me in this garden again. There have been many times when I stayed in this garden for too long, and my mother came to see me.She came to look for me and didn't want me to find out, as long as she saw that I was still in this garden, she would quietly Quietly turned back, I saw her back several times.I have also seen her looking around a few times. She has poor eyesight and looks like she is looking for a boat on the sea with her glasses on. I have already seen her when she didn’t see me, and I won’t go when I see her and see me. Looking at her, after a while I looked up at her again and saw her slowly leaving back.I just can't know how many times she didn't find me.Once I sat in the bushes, the bushes were very dense, and I saw that she didn't find me; she walked in the garden alone, walked by my side, and walked by some places where I often stayed, her steps were vague and urgent.I don't know how long she has been looking for, and I don't know why I decided not to call her - but this is definitely not a child's hide-and-seek, maybe it is out of the stubbornness or shyness of grown-up boys?But this stubbornness is only left to me to insult, and I have no pride at all.I really want to warn all grown-up boys not to be stubborn with their mothers, not to mention shyness, I already understand but it’s too late. The son's desire to make his mother proud is so real after all that even the notorious idea of ​​"wanting to be famous" changes the image somewhat.This is a complicated question, let's leave it alone.As the excitement of winning the novel dimmed day by day, I began to believe that at least one thing I was thinking wrong: the path I opened up by colliding paper and pen in newspapers and magazines was not the path my mother expected me to find.I come to this garden every year and every month, and every year and every month I have to think about what is the road that my mother expects me to find. My mother didn't leave me any meaningful words of wisdom or teachings that I should abide by. It's just that after her death, her difficult fate, persevering will and unassuming love flowed with time, and my impressions remained in my mind. become more vivid and profound. One year, the October wind turned the peaceful fallen leaves again. I was reading in the garden, and heard two old people walking saying: "I didn't expect this garden to be so big." Finding her son in it, how many anxious roads the mother has traveled.For the first time in many years, I realized that not only my ruts have been everywhere in this garden, but also my mother's footprints have been in every place where my ruts have been. If the time of day corresponds to the four seasons, of course spring is morning, summer is noon, autumn is dusk, and winter is night.If musical instruments are used to correspond to the four seasons, I think spring should be trumpet, summer is timpani, autumn is cello, and winter is French horn and flute.What if the sounds in this garden were used to correspond to the four seasons?Then, spring is the whistling of pigeons floating above the altar, summer is the long song of cicadas and poplar leaves making fun of them, autumn is the ringing of wind chimes on the eaves of ancient temples, and winter is the random and empty woodpeckers. Voice.The scenery in the garden corresponds to the four seasons. Spring is a path that is sometimes pale and sometimes dark, and the sky is sometimes bright and sometimes dark with clusters of flowers swinging; Moss-covered stone steps, there are fruit peels under the steps, and half a crumpled newspaper on the steps; autumn is a big bronze bell, and there was a big bronze bell abandoned in the northwest corner of the garden. The bronze bell is the same as this Yuanzi is about the same age, covered with green rust, and the writing is no longer clear; in winter, it is a few old sparrows with fluffy feathers in the open space in the forest.Corresponding to the four seasons with the mood?Spring is the season of sickness, otherwise people will not easily find the cruelty and longing of spring; in summer, lovers should lose love in this season, otherwise they seem to be sorry for love; autumn is when you buy a potted flower from outside and go home, put the flower in Far away from the home, and open the windows to let the sunshine into the house, slowly recalling and sorting out some moldy things; in winter, accompanied by the stove and books, one; letter.Art forms can also be used to correspond to the four seasons, so that spring is a painting, summer is a novel, autumn is a short song or poem, and winter is a group of sculptures.What about dreams?How about using dreams to correspond to the four seasons?Spring is the cry on the top of the tree, summer is the drizzle in the cry, autumn is the land in the drizzle, and winter is a lonely pipe on the clean land. Because of this garden, I am always grateful for my destiny. I can see clearly even now how I will miss it, how I will miss it and dream of it, how I will not dream because I dare not think of it, if one day I have to leave it for a long time it. Now let me think about it, who are the people who have persisted in coming to this garden for fifteen years?It seems that only me and a couple of old people are left. Fifteen years ago, the old couple could only be regarded as a middle-aged couple, while I was really a young man.They always come for a walk in the garden at dusk. I don't quite know which gate they come in from. Generally speaking, they walk around the garden counterclockwise.The man was tall, with broad shoulders and long legs. When he walked, he did not look sideways, and his neck was straight from the hips up to the neck. His wife walked on one arm, but his upper body could not relax a little. The woman is short and not beautiful, and I believe for no reason that she must be from a wealthy family whose family is in decline; Talk to her husband in a soft voice, and when she sees someone approaching, she immediately stops talking timidly.I sometimes think of Jean Valjean and Cosette because of them, but this idea is not solid, and they are old and married.The clothes of both of them can be regarded as elegant, but due to the evolution of the times, their costumes can be called simple again.Like me, they come to this garden almost in all weathers, but they are more punctual than me.I may come any time, but they must be at the dawn of twilight.They wear beige windbreakers when the wind blows, and black umbrellas when it rains. In summer, their shirts are white and their trousers are black or beige. In winter, their woolen coats are all black. Presumably they only like These three colors.They walked around the garden counterclockwise and then left. When they passed by me, there was only the sound of men's footsteps, and the woman seemed to be sticking to her tall husband and drifting along.I'm sure they must have an impression of me, but we haven't talked In other words, neither of us expressed any desire to get close to each other.In fifteen years, they may have noticed that a young man has entered middle age, and I watched an enviable middle-aged couple become two old people unconsciously. There was once a young man who loved singing. He also came to this garden every day to sing. He sang for many years and then disappeared.His age is about the same as mine. He usually comes in the morning and sings for half an hour or the whole morning. He probably has to go to work during other times.We often met on the path east of the altar, and I knew he was singing at the high wall in the southeast corner, and he must have guessed what I was doing in the woods in the northeast corner.I found my place, took a few puffs of cigarettes, and then I heard him carefully adjust his voice.He sang those few songs over and over again.When the Cultural Revolution was not over, he sang "White clouds float in the blue sky, and horses run under the clouds..." I still can't remember the name of this song.After the Cultural Revolution, he sang the most popular aria in "The Shopkeeper and the Lady". "Sell cloth—sell cloth, sell cloth—sell cloth!" I remember the opening sentence he sang very loudly, and in the clear morning air, the shopkeeper ran to every corner of the garden to compliment Miss . "I had good luck, I had good luck, I sang songs for happiness..." Then he sang it over and over again, not letting the salesman's enthusiasm diminish a little.From what I heard, his technique is not very good, and he often makes mistakes in key places, but his voice is not bad, and he can't hear a bit of fatigue after singing all morning.The sun is not tired, shrinking the shadow of the big tree into a ball, drying the careless earthworms on the path, near noon, we meet again on the east side of the altar, he looks at me, I look at him, he goes Going north, I'm going south.As time goes by, I feel that we all have the desire to get acquainted, but we don't seem to know how to speak, so we look at each other and then pass by each other; the more times we do this, the less we know how to speak.Finally one day—a day with no characteristics at all, we nodded to each other.He said: hello. "I said:" Hello. "He said:" Go back? "I said:" Yes, how about you? "He said: 'It's time for me to go back too. "We both slowed down (actually I slowed down the car) and wanted to say a few more words, but still didn't know where to start, so we all walked past each other and turned around to face each other. He said: "Then goodbye." I said: "Okay, goodbye." They smiled at each other and went their separate ways.But we didn’t see each other again. After that, there was no more his singing in the garden. I just thought that maybe he said goodbye to me on purpose that day. Maybe he was admitted to some professional art troupe or song and dance troupe?I really hope he's as lucky as his song says. There are others, I can still think of some who used to come to this garden.There was an old man who was a real drinker; he hung a flat porcelain bottle at his waist, which was of course full of wine, and often came to spend the afternoon in this garden.He is wandering around in the garden. If you don't pay attention, you will think that there are several such old men in the garden. After you have seen his extraordinary drinking situation, you will believe that this is a unique old man.His clothes were too casual, and his walking posture was not prudent. After walking fifty or sixty meters, he chose a place. While unwrapping the wine bottle, I lost my eyes and took a closer look at the scenery within a 180-degree angle of view, then poured a big gulp of wine into my belly with lightning speed, shook the bottle and hung it on my waist , calmly think about something for a while, then walk down a fifty or sixty meters.There was also a man who caught birds. There were few people but many birds in the garden at that time. He drew a net among the bushes in the northwest corner, and when the birds hit it, their feathers got stuck in the net and they couldn't get out.He only waits for a bird that has been very rare in the past and is now very rare. Other birds hit the net and he plucks them and releases them. He said that he has not waited for that rare bird for many years. He said he waited for another year. To see if there was another bird of that kind, he waited for many years.In the morning and evening, a middle-aged female engineer can be seen in this garden; in the morning she walks through the garden from north to south to go to work, and in the evening she walks back home from south to north through the garden.In fact, I don't know her occupation or education, but I thought she must be an intellectual who studied science and engineering. It is difficult for other people to be as simple and elegant as her.When she walked through the garden, the surrounding woods seemed to become more secluded, and there seemed to be a distant piano sound in the light sunlight, for example, the song "For Alice".I have never seen her husband, nor have I seen what that lucky man looks like. I imagined it but couldn't imagine it. Then I suddenly realized that it's better not to be able to imagine it. That man had better not appear.She walked out the north gate to go home. I was a little worried, worried that she would fall into the kitchen, but maybe the scene of her working in the kitchen is more beautiful, of course it can't be "For Alice", what kind of song is it?There is another person, my friend, who is the most talented long-distance runner, but he was buried.He was imprisoned for several years because of his inadvertent remarks during the Cultural Revolution. After he came out, he finally found a job pulling a scooter.At that time, he always came to run in this garden, and I used my watch to time him.Every time he ran a lap and beckoned to me, I recorded a time.Each time he has to run 20 laps around the garden, about 20,000 meters.He hopes to use his long-distance running results to achieve real political liberation, and he thinks that the reporter's camera and words can help him achieve this.In the first year, he ran fifteenth in the Spring Festival around the city. He saw the photos of the top ten hanging in the news window of Chang'an Avenue, so he gained confidence.He ran fourth in the second year, but only the photos of the top three were hung in the news window, so he was not discouraged.In the third year, he ran seventh, and the photos of the top six were hung in the window. He blamed himself a little.In the fourth year, he ran for third place, but only the photo of the first place was hung in the window.In the fifth year, he ran for the first place - he was almost desperate, and there was only a picture of a crowd around the city in the window.In those years, the two of us often stayed together in this garden until dark, scolding bitterly, and went home in silence after scolding, and told each other when we parted: don't die first, and try to live again.Now he doesn't run anymore, he is too old to run so fast.The last time he participated in the Tournament around the city, he won the first place again at the age of 38 and broke the record. A coach of a professional team said to him: "I wish I had discovered you ten years ago." He smiled wryly. He didn't say anything for a while, only came to find me in the garden again in the evening, and told me about the matter calmly.Haven't seen him for several years and now lives far away with his wife and son. These people have all come to the garden now, and the garden has almost completely changed to a new group of people.The old couple from fifteen years ago, now only me and that old couple are left.For a while, none of the old couple came suddenly, and only the man came for a walk in the evening, and his gait was obviously much slower. I was worried for a long time, afraid that something happened to the woman.Fortunately, after one winter, the woman came again, and the two of them still circled the garden counterclockwise. The two figures, one long and one short, were like the hands of a clock. Walk like a child. The word "climb" is not used properly, maybe you can use "把", I wonder if there is a word with both meanings. Nor did I forget a child—a pretty, unfortunate little girl.On that afternoon fifteen years ago, I saw her the first time I came to this garden. At that time, she was about three years old, squatting on the path west of the Zhai Palace to pick up "little lanterns" that fell from the trees.There are a few big pear trees there, which bloom clusters of small and dense yellow flowers in spring, and when the flowers fall, they will produce countless small lanterns like three leaves hugging each other. The small lanterns are green at first, then turn white, then turn yellow, and mature It fell all over the place.The small lanterns are so exquisite that people cherish them, and adults can't help but pick up one after another.The little girl was babbling and talking to herself while picking up a small lantern; her voice was very good, not as shrill as she usually was at her age, but very round or even thick, perhaps because of the afternoon garden It's too quiet here.I wonder why such a small child came to this garden alone?I asked where did she live?She pointed casually and called her brother, and a seven or eight-year-old boy stood up among the tall grass along the base of the wall, looked at me, saw that I didn't look like a bad person, and said to his sister: "I'm here. What?" He leaned down again, what kind of insect was he catching.He caught mantises, grasshoppers, cicadas and dragonflies to please his sister.For two or three years, I often saw them under those big pear trees. The brother and sister always played together, playing harmoniously, and gradually growing up.I didn't see them for many years after that.I think they are all in school, and the little girl has reached the age of going to school, so she must say goodbye to her childhood and don't have many opportunities to come here to play.This is normal, and there is no reason to take it too seriously. If I hadn't seen them in the garden one year, I would have gradually forgotten them. It was Sunday morning.It was a sunny and heartbreaking morning. After many years, I discovered that the beautiful little girl turned out to be a mentally handicapped child.I shook the car and went down to those big eucalyptus trees, and it happened to be the season when the ground was full of small lanterns; at that time, I was suffering from the ending of a novel. I didn't want it to have such an ending, so I ran out of the house, trying to rely on the calmness of the garden to see if I should give up that novel.As soon as I stopped the car, I saw a few people playing with a girl not far ahead, making strange appearances to scare her, chasing her and intercepting her, shouting and laughing, the girl was running around in panic between several big trees Hidden, but did not let go of the skirt wrapped in his arms, and he seemed unaware that his legs were exposed. I can see that the girl's intelligence is somewhat flawed, but I haven't seen who she is.I was about to drive forward to rescue the girl, when I saw a young man riding a bicycle fast in the distance, so those guys who played with the girl ran away.The young man put his bicycle next to the girl, glared angrily at the fleeing guys, and panted without saying a word.His face became paler and paler like the sky before the rainstorm.At this time I recognized them, the young man and the young girl were the little brothers and sisters back then.I almost screamed in my heart, or wailed.Worldly events often make God's intentions suspicious.The boy walked up to his sister.The girl let go of her hand, and the skirt of the skirt fell down, and many, many small lanterns she had picked up scattered all over the floor, spreading under her feet.She was still pretty, but her eyes were dull and dull.She stared blankly at the group of running guys, at the emptiness beyond her eyes, it was absolutely impossible for her to figure out the world with her intellect, right?Under the big tree, the broken sunlight is dotted, and the wind blows the small lanterns everywhere, as if countless small bells are ringing dully.The elder brother helped the younger sister onto the back seat of the bicycle, and took her home silently. Wordless is right.If God gave this little girl both beauty and mental retardation, only speechlessness and going home are right. Who can figure this world out?Many things in the world are unspeakable.You can complain about why God has sent so much suffering to this world, and you can also strive to eliminate all kinds of suffering, and enjoy the nobility and pride for it, but as long as you think about it one more step, you will fall into deep confusion: If there is no suffering in the world, can the world still exist?What glory is there in wit, if not dullness?If there is no ugliness, how can beauty maintain one's luck?If there is no badness and baseness, how will kindness and nobility define themselves and how can they become virtues?If there were no disability, would the healthy become boring and dull because of its commonplace?I often dream of completely eradicating disability in the world, but I can believe that at that time, the sick will replace the disabled to bear the same suffering.If all diseases can be eradicated, then the suffering will again be borne by (for example) ugly people.Even if we can eliminate ugliness, ignorance, meanness, and all things and behaviors we don't like, and all people are equally healthy, beautiful, intelligent, and noble, what will happen?I am afraid that the repertoire of the world will come to an end. A world that loses its differences will be a stagnant water, a desert without feeling and fertility. It seems that there will always be a difference.Suffering, it seems, has to be accepted—the repertoire of humanity requires it, existence itself requires it.Looks like God was right again. So there is a most desperate conclusion waiting here: who will play the role of those suffering?And who will embody the happiness, pride and joy in this world?There is no reason to just leave it to chance. As far as fate is concerned, there is no justice. Where, then, is the path of redemption from all unfortunate destinies? If wisdom and understanding can lead us to the way of salvation, is it possible for all people to acquire such wisdom and understanding? I used to think that ugly women made beautiful people.I often thought it was the fool who brought up the wise.I often think that cowards make heroes.I often think that it is sentient beings who saved the Buddha. If there is a garden god, he must have noticed that I have been sitting in this garden for so many years, sometimes I am relaxed and happy, sometimes depressed, sometimes leisurely, sometimes lonely, Sometimes calm and confident, sometimes weak and confused.In fact, there are only three questions in total to harass me and accompany me alternately.The first one is whether to die or not?The second is why live?Third, why should I write? Now let me see how they have been woven together so far. You said that you saw through that death is something you don’t need to worry about, something you won’t miss no matter how much you delay, so you decided to live and try?Yes, at least this is a very critical factor.Why live and try?It seems that it is just because of reluctance, the opportunity is rare, "If you don't try it, you don't try it, the leg is over anyway, everything seems to be over, but the god of death is very trustworthy, and there will be no additional loss if you try it."Maybe there are additional benefits, isn't it?As I said, I am much more relaxed and free now.Why write?Everyone knows that writers are two words that are valued by people.In order for the wheelchair-bound person hiding in the depths of the garden to have a bit of brilliance in the eyes of others one day, and to have a place in the eyes of everyone, even if he dies at that time, it is more or less justified.这样想，这不用保密，这些现在不用保密了。 我带着本子和笔，到园中找一个最不为人打扰的角落，偷偷地写。那个爱唱歌的小伙子在不远的地方一直唱。要是有人走过来，我就把本子合上把笔叼在嘴里。我怕写不成反落得尴尬。我很要面子。可是你写成了，而且发表了。人家说我写的还不坏，他们甚至说：真没想到你写得这么好。我心说你们没想到的事还多着呢。我确实有整整一宿高兴得没合眼。我很想让那个唱歌的小伙子知道，因为他的歌也毕竟是唱得不错。我告诉我的长跑家朋友的时候，那个中年女工程师正优雅地在园中穿行；长跑家很激动，他说好吧，我玩命跑。你玩命写。这一来你中了魔了，整天都在想哪一件事可以写，哪一个人可以让你写成小说。是中了魔了，我走到哪儿想到哪儿，在人山人海里只寻找小说，要是有一种小说试剂就好了，见人就滴两滴看他是不是一篇小说，要是有一种小说显影液就好了，把它泼满全世界看看都是哪儿有小说，中了魔了，那时我完全是为了写作活着。结果你又发表了几篇，并且出了一点小名，可这时你越来越感到恐慌。我忽然觉得自己活得像个人质，刚刚有点像个人了却又过了头，像个人质，被一个什么阴谋抓了来当人质，不走哪天被处决，不定哪天就完蛋。你担心要不了多久你就会文思枯竭，那样你就又完了。凭什么我总能写出小说来呢？凭什么那些适合作小说的生活素材就总能送到一个截瘫者跟前来呢？人家满世界跑都有枯竭的危险，而我坐在这园子里凭什么可以一篇接一篇地写呢？你又想到死了。我想见好就收吧。当一名人质实在是太累了太紧张了，太朝不保夕了。我为写作而活下来，要是写作到底不是我应该干的事，我想我再活下去是不是太冒傻气了？你这么想着你却还在绞尽脑汁地想写。我好歹又拧出点水来，从一条快要晒干的毛巾上。恐慌日甚一日，随时可能完蛋的感觉比完蛋本身可怕多了，所谓不怕贼偷就怕贼惦记，我想人不如死了好，不如不出生的好，不如压根儿没有这个世界的好。可你并没有去死。我又想到那是一件不必着急的事。可是不必着急的事并不证明是一件必要拖延的事呀？你总是决定活下来，这说明什么？是的，我还是想活。人为什么活着？因为人想活着，说到底是这么回事，人真正的名字叫作：欲望。可我不怕死，有时候我真的不怕死。有时候，——说对了。不怕死和想去死是两回事，有时候不怕死的人是有的，一生下来就不怕死的人是没有的。我有时候倒是伯活。可是怕活不等于不想活呀？可我为什么还想活呢？因为你还想得到点什么、你觉得你还是可以得到点什么的，比如说爱情，比如说，价值之类，人真正的名字叫欲望。这不对吗？我不该得到点什么吗？没说不该。可我为什么活得恐慌，就像个人质？后来你明白了，你明白你错了，活着不是为了写作，而写作是为了活着。你明白了这一点是在一个挺滑稽的时刻。那天你又说你不如死了好，你的一个朋友劝你：你不能死，你还得写呢，还有好多好作品等着你去写呢。这时候你忽然明白了，你说：只是因为我活着，我才不得不写作。或者说只是因为你还想活下去，你才不得不写作。是的，这样说过之后 我竟然不那么恐慌了。就像你看穿了死之后所得的那份轻松？一个人质报复一场阴谋的最有效的办法是把自己杀死。我看出我得先把我杀死在市场上，那样我就不用参加抢购题材的风潮了。你还写吗？还写。你真的不得不写吗？人都忍不住要为生存找一些牢靠的理由。你不担心你会枯竭了？我不知道，不过我想，活着的问题在死前是完不了的。 这下好了，您不再恐谎了不再是个人质了，您自由了。算了吧你，我怎么可能自由呢？别忘了人真正的名字是：欲望。所以您得知道，消灭恐慌的最有效的办法就是消灭欲望。可是我还知道，消灭人性的最有效的办法也是消灭欲望。那么，是消灭欲望同时也消灭恐慌呢？还是保留欲望同时也保留人生？ 我在这园子里坐着，我听见园神告诉我，每一个有激情的演员都难免是一个人质。每一个懂得欣赏的观众都巧妙地粉碎了一场阴谋。每一个乏味的演员都是因为他老以为这戏剧与自己无关。 每一个倒霉的观众都是因为他总是坐得离舞台太近了。 我在这园子里坐着，园神成年累月地对我说：孩子，这不是别的，这是你的罪孽和福扯。 要是有些事我没说，地坛，你别以为是我忘了，我什么也没忘，但是有些事只适合收藏。不能说，也不能想，却又不能忘。它们不能变成语言，它们无法变成语言，一旦变成语言就不再是它们了。它们是一片朦胧的温馨与寂寥，是一片成熟的希望与绝望，它们的领地只有两处：心与坟墓。比如说邮票，有些是用于寄信的，有些仅仅是为了收藏。 如今我摇着车在这园子里慢慢走，常常有一种感觉，觉得我一个人跑出来已经玩得太久了。有—天我整理我的旧像册，一张十几年前我在这圈子里照的照片—一那个年轻人坐在轮椅上，背后是一棵老柏树，再远处就是那座古祭坛。我便到园子里去找那棵树。我按着照片上的背景找很快就找到了它，按着照片上它枝干的形状找，肯定那就是它。但是它已经死了，而且在它身上缠绕着一条碗口粗的藤萝。有一天我在这园子碰见一个老太太，她说：“哟，你还在这儿哪？”她问我：“你母亲还好吗？” “您是谁？”“你不记得我，我可记得你。有一回你母亲来这儿找你，她问我您看没看见一个摇轮椅的孩子？……”我忽然觉得，我一个人跑到这世界上来真是玩得太久了。有一天夜晚，我独自坐在祭坛边的路灯下看书，忽然从那漆黑的祭坛里传出—阵阵唢呐声；四周都是参天古树，方形祭坛占地几百平米空旷坦荡独对苍天，我看不见那个吹唢呐的人，唯唢呐声在星光寥寥的夜空里低吟高唱，时而悲怆时而欢快，时面缠绵时而苍凉，或许这几个词都不足以形容它，我清清醒醒地听出它响在过去，响在现在，响在未来，回旋飘转亘古不散。 必有一天，我会听见喊我回去。 那时您可以想象—个孩子，他玩累了可他还没玩够呢。心里好些新奇的念头甚至等不及到明天。也可以想象是一个老人，无可质疑地走向他的安息地，走得任劳任怨。还可以想象一对热恋中的情人，互相一次次说“我一刻也不想离开你”，又互相一次次说“时间已经不早了”，时间不早了可我—刻也不想离开你，一刻也不想离开你可时间毕竟是不早了。 我说不好我想不想回去。我说不好是想还是不想，还是无所谓。我说不好我是像那个孩子，还是像那个老人，还是像一个热恋中的情人。很可能是这样：我同时是他们三个。我来的时候是个孩子，他有那么多孩子气的念头所以才哭着喊着闹着要来，他一来一见到这个世界便立刻成了不要命的情人，而对一个情人来说，不管多么漫长的时光也是稍纵即逝，那时他便明白，每一步每一步，其实一步步都是走在回去的路上。当牵牛花初开的时节，葬礼的号角就已吹响。 但是太阳，他每时每刻都是夕阳也都是旭日。当他熄灭着走下山去收尽苍凉残照之际，正是他在另一面燃烧着爬上山巅布散烈烈朝辉之时。那一天，我也将沉静着走下山去，扶着我的拐杖。 有一天，在某一处山洼里，势必会跑上来一个欢蹦的孩子，抱着他的玩具。 当然，那不是我。 但是，那不是我吗？ 宇宙以其不息的欲望将一个歌舞炼为永恒。这欲望有怎样一个人间的姓名，大可忽略不计。