Chapter 20 crazy piano

A letter from "Selected Novellas" informed me that Fujian Haixia Publishing House has included my work in the publishing plan of "New Era Novella Masterpieces Series".In addition to asking for "a four-inch personal half-length photo on glossy paper", I also asked for several "photographs representing my life resume and literary activities".Taking this opportunity, I dedicate one of my most precious photos.This photo is what readers saw of my young mother holding me when I was only a few months old.The location is the ancestral house in Nanjing.The ancestral house is located on Hubei Road, behind the former Ministry of Foreign Affairs of the Nationalist Government. It is a large garden named "Meixi Villa". It is said that my grandfather won it by playing mahjong with the famous "braid handsome" Zhang Xun.In the spring of 1984, I went to Nanjing to participate in the award ceremony for winning the National Excellent Novella Award. I went to see this novel with Guowen, Jicai, and Youmei, accompanied by my hosts Shi Yan and Zhang Xian. ancestral home.After returning to the motherland in 32 years, the ancestral house has disappeared, and it has become a large-scale factory.The memory of the past is still there, and the scenery in front of me is completely different.Even the memory is inaccurate. In the original impression, it was always a saponin tree that was thick enough to hug, but now it seems that it is only the diameter of a bucket.

I often look at me at only a few months and wonder how this silly baby has turned into such a sullen and moody middle-aged person that even I hate.Looking at this picture, I would drift out of myself, as if I were neither this baby nor me now, but someone else.Who is it?I can't figure it out either, I think that person should be better than me now.But after making this confession, I didn't become noble. In reality, I was still a person I hated even myself. My mother, who held me, passed away in January 1967.She was frightened to death by the "Red Guards".At that time, I was describing the "Ghost Gate" labor reform in "Love in the Dungeon": the captain in charge of me intercepted the telegram sent by my aunt, and said with a straight face: "This landlady died well!" Now the captain has been transferred back to the prison. A county in Inner Mongolia, his hometown, is still in charge of some cadres, probably still in charge of some people.

My mother's smile is forever frozen in this photo. Looking through what I have written: novels, novellas, short stories, essays, screenplays and so-called reviews, I often feel that these words are not written by me, but by someone else.I can't write.I haven't grown up since this photo was taken.I have no body.I feel no pain physically.I'm just a mass of unintelligible, jumbled, wordless, fleeting fantasies, imaginings, impressions, feelings . . . and all I feel are my feelings.I am a mad piano.Someday, this piano will fall apart with its own frenzied tremors.And so the sound vanished, leaving no trace in the air.

Just write it here.I'm listening to Richard Clement right now: "Don't cry for me, Argentina!" 1986.8.15.