Humanistic Jiangnan Keywords

Author: Liu Shilin
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2004-10-01
Features: "Where is Xizhou? Across the bridge by the two oars." The desire to create a book about Jiangnan has lingered for quite some time. Every time I climb Qingliang Mountain, stand by Zixia Lake, or gaze at the splendid brocade of Meihuashan, or listen to the bustling market sounds of Qinhuai River, this longing becomes even more irresistible. Not to mention watching the boatwomen's graceful waist movements creating ripples across the lake in Yangzhou's Slender West Lake, or hearing the artist's soft voice recite "The moon falls, crows cry, frost covers the sky" in Suzhou's Wanshi Garden, or imagining the "souls etched on the Three-Life Stone" scattered like clouds and mist by the Duan Bridge in Hangzhou. This is a land that easily evokes leisurely sentiments, even a touch of desolation. A dilapidated courtyard might once have been the home of the wealthy Wang or Xie clans during the times of prosperity, and a seemingly insignificant tomb on the mountain could be the resting place of a blood that once shook the world. Among all the poetic details of living in Jiangnan, the feeling of returning home is undoubtedly the most unbearable. Especially on moonlit nights or stormy evenings, stepping into an unfamiliar water town is bound to evoke the life-changing experience of "Leaving home in youth, returning in old age." Under the temptation of such emotions and scenery, a traveler might easily fall into a beautiful illusion, unable to discern which self—this one currently experiencing the world or the one who was once preoccupied with worldly troubles—is more real, whose voice and appearance are more tender and gentle.
However, after all, green mountains cannot hide flowing waters. Just as Jiangnan beauties are inevitably bound by the fate of "Red cheeks fade with the spring's end," this poetic Jiangnan, with its blossoms and fruits, seems to be a sorrowful contract signed in a past life. For those who pass through in the same era, the intertwined emotions are not easily resolved with a poet's "I want to speak but must hold back." On one hand, there is the old moon that "comes over the women's walls in the deep night"; on the other, there is the person watching the moon by the river who "passes the Changle Gate again, and all is no longer as before." On one hand, the cries of selling osmanthus flowers and the clanging of osmanthus wine jars remain the same; on the other, the longqan, Hengtang, and Nanpu of youth are long gone. On one hand, the drizzle in the yellow-rain season and the frog drums by green grass ponds still arrive as promised; on the other, the people who once picked lotuses, washed silk, and farmed by day and read by night have long vanished. On one hand, the fish paste, perch, water chestnuts, and water caltrop in the four seasons remain vivid in memory; on the other, after sunset, there is no more raspy storytelling by Cai Zhonglang, no more lonely boats in the stormy dusk, no more singing girls and ladies like Xiaohong and Xiaoniang, no more vibrant colors of spring fields or painted candles in autumn courtyards, and no more of all the living, tangible, colorful, and fragrant things that once flourished across Jiangnan. If their existence cannot rise to eternity, then what else is worth preserving for the world?
For all things that exist in this world, Su Dongpo's Preface to the Red Cliff Ode says it best: "If one views things from the perspective of constant change, then heaven and earth cannot even last for a moment. If one views them from the perspective of unchanging essence, then both things and I are endless." And for the past things that have lost their material forms, their existence and clarity can only be sustained through language and sound. To construct a living classical humanistic Jiangnan with a modern Chinese discourse is the highest ideal and practical force that encourages us to plan and implement the "Jiangnan Discourse." Just as (Tasogare Kiyoshi) would cry out in despair while sketching nature, wandering through the beautiful Jiangnan landscape, we too always hear a sorrowful plea: "Show me quickly." And sometimes, this gentle plea becomes as stern as an absolute command, which is precisely why we must abandon many other tasks and prioritize this endeavor.
I remember Hegel once said that ancient Greece was "the spiritual homeland of all Europeans," and the beautiful Jiangnan can undoubtedly be considered the spiritual homeland of the Chinese nation. Although this moist world, now more often seen as a historical and nostalgic object, has been largely relegated to the past, the speaker themselves are living, breathing beings, and thus their narratives carry a modern humanistic significance that is rare in other discourse spaces. Let Jiangnan remain as she is, let her transcend time and space through discourse, and become an eternal spiritual homeland for the Chinese people. This is the goal and persistent humanistic ideal that Jiangnan Discourse aspires to achieve.