Lyrical Interpretation of Jiangnan Culture (Includes CD)

Author: Liu Shilin (Editor)
Publisher:
Publish Date: March 1, 2005
Features: "Where is Xizhou? Crossing the bridge by 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 grows even stronger. Not to mention watching the boat girls' graceful 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 noble Wang or Xie families, while a small, unassuming tomb on the mountain could be the resting place of a life-changing tragedy. Among all the poetic details of living in Jiangnan, the feeling of returning home is perhaps the most unbearable. Especially on moonlit nights or stormy evenings, stepping into an unfamiliar water town is bound to stir the sense of life's vicissitudes—like "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 in the mortal world or the one that once toiled in the red dust—is more real, whose voice and smile are more tender and gentle. Yet, after all, green mountains cannot hide flowing water. Just as Jiangnan beauties are inevitably bound by the fate of "red cheeks fading 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 fleeting passersby who witness this era, the intertwined emotions cannot be resolved with a poet's "I long to speak but hold back." On one hand, there is the old moon of "passing the women's walls at midnight"; on the other, the moon-watching person by the river who laments, "Crossing the Changle Gate again, all is no more." On one hand, the street calls of osmanthus flowers and the clanging of osmanthus wine pots remain the same; on the other, the longqan, Hengtang, and Nanpu of youth are long gone. On one hand, the drizzle of yellow melon 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 bamboo shoots, perch, water chestnuts, and lotus roots of spring and autumn still linger in memory; on the other, after sunset, there is no more of the hoarse storytelling of Cai Zhonglang by night, nor the old courtyards in fine weather, nor the lonely boats in stormy dusk, nor the singing of the young Xiao and Xiao, nor the hues of spring fields, nor the candlelight in autumn courtyards, nor all the vibrant sights, sounds, colors, and scents that once flourished in 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 physical 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 (Taschdjian Kiyoshi) would cry out in nature, "Quick, show me!" as he sketched, walking through the beautiful Jiangnan landscape, we too hear a sorrowful plea to "show me." And sometimes, this gentle plea becomes a harsh command, urging us to abandon many other tasks and prioritize this one. I remember Hegel once called ancient Greece the "spiritual homeland of all Europeans," and the beautiful Jiangnan is undoubtedly the spiritual homeland of the Chinese nation. Although this moist world, now under the spotlight of history and nostalgia, has largely been relegated to the realm of the past, the speaker themselves are living, breathing beings, and thus their narratives carry a modern humanistic significance rarely seen in other discourse spaces. Let Jiangnan remain itself, let Jiangnan transcend time and space through discourse, and become an eternal spiritual homeland for the Chinese people. This is the goal and unwavering humanistic ideal that Jiangnan Discourse strives to achieve.