Claws, howls, and fluttering

Author: Xuan Wu
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: I want to say that mysterious imagery exerts a temptation on writers, and the origins of mysterious imagery and writing. Writers yearn to simulate the primordial state of life, to preserve their traces in words. They still call upon the inspiration of writers, becoming the subject of writing. I want to say something here, I open my mouth, and still feel difficult. We have known many writers whose greatness is related to animals. Zhuangzi wrote about the giant Kun and the flying butterfly, Li He wrote about lean horses; Pu Songling wrote about foxes, and the Bible mentions the evil snake. Kafka wrote about insects, and he became an insect; Maeterlinck wrote about the Blue Bird, which flew away and disappeared in his hands. There is also Melville's White Whale, Faulkner's bear, Borges's tiger, Jack London's wolf, Fabre's insects, Edgar Allan Poe's raven and cat, Stevens's black bird, and Andersen's mermaid. Examples are innumerable, even the blind Homer once sang of mermaids in the sea, and he even thought that the wonderful singing of mermaids was far superior to his own lyre. The two great classics of Chinese literature, Dream of the Red Chamber and Journey to the West, respectively depict the stories of two magical stones. I am not trying to imitate their greatness, for greatness cannot be imitated. I want to say that mysterious imagery exerts a temptation on writers, and the origins of mysterious imagery and writing. Writers yearn to simulate the primordial state of life, to preserve their traces in words. They call upon the inspiration of writers, becoming the subject of writing. I want to say that I love those wild, free lives so much that in extreme weariness, even in weariness of writing, I long for them—those distant flying birds, solitary beasts. In the sleepless hours of the night and in dreams, they bring me solace; in many hazy moments, I retreat, retreat to a beast, lonely, quiet, curling in the dark, licking its own wounds. Perhaps for this reason, I wrote this small book about animals. It is not popular science, nor is it a story. The imagination in it may be somewhat mad, and the views may be biased or even contemptuous. There is a little hatred, a little inexplicable malice, a little indifference and rejection; the original idea was to distance oneself to observe human life. The style of the book may go against people's reading habits, full of illusions, constantly jumping, speculation, description, narration, the development of imagery, the confusion between humans and beasts, part of the book is also integrated into mythology, writing about the origin of things, the intertwining of the lives of animals and humans. It is not a bestseller, lacking the gimmicks and all the reasons for being a bestseller; it is certainly not a perfect book, or rather, it is still far from perfect, but the author has invested a certain amount of time, energy, and heart. Of course, this is not a reason for the flaws in the work. His next book may be slightly closer to perfection. He will not flatter his readers by saying: "I hope you will like it." But he will be grateful for the readers' serious reading. If their hearts gradually calm down and they gain something from his words, he will be very happy.