Windsor Cemetery Diary: Spine or cover with flaws

Author: Guangxi Normal University Press
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: Another work by Mu Xin! This time, with nearly eighty-year-old Mu Xin personally editing, his novel collection has removed a section from the original traditional Chinese version of Hunting. The "I" is hidden even deeper, actually more thought-provoking——《American Comedy》《One Car, Eighteen People》《Xia Mingzhu》《Two Little Kids Fighting》《SOS》《The Perfect Girlfriend》《Seven Days of Grain》《Fang Fang NO.4》《Magic Wheel》, each story tries a new perspective, "the one who returns from the other shore," is so familiar with the bitterness of the human world, life has no "retreat," he sees this shore through and through. In 1982, at the age of fifty, Mu Xin left China and settled in New York, USA. After moving abroad, he resolved to focus his main efforts on writing. Since 1984, Mu Xin has published many traditional Chinese versions of essays, poetry collections, and novels, gaining considerable acclaim. Mu Xin himself coined the term "literary unidentified flying object." Mu Xin is also a stylist, his works do not repeat himself, his use of words is very meticulous, and his punctuation is equally so. Until now, I still cling to the experience of watching plays in my childhood. Every time the performance ends, the uniformed stagehands would carry over the ceremonial high-backed chair, originally a prop, with one hand, and with the other, they would toss out a long wooden sign, leaning it on the chair—"See you tomorrow." These actions are nimble and almost elegant; he does not want to watch the play, only waits for the end, to take a bath, drink, gamble, and sleep. I gaze at the sign, as if in a dream and unable to wake up. A young man from a Jiangnan ancient town does not go to the theater every night, especially when he is so young. Besides, in those days, the hometown had no theaters that were open for business all the time. Only when the troupe arrived to set up camp would red and green, glossy posters be posted, causing a stir in the entire town. People would first gather at the pier, watching the large ships filled with huge boxes. The actors were the men and women moving at the bow and stern of the ships, dressed no different from ordinary people, or even more ragged, with dusty faces, without a trace of Yang Guifei or Zhao Zilong. Strangely, the actors would not look toward the shore, no matter how many people were there. They would cook, breastfeed, sit by the rail washing their feet, and rarely laughed among themselves, eating silently. No one on the shore would dare to wave to the actors. If someone did, the attention would shift from the actors to that person on the shore. The greenish river, slowly turning white, flowed past, carrying the bodies of watermelons, rotten grass, and stray dogs. A faint earthy smell drifted over the surface. The blacksmith's hammer in the town was lonely, the sound in the ancient town where people considered watching plays a major event. There were two performances a day, with more martial arts in the daytime and famous actors in the evening. The costumes for private performances were brand new, and the tickets were much more expensive. After buying tickets in advance and hurriedly having dinner at night, everyone would dress up, forgetting to bring a flashlight. The ladies would relieve themselves and check their reflections before leaving, finally heading out with smiling families. The small streets were paved with stone, worn down over the years, making a creaking sound underfoot. The bridges were round-arched and stone-built, easy to climb but slippery to descend. Streetlights had already been replaced with electric ones, casting a dim, yellow light as crowds of spectators gathered toward the theater. "Going to watch the play?" "Yes, to watch the play!" There were no theaters in the ancient town; instead, they used Buddhist temples, vast but dilapidated, "Miyin Temple," desolate and deep, long occupied by foxes, rats, and bats. Suddenly, drums and gongs echoed, lights shone brightly, and stalls selling all kinds of snacks formed a vibrant night market, even if you didn't watch the play, you would linger here. About the play itself—let's talk about it later. After the performance ended, the crowd murmured and pushed their way out of the temple, the younger ones jumping over broken walls and ruins with ease. For a moment, the streets were filled with laughter and movement, as if there was still something to do, yet everyone seemed to be heading in the same direction, but gradually diverged, becoming sparse. A cold wind swept across, the creaking sound of the stone pavement seemed loud in the still night, and the flashlight beams flickered back and forth. Crossing the bridge, the high chimney of a tofu workshop topped with a crescent moon, while below, the river was as dark as a deep pool. The houses along the banks were connected, with a few windows lit up, waiting for the return of those who had come to watch the play. How could anything in front of me compare to what was in the play? It was also hard to tell if the people in front of me were dull or not. Having seen the people in the play, I found the people in front of me truly dull, and "the people in front of me," especially referred to myself, abandoned by the play, despairing of becoming a part of it. My persistent experience of watching plays in my childhood was not just the melancholy after the performance. Since immersing myself in the city, I was bombarded with plays from all over the world. As the curtain fell, I slowly walked through the bustling streets, yet the gloom that began in childhood lingered—"It's better to live in the play," even if the play was entirely tragic. "Split self" and "transformed self" seemed to be a desire of mine, the opposite of "narcissism." Knowing it was not advisable to be an actor, I satisfied my desire for "split self" and "transformed self" by writing novels. A certain editor, after publishing Two Little Kids Fighting, asked for another manuscript and said, "We know you once taught Chinese in a middle school." Another editor, after reading The Perfect Girlfriend, asked in an interview, "I saw that the female sculptor who made silk shirts for you and your former partner is waiting for you. Can you talk about your many 'afflictions'?" A young reader wrote, "From Friends from America, it seems your childhood family was well-off and well-educated. How did you end up failing at everything later?" Fang Fang NO.4 provoked the anger of female readers, one of whom insisted, "Fang Fang is a good girl," so "how could you see her like that"—I had never taught Chinese in a middle school. Nor had I been a petroleum engineer or rekindled a romance with an old female sculptor. The Gospel Hospital existed, but Dr. Meng from the United States was a stranger to me. I took the model for "Fang Fang" from a man, but the original of the musician was a woman; since the situation was reversed, it meant it never really happened—At the time, I did not answer the editor or readers truthfully, fearing they would think I was evading or not being a good friend. If I wanted to be a good friend, I would have to mention three concepts: dreams, life, and art. These three had been overcooked and were greasy, so one could only pick out their fundamental nature—uncontrolled, semi-controlled, fully controlled—I prefer to use the "first-person perspective" to create novels (also applicable to essays and poems), as it allows me to fully control those "I." "The bag is fake, but what's inside the bag is real. When the bag is real, what's inside the bag is fake." (A note) If I explain any further, it might become impolite. Let me continue with the past instead—"In spring, the ancient town saw a surge in the sale of silkworm seeds, leading to grand markets, known as 'Rolling Silkworm Flowers.' The main deity worshipped in the temple fair was called 'Silkworm Flower Empress,' though she was not necessarily Nüwa. The Empress had an only son, the 'Silkworm Flower Prince,' who loved watching plays very much. So, amidst all the hustle and bustle, the most captivating thing was the opportunity for everyone to watch the play. A towering wooden pavilion was set up on the open ground, draped with curtains, with flags and banners hanging. The Silkworm Flower Prince was carried in a small sedan chair to the best spot, making a loud, anxious sound. The crowd was immense. The entire play The Princeling and the Fox was performed, with sunlight shining on the side of the stage. As the hero made his grand entrance, his phoenix crown and phoenix robes, embroidered with dragons and phoenixes, glowed under the warm spring sun, his face as red and white as clay figurines. The strings, drums, and gongs all played their hardest, and at a crucial moment, dark clouds suddenly gathered, rain was about to fall, and a strong wind swept the silks and ribbons on the stage into chaos. The flower actress holding a mother-of-pearl round box trembled as she shook her sleeves. The old actor holding a stick stamped his feet: "Oh, oh, oh!" His voice was full of passion and sorrow. The sky above the entire field was covered in dark clouds, yet the crowd did not disperse, wanting to see what was in the box—whether it was the prince or the fox. This "open-air theater," known as "village theater," often performed in ancestral halls in Zhejiang's upper eight prefectures. If there was a stage by the river, many black-sailed boats would be moored, and after watching the play, people would row away. In the lower three prefectures, offerings to the gods included performances, hoping to attract more spectators. They borrowed long wooden planks from timber merchants and arranged them in a horsehoe shape in front of the stage, with large fields of and spicy yellow rapeseed flowers emitting a strong fragrance. The purple clover spread like a brocade carpet to the riverbank. Yet, the ordinary scenery one saw every day could not compare to the costumes and plots on stage, brilliant,, and thrilling. Even if the prince was always fake, and the fox was always fake, there was always something real in it—My childhood still had remnants of the "folk society," but less than half a century later, I entered the "modern" era, a "modern" era where either commercial or political tyranny reigned. In a one-sided society under universal control, even if one were an actor, one could never truly be free. That's why I chose to write novels (which actually belong to narrative essays), using the "first-person perspective" to comfort my desire for "split self" and "transformed self," and to alleviate my aversion to my natural "self." By this point, the creaking sound of the stone pavement on the small street after the play, the crescent moon on the high chimney of the tofu workshop—these too were placed in the kind of bag mentioned earlier, and no longer a source of complaint.