Cicadas - A Collection of Xu Zhimo

Author: Xu Zhimo / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: The day before the leaves fall, Mr. Qia called and asked me to give a speech. I said, but I don’t have much to say, and I’m also unpatient with giving speeches. He said: Come, speak as you wish, speak freely. You can say whatever you like. You know, this time the school has been very difficult, and our students’ lives are very dull and stifling. We want you to give us some life-saving water. This moved me. Dull, stifling—I understand. Although I’m not familiar with you all, this fact—that you feel life is dull and stifling—has immediately created a deep and sincere sympathy between you and me in an invisible bond. I know how frustrating is an amorphous, unreasonable monster. When he comes, our whole body feels as if it’s covered in a large spider web. It’s easy to free one arm, but the other gets stuck again. It’s a terrifying web. I also know how life can be dull, with its annoying face. I think you all know it very well too. It’s everywhere, clinging to every person, appearing on every face. Look at your friends, their faces show it. Look in the mirror, I think your faces also show it. Terrifying dullness is like a poison. Once it enters our blood, our temperament, our skin changes color. And I’m afraid it’s far from life, close to the grave. I am a person who believes in emotions. Perhaps I was born with a passionate nature. For example, a few days ago, the west wind arrived. When I woke up that morning, I was frozen. I noticed the color of the paper window was lighter than usual. My limbs in the quilt felt as if they were immersed in cold water. I heard the wind outside the window, blowing the dry leaves on a jujube tree, one after another falling down, swirling on the ground with a rustling sound. Some flew out to the courtyard, while others stayed at the corner of the wall, twirling. That sound was truly like sighing. I then thought of this west wind, which had chilled my dream and scattered the leaves from the tree. Its effect in a society of hunger and poverty must be even more tragic. When I went out that day, I indeed saw that the streets looked different from usual. The poor old and young were all huddled in the corners of the streets, shivering. They were inevitably destined to meet the fate of the dry leaves on the tree. That day, I felt particularly stifled, almost worried. Therefore, when I heard Mr. Qia say how stifling and dry your lives are, I understood deeply and was willing to speak to you.
My thoughts, if I have any—never follow a systematic order. I don’t have that kind of talent. The activity of my mind is impulsive, almost spasm-like. When thoughts don’t come, I can’t force them to. When they do come, it’s like wearing a wet shirt, extremely uncomfortable, and I can only find a way to take it off. I have a metaphor. Just now, I mentioned the dry leaves in the autumn wind. I can compare my thoughts to the leaves on a tree. If the time isn’t right, they won’t fall much. But when the time comes, with the force of the wind, they can only fall one by one. Most of them may already be lifeless, withered, or scorched, but perhaps a few still retain a bit of autumn color, like maple leaves that are red or hawthorn leaves that are multicolored. These leaves are practically useless. But some people, like myself, have a fondness for falling leaves. When they first fall, their colors are very bright, but over time, the colors change, unless you preserve them well. So my words, that is to say, my thoughts, are like falling leaves—useless at most, sometimes with a few traces of life’s color. If you don’t like them, you can step over them freely and pay no attention. But perhaps a few lucky ones, not blaming their uselessness, might pick them up, tuck them in their pockets, or press them between books, wanting to preserve their faint, subtle colors.
P92-93