Wisdom Notes (Humanistic Cultivation Volume) - Yilin

Author: Xiaoping
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-06-01
Features: Letters from Prison (Czech) Václav
If there is to be such a day again when we hold hands like children, stroll up the riverside slope where the breeze blows and the sun shines, it is almost. If there is to be such a day when I can live in tranquility and comfort, surrounded by book friends, writing everything I have discussed with you, writing everything that has grown in my heart over the past twenty-five years, it is almost. When my books are destroyed, it is as if a part of my life has been taken away. But I will not surrender, I will not yield, and I will not resign myself to letting the other part of my life be completely buried in cell number 267 without leaving a trace. Therefore, in this time stolen from death, I am writing these notes on Czech literature. Never forget that it was the person who sent these notes to you that saved me from dying completely. The pencil and paper I received from him made me feel agitated, like first love, where feelings are more than thoughts, and imagination more than the struggle with words. Without material, without citing references, writing is not easy. Therefore, what I clearly imagine, what is almost tangible, some of which may seem vague or unrealistic to my readers. So, I write these notes first for you to read, my dear, for this assistant and reader, because you understand everything in my heart, and you will, along with Rada and my elderly publisher, make the necessary additions. My heart and mind are full, but I have no books around me. Writing about literature without even a single book to glance at is very difficult.
My fate is generally unique, you know. How I wish to be a bird or a bush, floating clouds or a wanderer, everything that loves the vast space, the sun, the wind. Yet for many years, I have lived like a tree root, underground. A clumsy, yellowing root growing in darkness and decay, but it is these roots that support the life-giving tree above ground. No matter how fierce the storm, it cannot topple this deeply rooted tree. The roots take pride in this, and so do I. I have no regrets, not the slightest. I have done everything I could, and I did it willingly. But light—light is what I love. How I wish to grow upward, to bloom like useful fruit, to ripen. Well, what can be done! The roots we have supported and continue to support will soon sprout new branches and bear new fruit—the workers, writers, literary critics, and historians of the socialist generation. Even if it takes time, they will do a good job of promoting everything I can no longer promote. Then, perhaps my fruit will also draw nourishment and ripen, though there will no longer be snow falling on my mountain.
P8-9