Color Version 60 Great Works You Should Read in Your Lifetime

Author: Tagore, Zhu Ziqing
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: Although I have heard the rage of the wind during typhoons, until today, I still dare not be certain whether the wind itself creates the sound, or if it is the things it moves that make the noise—shushing as it blows through wires, rustling as it passes through treetops, and whistling as it traverses forests. Is it the wind that makes the sound, or the objects it brushes against? However, no matter what, the wind is the harbinger of all celestial melodies, urging the greenery and also the autumn red. Flowers bloom in the wind, are fertilized by it, and wither in it; dense leaves also sprout and fall in the wind. If one listens closely, indeed, one can hear the whispers of the wind through the four seasons, and even the sound of tiny cherry blossom petals falling—because they carry ample moisture, often sticking together as they descend, and thus, although all are petals, due to the different numbers and weights of those that fall each time, they produce different sounds. Of course, the most varied wind sounds occur in late autumn. Every leaf tells an extraordinary story, just as it has experienced the passage of time. The higher they are, the earlier they turn red in the cold wind and the sooner they bid farewell to the branches. The leaves of oak trees turn dark red because they have lost their water supply and thus change color, so when they wither, they resemble thick paper sheets, sighing softly in the wind due to vibrations, and rolling loudly on the ground. As for maple and leaves, which are full of moisture but must still wither, they are comparatively silent, especially on days of autumn wind and rain. Their soft leaves can press against the glass, becoming a translucent scene in backlighting. However, when they fall on the lawn, they often stick firmly, covering the sunlight and causing the grass below to die early. There is also the lacquer tree with red leaves, which has compound leaves—each long stem hangs with twenty or thirty small leaves, so they always dangle and tangle as they fall, creating a different composite sound. Unfortunately, there are no banana plants in the courtyard, so I cannot be lulled to sleep by the sound of their leaves rubbing like oars in the wind. Fortunately, the gourd vines by the window, after their leaves turn yellow and white due to moisture loss, with a velvety surface and entangled vines, sway and rub, producing the most beautiful music. That is an orchestra made with thin leaves as resonators and tendrils as strings. If it encounters the sound of cold rain—drop by drop, mournfully, drop by drop, mournfully—it only deepens the sorrow of parting and carries me to the Jiangnan of the Song Dynasty.