Life has feelings

Author: Ai Zhiping / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2002-04-01
Features: I remember when I first entered Peking University, Professor Hu Cuishen introduced me to visit Mr. Yu Pingbo. It was in a certain part of Dongcheng, with a simple black lacquered doorframe adorned with a bronze plaque reading "Deqing Yu's Residence." At that time, I was a young man of less than twenty, and I bought a thin volume of stone-printed long poems titled "Yao Ye Gui Si Yin" from the Peking University Red Building's reception desk, reading it with great eagerness. Mr. Yu Pingbo highly valued integrity. After the "July 7th Incident," he could not move south due to family obligations but remained unafraid of the threats and inducements of the enemy and puppet forces. He shut himself off from the world, sought solace in simplicity, and faced poverty and hardship. Despite his close relationship with Zhou Zuoren as teacher and student, he never came to Peking University to teach during the occupation. This long poem, using metaphor and allusion, genuinely expressed his deep concern for the nation's affairs. At that time, Mr. Zhu Ziqing, from the rear areas, sent a poem saying, "With aging parents by his side, he stands firm like tough grass facing the north wind," filled with sincere emotion and deep care. Due to my special fondness for poetry and my respect for Mr. Yu's moral character and scholarship, I inevitably attended all his required courses—such as "Poetry Selection," "Ci Selection"—and elective courses like "Du's Poetry" and "Zhenguan Ci"—without fail, regardless of weather. Mr. Yu often wore a dark-colored long gown, always revealing the casual pants underneath, and wore lightweight, open-toe cloth shoes. Though only in his late forties or early fifties, his hair had already turned slightly gray. He was simple and unpretentious, not skilled in speech, lacking the cadence of a skilled orator, yet possessed a certain charisma. When he spoke movingly, he sometimes sang a few lines of ci poetry in class, drawing the students into the beauty of the words. Those who listened attentively found it deeply satisfying, leaving much to savor, and the classroom was often packed. He rarely explained the literal meaning of the texts, even when he did, he always used similar or contrasting sentences for comparison, pointing out the strengths and weaknesses of allusions and language usage. What left the deepest impression on me was his meticulous interpretation of the poem "Shao Nian You" from "Zhenguan Ci," particularly the lines "Bing dao ru shui, Wu yan sheng xue." I had already known from annotations that the first line came from Du Fu's poem "Yan de bingzhou kuai jian dao, Jian qu Wu song ban jiang shui," and the second line from Li Bai's "Wu yan ru hua jiao bai xue." Regarding the origin of this line from poetry, Mr. Yu explained from the perspective of refining and "simplifying" to achieve "clarity" and "purity," highlighting the brilliance of ci poetry using four-character phrases instead of seven-character poems, though derived from the "blue," it was "better than the blue." When Mr. Yu discussed ci poetry, he focused on guiding students into the artistic realm. In "Zhenguan Ci," the stanza "Feng Lai Zhao" begins with "Dou xiao kan jiao mian, Xiao chuang shen nong ming wei bian," seemingly simple and unadorned, but Mr. Yu presented it in a way that made it come alive, as if walking along a mountain path, revealing a world of extraordinary beauty and emotion, too vast to take in all at once. Sometimes, the full meaning was not grasped in class, but after reviewing it afterward, it felt like the "sweet aftertaste" of eating an olive, as Liang Qichao once described. In short, he never stopped at explaining words and phrases but led students into the realm crafted by the ci poets, sharing their joys and sorrows, feeling deeply connected to their emotions, and immersing themselves in the artistic world they created. After I turned fifty, I began to specialize in the study of poetry and ci, though not a direct disciple of Mr. Yu, just one of his "students under the plum tree," his ideals, spirit, attitude, and methods of scholarship deeply influenced me, benefiting me greatly throughout my life. What I cannot forget is Professor You Guo'en's course on the History of Chinese Literature. At that time, Professor You was in his prime, with slightly thinning hair and a lean face, yet full of vitality. His heavy Jiangxi accent was loud and commanding, captivating the entire classroom. He placed several cards on the podium, his lecture outlines, and when quoting classical poetry and prose, he recited them flawlessly; the few words he wrote on the blackboard were never incorrect. Under his influence and guidance, by the time I graduated, my mind was filled with hundreds of poems and ci pieces. Later, as a journalist, I transformed these into articles with some literary flair, and the root of this must lie here. I had read a vast amount of poetry and ci, but at the time, I understood only a little, sometimes even swallowing it whole. But as I grew older, gained more life experience, and advanced in my studies, I gradually came to understand more. The Italian aesthetician Croce said, "To understand Dante, we must elevate ourselves to Dante's level." Before reaching that level, however, we cannot let setbacks hinder us. Mr. Fei Ming (Feng Wenbing), who had a strong interest in Buddhism, taught us the study of Tao Yuanming. He was an unassuming, elderly man, with a low voice and a slightly hoarse, awkward manner of speaking. He had extensive knowledge, and often, his discussions about topics other than Tao Yuanming were even more engaging. In Zhou Zuoren's article "Remembering Fei Ming," he wrote that in the mid-1920s, when Fei Ming was a lecturer in the Department of Chinese at Peking University, "somehow, he suddenly sent his wife and children back home and lived alone in the Lama Temple of Yonghe Palace." Eleven or twelve years later, in 1947, a classmate said he spent every day at home meditating in the lotus position. Like the protagonist of his novel "The Legend of Mr. Must-Exist," he was a man of unconventional speech and behavior, detached from the world. In addition, Professor Sun Jiqi's courses on fiction and drama, and Professor Wang Liri's course on pre-Qin literature, were known for their research-based approach. At that time, the teachers in Peking University's Department of Chinese Literature were indeed renowned scholars, celebrated both at home and abroad. I remember that the common textbooks at the time only included a few courses for first-year students—such as English and Chinese. Compared to the later standardized textbooks or self-edited materials with their structured chapters, A-B-C formats, and teachers' lectures that were often "reading from the script" or "chanting like a monk," the teaching style at that time was indeed very different. It is fair to say that the teachers then shared their own research insights, forming their own unique perspectives, and their lectures were deeply personal, far from the cliché of "copying from all over the place" and selling it to students. I think this can be called the teaching personality of Peking University at that time. One night in Guangzhou, we stayed at a hotel on Changdi, and slept soundly and comfortably. The next day, the leaders held a meeting and said that we could go out for a walk. However, they repeatedly reminded us to "strictly abide by the 'Three Great Disciplines and Eight Points of Attention.'" Someone said that the victory of the Chinese revolution was inseparable from strict discipline, and that was true. After I joined the army, the next time I sang was this song. At that time, our weekly "lives" involved each person's self-criticism, which always included these items, becoming an indispensable part of "criticism and self-criticism." That day, we first bought a map of Guangzhou. Before coming here, we had heard about some places of interest. "Following the map to seek the treasure," we first went to Yuexiu Mountain. What was particularly novel to me as I entered the city was that many trees on both sides of the streets were blooming with vibrant red flowers. Although I had read in books long ago, "In late spring, March, the grass grows in Jiangnan, and flowers bloom among the trees, with swallows flying in chaos," it was indeed late spring! Now, the season was already past "Frost's Descent," with "Winter's Establishment" approaching, and Yuexiu Mountain was lush with trees, flowers in full bloom, and evergreen leaves—. We climbed to the five-story pavilion, where white clouds floated in the sky, the space vast and open, with the Pearl River in view, hazy and ethereal. At this moment, I thought of a few lines from the "Flowers and Rimes Collection": "Tying up the hair in a cloud bun, with an antler comb behind, the crimson robe reflects the green skirt. The warm spring breeze of the Yue King's Terrace fills the shore with flowers. Every time I go sightseeing, I invite neighboring girls as companions. When we meet, the evening sky is clear. Under the red flowers of the Yue Terrace, we meet. In secret, I turn back and cast my affection, leaving a pair of green jade hairpins. Riding an elephant, I cross the water before others." I clearly remember that Hu Lianpu's annotated edition of the "Flowers and Rimes Collection" states: "The Yue King's Terrace is on Yuexiu Mountain in Guangdong today, built by the Southern Yue King Zhao Tuo of the Han Dynasty. It is named after this." It was clear that this place was culturally rich, and during the Tang and Five Dynasties, young men and women were not bound by "not gazing at what is improper" or "not exchanging gifts" ("leaving a pair of green jade hairpins"). But what about that water? Many years later, I learned that the Pearl River once extended as far as this point, and at that time, it was a vast water country. Not only on Yuexiu Mountain, but the entire city of Guangzhou, as well as the vast regions within Guangdong province, left me, a visitor from over five thousand miles away, with beautiful and novel impressions. However, the social scene in Guangzhou at that time was also something I had not seen in the many cities I had visited in the past three months—such as Tianjin, Jinan, Kaifeng, Zhengzhou, and Wuhan—where gambling tables were often set up on both sides of the streets, with loud shouts and crowds gathering, a common sight. Along Changdi, fortune-tellers and diviners sat in a row, one after another, with shop signs displaying various Bagua images. At night, brothel boats lined Changdi, with heavily made-up prostitutes waiting on the shore to attract customers. The Nationalists' leftover spies and political bandits were also the worst in the country. The sores and tumors of the old society were spreading their stench everywhere. However, we were full of confidence. Guangzhou was a city with revolutionary traditions. During the years of Japanese aggression and the Nationalists' rule, the people of Guangdong formed guerrilla units in the Dongjiang, Beijiang, and Pearl River regions, fighting bravely; when the army entered Guangzhou, they were even more alert and perceptive. Therefore, just as the rest of the country, Guangzhou would also surely "replace the old face with a new one." Spending more than half a month in Guangzhou this time made my confidence stronger and stronger, especially on November 13th, when the "Guangzhou Entry Ceremony of the People's Liberation Army" was held. Nine and a half months earlier, on January 31st, I had attended the "People's Liberation Army's Beiping Entry Ceremony" as a Peking University student, standing in an orderly line on the main street. This time was different. I wore a new green military uniform, a green military cap with the characters "August First" embroidered on it, and tied my legs with gaiters, standing on the trestle board beside the decorated propaganda boat, walking at the forefront of thousands of fully armed soldiers of the People's Liberation Army, marching majestically from the northwest outskirts of Guangzhou, through San Yuan Li (now Liberation North Road), into the city slowly. The streets were lined with people on the second, third, and fourth floors of the buildings. The sound of drums, firecrackers, cheers, and slogans filled every corner. Colorful paper scraps fell, coming and going, covering us, our green military caps, and even our eyes. No matter how you described the scene, it would not be enough. A few days later, I wrote a dispatch titled "A Sea of Joy," which was published in the "Southern Daily" on September 16th. From Beiping to Kaifeng, I had written a travelogue article, which was published in the "Henan Daily." And as a reporter with the "Xinhua Fourth Field Army General News Agency," I witnessed this great event with my own eyes and recorded it truthfully. I was truly honored to be part of it. After staying in Guangzhou for another ten days or so, a more dazzling life began. Two years and two months later, in June 1957, after surviving the disaster, I returned to the news industry. Soon, the 30th anniversary of the August First Army Day was approaching. In these years, Chiang Kai-shek had been shouting about "counterattacking the mainland," and the coastal defense had become turbulent. In July, the newspaper sent me to the southeastern coastal region for an interview. I chose Shantou and Nan'ao, where the Fourth Field Army was stationed. This was my first time in Shantou, and I really liked this coastal city, feeling that it was different from other parts of Guangdong in every way. Although the living conditions were poor, the young people were neat and tidy in their attire, paying attention to grooming, and the atmosphere and people were fresh and elegant. Yet, the streets, alleys, doorways, and archways, as well as the street snacks, tea houses, and taverns, gave one the feeling that "ancient customs still remained." Because I wanted to write a dispatch about military-civilian unity, I stayed in the unit responsible for guarding the area. The commander and political commissar were southward cadres, and their conversations were warm and, with much information overheard at the dinner table. Since I transferred out of the army in 1953, this was my third time staying in the army for an interview, and each time, I felt like I was "at home." They did not treat me as an outsider and were as accommodating as possible in my work. This was probably why the newspaper always called me for "important" reports. No matter what news I covered, the cooperation of the other party was very important. A reporter who was not good at interacting with people could not be a good reporter. At that time, there was no such thing as "breaking news" as now. If a piece of news appeared in a certain place, one relied on correspondents, one's own "hard work," and the leaders and masses of that unit. To maintain these multi-faceted relationships, the most important thing was: after disturbing others with your reporting, you could report and reflect it in the newspaper. A reporter needed to have "reputation." The leadership should encourage reporters to gain fame. Only narrow-minded leaders would constantly criticize "the pursuit of fame and profit." If these two could not be had together, then one should give up profit for fame. However, in our country, "famous reporters" were always few. Later, I submitted the special report that should have been published on Army Day to the newspaper, and one night, I came to Nan'ao Island on a military junk. Nan'ao is opposite Kaohsiung across the Taiwan Strait. At that time, the military situation was tense, and the troops were busy with war preparations. In Nan'ao, I stayed for more than two weeks, interviewing heroes of the border defense units and experiencing life on the island in the vast ocean. In my childhood, I lived by the Bohai Sea for more than ten years. In 1950, I crossed the sea to liberate Hainan Island and stayed in Haikou City, Wenchang County, Ya County, and Yuli Port for some time. At that time, the coast of Nan'ao was white with seawater, and the sand was golden yellow. Sometimes it seemed particularly quiet. But when I saw the soldiers practicing day and night, the atmosphere of war immediately reminded me of the training by the sea in Xuwen County on the Leizhou Peninsula before the sea crossing in 1950. People who lived in such an environment all year round would feel full of energy, like they were younger. This was something you could never feel in Guangzhou, which had been liberated for eight years.