The Story of a Writer

Author: Li Shangfei
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-01-01
Features: Despair Makes You So Beautiful
Tengwang Pavilion stands alone, with a panoramic view where distant mountains and near waters are all within sight. Behind it are ten thousand households, with houses scattered in a jumble, varying in height and layout. Ahead, it begins with newly reclaimed land, where construction is just underway, and people gather like ants. Right in the middle is the famous Ganjiang River. In summer, though the water is not particularly high, the current is strong, with waves rushing forward, and the river is wide, also a spectacular sight. The setting sun hangs in the western sky, unwilling to share its light with the indifferent blue sky, nor to care for the occasional wisps of cirrus clouds that drift by. It pours all its might into the river, dyeing the flowing water red, and the reflections, carrying moisture, envelop the visitors. To be favored by such a sight after a thousand miles of searching for dreams, a unique sentiment stirs within the chest. This pavilion has already withstood many wars, fires, and restorations. Its original appearance has long been buried in the dust of history, unable to be seen again. The current magnificence can only serve as a consolation, a refuge, a way to provide an account to the past and future. Its grandeur and majesty cannot replace the bricks and tiles, the grass and trees of over a thousand years ago. Everything has become fleeting clouds and smoke; the only thing that remains unchanged is this land, no matter how it is painted, its essence remains. Only the sky above remains, no matter the mood of clouds and rain, lightning and thunder, it turns to a clean blue again in the blink of an eye.
Imagine those days, it must have been a clear autumn evening, with the water as clear as glass and the wind rustling. A young scholar, with flowing sleeves and composed demeanor, arrives gracefully among the astonished guests, enters the hall, and with a gesture, his literature astounds everyone. Then, he departs gracefully. How leisurely and elegant that was, how refined and tranquil. It must have been dusk then, with the sunset behind the mountains and the water shimmering. A wild goose cries, carrying the setting sun, flying lightly and dreamily toward the vast Chu sky. He follows the trace of the bird across the sky, heading toward the distant Jiaozhi. There, his father, longing for him, has already been held back by his son's recklessness. In this wild and barbaric land, where people eat raw meat and drink blood, they do not know the ways of the king, let alone adornment. His father has long forgotten why he came here. In his heart, he only sees his son's overflowing talent, his clear and sharp bones, his bold brows, and his full forehead. His father has planned what to talk about, what to show him, what to have him write. The land preserves great sites, and it needs his words to add some charm. His son is sitting on the boat now, this young man from Shanxi who has heard the ceaseless roar of the Yellow River day and night, seen the boundless loess spread out, yet has never seen the sea before. What would he write? The ocean stretches endlessly, yet lacks the joy of life, remaining lonely in greatness; the sky extends to the sea, yet lacks the cries that echo across Pengli, as if that sorrow alone could dispel the vast emptiness. He loves this vastness, yet prefers the relative narrowness; he loves the bustle, yet prefers the quiet after the noise; he loves reunion, yet prefers the melancholy of parting. The scenes that have appeared in his writing—leaves in the mountains, farewells at the long pavilion, the distant passing of light, the endless flowing of water—all surge into his mind at that moment. What would he realize? Perhaps that the grandeur and beauty of life lie in movement, or perhaps that the rhythm of nature lies in the intersection of life and death.