Jiangnan Dictionary

Author: Zou Hanming
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2007-01-01
Features: If Jiangnan is seen as a poem, it would undoubtedly gain the support of first-class poets such as Du Fu, Bai Juyi, Zhang Ruoxu, Du Mu, Liu Yong, and Su Dongpo. Similarly, in the works of minor poets like Zhang Ji and Han Shan, Jiangnan remains within reach. I believe Jiangnan was invented by these poets using specific language. This tangible Jiangnan is largely composed of the following words: pagodas, apricot blossoms, spring rain, full moon, willows, old bridges, temples, stone-paved alleys, wooden lattice windows, and of course, the indispensable emerald water. This is a noun-based Jiangnan, one that could be a feast of words. These words have become Jiangnan's hands, arms, waist, calves, and even its brain—in other words, Jiangnan is first and foremost alive—a fresh-faced maiden without makeup. Naturally, we would not forget that this maiden has a pair of particularly bright eyes, a pair of eyes with a clear name—moonlight. Even if our bodies are no longer in Jiangnan, when we are in a foreign land and casually utter this word filled with tender affection, a full moon will immediately appear before us. Jiangnan shines with special radiance precisely because of the moonlight. It lifts itself from the mire, becoming a spiritual cultural symbol. Starting from one noun after another, the lyrical poem of Jiangnan gradually becomes richer. Like all poetry, its beautiful lines give us a direction: from the Yangtze River, following the warm and moist soil, southward into a vast space, so much so that I cannot imagine where its last line might end. Fortunately, as specific lines of poetry are no longer important here, Jiangnan patiently presents the precious pages from the depths of time—preserving the dizzying fragrance of flowers, the chirping of birds, the seasons, the speed of light, and the whispers of the departed; preserving the lotus leaves in clear water, the dewdrops on them, and a dragonfly that suddenly pauses and then takes flight; she undeniably preserves the verdigris on doorframes, the moss on the backs of flagstones, the dignity of a one-eyed stone lion, and the tenacious resilience of the simple people. This may be the deepest page of Jiangnan, on which I have completely omitted the bustling Jiangnan, the Jiangnan filled with loud calls. In such an old Jiangnan, a sacred snow covers the chaotic earth, making everything black and white. Jiangnan then enters a single word, a noun that rings with the sound of an apple. At the core of its life, I believe I have replaced prose with poetry, uniform flagstones with simple concrete, and real water with imagined water. This noun-based Jiangnan is incredibly solid in my heart. Thus, as a singer who wipes the moon, I uncompromisingly oppose another—also a word that needs caution—adjective-based Jiangnan in this collection of restrained prose. I believe that, as mere rhetoric, that abstract Jiangnan exists elsewhere, not in the falling leaf, the drop of rain, or the speck of mold before me.