Jiangnan Dictionary

Author: Zou Hanming
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2007-01-01
Features: If Jiangnan is seen as a poem, it would surely be supported by first-class poets such as Du Fu, Bai Juyi, Zhang Ruoxu, Du Mu, Liu Yong, and Su Dongpo. Similarly, in the works of secondary poets like Zhang Ji and Han Shan, Jiangnan remains still 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 emotions, a full moon will immediately appear before us. Jiangnan shines with special radiance precisely because of the moonlight. It lifts itself out of the mire, becoming a spiritual cultural symbol with a polished and vibrant body. Starting from one noun after another, the lyrical poem of Jiangnan gradually becomes rich. Like all poetry, its beautiful lines give us a direction: from the Yangtze River, following the warm and moist soil, southward into an endless expanse, to the point where I cannot imagine where its last line might end. Fortunately, the concrete lines here are no longer important. Jiangnan, with infinite patience, has presented us with precious pages from the depths of time—preserving the dizzying fragrance of flowers, the songs of birds, the rhythms of seasons, the speed of light, and the whispers of the departed; preserving the lotus leaves in clear water, the dewdrops on them, and the dragonflies that suddenly pause and then take flight; she undeniably preserves the verdigris on doorframes, the moss on the backs of flagstones, the dignity of one-eyed stone lions, and the tenacious resilience of the simple people—pounding stone like water. This may be the deepest page of Jiangnan, on which I have completely omitted the bustling Jiangnan, the Jiangnan full of shouts. 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. In its core, close to 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 polishes the moon, I uncompromisingly oppose another—also a word that needs to be adjective-based Jiangnan—in this collection of essays that holds its breath. I believe that, merely as a rhetorical device, that abstract Jiangnan exists elsewhere, not in the falling leaf, the drop of rain, or the speck of mold before me.