Self-anatomy
Seo Chi-Mo
I am a man of action; every time my body moves, my mind seems to follow. Many of my poems, no matter how "boring" they may be, come to me while I am traveling. I love movement, I love seeing things move, I love
living people, I love water, I love birds in the air, I love the fields and mountains that pass by outside the car window. Starlight flashes, dewdrops on the grass leaves
trembling, flower beard in the breeze shaking, thunderstorms when the clouds and air changes, the sea in the waves of the surge, are in the touch
I feel excited about the scene. It is the movement, whatever its nature, that is my interest, my inspiration. It is the movement that quickens my
breath and adds to my life.
Recently, however, it has changed greatly. First, my own limbs are not as flexible as they once were; and my heart has likewise felt
the constraints of age or something else. The phenomenon of movement no longer gives me joy or revelation. Earlier I looked at the flickering waves in the sunlight, as if I saw the fairy palace - what absurd and beautiful illusion, not in my mind a flash of
flashing through; now it is different, the sunlight is just sunlight, the flow of waves is just a flow of waves, no matter how brilliant the scenery, no longer illuminated
not to melt! My mind is dull. My thoughts, such as they occasionally are, are only like vines on the rocks, clinging to the dry, rough
rock surface with great difficulty; the color is pale and black, and the gesture is strong.
I myself do not know why this change has come so abruptly, so y.
Originally, I was conscious in front of people that I was a streaming spring, with foaming and glittering; now the spring, as it is
is still there, as if it is called a stone slab that leaves no gap to be subdued. I no longer have the same vigorous interest as before, every time I
want to talk, I feel the weight of the stone, how can not lift, how can not push, and the result can only be self-settled
silence! "You don't have to think about anything anymore, you don't have anything to think about anymore"; "You don't have to open your mouth anymore, you don't have anything
to say anymore,"
I often feel that my dull heart house with such half-mocking and half-condolence of the assiduous advice.
That said, I have not been subjected to anything too violent in thought or experience. I have always been in a good position, and now
If it is different, it is only better. So why this change? Far from it, take for example my state of mind when I went to Europe
years ago: ah! Was I not then a wild deer with first-furrowed antlers? What color didn't thrill my eyes, what scent
didn't excite my sense of smell? I remember when I was writing my travelogue in Italy, my mood was so lively, my interest was so
mellow, all the way to see and hear the heart feel all sorts of things, which do not live vividly in the end of my pen, striving for the full expression of
present! I've been to the south this time, and I've been back and forth. I went to the south this time, round trip also has more than a month's time, this period of eyes to see, ears to hear the heart to feel things
there should be quite a lot. I have not moved before, and why not rejoice in this go and can have the opportunity to feast on the West Lake wind color, Deng Wei's plum
scented - to mention one or two of the most suitable for my appetite. A lot of friends had expected me to collect a little
Jiangnan fun during this idle vacation, and when I returned, I should at least bring back one or two refreshing poems to give my friends
friends who live in the earthy air of Beijing some sobering pastime. But in fact not only did I stare blankly at the dawn for the dusk in Nanzhong, and then close my eyes and fight for the dusk for the dawn, but a bald pen followed me across the sea and back again, just like a stalagmite in a cavern, with no news of any shaking at all; and in the ten days or so since my return to Beijing, no matter how much I was urged by my friends, and no matter how much I was reproached by my conscience, my pen has not been able to move a single bit. I have not been able to get a single drop of ink from the tip of my pen. I have also barely thought about it, barely wanted to write,
but in the end it is still in vain! I am afraid of this sudden dullness of the mind. I'm not sure if it's a good idea, but I'm sure it's a good idea. I wonder to myself.
The current situation may have something to do with it. I arrived in Beijing a few days before the unprecedented bloodshed.
When the May 30th incident happened, I was in the mountains of Italy
Dali, picking jasmine flowers and weaving flower baskets to play, Mount Vernon ① only to see the stars and fireflies of the call, the fragrance of the flowers and the mountains
warm coexistence, the vulgar atmosphere can not be blown. Until July to London, I just pay attention to the domestic scenery of the bleak, when I rushed back
to the time, envisioned in the excitement, and early into the morning flowers, visible traces of only the city of yellow wall ink colorful
"Weeping report".
This time is different. The fact of the massacre was not only seen in the city where I lived, but I sometimes felt that it was a tragedy in my own spiritual
mansion. It was not only the lives of the youth that were killed, but my own mind was struck as if it had suffered a fatal blow,
like the broken and dismembered limbs of the State Department, which could never be brought back to vividness and coherence. But this profound suffering is anonymous to me,
and cannot be fully explained. It is one thing to be outraged and saddened by the tragedy of this incident, but at the same time we know that in
this fundamentally perverted society, any number of grotesque scenarios are possible. The slaughter of innocents has not been the most common phenomenon in years
. Since the civil war became entangled, what village in the war-ravaged region has not shared raped women, mutilated flesh and blood, and sacrificed lives and property? This is only to add a more concentrated and
brightly colored grievance on the ground of injustice and solidarity. Besides, the history of the liberation of any nation is not thickly stained with the blood of Martyrs. The Russian Revolution began with the bloodshed in the Winter Palace twenty years ago. If we have the sense to recognize and the courage to carry out our ideal revolution,
this time the blood of the lamb will not be painted in vain. So my personal sullenness is by no means entirely due to the emotional effect caused by this tragedy.
It is in my nature to love peace. In the air of resentment, suspicion and murder, my nerves feel an unnamable
oppression every time. I remember that the year before last, during the Fengzhi War, I was living in the dark, holding my
brain alone on my desk in the dead of night, as if the dreariness of the entire era was over my head - until I wrote the "poison" that
first unformed curse.
The tension in my mind eased only after I had written the "poison" poems, which were unformed curses. This time it was the same thing again; I felt only
bored, only bored, my feelings were only broken when they came, and my writing was only stagnant. As a result, the body is not comfortable, as if the wax oil coated
wiped the whole body hair orifices like sadness, one day passed and another day, I here is a repeat of deeper sitting alone tight brain
posture, the bright moonlight outside the window, clearly is mocking my inner withered embarrassment!
No, I have to dig deeper.
I can't ask the situation to take responsibility for the sudden dullness of my thoughts, I have to go to the bottom of my
self-life to find out.
There are several reasons that can affect our mental activity. The constraints of real life can rob our minds of the leisure they need
and build up into a kind of oppression. Disappointment is a great cause of upsetting the inner balance when we feel mentally bored and
anxious when some ardent desire is not fulfilled; the more violent kinds can paralyze our spirit and overwhelm
our reason. But none of these fit the source of my disease; for I have been very fortunate in actual life, and there should not, I dare say, be any pressed desires at work in my
underlying consciousness.
But in reality, on the other hand, there is another situation that can block or reduce the activity of your mind. We know that comfort
, health, and happiness are the goals of life, and we therefore suppose that the beginning of our misery is when we look for those goals and don't get them
. We often hear people say, "If I were as carefree as someone I could certainly do a good job, not more than
now the whole day's spirit is spent on trivial worries." We also heard that "I can't do anything because my body is too bad, but if my
spirit comes, then it will be ......" We also often envisioned the realm of happiness, and we thought, "As long as I have a person of my choice in front of me, I will be able to work hard, and I will be happy and happy. p>Then I must rise to the occasion, what can't I do?" But no, in reality, comfort, health, and happiness are not only not necessarily
conditions that help or reward the spiritual life, they sometimes have the opposite effect. It is here that we look down on the rich, the socially
privileged, the overdeveloped muscular sportsman; and as for the fanciful happiness of the young, I daresay
that when there is a real red herring, you will not be able to read your books, not to speak of any more
serious work in learning or art.
Is the contentment of life then the source of my disease?
"In the earlier days", said a friend who knew me well, "just because your life was not balanced, just because you
had desires that could not be fulfilled, your inner Libido (3) became sublimated, and as a result, you took advantage of literature to
ventilate your physiology.
To give vent to your physical frustration (don't you always say that your engagement in literature is an unintended event?). This, in turn, tends to create a false sense of hope in your
consciousness, because your writing is partly praised, and you think that you do have considerable creative
talent and the ability to think independently. But you're just being self-righteous, you don't have any superhuman talent,
your visions are mostly vanity, and your previous accomplishments are just the result of sublimation.
So now, when your life has changed,
emotional settlement, you find that the source of your writing is shrinking or even drying up; and you are not willing to
recognize the reality of this situation, and delusion to find the reason for the dwindling of your thoughts outside of the body, so you can not help but feel a deep
carve of boredom. You are only angry with yourself, not willing to recognize yourself as you are. No, you didn't turn out to have three heads and six
arms!
"You had no real interest in literature, no real zeal for learning. You originally have no higher aspirations, in addition to
a fairly reasonable life, you only deserve to be a normal person, to enjoy the 'happiness' of your destiny; in the career,
in the literary and artistic world, in the world of learning, there is no place for you, you really don't have that ability. If you don't believe me, you just have to ask yourself whether there is that invisible 'thrust' in
your heart, which annoys you all day and all night, forces you, and urges you to let go of the whole of your practical life, and to look forward to an adventure in the unattainable realm of creativity? Yes, the most obvious key is the invisible
The Impulse, without which there would be no science, no literature, no art, and no
creation beyond the utilitarian and practical nature of all human beings. Do you know how many
people are driven by this invisible impulse to become a kind of psychopathic animal in practical life, not only all the
virtuousness of the world can never touch their minds, even the life-sustaining sleep and diet are lost in them, and all their
minds are only in their
minds, but also in their
minds. concentrated application in the particular direction indicated by that invisible thrust. No wonder it is said that genius
is madness; do we not meet with such eccentrics everywhere in Paris and London? If the other is a fine artist, he is annoyed only with how he can fully express his ideal form; the accuracy of a line, the harmony of a certain color, will be more important, more urgent, and more demanding of attention than the life or death of his parents or the survival of his country. We know that specialized scholars
have dug graves all their lives, studied the physiology of mosquitoes, and observed the movement of a star billions of miles away. And they never ask whether
society has any knowledge of their labors, that is, the way of vanity; they are fixed by a little invisible push of the
devil.
"These are words about literary creation. Ask yourself if you have ever been in this situation. You may have experienced some 'inspiration,'
that may be, but you must not mistake the fleeting for the permanent, the unreal for the real. As for the
words of thought and true learning, there has to be a thrust behind it, and the direction may be different, but the nature remains the same. You have to have an original curiosity to do learning,
and you have to have a natural enthusiasm to do the work of seeking knowledge. The preparation of a true thinker requires, in addition to an exceptionally strong reason,
a kind of original faith; faith, or the search for faith, is the starting-point of all thought: extreme skepticism is only an effort to re-locate faith.
There has never been a thinker who did not have an original curiosity. There has not been a thinker from ancient times who was not religious. In them, each according to his inclination
, all the problems of life and reason were really there; the existence or non-existence of God, good and evil, the question of ontology, the question of cognition, the question of the freedom of the
will, seemed to them to be persecution-laden phenomena which demanded a rational answer-more sublime than the mountain ranges, the
flow of water, the sweetness of love more true, more real, more sensational. A little of their mind is then forever fluttering and swirling around the question or questions they envision,
as the lamp-moth is to the flame: to sacrifice themselves to carry out the secret at the center of the flame,
is the determination they **** have.
"You are afraid that you have not been in this tragic situation, have you? I do not say that there are no shadows of thought on the curtain of your mind; but they are
fearfully only shadows, like the shadows of a cloud on the water, which follow the shadows as the cloud passes, not the skid marks on the stone which grow deeper and deeper the longer the day passes.
"When you put it this way, you can rest easy! For the greatest personal tragedy is to envision a realm of nothingness to lie
to yourself; and when you can't lie to the end you have to endure the great pain of 'disillusionment'. Instead of that, it would be better to recognize your own depths as early as possible, and not to put unnecessary burdens on the shoulders of the unsupportable, crushing yourself, but also inevitably the side of
people's jokes! Friends, don't get lost, set your mind to enjoy your ready-made blessings; ideas are not your points, literary and artistic creations
not your points, independent business is not your points! It's impossible to imagine being born with a heavy burden (and what genius isn't
a living hell!). You are the original easy, this is how to envy, how to congratulate a hair see! Forget it, my friend!"
March 25-April 1
① Filippo, commonly translated Florence.
② Martyrs.
3 Libilo, Libido, a psychological term.
Xu Zhimo - "Want to Fly"
If there was snow outside the window at this time - on the street, on the walls, on the ridges of the roofs - there would be snow, and under the eaves of a house at the entrance to the hutongs would be nestled a policeman in a black hood, with his sleepy eyes half-closed, looking at the cotton balls. If only I could have a night like this, whose bottomless eeriness twists the hairy tubes of my body; and then have the snow sifting unceasingly downward from the window, sifting away the soaring market ballads from near and far; sifting away the wheels struggling on the dirt road; sifting away the uncompromising undercurrents of the brain ......
I want that depth, I want that stillness. That nighthawk that hides in the thick shade of the trees, easily afraid to come out and open its eyes while the light of day still shines. The thought: it too must wait.
There was a little darkness in the green sky. The sun is shining, you can't really see it, you put your hand over your eyes and look into the cracks of the two trees, black, with a cephalopod, no, with a peach - hey, it's moving west again!
We ate lunch and went out to the beach. (This is the extreme southern tip of Console, England, with the Atlantic Ocean on three sides.) Castor Lillie's call shivered evenly upward from the soles of our feet, flush with our waists, to shoulder height, over our heads, high into the clouds, high above the clouds. Ah! can you imagine a sharply vibrating musical note as a bright drizzle, rushing uncontrollably down from the blue sky on this flat, verdant ground? No, that rain was all dancing little feet, Angel's. The larks, too, had eaten, and left their humble earthly nests to fly to their work on high. Work given them by God, work done for God. And behold, one here, and two there! Together they fly to the zenith, their little wings move with such joy, and they fly round, without hesitation, - they know the blue sky. Together they sing, their little voices move with great joy, and their little beads spit out, brightly and crisply, in praise of the green sky. Look, how high this flies, there are beans big, there are sesame seeds big, black prickly a chip, straight against the bottomless zenith of the fine shake, - this all can not see, the shadow is gone! But this bright fine rain still can't stop falling ......
flying. "Its wings if hanging sky clouds ...... back of the sky, and no one of the young;" that is not easy to see. There is a yellow mud mountain outside the east guanqian of our town, and on the top of the mountain there is a seven-story pagoda with its tip pointing to the sky. The tower yard often play the bell, the bell ringing, that in the west of the sun when more, a branch of bright red flowers sticking in the west sideburns of the mountain back to the clouds on the tower mountain, - the bell ringing, around the top of the tower, the tower top of the sky, wearing the top of the tower clouds, there are one or two, sometimes three or four, sometimes five or six curled up claws to the ground to look at the "Hungry eagles," spread out their big gray wings as if they had no attachment to hovering, floating in mid-air, swimming in the evening wind, as if they were practicing a round dance according to the wave of the tower clock. That was the "roc" when I was a child. Sometimes when we could not see a flap of cloud on a good day and heard the screaming, we knew that it was the hungry eagle on the pagoda looking for food, and when we imagined the bald and round-eyed heroes in the middle of the day, it was as if a file of iron-brush-like feathers had been removed from the small wing-bones on our backs and shaken up to whistling, and we rushed out of the door of the study with just one swing and drilled into the tortoiseshell-rimmed white clouds for fun, and whoever stood patiently in front of Mr. Shu's desk shook his head and carried his body on his back in the morning. Who is tired of standing in front of Mr. desk shaking his body to memorize the books that are so difficult to memorize in the morning! Ah Fei! It is not the flight of the sparrow that hops short on the branch; it is not the flight of the bat that rushes out from the back of the hall plaque in the darkness of the day to chase mosquitoes to eat; it is not the flight of the swallow that makes a niche on the eaves of the hall with a soft tail and a soft voice. To fly to fly all over the sky, the wind can not stop the clouds can not stop the fly, a wing on the jump over a hill, the shadow down to cover the shade of twenty acres of rice paddies fly, to the day evening fly tired to come around the top of the tower to follow the wind to play a circle dreaming ...... I heard that the hungry eagles will catch the chickens!
Fly. People turned out to be able to fly. Angels had wings and could fly, and we had wings and could fly when we first came. When we first came we flew, and some of us still fly when we are done, and they are to be envied. But most people forget to fly, some wings fell off the hairs do not grow no longer fly up, some wings called glue to glue, no longer pull not, some feathers called people to repair short like pigeons only jump on the ground, some take a pair of wings on the back of the pawnshop to pawnshop to make the period of time can no longer be redeemed ...... really, we have passed the days of children to fall out of the essence of the fly. We lost the ability to fly as soon as we passed the days of being children. But it's a terrible thing to be without wings or to have broken wings that don't work. Because you can never fly back, you crouch on the ground to look at the sky that can not fly up, to see the next person is blessed with a ride in the green clouds, how pitiful. And the wings are not like the shoes on your feet, you can ask your mom for another pair if they are worn out, but not the wings, if you break a hair, it's just a hair, you can't mend it. Also, just take care of your wings are not necessarily regulated to be able to fly, if your body is not careful to raise too fat, small wing strength can no longer afford to drag, it is just as difficult, is not it? A pair of small wings can not afford to carry a fat stomach, that situation how ridiculous! When the time comes, you will hear people say in a loud voice, "My friend, go back, while there is still purple light in the sky, and you will hear their wings rustling in mid-air, and the spring clouds jumping over to embrace them on the back of their shoulders, and looking at the brightest place to come they will flutter, and wan, and smoke like light smoke out of your field of vision, and leave behind them a bright shower like larks...". -"Thou art unseen but yet I hear thy shrill delight "1 -Then thou, drowning alone in the mud, art hard enough, chagrined enough, and shabby! Watch your wings while you can, friend?
There is no man who does not want to fly, and is tired enough of crawling on this ground, to say nothing of it. Fly out of the circle, fly out of the circle! To the clouds, to the clouds! Who doesn't think of this a thousand times a day? Fly up to the sky and float, see the earth's projectile rolling in the sky, see the sea from the land, and see the land from the sea again. The sky to see an understanding - this is the fun of being a man, being a man's authority, being a man's account. If this skin is too heavy to move, toss it, and if possible, fly out of this circle, fly out of this circle!
When mankind first invented stone tools, they already wanted wings. They wanted to fly. The four statues painted on the wall of the cave of the original man, it has wings on its back; with a bow and arrow to drive wild animals, his shoulder and back also gave wings. The little goddess of love had a pair of pink, fleshy wings. The first hero in the history of human flight, icarus, was the first to die. The first mark of the Angel (that's an idealized person) was the wings that helped them fly. That also has a leathery color - you see it represented in Western paintings. At first it looked like a pair of small delicate tokens, butterfly-like glued to the backs of the Angel's, like real, unspiritual ones. Gradually the wings grow, the position settles into place, the hair feathers plump up. The angels in the picture grew really possible wings. For the first time mankind realized the idea of wings and realized the meaning of flight. The souls that were immortalized by Lars Flash came back to be reborn and reborn again. The greatest mission of mankind is to make wings; the greatest success is to fly! Ideal extremes, imaginative stops, from man to God! Poetry comes out of the world on wings; philosophy hovers in the air. Fly: transcend everything, envelop everything, sweep everything, gulp everything.
Go up to the top of yonder peak and try; if you cannot degree to this side of the mountain, you will have to find your burial place in this abyss of ten thousand fathoms! "This bird in human form will one day try his first flight, and appall the world, and cause all writings to praise, and give perpetual glory to the perch from which he came." Ah, Davenjian!
But fly? Has it been man's work since the opening of Rath to make wings, or to bind them? Can these wings, bearing the weight of civilization, still fly? Can all that have flown, fly back? Clamped, branded, pressed,--
Will this humanoid bird ever try his first flight? ......
Meanwhile the little bit of black in the sky has been looming over my head, forming a bird-shaped machine, suddenly the machine along one side, a ball of light straight down injection, boron's bang,-blasted my fantasy in flight, the green sky flat added A few piles of broken floating clouds.
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1) To wit, "You are nowhere to be seen, but I still hear your shrill shrieks of joy."
②By Kailas, now transliterated Icarus, the son of Daedalus, a skilled craftsman in ancient Greek legend. They used beeswax to paste feathers to make wings to fly in the air. As Icarus flew too high, the sun melted the beeswax and he fell into the sea and died.