Soul Mountain (chinese)
Soul Mountain (chinese) читать книгу онлайн
"Soul Mountain is one of those singular literary creations that seem impossible to compare with anything but themselves… In the writing of Gao Xingjian literature is born anew from the struggle of the individual to survive the history of the masses."
– from the citation of the Nobel Prize committee of the Swedish Academy
When this year's Nobel Prize for Literature was awarded to Chinese expatriate novelist and playwright Gao Xingjian, few in the English-speaking West were familiar with his work. Gao's masterpiece, SOUL MOUNTAIN (PerfectBound, an e-book from HarperCollins; February 20, 2001; $19.95), is a dazzling kaleidoscope of fiction, philosophy, history and fable. Elegantly translated by Australian sinologist Mabel Lee, this richly textured autobiographical novel recounts a dual journey-a literal journey into the heart of China and a spiritual journey of the self.
When Gao was 43, he was incorrectly diagnosed with lung cancer. Resigned to death by the same means that had claimed his father just a few years before, Gao spent six weeks indulging his appetites and reading philosophy. The spot on Gao's lung mysteriously disappeared, but a new threat arose when rumors began to circulate that he was to be sent to a prison farm because of his controversial writings. No longer facing imminent death, the writer quickly left Beijing and disappeared into the remote forest regions of Sichuan, then spent five months wandering along the Yangtze River from its source down to the coast. Gao's 15,000 kilometer sojourn forms the geographic parameters of the fictional journey in SOUL MOUNTAIN.
While on a train at the start of his trip, the writer protagonist meets another traveler who says he is going to Lingshan, "soul mountain," which can be found by the remote source of the You River. The writer has never heard of such a place, and he resolves to go there, but his fellow traveler can give him none but the vaguest directions. Thus begins a metaphoric odyssey into the hinterlands of China and the outlying Qiang, Miao and Yi districts that dangle on the fringes of Han Chinese civilization.
The writer is in search of the traditions that are hidden in rural China, and as he travels he encounters a parade of unforgettable characters who embody both vestiges of the past-Daoist masters, Buddhist monks, ancient calligraphers-and the modern culture that has surfaced since the revolution: small town communist cadres, budding entrepreneurs, independent young girls grappling with parochial repression. The two worlds exist uneasily as one, with stories and customs from centuries past colliding with a world of televisions, automobiles, and technology. All is permeated by the dark legacy of the Cultural Revolution, the encroachment of ecological damage, and the harsh monetary realities of everyday life in contemporary China.
SOUL MOUNTAIN is a dazzling work of the imagination, where classic fables merge with tales of modern cruelty and ancient philosophy does battle with existentialism. But Gao goes deeper still as he explores notions of the devastation of the self at the hands of social expectations. He continually shifts his narrative voice as the "I" of the writer becomes the "you" of an imagined companion, then the "she" of a woman companion. Yet all reflects back on the protagonist, who craves these two seemingly contradictory ends-the solitude necessary for nurturing the self and the anxiety-provoking warmth of human society.
Gao began this novel in the mid-eighties, then carried the manuscript with him when he fled China in 1987. Now living in Paris, he completed the book there in 1989. His writings continue to be banned in his native country. As Gao's work at last gains the public's attention here in the West, SOUL MOUNTAIN provides a dazzling introduction to the achievement of one of contemporary literature's acknowledged masters.
Внимание! Книга может содержать контент только для совершеннолетних. Для несовершеннолетних чтение данного контента СТРОГО ЗАПРЕЩЕНО! Если в книге присутствует наличие пропаганды ЛГБТ и другого, запрещенного контента - просьба написать на почту [email protected] для удаления материала
五十四
你总在找寻你的童年,这实在已经成为一种毛病。是凡你童年待过的地方,你都要去找寻一番,你记忆中的房子,庭院和街巷。
你记得你家曾经在一座抓伶伶的小楼上,楼前有一大片瓦砾,不知是被炸毁的还是火灾之后那片空场地就未曾再修建。瓦砾和断墙间长出许多狗尾草,那些残砖断瓦下时不时可以翻出蟋蟀。有种特别精灵的叫乌绫膏的,油墨乌亮的翼翅,抖动起来声音清亮。还有一种叫黄虫的,个子大而善斗,牙张得很开,你小时候在那片瓦砾场上度过许多美妙的时光。
你还记得你住过一个很深的庭院,门口有扇厚重的大黑门,门上的铁扣环你得跟起脚尖才够得到。推开沉重的大门,要绕过一堵影壁,这影壁边上两只石雕的破磷头角都被小孩子们进出时摸得油光发亮。影壁后面是一个潮湿的天井,倒水的一角长了青苔,从那里跑过不当心就会跌跤。你那时候养过一对红眼睛的白毛兔子。一只被黄鼠狼咬死在铁丝笼子里。另一只后来不见了,好多天之后你到后院去玩,才发现淹死在尿缸里,毛色浸得都很脏了。在边上望了许久,打那以后,在你的记忆里就再没有到后院去过。
你还记得你住过一个有圆门的院子,院子里种着金黄的菊花和紫红的鸡冠花,谁知是不是这些花的缘故,这庭院里 阳光总很明亮。院于后面有个小门,开门石级下就是湖水。
中秋夜,大人们把后门打开,摆上一桌的月饼、瓜果,吃着瓜子,喝着茶,对着湖水赏月。幽深的后湖上空,挂着一轮明月,另一只月亮在湖水里摇晃,把光影拖得老长。之后,又有一次夜晚,你一个人经过那里,拉开了门栓,被清寂幽黑的湖水吓住了,那美过于深幽,不是一个小孩子能经受住的,你撒腿就跑。以后,你夜里再经过那后门边上,总小心翼翼,再也不敢去碰门栓。
你还记得,你住过一个带花园的房子,可你只记得你睡的楼底下那间大房里铺的花砖地,可以滚弹子,你母亲不让你去花园里玩。你那时生病,大部分时间得躺在床上,至多也只能在房里滚你那一盒子各式各样的弹子。母亲不在的时候,你便站到床上,抓着窗户往外看,轮船码头上挂的五颜六色的信号旗,江面上风总是很大。
你重游了这些旧地,可什么也没找到。没有那瓦砾场,没有那小楼,没有挂着铁扣环的厚重的大黑门,连门前那条清净的小巷也找不到,更别说那个带影壁的庭院。也许曾经是影壁和天井的地方都开成了柏油马路,满载货物的卡车揪着高音喇叭,扬起尘土和冰棍纸,再就是窗玻璃都不齐全的长途公共汽车,顶上捆着行李,大包小包,从此地倒卖到彼地,又从彼地倒卖到此地的土产,成衣和杂货,从车窗里吐出的瓜子壳和满地的甘蔗皮。没有青苔,没有圆门,没有金黄的菊花和紫红的鸡冠花,没有湖水上拖长了的月光,也没有那惊骇灵魂的幽深和孤寂,有的只是同一规格的红砖简易楼,谁在窄狭的过道里一个一个烧煤球的经济煤炉,守在一家家人家的房门口。江岸上也听不见信号旗子在风中拍拍作响,只是货栈,货栈,货栈,仓库,货栈,仓库,牛皮纸的水泥袋和装在厚塑料口袋里的化肥和不是叫喊就是高唱的广播喇叭。
你就这样茫然漫游,从一个市城到一个城市,从县城到地区首府再到省城,再从另一个省城到另一个地区首府再到一个又一个县城,之后也还再经过某个地区首府又再回到某一个省城。有时,无端的,你突然在一个被城市规划漏划了的或还顾不上规划的或者压根就没打算规划的乃至于纳也纳不进规划的一条小巷子里,见到一幢敞开门的老房子,在门口站住,止不住望着架了竹篙晒着衣裳的天井,似乎只要一走进去,就会回到你那童年,那些暗淡的记忆就都会复活。
你进而又发现,你所到之处,细细一想,竟到处都可以见到你童年的痕迹,飘着浮萍的水塘,小市镇上的酒楼,临街的阁楼上的窗户,石头的拱桥,桥洞里进出的篷船,从人家后门下到河边的石级,一口废置了干涸的水井,都同你童年的记忆相牵连,唤起你一股止不住的忧伤,那怕是你儿时并未待过的地方。比如,滨海小城里那些老旧的青砖瓦房和摆在人家门口歇凉喝茶的小方桌,竟然也唤起你这种乡愁。再比如唐人陆龟蒙的墓地,也可能只是他的衣冠氛,在那么一所你从未听说过的老学校的后院,坟地上爬满青藤和野麻叶,边上有一片田地和几棵老树,午后的那一片斜阳,也都染上了你这种莫名的惆怅。更不用说你以前梦中都未曾见过的彝族地区那封闭了的空寂的塔院,半山腰上那些遥遥相望的苗寨的吊脚木楼,竟也在向你诉说些什么。你不免怀疑你是不是还另有一个生命,保留你前世的某些记忆,要不,也许是你来世的归宿?也许,这种记忆像酒一样,也有个发酵的过程,再酿出一股醇香,又让你迷醉?
童年的记忆究竟是什么样子?又如何能得到证明?还是只存在于你自己心里,你又何必去证实?
你恍然领悟,你徒然找寻的童年其实未必有确凿的地方。而所谓故乡,不也如此?无怪小镇人家屋瓦上飘起的蓝色炊烟,柴火灶前吟唱的火卿子,那种细腿高脚身子米黄有点透明的小虫,山民屋里的火塘和墙上挂的泥土封住的木桶蜂箱,都唤起你这种乡愁,也就成了你梦中的故乡。尽管你生在城里,在城市里长大,你这一生绝大多数的岁月在大都市里度过,你还是无法把那庞大的都市作为你心里的故乡。也许正因为它过于庞大,你充其量只能在这都市的某一处,某一角,某一个房间里,某一个瞬间,找到一些纯然属于你自己的记忆,只有在这种记忆里,你才能保存你自己,不受到伤害。归根到底,这茫茫人世之中,你充其量不过是沧海一勺,又渺小,又虚弱。
"你应该知道,在这个世界上你所求不多,不必那么贪婪,你所能得到的终究只有记忆,那种源源俄陇无法确定如梦一般,而且并不诉诸语言的记忆。当你去描述它的时候,也就只剩下被顺理过的句子,被语言的结构筛下的一点碴计。