Classic Zhang ailing's prose

Zhang Ailing's life is legendary. Here I bring you 10 Zhang Ailing's classic prose. Welcome to reading. I hope you like them.

At ten o'clock in the evening, I was reading a book under the lamp, and a familiar tune was blowing on the horn in the military camp not far from home. Several simple scales go up and down slowly. In this bustling big city, it is rare to have such a simple heart.

I said, "Blowing the horn again. Aunt can you hear me? " Menstruation said, "I didn't pay attention."

I'm afraid to listen to the horn every night because I'm the only one who hears it. I said, "Ah, I blew it again." But this time, I don't know why, the voice is extremely low and very thin. I have been disconnected several times. This time, I didn't ask my aunt if she could hear me. I suspect that there is no horn at all, just my own auditory memory. In addition to desolation, I feel scared.

But at this time, someone whistled loudly outside, and the letter hand picked up the tone of the horn. I suddenly stood up, full of joy and sympathy, and ran to the window, but I didn't want to know who it was, the residents upstairs and downstairs in the apartment or the passers-by in the street.

One day, there was a stewed radish on our dining table. I asked my aunt, "Are radishes and carrots imported from foreign countries in ancient times?" She said, "Don't ask me these things. I have no idea. " She thought for a moment and then said, "My first contact with carrots was when I was a child. I raised a wanderer and fed him carrots. I still remember that my grandmother always cut carrots in half and stuffed them into cages, which were probably small. Otherwise, there would be no such thing as carrots in our food. -I don't understand why I should give this to the oilman. "

I secretly wrote down this sentence. It is no exaggeration to say that I couldn't help laughing, because just adding the title "Speaking of carrots" is a fashionable prose. Although it can't be diluted or meaningful, it can at least be published in newspapers and magazines. And beauty is short-lived-just looking up and it's over, which makes people feel depressed.

After all, he is a Shanghainese who returned to Shanghai a year ago. For a long time, my first impression of Shanghainese was that they were white and fat. In Hong Kong, nine times out of ten Cantonese people are black and thin, Indians are darker and Malays are thinner. Accustomed to them, Shanghainese look as white as a sheet, like an advertisement for a generation of milk powder.

The second impression is that Shanghainese are "well-connected". Popular literature in Hong Kong can be represented by the well-known bus stop sign "Stop here if you want". Shanghai is not like this. When I first arrived in Shanghai, I often exclaimed from my heart: "What a Shanghainese!" When I went to buy soap, I heard a little apprentice explain to his companion, "Well, it's the honor of Zhang Xun, the honor of meritorious service, not the smell of incense." There is an advertisement for the opening of a department store in the news, which is written in the style of "Yanghu School". Regarding the harm of improper gift selection, the conclusion is: "Friendship is not important!" It seems ironic, but in fact it is completely true and not exaggerated.

Shanghai people's "communication" is not limited to fluency and sophistication. We can find real spiritual writing everywhere. There was a limerick in the tabloid last year. I have forgotten who the author is, but I will never forget that poem. Two actresses invited the author to dinner, so he wrote a poem: "Zhang Nvyun Valley is as good as the first two cards in a bottle. Fill your stomach and praise: shoes are hard to find! " What a lovely and tortuous self-mockery! There is helplessness, tolerance and laissez-faire, which are all caused by fatigue. It looks down on people and has no respect for itself, but it still retains a sense of intimacy with people. More obviously, there is a couplet that I saw on the tram. I scratched a few words on the black paint of the window with my nails: "My in-laws are right, men and women are equal." It has always been said that "the public is right and the old woman is right", let them go! Each has its own reasons. "Equality between men and women", after all these years, equality is equality! -it is the laissez-faire caused by fatigue. That sweaty smile is the characteristic of standard China's humor.

Shanghainese are traditional China people, tempered by modern high-pressure life. The exchange of deformed products of old and new cultures may not be very healthy, but there is a strange wisdom here.

Everyone says that Shanghainese are not good, but they are measured. Shanghainese will kiss up, follow suit and fish in troubled waters. However, because they have the art of dealing with the world, they cannot play too hard. I know nothing about "bad" except that all novels are inseparable from bad people. Good people like to listen to bad stories, and bad people don't like good stories. So none of the protagonists in my story is "perfect". Only one girl can be said to be ideal, kind, compassionate and fair, but if she is not beautiful, I am afraid she is a little annoying. Although a beauty is beautiful, perhaps readers will still scold her: "Go back to the fairy tale!" " "In Snow White and glass shoes, she has her place. Shanghainese are not so naive. I wrote a Hong Kong legend to Shanghainese, which consists of seven articles: mud fragments, a pot of incense, two pots of incense, jasmine scented tablets, heart sutra, glazed tiles, blockade and love in the whole city. I always think of Shanghainese when I write, because I try to see Hong Kong from the perspective of Shanghainese. Only Shanghainese can understand the shortcomings of my writing.

I like Shanghainese, and I hope Shanghainese like my books.

Four, there are a few words to tell readers, I never think I need to defend myself, but in the past year, I was often talked about and seemed to be listed as one of the cultural traitors, which made me puzzled. I have never written an article about politics, and I have never received any allowance. Think about it. My only doubt is that I was asked to attend the third so-called "Great East Asian Writers Conference", and my name was on the newspaper. Although I wrote my resignation letter (I still remember that letter, because it was very short, only: "I was hired as the representative of the third Great East Asian Writers Conference, and I want to resign. Zhang Ailing is cautious. " The newspaper still hasn't removed its name.

As for many ridiculous abuses, even involving my private life, there are many points to refute. And even if there is such a fact, it does not involve the question of whether I am suspected of being a traitor; Moreover, there is no need to explain personal matters to the public except my parents, as if I have no obligation to explain. So I have been silent. At the same time, I really don't want to spend time and energy fighting a pen and ink lawsuit, confusing my thoughts in vain and delaying my due work. But I have been so silent, I have not clarified my identity, giving the society a wrong impression. I also feel sorry for those who care about my future, so I wrote such a passage as a preface when reprinting the collection of novels. Anyway, as long as readers know. The five newly collected articles, Legend, Compassion, Hongluan Jubilee, Red Rose and White Rose, Waiting and Steamed Osmanthus fragrans, were sloppy when they were first published. I really sympathize with readers. Most of them were added or deleted before going to press this time. There are still two articles that cannot be changed, so we have to discard them.

I can't write poems, but I wrote two last winter. I like them very much, but I'm afraid others will say "I don't know what to say" after reading them. I tried to explain it, but later it became an independent essay. Now I put this article "Days and Nights in China" here as a postscript. Although it does not represent the common background of many stories here, it seems appropriate as an unfinished "aftertaste" of a legend.

The cover was designed by Yan Ying. Borrowing a picture of a fashionable lady in the late Qing dynasty, it shows a woman playing dominoes vaguely there, sitting next to a wet nurse holding a child, as if it were a common scene after dinner. But outside the railing, a human figure with a wrong proportion suddenly appeared, which looked like a ghost. It is modern people who are curious and diligent to peep. If there is anything disturbing about this painting, it is the atmosphere I want to create.

Beating people on the Bund, I saw a policeman beating people for no reason, just on the spur of the moment. The boy who was beaten was a boy of fifteen or sixteen years old, dressed very cleanly, with a cotton jacket and trousers and a tie around his waist. The whip used by the police, if you don't look carefully, looks like a rope loop on the head of a baton. "Whoo!" Pull down, again and again, and push the child to the wall. Whether the child can run or not, he looks up at him, frowning and squinting, just like a countryman who can't open his eyes in the sun in the field, as if smiling. Things come so suddenly that people who lack stage experience often have no time to adjust their facial expressions.

I never had a sense of justice. If I don't want to see anything, I can't see it. This time, however, I couldn't help looking back and forth. I choked and hit my chest and felt my heart contract. After the fight, the police wandered here. I stared at him maliciously, hoping that a knife would fly out of my eye. I really wish I could express my contempt, anger and fear for leprosy patients. However, he only felt that someone was paying attention to him and proudly tightened his belt around his waist. He is a northerner with a long face and a big mouth, and he is not ugly.

He went to the door of the public toilet, grabbed a shabby man in a robe, didn't hit him immediately, just looked at him intently, and pressed a stick with one hand. The man wanted to tell a joke because he was annoyed, so he asked, "Sir, do you want me to go to jail for the king?

Probably because my mind is not trained, I won't think of class revolution at this time. In a fit of pique, I want to be an official or the wife of the chairman. I can walk up to the policeman and give him two masks.

In Li's novels in the early years of the Republic of China, at this time, a brave teacher who exchanged western knowledge or an aunt of the security captain (the heroine's handkerchief, the actor's old lover) should jump out. It's okay to be naive once in a while. It is not good to be so systematic and childish.

Article 6. There is a lesbian car. This is a wise saying. It is not a novel because it has not been trimmed and polished.

At this end of the tram, there are two women in dresses, about hybrids, or Portuguese, like female typists in foreign companies. The chubby speaker wore a three-inch wide black lacquer belt around his waist. Below the belt is a round belly, thin eyebrows and swollen eyes, because the upper part of his face is prominent and divided into two parts. "... so I didn't talk to him for a week," she said. He said "hello" and I said "hello". "She raised her eyebrows coldly and raised the whole upper part of her face together." You know, I have a stubborn temper. When I'm right, I always stick to my guns. "

There is also a woman at the other end of the tram who says "he", but she is not a lover but a son, because this is a middle-aged proprietress with a black bun and fashionable single-headed painted red earrings. Probably her nephew listened to her. What she said, he nodded to show understanding, and she nodded to show aggravation. She said, "I want to rummage through my closet, and Eve will call me to rummage through it. I can't say I'm good at this!

I taught Yi to buy a ticket. Yi: Why hum? ..... if you give me ten dollars, I'll buy it! Not good? ..... "The' Yi' here seems to be a worthless husband, but after listening to it, it turned out to be a son. The son finally did something even more outrageous and offended his mother: "Dad Yi must kneel down,' kneel down, kneel down!'" "A Ding Gui Falcon:' How should I kneel down? "One end said,' Now you must kneel down. Kneel down! Kneel down! It was hard for Yi Fuqiang to make it clear later:' Hogg, Hogg, I knelt down! I said,' I want to kneel down easily. I want to kneel down easily! Later, the person next to him said, kneel down, you should be embarrassed, but in the end, you should ask Iraq to send a cup of tea and say,' Mom (should) be angry. A cup of tea can be delivered, but I pour' beep! Laugh! "

What to write? A friend asked me, "Can you write a story about the proletariat?" I thought for a moment and said, "No, or just grandma, I know a little." Later, it was discovered from other places that grandma was not a proletariat. Fortunately, I have no intention of changing my style, otherwise I will be greatly disappointed.

In my opinion, the freedom of literati to discuss the future writing path is unimaginable-it seems that there are sufficient choices. Of course, Wen Yuan Garden is very big. Tourists buy tickets, take photos on the zigzag bridge, then flock to visit the zoo and leave. It's really enviable. However, I think the scholar should be a tree in the garden, born there and deeply rooted. The higher he goes, the wider his vision and the farther he sees. If he wants to develop elsewhere, he can. The wind blows the seeds away, spreads them far away, and gives birth to another tree, but that is a very difficult thing.

When I was a beginner in writing, I thought I could also write historical novels, such as Roper literature, New Sensation School, and even the more popular Family Ethics, social martial arts, romance, and broaden my horizons. The more you get later, the more you feel constrained. For example, I have got the material of two novels now, not only the outlines of stories and characters, but also dialogues, but the background is in the mainland, so I can't write them for the time being. It's no use going there. A quick glance like that is equivalent to a reporter's visit. The first impression may be the strongest. However, even if foreigners are impressed by visiting bird's nest, we can't describe the psychology of bird's nest customers from this angle, can we?

It is useless to look at flowers, even if you stay for two or three months, it is useless to look around and collect local colors, because the infiltration and infection of living air are often intentional or unintentional, so you can't have an intention first. A scholar only needs to live honestly, and then, if he is a scholar, he will naturally write everything he thinks. It doesn't matter what he can write.

Why do you often feel the need to change your writing direction? Because the author's technique often makes the same mistake, which is too repetitive. Since it is impossible to deal with the same topic in different ways, we can only apply the same method to different topics-however, due to the inevitable limitations of experience, this is impossible in practice. How many people can wander around like Gorky, swing around like stones, and mix in all walks of life? In fact, these worries are unnecessary, right? As long as the subject matter is not very professional, such common phenomena as love and marriage, birth, illness and death can be written with countless different viewpoints, and it will never be finished in a lifetime. If one day it is said that there is nothing to write about such a subject, it must be that the author himself has nothing to write about. Even if you find a brand-new theme, you can still write cliches.

Love is real.

There is a well-off girl in the village who is very beautiful. Many people came to be matchmakers, but they didn't say anything. She was only fifteen or sixteen years old that year. It was a spring night, and she was standing at the back door with a peach tree in her hand. She remembered that she was wearing a moon-white shirt. The young man who lives across the street met her, but never said hello. He came and stood not far away and said softly, "Oh, you're here?" She didn't say anything, and neither did he. He stood for a while and then walked away.

That's it.

Later, this woman was trafficked by relatives to other counties as a concubine and was resold again and again. After countless thrilling storms, she remembered the past when she was old. She often talks about the young man under the peach tree at the back door that spring night.

Among thousands of people, you met the person you met. In thousands of years, in the boundless wilderness of time, neither earlier nor later, you happened to catch up. There is nothing else to say, but gently ask, "Oh, are you there?"

Autumn rain is like silver-gray sticky spider silk, woven into a soft net, netting the whole autumn world. The sky is dark, too, like the roof of an old house covered with cobwebs. The gray clouds piled up in the sky are like peeling off the roof. Under the cover of this old roof, everything looks extremely dull. The green pomegranates, mulberry trees and vines in the garden only represent the prosperity of the past summer, but now they have become the remains of ancient buildings, shivering in the rustling rain and recalling the glorious past. The color of grass has turned into melancholy yellow, and fresh flowers can no longer be found underground; The delicate daffodils planted outside the dormitory wall hung their heads with tears in their eyes and lamented their bad luck there. It was only two sunny days, and it was such a moldy rainy day. Only the sweet-scented osmanthus in the corner, the branches have been decorated with several precious buds as gold, carefully hidden under the green oval leaves, revealing a little hope of new life germination.

It's raining quietly, only the thin sound of rain. The orange-red house, like an old monk in colorful robes, bowed his head and closed his eyes, accepting the baptism of rain. The wet red brick exudes irritating pig blood, which is in sharp contrast with the green laurel leaves under the wall. Gray toad, jumping in the wet and moldy mud; Under the gloomy net of autumn rain, it is the only thing full of joy and life. The mottled gray-yellow pattern on its back corresponds to the dreary sky in the distance, resulting in a harmonious tone. It jumped up with a plop, jumped into the mud from the grass nest, and splashed dark green water.

Rain, like silver-gray sticky spider silk, weaves a soft web and nets the whole autumn world.

Ten, grass robing read a mainland novel "eight thousand years" two years ago, which wrote a thrifty rich man who always ate an oil-free sesame seed cake called Cao robing. It suddenly dawned on me that a gourd that was dusty forty or fifty years ago was finally broken.

After the fall of Shanghai in World War II, every day there were vendors selling: "Horses ... grass and soldiers!" In Wu dialect, the pronunciation of "buy" and "sell" is the same as that of "horse", and the pronunciation of "stir-fry" is the same as that of "stir-fry", so I never thought that there was a stove dedicated to burning thatch. The voice of the singer was very loud. The word "horse" dragged on for a long time, and the next word rose very high. At last, the word "falling ice" jumped crisp and suddenly choked. It is a young and powerful voice, which is far from the old hoarse voice selling stinky tofu. It's a good voice. The wonton seller kept silent and only knocked on the bangzi. Wonton is a midnight snack, only eaten at night, stinky tofu does not appear until dusk, and he is alone during the day. Probably because his customers are not residents along the street, but rickshaws, rickshaws, bicycles and various vendors passing by, which are the most during the day. You can eat it in your hand-the simplest lunch.

In wartime, there were few cars and the noise was quiet. Hearing this long cry in the tall building, my aunt and I have said more than once: "I don't know what it's like to fire Luo Bing." "Many people eat it now." Menstruation once said lightly and thoughtfully.

I only said "Oh". I don't seem to be a civilian food like pie and fritters, poor. My aunt probably feels the same way.

One day our tenant's maid bought a piece and put it on the painted tablecloth on the kitchen table like a cake. It was cut from a foot-wide pancake, but it's not a pancake. It's more than an inch high, and it may be sprinkled with sesame seeds. Obviously, it is not fried in a pot like a rice cake, and it will not be "fried radish ice". I can't think of a word except "fuck". In fact, the "drying oven" doesn't work at all. Is there a stove that doesn't dry? Los ice, 8,000-year-old grass, roasted on the stove. Such a thick pie can never be baked. The background of 8,000 years seems to be northern Jiangsu before communist party came. The grass ice there is probably in its original form, smaller and finer. Luobing, a grass in the south of the Yangtze River, is a new development in modern times, because it is too much like a big cake that China does not have.

It disappeared after the war. It seems that as soon as the bitter days of the war were over, no one ate it.

I met in the street once and passed by. The basket on the vendor's arm was covered with cloth, and a corner of the cake was exposed. The cake is yellow, maybe there are two or three in a pile. The white cloth was washed into a uniform dark gray, which looked a little disgusting. I glanced at it in a hurry, and I was busy watching the food I had heard for a long time. I didn't pay attention to the man carrying the basket, as if he were a dark and thin middle-aged man. I didn't expect it to be out of proportion to that young voice, or it was too thin and old.

Shanghai has a mixture of five parties, but the native Shanghainese are rare. Vegetable vendors all have pure local accents. Some indigenous people are surprisingly the darkest in this country, at least among Han people. Moreover, it is black with gray, which is different from the general purple color, and more like the charcoal gray skin color of small islands such as Guam in the South Pacific and Australian aborigines. I come from a senior high school, and my supervisor is Qingpu-Qingpu's name is opposite Huangpu, and I want to come to Huangpu-and I was born in a dark place, and the girl's nickname behind her is Ashi. Her fellow countryman has probably worked outdoors for many years, and the sun is getting darker.

Along the street is the back of a semi-old cement hutong house. In order to prevent thieves, the windows are placed in a very high position, and the windows are also equipped with protruding thin black iron bars. The buttonwood trees in the street and the straight white-tube trees with light brown scars were reflected on the fine linen cement square bricks on the sidewalk and completely disappeared under the dazzling scorching sun. There is a faded white sun everywhere, and suddenly there is such a "half-inked" ghost on the white paper. The slender strip of the camel seems to have a round face, which is too dark to see clearly. At first glance, it's scary.

How can such a basket be sold late one day? Don't make a basket of cakes. The small business is so small that it is really a pocket version. Or are you too thin to carry only one basket and go back to get it when it is sold out? Always close. They are all residential areas, next to thoroughfare avenue, and there are no shacks. In fact, the location is good. He has to take the main road and give some money to the police. It's not like a countryman who can't survive in the city because there are Japanese soldiers and peace corps in the country now. Selling a basket of cakes a day is better than nothing.

I didn't think of all this until I wrote here at this moment. I just felt a little shocked at that time. Only after a while, I heard the cry of "horse" ... the grass fell on the ice, but it was so sweet that I completely forgot the strange man in black. At least in my opinion, this is the "voice of Shanghai" of that era. Zhou Xuan and Yao Li's pop songs are just the noise of the radio next door, and the background music is not the theme song. My aunt finally bought a piece one day and rubbed it on the kitchen table when she came back from work. She muttered a little impatiently, half annoyed and half laughing: "No, blow up Luo Bing."

There was a corner of the pie in the newspaper. I smiled and tore off a small piece and ate it. I can't eat anything. I don't know if my aunt ate it. She gave it to the tenant's maid.