High school Chinese "Cold Wind Blows"

The cold wind blows hard is an essay written by Liu Liangcheng, a modern writer, on May 20th, 1996. This is a cold and dignified lyric prose. Taking the cold memory as a clue, the article shows readers the inner world of a person tortured by hard life. The following is the related content of my high school Chinese "Cold Wind Blowing".

The cold wind blew.

I didn't care where the snow fell in those years. Something more important than snow began to appear. At the age of 30, I seem to be indifferent to the arrival of this winter, but I seem to have been listening to the sound of falling snow, expecting another snow to cover the villages and fields quietly.

I sat quietly in my room, a few steamed buns were baking on the stove, and a small dish of pickles was placed on the wooden stool beside the stove. The light in the room is very dim. A long time later, I still remember that I was holding the stove, eating pickles and steamed bread, thinking about some people and things, and thinking deeply. The wood is burning in the stove, and the fire is red. My hands and face were burned, but my back was still cold. The cold wind blew in through the door I couldn't see. Winter came to the village again and came to my home. Last winter, I moved everything I was afraid of freezing into the house, put up windows and hung cotton curtains, but the cold wind still came in. It knows every tiny crack in the wall better than I do.

Just the day before, I seemed to have a premonition that heavy snow was coming. I chopped enough firewood to burn for half a month and piled it neatly under the windowsill; Sweeping the yard clean, inadvertently like welcoming a long-lost VIP-sweeping some things in life aside to make a clean place for snowflakes to fall. In the afternoon, I left the village and went for a walk in the fields. I didn't care about the sunflower stalks I cut back. I will stand in the heavy snow all winter. Before it snows every year, one or two things will be found left behind for a winter. In winter, how many people, like me, put aside the things of the year and touch life from beginning to end with their own ice hands.

It's getting dark in the room, and I can't see the snow. But I know that snowflakes are flying all over the sky. It landed on the roof and woodpile, in the cleaned yard, on the road far and near. I won't go out until the snow stops. Unlike in the past, every time it snows for the first time, I will stand under the eaves and watch it for a long time with inexplicable excitement, or walk barefoot into the heavy snow, as if to let the snow know that there is such a person in the world, but I don't know that the cold has pegged my fresh young life.

After many winters, I gradually realized that I couldn't escape the snow. No matter whether I curl up in the house or in other places in winter, the falling snowflakes will fall during a period of time I have experienced. When a person's years are as empty as the wilderness, he can't take care of himself.

Just like now, I'm sitting by the fire, trying to warm myself up. One of my bones is exposed to the cold wind outside the house, and it hurts faintly. That's my frozen bone years ago. I can't pick it up and bake it by the fire like an ox bone. The snowy road before dawn is frozen forever.

I was fourteen years old that winter, and I was driving an ox cart to pull firewood in the desert. At that time, the whole village relied on a shrub called Haloxylon ammodendron which grew in the desert to keep warm for the winter. Because of the constant cutting and digging, it is getting farther and farther away from the place where there is firewood. It often takes one day in the middle of the night to pull back a load of firewood. Every time I pull firewood, my mother gets up in the middle of the night to cook, pack water and buns, and then wakes me up. Sometimes my father will get up and help me buy a good car. My understanding of cold began from those nights.

As soon as the ox cart walked out of the village, the cold came from all directions, and the little warmth you brought out from home was completely searched out, leaving only the cold in your body.

That night was no colder than other nights.

It's just that I drove an ox cart into the desert alone. In the past, as soon as the ox cart came out of the village, it would hear the sound of other ox carts walking on the snowy road near and far, and the faint shouts of the drivers. As long as you hurry for a while, you will catch up with one or several ox carts to pull firewood, and a long line will walk slowly in the leaden winter night. I don't think it was cold that night. Because the cold wind is blowing a few people, several ox carts from the same village, neighboring village, known and unknown are on this night road to keep out the cold.

This time, a wild cold wind blew me alone. It seems that the cold has cleared everything else. Now it's all about me.

Wrapped in a sheepskin coat, I climbed motionless on the ox cart, afraid to yell at the cow, for fear that I would be colder. From that night on, I learned to hide the warmth-in the cold wind, the little warmth in my body is retreating to a hidden distance that I sometimes find difficult to find-and I used this hidden warmth to save my love and life for many years to come. My relatives all say that I am a very cold person. No, I gave you all my warmth.

Many years later, there was a cold wind. When I thought it was hot and warm, and I was no longer immersed in the cold, I found it useless to put on thick cotton-padded clothes. Life itself has winter, and it has come.

After dawn, the ox cart finally reached the place where there was firewood. One of my legs froze and I lost consciousness. I tried to jump out of the car with my other leg, leaning against the firewood stick for a while, making a fire for a while and barely walking. I have a headache in a bone on my leg, which is a kind of pain I have never experienced before, like a needle sticking to the bone and drilling hard into the bone marrow. This pain lasted until all the cold days in winter and summer.

When the sun went down, I came home with half a car full of firewood. When my dad saw it, he asked me: How did you pull this firewood? It's not enough for two days. I didn't say anything. I didn't tell my family that my legs were frozen.

I think the weather will warm up soon.

If that winter had been shorter and the stove at home had been brighter, if I had paid more attention to this leg, maybe I could have warmed up. But not now. How many seasons have passed, tonight, I hold the stove, in that distant winter, I am no longer warm; The one who accidentally fell into the ice hole on the way to school and ran back covered in ice; I, stamping my frozen feet and covering my ears, waited anxiously outside a door … I couldn't call them back to the warm fire. I have prepared a lot of firewood this winter. I'm only thirty years old, and I'm sure I can survive this winter.

But there must be someone around me who can't spend the winter like me. They were detained. Winter always lengthens a person year after year, first a leg, a bone, a look, a mood … then a lifetime.

I once let a frosty passer-by into the house on a cold morning and poured him a cup of hot tea. That is an old man who has many winter colds. When he sat by my fire, it turned pale at once. I didn't ask his name, but on the other side of the stove, I felt the biting cold coming from an old man.

He didn't say anything. I think his words must be frozen hard and it will take some time to melt away.

About half an hour later, he stood up, nodded to me, opened the door and left. I thought he was warming up.

The next afternoon, I heard that a person froze to death in the west of the village. I ran over and saw an old man lying on the side of the road, half of his face buried in the snow.

I saw a man freeze to death for the first time.

I can't believe he is dead. There must be a little warmth hidden in his life, but we can't see it. We can't see a person's last weak struggle; We can't hear calls and groans.

We think he is dead. I'm completely frozen.

How can I keep him warm? Leave what. His old cotton-padded coat with holes and exposed cotton? Shoes that fall off when the bottom grinding is fast? His mood is colder than the sum of many winters. ...

We cannot see all the snowflakes in one's life. Everyone spends the winter alone in his own life. We can't help anyone. My little fire is obviously nine Niu Yi hairs to this poor man. His cold is too bad.

I have an aunt who lives in the village across the river. Many years ago, in those winters, my brothers often walked hand in hand across the frozen horse and river to visit her. Every time before I leave, my aunt always says; It's very hot. Let your mother come and make a scene.

My aunt is old and ill. She is always worried that she will not survive this winter. When it's cold, she stays indoors, snuggles up in the low adobe house, holds the stove and waits for the arrival of spring.

When a person is old, he is so eager for spring. Although spring has come, not a leaf has sprouted and not a flower has blossomed. In this way, spring came to the earth and entered other people's lives. But she still longs for spring, and she is afraid of the cold.

I have never forgotten this sentence of my aunt, and I have told my mother more than once. Mom just looked at me and was busy with her work. Mom is not alone in winter. She has five or six immature children. She had to drag a child through the winter in order not to catch cold. She is as eager for spring as her aunt.

It's hot, my mother will take us across the river and visit my aunt in the other village. Menstruation will also come out of the mud house where he lived for a winter, basking in the warm sun in the yard, talking and laughing with us ... How many years have passed, and we haven't waited until this spring. It seems that the "day" in aunt's sentence has never been hot.

One winter a few years later, my aunt died and I went home for the New Year. I remember that it was the fourth day of the Lunar New Year, and I accompanied my mother back along a road that was about to thaw. Mother told me that my aunt died on that road. She said, "Your aunt died."

Mother said so flatly, as if to say something that has nothing to do with death.

"How did you die?" I seem to ask a plain question.

Mom didn't answer me directly. She just said, "Your eldest brother and your younger brother used to help with the funeral."

After a while, we didn't talk about it again, just walked quietly. When we were near the door, my mother said, it's too hot.

I looked up at my mother. She was steaming all over, perhaps because of walking, but it really got hot. For my mother, this winter has passed.

"It's really hot. Come and make a noise. " I remembered my aunt's words again. This spring no longer belongs to my aunt. She survived many winters and was retained by this one. I remember my grandparents died in the winter a few years ago. Mother is still alive. We will have fewer and fewer relatives in the world. I told myself that whether it is cold or hot, we will always come and sit with my mother.

The mother raised her seven children. She is getting old. We seven grown-up children may be able to block a trace of cold for our mother. Whenever the children come home, the mother will be particularly happy, and the family will suddenly add a lively atmosphere.

However, my mother's bright sideburns make me feel that her winter has come alone, the snow has begun to linger, and the frost has not melted-whether spring comes or not, it is still the filial piety and warmth of my children.

Thirty years of such a life distance, I feel my mother's cold heart alone in winter. There's nothing I can do.

The snow is getting heavier and heavier. It was completely dark.

I held the stove and warmed a moment in my long life. I know that beyond this moment, my remaining years, the years of my loved ones, are all in the heavy snow outside the house, blown away by the cold wind.

Creation background

Liu Liangcheng said that what he wrote in his prose was the most basic things, such as people, animals, land, homes and so on. In his works, everything from cold wind, heavy snow, fire and livestock to a grass seed and an ant has feelings and spirituality, and has become a part of people's life and even life. Liu Liangcheng can find life consciousness in the most common phenomena in daily life and cause philosophical thinking. The cold wind blows through people's life, and the winter of life will come. From an old man who froze to death, Liu Liangcheng realized the sadness in his later years and created works and essays.

Make an appreciative comment

This is a cold and dignified lyric prose. Taking the cold memory as a clue, the article shows readers the inner world of a person tortured by hard life. There are familiarity and fear of cold wind and blizzard, as well as understanding and care for relatives. It contains deep feelings in a simple narrative, which seems dull, but it shows a true feeling of life. From the excerpts, the author thinks that "cold" is a passerby freezing to death on the roadside, that menstruation died in a winter, and then he worries that his mother will leave in the cold in the near future. Because of the abundance of material, the "cold wind" has become a pleasing scenery in the city, but in the countryside, people can't escape the laws of nature. In the natural environment, villagers can deeply feel the cold in this long river of time, because it has become an inevitable life process in life, just like people can't resist birth, aging, illness and death. The simplicity of life and the impossibility of giving up the humble family ties converge into a struggling, obedient and helpless life movement in the author's pen, which penetrates time and space and tells the essence of life. This profound feeling is hard to find in urbanites, but it is truly displayed in village people. [3]

In this article, the author takes a snowy day when he was thirty as the starting point of the narrative. In this snowy day, snuggling up to the stove, touching life and feeling the winter. The article uses this scene to connect "fourteen-year-old me ... now me" and menstruation's mother who has been separated from me for 30 years. The author tells a story about his own life experience and life sentiment in a narrative way.

Winter means different things to me at different ages. Before I was fourteen, I was full of excitement and curiosity about winter. At the age of fourteen, I have my own understanding of cold. Thirty-year-old "I" have a deeper understanding of the cold, and I will also prepare firewood for the winter before the snow comes. Memories of menstruation and my mother, who were separated from me for 30 years, also hint at my future. My aunt's sentence "It's hot and noisy" and my mother's indifference to my aunt's death. Let "I" understand that everyone has their own winter and will be retained by it. This is our destiny.

There are two aspects about the cold, which the author wants to tell readers: on the one hand, the harsh living environment and the extreme lack of materials make life exposed to the arrogance of the cold wind and unable to resist the destruction of the cold; On the other hand, the bad living conditions also dispel the warmth between people to the greatest extent, and life suffers from indifference and loneliness. In particular, "I" spent a day pulling back half a car of firewood in the middle of the night, and my father only gave me a slightly reproachful question: "How did I pull this firewood? Aren't these two days enough? " The huge pressure of survival made his father too busy to take care of the despair of a boy of 14 years old in the desert where the cold wind raged. The author first tasted the cold in winter and realized that the same cold interpersonal relationship is more threatening to lonely individuals.

The author's narrative technique is very special. With the present "I", I think of the fourteen-year-old "I", and I use many sentences like "many years later" to imagine the future. My memory keeps jumping and flashing at different stages of my life. This paper compares the life experiences of menstruation and his mother, which consciously leads to the disorder of narrative time.

At the same time, readers can clearly feel the author's attitude towards life in writing. On the whole, the author's attitude towards people's living conditions and life is pessimistic and resigned, but under the sad background, the author still has not given up his pursuit and yearning for a better life, and there are still some warm words and emotional bright colors in his words. It is mentioned in the article that the author imagines that when it is hot, the mother leads her children across the river to visit her aunt, which also reflects the author's longing for a warm life. There are also articles that repeatedly express the author's concern for relatives and others.

Brief introduction of the author

Liu Liangcheng was born in a small village on the edge of Gurbantunggut Desert in Xinjiang. He has poems such as Sunbathing on the Huangshaliang, Prose Collection, Courtyard Gate in the Wind, One's Village, Kuqa and so on. Known as "the last essayist in China in the 20th century" and "village philosopher". The collection of essays "One Man's Village" was published in Xinjiang People's Publishing House on 1998, which attracted the keen attention of Xinjiang literary circles the following year. 1999 10 Tianya magazine, which enjoys a high reputation in China's literary world, published Liu Liangcheng's Essays in the headline position and distributed articles recommended by critics and writers such as Li Rui, Li Tuo, Fang Fang, Nan Fan and Jiang Zidan. In April, 20001,Liu Liangcheng won the second Feng Mu Prize for Literature.