A famous article describing the spring rain. Zhu Ziqing's Spring and Poetry are excluded. Attention is modern.

Author: Yu Guangzhong

After the shock, the cold in spring intensified. First, the material is steep, and then the rainy season begins, sometimes dripping, sometimes wet, even in the dream, it seems to have an umbrella. With an umbrella, you can avoid a cold rain and the whole rainy season. Even my thoughts are wet. Going home every day, it is a dream to walk into the rain and wind from Jinmen Street to Xiamen Street. It's sad to think of Taipei like this. This is a completely black-and-white movie. I think the whole history of China and China is nothing more than a black-and-white movie. It rained like this from beginning to end. I wonder if this feeling comes from antonioni. But that land was a long time ago. Twenty-five years, a quarter of a century, even if it rains, Qian Shan is full of water, and the umbrella is across Qian Shan. In fifteen years, everything was broken, only the climate, only the weather forecast was involved, and a big cold current rolled in from that land. This indifference is shared with the ancient continent. It is a comfort to your children that you can't jump into her arms and be swept by her skirt.

When I think so, I feel a little warm in the cold. In this way, he hopes that these narrow alleys will extend forever, and his thinking can also be extended, not from Jinmen Street to Xiamen Street, but from Jinmen to Xiamen. He is from Xiamen, at least in a broad sense. For twenty years, he has been living in Xiamen Street instead of Xiamen, which is a mockery and a comfort. But in a broad sense, he is also a Jiangnan native, a Changzhou native, a Nanjing native, a Chuanwaer, and a teenager in a broad sense. The apricot blossom and spring rain in the south of the Yangtze River was his boyhood. It will be clear in half a month. Antonioni's lens tossed and turned, tossed and turned. Residual water is like water, and the earth after heaven is like water. There are thousands of people from north to south. Is there porcelain in it? China, of course, will always be China. It's just that the apricot blossom and spring rain are gone, the shepherd boy no longer gives directions, the sword gate is drizzling, and the dust in Weicheng is gone. However, where is the land he dreams of day and night?

In the headlines of the newspaper? Or is it a rumor in Hong Kong? Or black keys Bai Encong's jumping bow and plucking strings? Or is it the hope of antonioni's mirror-ending horse week? Or, in the walls and glass cabinets of the Palace Museum, in the rhyme of Taibai Dongpo in the sound of gongs and drums in Beijing Opera?

Apricot flowers and spring rain in the south of the Yangtze River. Liuge, maybe that piece of soil is in it. Whether it is Chixian, Shenzhou or China, it is changing. As long as Cang Xie's inspiration persists and the beautiful China people are not old, the centripetal force of that image will surely grow. Because a square character is a world. At the beginning, there were words, so the memories and hopes of his ancestors were pinned in the hearts of Han people. For example, write a word "rain" out of thin air, dribs and drabs, torrential rain, all love and rain will be in it. What kind of visual beauty can rain or pluie satisfy? Jin Mu, like fire and water, has become the world by itself. When you enter the "Rain" Department, the ancient China is ever-changing, and you will notice that beautiful frost, snow, clouds and terrible thunder and hail only show God's good temper and bad temper, and the Meteorological Observatory takes pains to read an encyclopedia that laymen can't understand.

Listen, the cold rain. Look at that cold rain. Smell it, cold rain, lick it, cold rain. Rain falls on his umbrella, raincoats on the umbrellas of millions of people in this city, and antennas on houses. It's raining on the ship in the breakwater channel of Keelung Port, and it's raining this season. Rain is a woman and should be the most emotional. Rain is empty and psychedelic. Smell it carefully Fresh and refreshing, with a little mint flavor. When it is thick, it gives off a faint smell of earth behind the grass trees. Maybe it smells like earthworms and snails. After all, it was a shock. Maybe the life on the ground and underground, maybe the memories of ancient China are all silly crawling, maybe the subconscious and dreams of plants are tense and fishy.

When I went to America for the third time, I lived in the mountains of Denver for two years. The western United States is mountainous and desert, and it is dry for thousands of miles. The sky is as blue as Anglo-Saxon eyes, the ground is as red as Indian skin, and clouds are rare. There are few clouds and fog on the dazzling snow peaks in the Loki Mountains. One is high, the other is dry, and the third is above the forest line, and the cedar has stopped. "Clouds Wangfu interest? Free and easy in my chest "or" Yellow Rain in Shang Lue "in China's poems is an ugly landscape in the Rocky Mountains. The victory of the Rocky Mountains lies in stones and snow. Those jagged rocks overlap and depend on each other, creating a thrilling sculpture exhibition for the sun and wind thousands of miles away. White and illusory snow, cold and clear, endless momentum makes people feel hard to breathe, cold and sour. However, if you want to appreciate the realm of "clouds, when I look back, I can't see anything when the green dew comes out", you still have to come to China. The humidity in Taiwan Province Province is very high, and the cloudiest atmosphere is the misty artistic conception of rain. I stayed at the head of the stream for two nights. The trees were fragrant and the cold hit my elbow at night. I slept like a fairy, with overlapping mountain shadows and thousands of ornaments. It rained all night in the mountains and woke up the next morning. In the primitive silence where the rising sun did not rise, I ventured into the secret of the forest, walked all the way up the mountain through the broken branches on the ground and the trickling rain, facing the cold all night. The mountain at the head of the stream is dense with trees and dense fog. The lush water vapor rises from the bottom of the Ran Ran, sometimes thick and sometimes light, and the transpiration changes. It is almost impossible to see the hidden peaks and valleys just from the open space where the fog breaks through the clouds. Go up the mountain at least twice, and you can only play hide-and-seek with Xitoufeng in the white. Back in Taipei, the world asked me, except for smiling and pretending to be mysterious, the actual impression was nothing more than nothing. The scenery of China is shrouded in clouds and mountains hidden in water, giving people the charm of Song painting. The world may be Zhao's, but the landscape is rice. But after all, it's hard to say whether the three fathers and sons wrote the landscapes of China or whether the landscapes of China were just Song Like's paintings.

Rain is not only audible and amiable, but also audible. Listen to the cold rain. Listening to the rain, as long as it is not a rock-breaking typhoon and rainstorm, will always be an aesthetic feeling of hearing. Autumn in the mainland, whether it is raindrops, phoenix trees or showers hitting lotus leaves, always sounds a little bleak, sad and sad. Memories on the island today add a layer of sadness, and you lose a lot of pride and chivalry. I'm afraid you can't stand repeated blows. A dozen teenagers are dizzy from listening to the rain. Listening to the rain in middle age, the river in the boat is wide and the clouds are low. More than 30 bald monks listened to the rain, which was the pain of Song's death. The life of a sensitive soul: upstairs, by the river, in the temple, made of cold rain beads. Ten years ago, he lost himself in a heartbreaking ghost rain Rain should be a drop of wet soul, who is calling outside the window.

Rain hits trees and tiles, and the rhythm is crisp and audible. Especially the clang on the roof tiles, belongs to China's ancient music. Huanggang, Yu Wang, is a roof tile, as broken as a rafter. It is said that living on the bamboo building, the sound of rain is like a waterfall, the sound of dense snow is louder than the sound of broken jade, and * * * singing, whether playing drums, reciting poems, playing chess or throwing pots, has a particularly good effect. Isn't it like living in a bamboo tube? I'm afraid any fragile sound will be doubled and exaggerated, but it will make the ears allergic.

Rainy roof tiles, with wet streamers, are gloomy and gentle, with dim light and dark backlight, which is a low comfort to vision. As for the rain hitting thousands of scaly tiles, from far and near, it is gentle and heavy, with a trickle flowing down the tile trough and eaves. All kinds of tapping and sliding sounds are closely woven into a net, and whose fingers are massaging the helix. "It's raining", the gentle grey beauty came, and her cold hands flicked countless black keys grey keys on the roof, turning noon into dusk.

On the ancient continent, thousands of families are like this. More than 20 years ago, when I first came to this island, so did the Japanese-style tile houses. First, it was dark, the city was shrouded in huge frosted glass, and the shadows were elongated and deepened indoors. Then the cool water filled the space, and the wind whirled from every corner, feeling that the heavy breathing on every roof was shrouded in gray clouds. It's raining, and the lightest percussion is beating the city. Broad roofs, far and near, knock on them one by one. Guqin, with its fine and dense rhythm, has its own softness and kindness in monotony. It's like a fantasy. If you were in the cradle when you were a child, a familiar nursery rhyme wobbled and your mother sang nasally and guttural. Still in Zeguo Water Town in the south of the Yangtze River, a large basket of green mulberry leaves was chewed by hundreds of silkworms, chewing with mouthparts and mouthparts. It's raining, Waer said so, Yier said 100 billion Waer said, said to play soft and heavy, knock a rainy season slowly, improvise from shock to Qingming, coldly play elegy on scattered graves and sing 100 billion Waer.

Old-fashioned houses listen to the sound of rain in April, and it rains day and night in Huang Meiyu, and the ten-day month stretches. Wet sticky moss has invaded the root of the tongue and the bottom of my heart from the stone steps. In July, listening to the typhoon and rain beating blindly on the ancient roof all night, a thousand layers of boiling heat waves under the sea were carried by strong winds, overturning the whole Pacific Ocean just to press heavily on his low eaves, and the whole sea rushed over his scorpion shell. Otherwise, it will be a thunderstorm night, and the veil of white smoke is full of drums. shanghai dawn, the powerful electric pipa is uneasy, and the shock of playing roof tiles is about to begin. Otherwise, the oblique northwest rain is obliquely brushed on the window glass, and the whip hits the wide banana leaves on the wall. A cold wave came to my face, and autumn wet the old courtyard.

Listen to the rain in the old-fashioned old house, listen to the intermittent autumn rain in the spring rain, and listen to the cold rain from teenagers to middle age. Rain is a monotonous and lasting music, whether it is indoor music or outdoor music. Listen to indoor and outdoor, cold and cold, music. Rain is a music of memory. Listening to the cold rain, I still remember that it rained all over the south of the Yangtze River. On bridges and boats, there were rice fields and frog ponds in Sichuan, which enriched the cooing of wet cuckoos under the Jialing River. Rain licks the cold rain on eager lips with moist music.

Because rain is the most primitive percussion music, it starts from the other side of memory. Tile is the lowest musical instrument, and the gray gentleness covers the people who listen to the rain. The umbrella of music supports the tiles. But the apartment era is coming soon. Why did you suddenly grow taller in Taipei? Wa's music became a masterpiece. Ten thousand tiles are flying, and beautiful gray butterflies fly away one after another, flying into the memory of history. Now it's raining on concrete roofs and walls, a rainy season without rhythm. Trees have also been cut down, laurel, maple, willow and huge coconut in the sky, and there are no noisy leaves and flashing wet green light to meet the arrival of rain. In autumn, there are fewer birds chirping, frogs giggling and insects chirping. Taipei in the 1970s didn't need these, and one band after another was disbanded. If you want to hear the cock crow, you can only look for it in the rhyme of the Book of Songs. Now there is only one black-and-white film, black-and-white silent film.

Just as the era of carriages has passed, so have the porters of tricycles. Once, on a rainy night, the tarpaulin of a tricycle was hung. On the way home, the world in the tent was much smaller and more lovely, and it was hidden outside the jurisdiction of the police. The bigger the raincoat pocket, the better. He can hold a slender hand in one hand. The rainy season in Taiwan Province Province is so long that someone should invent a wide raincoat for two people, so that everyone can wear a sleeve alone, and the rest need not be too harsh. No matter how developed the industry is, it seems that umbrellas can't be abandoned for a while. As long as it doesn't rain cats and dogs and the wind doesn't blow sideways, umbrellas in the rain still retain their classical charm. Let the raindrops knock on the black cloth umbrella or transparent plastic umbrella, turn the bone handle, and the raindrops splash in all directions, and the edge of the umbrella becomes a circle of cornices. Playing an umbrella with your girlfriend is a beautiful cooperation. It's best to be first love, a little excited and a little embarrassed. If you are at arm's length, it will rain harder. The real first love, I'm afraid, is so excited that I don't need an umbrella. I ran away hand in hand in the rain, handed the skin of young long hair to the sky, and then tasted the cool and sweet rain on each other's lips and cheeks. But it must be very young and passionate, and it can only happen in French trendy movies.

Most umbrellas are not opened for dating. On the way to and from work, schools and schools, as well as food markets. Reality umbrella, gray Wednesday. Hold an umbrella. He listened to the cold rain hitting his umbrella. I wish it were colder, he thought. Just freeze the wet gray rain into dry white rain, and the hexagonal crystal will fall down in the windless air. When the man's beard and shoulders turned white, he stretched out his hand and fell down. For twenty-five years, I have not been blessed by the white rain in my hometown. Perhaps sending some frost is a disguised form of self-compensation. How many rainy seasons can a hero endure? Was his forehead cut from water rock or igneous rock? How thick is the moss in his heart? The rainy lane of Xiamen Street, as long as memory, has been walking for 20 years. A tileless apartment is waiting for him at the bottom of the lane, and a lamp is in the rain window upstairs, waiting for him to go back. Through meditation after dinner, I sort out the memories deep in my hair.

Dust is separated from the ocean. The old house is gone. Listen to the cold rain.