People ask me what I fear most. My answer: the sound of knocking on the door. In this city, I've moved five times, each time to the same one- or two-bedroom apartment, the door constantly pounded on like a drum.
I used to open the door whenever there was a knock, running out of my study shouting, "Coming! Coming!" But it was always some random person, someone from all walks of life, all there to cause me trouble. I would endlessly entertain them, and I felt my hair turning white strand by strand. After that, I resolutely refused to open the door without an appointment, but the knocking prevented me from reading and writing; I could only wait for them to leave.
A cunning rabbit has three burrows; I think I'm less than a rabbit. In such a big city, with millions of houses, why isn't there a secret place somewhere else where I can sleep peacefully and read and write? Of course, I don't dare dream of a grand mansion with a gate to keep out the knocking, just a small room with a table and a bed, but I can't have that.
I'm not someone who doesn't need friends. Besides reading and writing, I also like to invite a few friends over for drinks, chats, games, and mahjong. But often, the friends I miss don't come, and those who come are people I don't want to see. I've stubbornly refused to open the door, shutting out several relatives from my hometown. They're busy people; they knock a few times, assume I'm not home, and leave, leaving me regretting it later. What I can't stop are those superiors who want me to write banners for them, those who want me to attend some kind of event, or those who have nothing better to do than drop by for a bit of fun. They have plenty of free time; they knock in the morning and get no answer, then they knock again in the afternoon, and if they can't get an answer today, they'll knock again tomorrow. Perhaps they'll even be squatting outside the door or downstairs. They're hunters, waiting for their prey to emerge. As
Chen Jiru of the Ming Dynasty said, "A closed door is like a deep mountain," but how can a closed door be a deep mountain?
Or perhaps, "That means you're doing well." But I'm not doing well. Could someone who's doing well live in such a small house? If I were an official, I would receive lavish gifts from guests, and after discussing my request, they would leave, saying, "I won't bother you any longer; you've worked hard and need to rest." But those who come to me arrive empty-handed, only offering me their cigarettes and tea. If I were a singer or movie star, I would be engaged in a noisy profession, but what kind of writing could I produce amidst all that noise? Reading Chen Jiru's essays again, I realize that Mr. Chen, even in his lifetime, likely faced many disturbances. He once considered becoming a recluse, but he said, "Recluses often till the land, but my bones are too weak; I cannot fish or hunt, but I forbid killing; I cannot own two acres of land and eight hundred mulberry trees, but my land is barren; I cannot live a life of hardship and hunger." Like Chen Jiru, all I can do is "live a simple life in seclusion and write." But I've lived a simple life for decades, and writing is merely for livelihood and hobby. How can I possibly live a secluded life? Thinking back on my writing career, I've faced attacks every few years, constantly subjected to slander, my fate constantly knocking on the door. When has my soul ever found peace? And the knocking on my door never ceased, each sound startling me. A child prayed for a perpetually full moon, for days to be as bright as day, but I long for eternal night, for snow and rain to fall, so that the knocking would never stop
. But how could that be? I must live, I still have grand ambitions, I still have elderly parents to care for and young children to raise; the world is a complex place, and my door will likely continue to be knocked upon. My fate is to be forever knocked upon; my door is destined to be knocked upon. One day when I die, my tombstone may read: This person was finally knocked to death!
Comments
Post a Comment