Everywhere I go, there is always a heavy historical pressure hanging over my whole body, which makes me inexplicably moved and sighed. I often stand like a fool, sometimes full of chapters and sentences, sometimes full of blanks. I stand in the direction that the ancients must have stood, looking at the natural landscape that rarely changes with black eyes similar to those of my ancestors, and listening to the sounds of the wind and birds that are no different from those of thousands of years ago. I thought that there were many libraries collecting ancient books and universities teaching ancient culture in the big city where I lived, but the real pace of China culture fell on this vast and desolate land. The earth is silent, as long as one or two shrewd literati come forward, its long-standing cultural connotation will be vigorously rushed out; Scholars are also weak. As long as you are wrapped in this rush, you can breathe for thousands of years. So, in this seemingly ordinary moment of benevolence, people, history and nature blend together, so I have the impulse to write articles. I have expected that what I am going to write will be some strange articles with no unified style and no genre. Unexpectedly, I traveled to regain my youthful vitality, but when I put pen to paper, it looked older than any article I had written in the past.

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For such a big China, there are more than a few volumes of scriptures! Compared with the scene ruined by a lot of officials, I sometimes even want to say cruelly: I'd rather leave it in the London Museum! This sentence is not very comfortable after all. Where should the motorcade stopped by me go? It's hard here and there, so I can only let it stay in the desert and cry.

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I still can't remember what I saw during the day. I only remember that the first thing I saw was a strong blue-brown water flow, which should be the remains of the Northern Wei Dynasty. The color is thick and steady as three-dimensional, and the brushwork is heroic as a halberd. At that time, there were many stories, and many northern brave men galloped on the battlefield. Toughness and suffering merge and flow to the cave walls of grottoes. While the craftsmen were painting these caves, Tao Yuanming in the south was drinking at his dilapidated home. I don't know what kind of wine Tao Yuanming is drinking. There is no doubt that the spirit is wandering here, and there is no fragrant smell. It's just a kind of power that can make people crazy and draw a sword to help. It's a little cold, a little wild and even a little cruel here.

Mogao Grottoes

I walked blankly in the endless grave, and Eliot's The Waste Land came to my mind. This is the wasteland of China history: like the horseshoe of rain, like the cry of thunder, like the blood of notes. The loving mother in the Central Plains has white hair, the spring boudoir in the south of the Yangtze River is far away, and the children in Hunan cry at night. Farewell to my hometown in Liu Yin, the general glared at me and hunted military flags in the north wind. With a puff of smoke, another puff of smoke drifted away. I believe that the deceased, such as husband, are facing the enemy lines in northern Shuobei; I believe that they really want to look back at the last minute and take a look at the familiar land. As a result, they twisted down and became sand piles.

"Yangguan Snow" is a vast desert with surging water, which is unparalleled in the world. Only such a bay in the desert, such a quiet place in the sand, such a desolate scene and such a fall behind a high slope can win the rhythm of heaven and earth, and the ingenuity of nature is intoxicating. In this way, we can infer life, the world and history. Give calm to floating noise, clear to fanaticism, dull to high dance and bright to surge. Only in this way can life be wise, the world exquisite and history fascinating. However, people are used to all kinds of one-way exaggeration every day. Even the god of nature is crude and crude, too lazy to adjust it carefully, which makes people suffer greatly in the world.

Hidden spring on the sandy plain

Better be quiet. Since Liu Zongyuan, it has been very quiet here. Kyoto is too noisy, and Kyushu students who have been facing the wall for ten years are eager for this noise. As a result, the full economy was pounded by the hoof of the wheel, and the crisp and bright cry filled the generous heart. Only here can the glory of literature and art be extracted from Bao Chao's memorial, re-condensed into a soul and become profound. They suddenly woke up, and they were full of tension and energy. They confronted the temple and argued with historians, leaving different voices for Emperor Pu. Generations of literati, thus increasing 10% pride and 3% confidence. Civilization in Washington will not be completely dark. The imperial court never imagined that it was the royal approval sent to the southern wilderness that enlightened the national spirit.

All right, just stand there stubbornly. Tomorrow. Maybe the day after tomorrow, some tourists and some teenagers will point to these inscriptions.

Liu Hou Temple

The mountains and rivers are still there, and the historical sites are still there. It seems that the spirit is still a little. Last time I went to Suzhou, I revisited Hanshan Temple and bumped into several bells. I thought of Qu Yuan because of the poem tablet inscribed by Yu Yue. Quyuan Park is newly opened. Thanks to Mr. Pingbo and other descendants for their donations, the original appearance is suitable for people. Qu Yuan is located in a narrow alley. Because of the existence of this common gate, Suzhou once became an important place for Chinese studies in the late Qing Dynasty. Suzhou was quiet at that time, but there were countless heavy souls hidden in countless alleys and cracks. It is these souls that have accumulated long-term stubbornness for thousands of years, which has kept Suzhou's core of charm.

Baifa Suzhou

The night boat has always been a symbol of the long journey in the southern water town of China. My hometown is surrounded by mountains and very closed, but there is a river passing quietly. Every night, I can always hear Benedict's voice from the river. This is a night ship. When the boatman saw the house on the shore, he knocked on the ship's side with a wooden stick to summon the guests who were ready to travel. The villagers are used to hearing this voice every night, but in the end, perhaps the days around them are really good, or perhaps the waves of fantasy suddenly roll up in their stupid minds, and this Benedict voice has produced great temptation. I don't know which day, they had a slightly sumptuous dinner, packed their simple bags early, and sat under the flashing oil lamp with their wife and children waiting for Benedict's voice.

Night boat

The water was freezing cold and shivering. First cut off those reeds, the most beautiful reeds in the world, those reeds that can't live without Taihu Lake. The reed roots left at the bottom of the lake are as sharp as halberds, and most people's feet are bleeding. Turbid crimson whirlpools roll in the lake, just like Taihu Lake is bleeding.

Digging ideas, eliminating doubts, sorting out clues, and prioritizing, the meals cooked by the cookhouse squad began to have a surplus every day. Several small groups were cleared out, and at the meeting, the speaker's tone became more and more intense. Later, I finally said some names. The most serious crime is a beautiful, enthusiastic and sociable female student, who was nicknamed "Foreign Minister" by several male students at a class reunion before she got off the farm. She actually smiled, did not refuse, and did not expose it to the leader. "Such a reactionary group has even divided its positions, why not seize power!" The speaker's reasoning is very convincing.

One night, there was an alarm, and she was examining the disappearance. The superior ordered all the staff to search separately, and several male students found her veil by the lake.

When she was salvaged, her heart had stopped beating, and a chubby male hygienist hurriedly gave artificial respiration. After a while, it still doesn't work. The hygienist decided to give the heart a shot in the arm directly. Her clothes were torn and she lay naked in the grass on the shore. The moonlight filled her, and she really became the daughter of Taihu Lake.

Wujiang boat

The survival of ruins is a symbol of modern civilization.

The ruins reflect the confidence of modern people.

Ruins will not stop the market and hinder progress. Modern people have a profound vision and know where they stand in history. He wouldn't imagine that a high platform would rise on the ground under his feet. Therefore, he is happy to look at all the steps behind him.

What touches the ruins is modern historical philosophy, and historical philosophy also needs to find materials. Only in the hustle and bustle of modern times can the tranquility of ruins have power; Only in the meditation of modern people can the ruins rise to fables.

So the ancient ruins are really modern buildings.

historical remains