The 128 most classic philosophical essays in the world

Chapter 123 Listen to that cold rain

[China] Yu Guangzhong (excerpt)
Listen to the rain in the old-fashioned old house, the spring rain, the autumn rain, the middle age from the teenager, and the cold rain.

The rain is not only smellable, dear, but also audible.Listen to the cold rain.Listening to the rain, as long as it is not a terrifying typhoon or rain, there is always a sense of beauty in hearing.In autumn on the mainland, whether it is sparse rain dripping phoenix trees, or showers hitting lotus leaves, there is always a little desolate, desolate, and sorrowful. Yu Jin’s aftertaste on the island is beyond the sorrow, and another layer of desolation. , I'm sorry for how heroic and chivalrous you are.A dozen young people listened to the rain, and the red candle was dizzy.Then hit the middle-aged listening to the rain, the boat in the boat is broad and the clouds are low.Under the monastery where three beating whiteheads listen to the rain, this is the pain of the Song Dynasty, the life of a sensitive soul: upstairs, on the river, in the temple, strung with cold raindrops.Ten years ago, he lost himself in a heart-breaking ghost rain.Rain, it should be a drop of wet soul, who is calling outside the window.

The rain hits the trees and tiles, and the rhythm is clear and audible.Especially when knocking on the roof tiles, that ancient music belongs to China.In Wang Yu's Huanggang, the big bamboos, broken like rafters, are roof tiles.It is said that living on a bamboo building, the sound of torrential rain is like a waterfall, and the sound of dense snow is better than that of broken jade, and the resonance effect is particularly good whether it is drums, chanting poems, playing chess, or throwing pots.Wouldn't it be like living in a bamboo and tube? Any fragile sound will be exaggerated, but it will make your ears allergic.

Roof tiles on rainy days, floating wet streamer, gray and gentle, shimmering when facing the light, and dim when backlighting, it is a kind of low comfort to the vision.As for the rain knocking on the scaled tiles with thousands of petals, from far to near, lightly and heavyly, there are trickles of streams flowing down the tile grooves and eaves, and various percussion sounds and glide sounds are densely woven into one. Wang, whose thousands of fingers are massaging the helix. "It's raining", the gentle Cinderella came, her icy slender hands flicked countless black keys and gray keys on the roof, playing the noon into dusk.

In the ancient continent, thousands of houses are like this. When I first came to this island more than 20 years ago, the same is true of the Japanese-style tile houses.First, the sky darkened, and the city seemed to be covered in a huge piece of frosted glass, and the shadows extended and deepened indoors.Then the cool water permeates the space, the wind swirls from every corner, and I can feel that every roof is heavy with gray clouds.Here comes the rain, and the lightest percussion beats the city.The vast roof, far and near, knocked one by one, the ancient piano, the fine and dense rhythm, there is a kind of softness and kindness in the monotony, bit by bit, it seems unreal, like a child in the cradle In the song, a familiar nursery rhyme swayed to sleep, and the mother sang nasal and guttural sounds.Or in the water town of Zeguo in the south of the Yangtze River, a large basket of green mulberry leaves is bitten by thousands of silkworms, chewing and chewing on tiny and trivial crumbs.The rain is coming, when the rain comes, tiles say so, one tile says hundreds of billions of tiles say, say play softly, play heavily, tap slowly, tap tat, tap intermittently a rainy season, impromptu from From Awakening to Qingming, coldly playing dirges on scattered graves, one tile sings hundreds of billions of tiles.

Listening to the rain in the old-fashioned old house, listening to April, the endless yellow plum rain, day and night, ten months and months, wet and sticky moss invades from the bottom of the stone steps to the bottom of the tongue and the bottom of the heart.In July, listening to the typhoon and typhoon playing blindly on the ancient roof all night, the heat waves of the thousand-layered seabed were boiled by the strong wind, and the entire Pacific Ocean was overturned, only to press heavily on his low eaves, and the entire sea was in his scorpion shell It went up and down.Otherwise, it will be a thunderstorm night, in the white smoke-like gauze tent, listening to the sound of the drums, the torrential rain, the powerful electric pipa, and the palpitations of bouncing the roof tiles.Otherwise, the slanting northwest rain slanted against the window panes, whipped the wall and hit the broad plantain leaves, and a cold wave passed by, dampening the old-fashioned courtyard with autumn.Listen to the rain in the old-fashioned old house, the spring rain, the autumn rain, the middle age from the teenager, and the cold rain.Rain is a kind of monotonous and durable music. Music is indoor music or outdoor music. Listen indoors, listen outdoors, cold, that music.Rain is a kind of music of memories, listen to the cold rain, recall the rain in the south of the Yangtze River, it rains all over the rivers and lakes, it falls on bridges and boats, it also rains in Sichuan in seedling fields and frog ponds, it fattens the Jialing River and wet cuckoo The cry of cooing, the rain is the moist music falling on the longing lips, licking the cold rain.

Because rain is the most original percussion music knocked from the other end of memory.Tiles are the deepest musical instruments. Gray tenderness covers those who listen to the rain. Tiles are the umbrellas of music.But soon the era of apartments came, why did you grow taller all of a sudden in Taipei, and Wa's music became an absolute hit.Thousands of tiles flutter, and beautiful gray butterflies fly away one after another, flying into the memory of history.Now it rains down on the concrete roofs and walls, rainy season without rhyme.The trees have also been cut down, the laurel, the maple, the willow and the giant coconut tree, when the rain comes, there will no longer be bushes noisy and eager, and the wet green light will greet you.The chirping of birds has decreased, the clucking of frogs has decreased, and the chirping of insects in autumn has also decreased. Taipei in the 70s didn't need these things, and one band after another was disbanded.To hear the rooster crow, you can only find it in the rhyme of the Book of Songs.Now there is only one black and white film left, a black and white silent film.

Heart mark notes
In the eyes of the sentimental and thoughtful peripheral vision, the slightly cold and damp spring rain is not just rain, but a yearning—a desolate and lingering homesickness, dripping, dripping, endless, entangled in the heart.

A cold rain has poured down for hundreds of years: "The homeland can't bear to look back in the moonlight", this is the cold rain in Li Yu's heart, soaked with deep hatred for the subjugation of the country; "Ten years of life and death are boundless", this is the cold rain in Su Shi's heart The rain exudes mourning for his dead wife; "Who is to ask, Lian Po is old, can he still have food?" This is the cold rain in Xin Qiji's heart, which cannot conceal the grief and indignation that cannot be rewarded for his ambition... In the interlacing of time and space, Different bitterness and suffering are like a cold rain, falling on the heartstrings of history.

Listen to the cold rain, not only the rain hitting the window lattice and the noise, but also the murmur of thoughts and the past, and the true calling of the soul from the heart... Let us all listen to the cold rain.

(End of this chapter)