Mountains and Water City: Reflections on ‘A Sorrowful Blue’
Had it not been for reading 'A Sorrowful Blue', I would not have recalled having been to Xiangxi.
Shen Congwen's idyllic paradise is his memory of Xiangxi, my own is the Lushan I have always cherished, to the point that whenever I write something resembling tranquil, idyllic paradise, I always bring up Lushan.
Within my heart, the radiance of Lushan seems to have already been overshadowed by Zhangjiajie. Perhaps it was because at that time I was so young that I couldn't remember other mountains like Tianmen Mountain or Tianzi Mountain, finding them just more crowded and noisy than ordinary mountains. As for Huanglong Cave and the Jin River, even seeing the photos we took at the time, I would still ask myself, 'Did I really go there?'
If asked what I could remember, the answer would be those mysterious and bizarre stories. Like, late-night corpse deliveries, poisons, men being thrown into the mountains for trials… The most memorable was a story about a person who contracted an incurable illness, drinking a potion made with nine chopsticks, and miraculously recovered, only to go to the hospital for an X-ray, where the nine chopsticks vanished without a trace. My memory of Xiangxi is like this—a mysterious and frightening place.
If you carefully think about it, you still have a vague impression of Fenghuang Ancient Town.
It was a small town nestled among the mountains, and that year it hadn't yet been so heavily affected by commercialism, probably like Chengdong as described by Shen Congwen—built into the mountains, situated by the river, with boats coming and going, and bustling streets in front of the hanging houses. It seemed that the noise and crowds of a big city wouldn't make it feel chaotic or crowded.
As for the details, I remember visiting a dyeing workshop, where several women were busy with tie-dyeing and wax-dyeing. The dyed fabrics were hung on ropes, creating a closed space in the sunlight as they drifted in the wind. Stepping into this space, the world outside was shut out, allowing one to explore the quiet and beautiful feelings within.
I once stood on the streets of Hong Kong, Times Square, watching people walking briskly and swiftly, with towering buildings surrounding them. This, too, seemed to be a closed space, giving a strong sense of oppression. Because I didn't match the city's serious and hurried pace.
Perhaps because I had experienced the beauty of Xiangxi, I'm more inclined to believe that Cui Cui will one day see the Nuosheng ceremony. People who grow up in such an environment are naturally benevolent. Grandpa is kind and honest, like a ferryman offering selfless service, and Cui Cui is 'eyeing emerald green mountains and clear waters, with bright, crystalline eyes… she's innocent and lively, always behaving like a little animal, and never thinking of cruel things, or worrying, or getting angry.' How can someone who grew up in this 'idyllic paradise' adapt to the outside world?
