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291 pages, Hardcover
First published April 1, 1971
Trong thế giới tiểu thuyết của Bạch Tiên Dũng, sự không thể dung hòa giữa “linh hồn” và “thể xác”, hay giữa “quá khứ” và “hiện tại”, suy cho cùng, bắt nguồn từ một sự thật mà từ xưa đến nay ai cũng biết: thời gian không ngừng trôi. Thời gian, không vì ai mà ngừng trôi, thanh xuân, không vì ai mà lưu lại một khắc.
- Lời bình của Âu Dương Tử -
Trong thời gian này, Chu Thanh thường ở lại với tôi. Đôi khi tôi dạy cô ấy nấu ăn, đôi khi tôi dạy cô ấy đan lát, và đôi khi tôi dạy cô ấy chơi một vài viên mạt chược.
“Thứ này là thuốc chữa bách bệnh,” tôi cười nói với cô ấy, “Nếu cô có điều gì băn khoăn, hãy ngồi lên bàn, trộn nó và quên đi mọi thứ.”
Và thời gian, thời gian không ngừng nghỉ, không bao giờ dừng trôi, cứ luôn luôn tiếp tục. Dù bạn là một vị tướng toàn năng hay một nam nhân ít học, dù bạn là một tuyệt sắc giai nhân hay một kỹ nữ hạng thấp thì cuối cùng cũng như nhau, thời gian sẽ bào mòn tuổi trẻ của bạn và cuối cùng biến nó thành một đống tro tàn.
Tất cả những thành tựu to lớn, tất cả vinh quang và sự giàu có, chỉ có thể là tạm thời, và cuối cùng sẽ biến mất. Tất cả những tiếng cười, tất cả những giọt nước mắt, tất cả niềm vui, tất cả nỗi đau, cuối cùng tất cả đều là sự trống rỗng bởi vì cuộc sống là hữu hạn.
Đời là hư vô. Một giấc mơ. Một niềm nhớ.
-Lời bình của Âu Dương Tử -
‘She had travelled to Mt. Chingcheng in Szechwan—and had become the disciple of a learned priest from the White Cloud Temple—She had many followers, most of them middle-aged women; some of them were quite prominent socially. Although they were financially secure, they nevertheless felt empty at heart, and so on the first and fifteenth of each month they would stop their mah-jong or subscription-bidding and come in groups to Granny Wu’s parlour.’
‘‘Those books,’ he sneered. ‘They’re stashed away in the library, and probably only some American student working on his Ph.D. would want to flip through them.’ As Professor Yü got up, Wu Chu-kuo suddenly seized his hand. ‘—let me tell you the truth.’ He looked up at Professor Yü. ‘I wrote those books only in order to satisfy the requirements of the American universities. If you don’t publish, they won’t hire you or you won’t get promoted, so every couple of years I grind out a book. If I didn’t have to publish, I wouldn’t have written a single one of them.’’
‘To tell the truth—and I’m not just sticking up for us folks from Kweilin—in a place like our Kweilin, with its heavenly scenery, you’d expect the people to be a bit extraordinary, too—how could the likes of them compare with us Kweilin folk? You take any of us, man or woman, some of the natural beauty of our mountains and waters is sure to have rubbed off on us—Back home there were green hills everywhere—your eyes’ll grow brighter just by looking at them—and blue waters—Those days I never dreamed I’d ever live in a dump like Taipei—a typhoon one year, an earthquake the next. It doesn’t matter what kind of beauty you are, this weather is enough to ruin anybody’s looks.’
‘I’m always afraid one day (she) will lose her life to that King of Hell. A couple of times I’ve taken her horoscope to be read; they’ve all said she’s got an extraordinarily violent destiny—One time I went in to find her sitting—on the bed, holding a wad of crisp hundred-dollar bills, counting this way and that, over and over, like a little child playing with bubble-gum cards.’
‘He didn’t eat much, didn’t spend much—singing a little opera, he didn’t have any vices at all—He raised chickens with the money he earned from this extra tutoring—One mid-September day, when the heat of early autumn came in fierce as a tiger—I noticed him sitting alone grinning to himself. ‘Happy news—?’ I asked. He blushed right away. Then he groped around in his pockets until he finally fished out an envelope of coarse paper, yellowed, but carefully folded—The waiting made him so fidgety that just by looking at him I could tell that though his body was still here his soul had flown off someplace else.’
‘She stooped and inhaled deeply. The dozens of waist-high plants poured forth chrysanthemums, great balls of them, cluster upon cluster, crystal puffs as big as your fist, of a feathery white like new-fallen snow— Everybody says this is the superior white chrysanthemum in Taiwan—it’s a little too delicate, though. They were planted last year and at first almost all of them withered and died, so she told the gardener to mulch them with chicken-feather ashes all spring long, and then they came back to life again.’
‘Madame Wan is taking Japanese lessons—Madame Hua plucked a double-calyx chrysanthemum, its twin blossoms quivering in the wind. But how well she knows Pearl Wan, that vain woman with a tongue sharp enough to kill; if you give her a flower the least bit too small you can be sure she’ll make your life a misery over it.’
‘—like rotten dumplings; some had only just begun to droop—their petals had turned a rusty yellow. A few of the rotted blossoms, spotted and streaked, were covered with crawling “chrysanthemum tigers” chewing at the flowers’ hearts, from which a murky amber juice kept dripping. A gust of wind whipped by; mingled with the cool perfume of the perfect flowers Madame Hua could smell the rank, pungent odour of rotting plants. Pain jolted her heart; she vaguely remembered—The hundred or more chrysanthemum plants in their garden were all the famous variety—people all said that the crabs in Yangch’eng Lake suddenly fattened and the chrysanthemums—blossomed more luxuriantly than ever.’
‘‘Madame, the car has already been brought round.’ Madame Hua raised her head and saw the old gardener Huang Yu-hsin standing there on the stone path. His eyebrows were white, he was white at the temples, his back was bent; he stood there shivering, holding a bamboo broom for sweeping the fallen leaves. Madame Hua hesitated a moment and abstractedly picked another chrysanthemum—’Huang Yu-hsin—’ Madame Hua walked a few steps, then stopped. ‘Yes, Madame,’ Huang Yu-hsin replied, staying his broom. ‘Go and trim those chrysanthemums a little; quite a few have already wilted.’’
‘‘These young—ignorant of the current conditions—blindly worshipped Western culture and had a superstitious belief in Western democracy and science. This gave rise to unprecedented confusion in the Chinese intellectual world. But this generation, which had grown up in a patriarchal society and which had neither a system of independent thought nor persistence of willpower, suddenly found itself bereft of its spiritual sustenance once the Confucian tradition crumbled; then, like a tribe of parricidal sons, they began to waver in panic; they became lost—they had overthrown Confucius, their spiritual father—carrying the heavy burden of their guilt, they set out on their spiritual self-exile. Some hurled themselves into the arms of totalitarianism; some turned back and embraced the remnants of their long-since-shattered tradition; some fled abroad—Some—scholars have called it a Chinese Renaissance, but I consider it at best an aborted Renaissance.’ As soon as he finished, there was great agitation in the audience—all of whom turned to look at me, thinking I would certainly stand up to speak. But I didn’t say a word and quietly left the conference room.’
‘‘Every night,’ she said in a hushed voice, ‘I hear someone watering the garden.’ She had told me my aunt was a hopeless neurotic—all her life she loved to talk about ghosts. When I walked out into the garden, I was stunned to see those hundred or so azaleas, one mound piled on another mound, one wave churning up another wave, all exploding in riotous bloom as if a chestful of fresh blood suddenly had shot forth from an unstanchable wound and sprayed the whole garden, leaving marks and stains everywhere, blood-red. I had never seen azaleas bloom with such abandon, and so angrily—a bunch of girls were playing hide-and-seek in the garden; they cut to and fro through the sea of blood-red azaleas. Peal after peal, with ever-heightening insistence, the little girls’ shrill, ringing laughter reverberated through the bright spring day.’
‘The cuckoo is said to sing unceasingly through the spring for his—love, until he spits blood, which is transformed into tu-chüan flowers, or azaleas. The Chinese literary tradition also maintains that the singing of the cuckoo evokes homesickness in the exile.’