Reading Xue Xiaochan's Prose

Xue Xiaochan's Prose 1: Reading Xue Xiaochan

Reading Xue Xiaochan

As the saying goes: carrots and vegetables have their own love. This statement is not false at all.

Recently, I fell in love with Xue Xiaochan and spent a few days reading some of her prose collections. The more I read, the more I like them. Although Xue Xiaochan is now a best-selling author, she is also one of the 100 contracted writers of the well-known magazine Reader, and has won the title of readers' favorite writer for many times. But it was many years ago that I first looked at her things. Ever since I found the name Xue Xiaochan in a magazine, I have fallen in love with paranoia, as well as Mo Xiaomi and Ye. What I saw at that time was mostly scattered and the length was not long. Feeling ethereal and elegant, love at first sight.

Introduce friends to see Xue Xiaochan, all of whom love literature. Because of their temperament, they exchange their ideas after reading. Some people say that Xue Xiaochan's things seem out of touch, while others say that they are obviously not suitable for people with a little experience. Of course, without exception, they are all boastful, beautiful and gorgeous, and have no style. However, I haven't read novels. I have read all the essays, especially the city she read. Every city is vivid in her works, with history, humanity and personal feelings. Tang and Song poetry is handy, or the original sentence is used or slightly changed. It is vivid and delicate to read. I remember a few years ago, Anne Baby, a popular online writer, also wrote many cities, but she didn't write so well. There are also descriptions of colors, plants and operas, which are equally refreshing.

Xue Xiaochan worships Zhang Ailing very much, and sometimes his writing even imitates Zhang deliberately. In my humble opinion, in comparison, Zhang Ailing's writing style is sophisticated, and her works are slightly depressed as a whole, but they are very heavy and atmospheric, full of vicissitudes and desolation of the world, such as Love in a Beautiful City. A love depends on the fall of a city, and the taste of life is nothing more than this! The legendary woman who died of depression deserves to be a talented woman. Because the so-called classics must stand the scrutiny of time and the test of history. Unfortunately, with the rapid development of science and technology, materialism and literature and art have basically become fragile.

Modern people are goldfish with only a few seconds of memory. Meeting Xue Xiaochan and remembering her is also a kind of fate in the world. She is a typical petty bourgeoisie feeling. She and I both belong to Virgo, and astrologers pursue perfection. Maybe so! Therefore, her prose is beautiful and exquisite, like a beautifully made and grasping silverware, which is worth playing with by romantic people. For example, "pickling time with words, cooking words to satisfy hunger, living a life of clothes and horses, enjoying snow in a silver bowl?"

Love is the theme of Xue Jia Yongheng. She stubbornly believes that only women can control language and characters in such a gorgeous and colorful way. The seemingly ordinary square characters, after being randomly combined and kneaded by her hands, became swaying and picturesque. I don't admire Xue Xiaochan, but I suddenly had an idea. If her name is used to explain her works, I think she has achieved "snow" and "small", but "Zen" is not enough. If literary works want to last forever, the only way is to see the ego in the ego, keep close to the pulse of the times and be a pain in the society.

Even if Xue Xiaochan can't become a classic, so what? Doesn't affect what I like.

The second part of Xue Xiaochan's prose: Xue Xiaochan's beautiful writing style.

I really like snow.

Snow has a calm and awe of dust, beautiful, but beautiful to make people afraid to approach. Cold, cold makes people feel mysterious. Rain, snow, wind and frost, only snow has such narrow and concise beauty. When I think about it, I only think that the sound of snow in the empty mountains is all Zen. "Like the strong wind in spring, it blows at night and blows open the petals of ten thousand pear trees." In fact, it is the indulgence and galloping of writing snow, and it is the posture of riding a horse to study and falling into the mortal world. "A leaf boat, a bamboo cloak, an old fisherman cold river-snow", this poem by Liu Zongyuan, is extremely lonely. Every time I read it, I appreciate the long scroll of China scenery, which is lonely and poetic.

When it snows, the snow floats, and pieces of goose feathers are like fat, but they are not greasy. Because the temperature is low, no matter how big it is, it is only the bleak scenery of this mountain and river. Therefore, Lin Chong went to Liangshan at night, and that night's rush could only be snowing, and nothing was right, which could not satisfy his despair and miserable mood at that time. He put all his eggs in one basket and left no way out.

At the end of A Dream of Red Mansions, Baoyu became a monk and it was stormy all over the sky. There are no birds flying over those mountains, and there are no traces of people in those paths. Cao Xueqin wrote: It's so clean when the ground is white. Only snow is the background, which is the best prop to set off the loneliness. Thinking about it is infinitely lonely.

I like snow because it is clean.

Clean things are always touching, white and cold. This color is touching. There are all kinds of colors in the world, only white can't be dyed. Once dyed, it's like falling into the abyss of perdition. Cool, always with a beautiful and mysterious graceful mood, always thinking of February in Xiaoyangchun, warm and cold at first sight, a stunning woman, reaching out to pick up the snow, her hands and snow are cold. In early spring and February, the snow falls fast and swish, and it melts as soon as it falls. In the past, literati always liked to get together to make poems, paint and splash ink on the sunny day of the first snow, and the snow became an ornament and a lovely woman. They should come when they should, and leave when they should. ...

But I like the state of visiting friends on a snowy night. It feels like snow outside at dusk. How about a glass of wine inside? ? When it snows, I probably want to get drunk when I know I have drunk it.

Snow closed the door, and I suddenly missed him. So, I took a gauze lamp to visit him at night, and snowflakes fell on my face all the way. Immediately, I stopped in front of the door and found that it was beautiful just to do so. So, I rushed back with snow and moonlight-this is the romantic feelings of the ancients. Thought of here, I feel a subtle warmth and poetry. On a snowy night, the porcelain is inclined, and the shutters are slightly wet to see the moonlight. In the moonlight, someone stood in the snow and played the flute. Heaven and earth are quiet, because the snow is quiet and the heart is quiet. Only the flute haunts on a snowy night. This is the artistic conception of Chinese painting. Every reward seems to be enjoying the greatest quiet beauty between heaven and earth.

"Try to take a cool and steady sleep and search for strange sentences to refresh your mind." When the snow is cold, I like to be in a daze when it is sunny. Holding a thread-bound book, watching the burning water and humid air rising on the stove, I put two sweet potatoes on the stove. Soon, the taste of sweet potato will spread and send out the fragrance of people. This is the scene after the snow written by Zhou Zuoren, and the fireworks are very pleasing to the eye. I like this laziness, this quietness!

It's snowing. If you are a teenager, you must jump into the snow and watch your footprints leave a foot deep and a foot shallow. When Zhu was a teenager, he only knew how to get drunk with snow. By this time, snow is just his self-knowledge. How can he finish without getting drunk?

The older I get, I don't want to go anywhere. I just want to be in a daze and be with the snow. Like a loving lover, he knows that her aloof and isolated heart looks cold, but it is actually hot-if Zhu Xiao is bright and firm, it will grow on the crystal plate. This crystal plate means snow.

Love stories are full of scarlet and despair. Even if we fall in love again, there will be no happy ending. And snow, detonated this desperate. Shunji Iwai's film Love Letter also expresses white despair in a piece of snow. White may be the color of despair itself, but luck is so close-that snow is associated with the secrets, love and sadness of the soul. I like snow and its unique beauty. A stunning city, not kitsch, a pair of its own way. Many years ago, I read a poem by a Taiwan Province poetess. I forgot her name. She is too ordinary to be famous. I only remember the last sentence of that poem: I am just a snowflake dancing unintentionally. That's the final interpretation of going its own way. Snow, is it unintentional? Seemingly unintentional, the sky is snowing, with no direction and no goal, but it is so unrestrained and even crazy.

The mood is flying, it must have its own unspeakable words, it must make the rain so unstoppable, and let the stars sink into the sea and become a window. Who can understand snow's mind? The poem reads: There are several plums in the corner, and hanling blooms alone, knowing from a distance that it is not snow, because it has a faint fragrance. This is the best sentence to write about snow, not about snow, but also about snow.

Snow has a faint fragrance.

In the dark night, you can smell the starlight carefully.

If you go out in thick clothes and step on the snow step by step, the squeak is a bit astringent, but it is really beautiful. If you smell it with your heart, you can smell a Leng Xiang. Miaoyu hid the first snow for five years, and then made tea for Baoyu, who knew it for the fragrance of the snow.

I will also think of the paintings of American painter Wise.

He always paints snowy days. Probably the most desperate, lonely and coolest snowy day? He painted a picture of his wife who was a little scrawled. Her hair and face were painted in a mess, but this messy appearance was very touching. Full of the texture of snow-thick and desolate. That woman, her back is staggering in the snow!

Loneliness will trip!

But she is favored by snow, because the loneliness of snow and her loneliness blend together! They trembled together, and when I saw this photo of Wise, I was filled with a strange trembling! Snow, with its cold and purity, embraces all loneliness. Is there anything more lonely and cleaner than snow? It covered up its sadness in an overwhelming way.

Some people say it's passion, it's flying all over the sky If it's not a dream, what is it?

However, it is vigorous but silent.

Silently, I express my attitude in the most silent and wild way-awe-inspiring, cold, sexy, depraved, and a style of "I am me"-which is exactly what I am obsessed with.

Sylvia Plath has a poem: For you, I am too pure ... For snow, for the world, it is too pure. The weather seems to be too cold to resist, but I know her heart is hot, otherwise, how could it rain so hard?

In the Mid-Autumn Festival in 2009, I met a heavy snow all over the sky-it came too early, and the trees were still green, so that some people said it was a once-in-a-thousand-year heavy snow. I always wanted to write something, and I didn't know it was so thin until I wrote it.

-just like love, maybe it's just a matter of a few people after all. In the end, it is the ultimate luxury. It is only given to the most sincere lovers, and who can get love? People don't know, God knows, Snow White knows, Snow White knows. ...

This woman seems to have the character of the next generation, with an independent and free soul, writing pleasing words, and breaking away from the secular vulgar field. She is like a wonderful flower, blooming quietly and freely in the dark, narcissistic, proud and car-scrapping, and her pure and private fragrance is flowing in the air, right? Sweet? This word is good for her; Her writing is like a piece of soft satin, delicate, smooth and cool, which makes people reluctant to leave, so she rubbed it all the way until she got the warmth of her palm and was moved like water. )

Some of my little things. This is my little happiness.

Always failed to live up to those good times-when I was a teenager, I walked alone on the old wall of my hometown, listening to the wind blowing through my ears, and the wind in early spring blew up my thin clothes ... I was addicted to the good times of love, always asking questions, or walking at dusk, and saw my shadow was thin and long. Time made me polish it thick, and time also made me lose a very beautiful time network. ...

Fortunately, I have these little things with me.

Old porcelain necklace

Wooden necklace

A stranger's calligraphy "Silver Bowl Snow"

Leisure stamps

Xiaodong gave me a Tibetan silver collar.

Xue Xiaochan's Prose Part III: The years are so quiet.

Yin sat opposite me, never looking up, very busy. I had nothing to do, so I took a book and read the annual Admission Blank and prose. I don't know when I began to like prose.

I remember those years, I only read novels, especially novels. I loved watching foreign movies, just as some people loved watching foreign movies. Let me talk about red and black, gone with the wind and even a hundred years of loneliness. Recently, however, it is difficult to have the energy to finish reading Main Street, although it is also a very good novel.

Is a person's mood changed, or what? I don't know, and I'm too lazy to think about it I just read the essays of Bai Luomei, Xue Xiaochan, Luo Luo, Niannian and others.

The prose of several female writers is a realistic, perceptive and wordless interpretation of trivial life.

Yin took the wax plate and stretched himself. Will you go down?

Do you want me to send it down for you? I know her subtext. It's a tacit understanding.

Yes, yes, no more words are needed.

I can send it to you, but not by the way, but especially. I like talking to her in this way. Smile and make a special trip!

I will send it down. I'd love to.

Outside, on the head of the teaching building, tall poplars and poplars are covered with branches. It is clear that there were only thumb-sized buds three days ago. How can I see Huayang lying on the ground today? Flowers fade, flowers fly all over the sky, and the red disappears and the fragrance is broken. Who has compassion? May slaves have wings and fly to the end of the sky with flowers. Hide the wind without a trick. I bent down, picked up two flowers and went back to the office to show the music.

Yin was as surprised by the fall as I was, but smiled and said that I want to learn to be a flower burial person.

Grass and trees all know that spring will come back soon. All kinds of flowers are fighting for grass. Flower pods have no talent, but they can only solve the snowflakes flying all over the sky. Yes, although Huayang has no talent, her snow making adds a landscape to spring. Although Huayang lacks fragrance and color, she dances for spring and her life. Yangtze River Yangtze River Chun Lv, Xiaoyao De is dancing around the river to kill people. At the ferry at the head of the Yangtze River, willows are green. In the evening breeze, the willows are gently brushed and the poplars are floating. The boat is moored on the shore and my friend is about to cross the south of the Yangtze River. The lingering willows, dragging the deep feelings of farewell, evoke a sadness that willows are long and jade is difficult to tie; The ethereal Huayang aroused the confused separation between the two sides of the strait and aroused the sense of wandering at the end of the world. Beautiful willow color and pleasant spring scenery have just become the catalyst for parting here.

That's all, that's all. If Huayang can teach people, I would like to go to Datang, even if I am a very talented poet. Correct me, the poplars written by the ancients are not insect-like flowers on this poplar, but catkins. The sound quoted the anonymous "Farewell" of the Sui Dynasty: willow green hangs down on the ground and flowers fly all over the sky. Willow branches are broken and flowers are flying. Will pedestrians come back? Here are the words willow, poplar and wicker. Obviously, the trees here are willows, willows are willows and poplars are catkins. In ancient poetry, poplars, willows and willows all refer to willows, and more refer to weeping willows than poplars. Since the yang in ancient poetry is actually a willow, the yang flower in the poetic image of course refers to catkins. Different names may be related to rhyming and leveling.

I agree with Yin's explanation of Yang Shuhua, but I still want to call this caterpillar-like flower on poplar Yang Shuhua. In fact, I have really seen Huayang. When I was a child, the village was full of all kinds of Populus tomentosa, which grew tall and big. In late spring, something like cotton wool grows on the tree, and it is true when the wind blows.

I continued to read, and it was an easy "Peach Blossom", and the blank of the annual magazine was taken over by the voice.

The wind outside the window is blowing on the branches of poplar trees. Spring sunshine shines through the glass warmly, sprinkled on Yin's shoulders and on the lines of type. There are blooming water lilies on the windowsill, and the fragrance of vanilla is still there.

The years are quiet and stable before us. The years are so quiet! That's great.