Grey cloth fortune telling

Sometimes when I go to Chongqing South Road to buy books, I always go to Wuchang Street unconsciously. Recently, I found that Wuchang Street is very different, especially at the intersection of Wuchang Street and Yuanling Street. I'm too busy to walk now. Crossing Yuanling market on holidays is a great test of endurance. Even in severe winter, people will sweat profusely because of transpiration. In such a bustling area, I always feel that something is missing, and I can't think clearly for a while. Once it rained and took the children through Wuchang Street, and there happened to be a vendor selling children's hats. I suddenly woke up when I paid for a hat. Isn't this Zhou Mengdie's bookstall? How to sell children's shoes and socks? At this moment, I realized that what Wuchang Street lacked was the poet Zhou Mengdie. There is nothing wrong with one person less and one person more in the long Wuchang Street, but Zhou Mengdie is different from the whole Wuchang Street, with no taste and style. I remember that when Zhou Mengdie set up a stall in Wuchang Street, he sometimes bought two books and chatted with the Duke of Zhou. Sometimes he did nothing, just watching a shaved poet wrapped in a gray cloth robe and crossing his legs to chant Buddhist scripture. He always felt that there was a halo dancing around the poet's head and the bookstall. It is best that the sun shines obliquely in the morning, and the color of the sun reflects the silhouette. The poet's thin background is a colorful spine, almost a picture with music. At that time, we were still young and had a long way to go, but when we walked through Wuchang Street, the so-called literature became a kind of colored glass and took us away. Wuchang Street was very lively more than ten years ago, but I always thought that Fiona Fang, where Zhou Mengdie sat, was very, very quiet. All the voice waves, when passing through his bookstall, seem to have been filtered and become clear and light. I often wonder how to describe that feeling. Although he was on the earth, Zhou Mengdie sat there in the posture of sitting on a high mountain. Although it is a road where thousands of ants rush, his concentration is like meditation in a meditation room. Sometimes I think he was cast by moonlight, soft and cold in the sun. The first time I met the poet was the year when I graduated from high school and went to Taipei. At that time, Zhou Mengdie and Star Cafe were both symbols of literature, and many famous writers often gathered in the star. The lights of the stars are a little dim, and the wooden floor is knocking when walking. If there is any attraction in an ordinary cafe like that, it is literature. Because whenever literature is in the stars, it is warm. Occasionally, the Duke of Zhou would come up from his roadside stall with stars to chat about Zen and poetry. He never tidied up his stall and left. If a friend who meets for the first time is worried that his book will be stolen, he will suddenly grin and say that stealing books is elegant. Why bother? Zhou Mengdie likes dessert. Usually five or six spoonfuls of sugar are added to coffee, and so is coke. I really don't know why. A friend said, "Eating sweet is also a kind of practice." When I was a child, I remember that Zhou Mengdie was a distant mountain hidden in the mist. He was silent most of the time. Sometimes I go to talk to him with a group of friends, but when I think about it at home, I realize that he said less than three words that day and he was so deeply silent. Such a deep silence made Zhou Mengdie's life so fascinating that he even forgot his original name. It was only during the conversation that I gradually realized that he was a librarian, married, had children, taught books and served in the army. His recent occupation is a well-known ferryman in a small bookstall on Wuchang Street. Zhou Mengdie and I are not destined friends. That's because of his silence. I am not a talkative person. When I got married, he gave me two books in his gray gown. One is a collection of poems that he personally proofread, the other is Qian Zhongshu's prose "Written on the Edge of Life", and the other is his poem "Gloves and Love" written on his shoulder. Judging from his meticulous handwriting, he is meticulous and well-intentioned, even for ordinary juniors. His handwriting and his people are quiet, fluctuating and even neater than printed ones. He writes like a meal. He eats slowly. Once a friend couldn't help asking him, "Why do you eat so slowly?" His answer is, "If you don't do this, you won't be able to appreciate the different tastes of one kind of rice and another." This sentence comes from other poets, but it is natural and moving for Zhou Mengdie. When Zhou Mengdie opened the bookstall, he was poor and lived an almost unimaginable easy life. In fact, he can live a better life, but he said that he always closes the stalls from 7: 00 to 8: 00 and often stops selling when something happens. When he meets young people who are interested in learning, he is reluctant to make money and prefers to send books. The main reason why he is poor is that all the books he sells are picked by his own eyes, and he will never sell some messy things. This attitude makes people walk into his bookstall just like walking into a writer's room. Sales are very limited, so naturally there is no profit. -Are people with style setting up a bookstall or showing their style? 198 1 year Zhou Mengdie was hospitalized with gastrointestinal discomfort, and the bookstore in Wuchang Street officially ended, and Wuchang Street died. When he went to the hospital for surgery, he remained silent and hardly disturbed. If he hadn't been particularly careful, I'm afraid he wouldn't have found a bookstall missing when crossing Wuchang Street. For many people, sometimes it doesn't matter whether there is moonlight in the sky. Duke Zhou used to write poetry slower than eating because of his low income from selling books. He only published two poems in his life, Lonely Garden and Huan Qingcao. Later, a part of "Lonely Garden" was selected and merged with "Huan Qingcao", and only one volume was published according to his standards, although it had a unique poetic style because of its little influence. After his illness, his life was in trouble. A friend donated money to him together, totaling about 1 1 ten thousand yuan. After he recovered, he lived on the interest of 2000 yuan he lent to his friends. Now the poorest students spend more than 2,000 yuan a month, and Duke Zhou's life is even lower than this standard. You can imagine what kind of life he leads. Unfortunately, the friend who borrowed money from him failed in business and poured all his only 1 1 ten thousand yuan. Now he doesn't even have two thousand dollars a month. Of course, his friends sympathize with him. Only the duke of Zhou smiled cross-legged. He is dismissive of this state. If a giant tree loses its gains and losses like some dead leaves falling everywhere, what harm will it do? Since Zhou Mengdie retired in Wuchang Street, he has devoted himself to studying Buddhist scriptures. In the past two years, he sometimes told young people that he had read Buddhist scriptures for decades. Many of his early poems were grains of rice in scripture. It makes sense that he writes poetry so slowly and so hard. Those who read Buddhist scriptures carefully must be afraid of Zhou. But in recent years, the world he explored has become broader. A friend sent a photo of him and said, "All laws have nowhere to go and nowhere to live, such as spinning wheels. Although few people hate this idea, the number of warriors with thorns in the world remains the same. " Do you know what can confuse him with his recent mood? I remember he said that the fortune teller calculated that he would live to be 60. He is 68 years old. How can he not be sure? Last week, a friend invited us to listen to Duke Zhou's "presentation", remembering that we hadn't seen each other for three years. That day can't be regarded as Zhou Mengdie's own interpretation of a poem "Good Snowflakes Don't Fall Elsewhere" published by 1976, explaining the source of each sentence in the scripture or the meaning of each sentence in the scripture, which shows the poet's painstaking efforts. There are thirty-three lines in the poem, but it has been spoken for five hours. Every line is almost a book. But in fact, I didn't listen to Buddhism. I just went to see the poet. Seeing the poet is equivalent to seeing Wuchang Street. Thinking of Wuchang Street is equivalent to returning to the star cafe and the star. That was when I was a teenager. That's real life. When I saw that Duke Zhou was still Duke Zhou, I felt as comforted as ever. Several friends in the room were also my childhood friends, and now more than ten years have passed in a flash. When I heard Zhou Mengdie read these two poems with a strong accent, they were born and bred in cold, stronger than cold, and colder than cold mountain. How high the moon is, how deep the clouds are and how deep the sunset is. There is only one inch of gold arm supporting you on your arm. You have the best feet to guide the gaunt pedestrians under your feet. Let's close the bowl and recognize your footprints outside the wind. The world is not like this, it's really touching. Is it true that the moon climbs higher? The brighter the sky, the heavier the clouds and the deeper the sadness. The huge sunset on that day was only a short inch. What else are we asking for? When we return to Wuchang Street one day, will we still want a bookstall in Zhoumengdie? Although great poets set up stalls to sell books in this world, I'm afraid they are rare. When I bid farewell to the poet, I asked my friends that they are also national veterans, and now they can receive a retirement pension of 500 yuan to 600 yuan every month. He lives on that 500-600 yuan, and sometimes he makes some contributions, but his contribution does not exceed 500-600 a month. I am sorry to hear that. What has our society given such a good poet? Walking on the streets of Xiao Zhong East Road in the middle of the night, the drizzle in Taipei is already very empty. The rain is still so cold that it hasn't stopped for a while. I feel this cold is a bit northland. I can't help but think of the poet's poem, "It's very cold here", "We are all here to catch cold" and "You can only recognize the origin of this snow in the dark and see it more clearly with the other eye. I stood on the cold street and looked up at the dark sky, only to know in despair that the minor of Wuchang Street had been sung. The minor of Wuchang Street has been sung, and the years have gone further and further. The bookstall is gone, the stars are dim, and the lights are dim for a long time.

There is no title, only the original text.