鐵凝·《土墻上的劃痕》

作家成功的路徑千差萬(wàn)別，但有兩點(diǎn)是他們必備的，那就是愛與意志。

很多年前，一位年老的女作家給我講起過(guò)她的初戀。那是中國(guó)的抗日戰(zhàn)爭(zhēng)年代，她是八路軍中一名14歲的戰(zhàn)士。她暗戀著一個(gè)大她幾歲的士兵，當(dāng)時(shí)他們的部隊(duì)駐扎在一個(gè)村子里。一天那士兵被派去前線，她和戰(zhàn)友們?nèi)ニ汀Ｋ浪赡芤蝗ゲ换?，卻沒有能力也沒有勇氣說(shuō)出她心中洶涌的愛和巨大的悲傷。她就那么走在人群后邊，沿著村口一戶農(nóng)民家的院墻一直到村外。那是中國(guó)北方農(nóng)村常見的一種“干打壘”土墻，她一路走著，一邊用大拇指在土墻上深深劃著，一直劃到墻盡頭，一直到那士兵消失在原野上。后來(lái)，那士兵犧牲了，女孩每天都到村口去看土墻上被她劃出的那條長(zhǎng)長(zhǎng)的深痕。半個(gè)多世紀(jì)過(guò)去了，年過(guò)80歲的女作家告訴我說(shuō)，即使在今天，每當(dāng)想起初戀，她的大拇指仍然會(huì)升騰起一種熾熱。我記住了那灼熱的大拇指，那是獨(dú)屬于這位女作家的簡(jiǎn)樸而誠(chéng)摯的愛。而這樣一種隱忍的純情，我相信不同民族的聽眾都能夠理解，因?yàn)檫@是人類的心靈能夠共同感受到的東西。

當(dāng)我在書桌前坐下拿起筆，有時(shí)會(huì)莫名其妙地想起這位作家的初戀故事。進(jìn)而相信，如果作家的語(yǔ)言和感情是不誠(chéng)實(shí)的，如果作家是在做作，如果他是在寫他并不真正關(guān)心或相信的東西那么也沒有人會(huì)關(guān)心他的作品，不論那讀者是你的老鄉(xiāng)或者是生活在異邦。而當(dāng)這種不愉快的景況出現(xiàn)時(shí)，我們決不能推卸責(zé)任搬地去怪罪“這都是全球化惹的禍”?！拔鞣街稀被颡M隘的民族主義對(duì)文學(xué)的發(fā)育和進(jìn)步都沒有益處。在全球化的喧囂中，我們應(yīng)該有勇氣重振愛與意志，寫下有體溫的字，如同那位女作家講述過(guò)的灼熱的拇指，那兒有生命的質(zhì)感，有作家活生生的個(gè)人面目。

A Long Line Cut on the Earthen Wall

There are various ways for writers to reach success. But two factors are essential for them to do so—love and strong will.

Many years ago, an old woman writer told me about her first love. It was in the time of war against Japanese aggressors. She joined the Communist-led Eighth Route Army at the age of 14. The branch of troops to which she belonged stayed at a village. She was then secretly in love with a young soldier several years her senior. One day the soldier was sent to the front. She went with others to see him off. She knew it was quite possible that he would never return. She could not and dared not express he surging love and tremendous sorrow when she walked in the rear of the sending-off crowd. They went along the wall surrounding a farm house at the end of the village. It was a rammed-earth wall commonly seen in the north of China. As she walked, she subconsciously cut with the nail of her thumb on the wall, leaving a long line on it. The marked line stretched to the end of the wall, and seemingly went beyond it, disappearing into the fields where the back shadows of the soldier vanished. At last the news came of his death on the battlefield. The girl went every day to look at the line cut deep on the wall. It bore witness to her first love.

Even today, more than 50 years later, as an 80-year-old writer she still felt hot at her thumb when she thought of her first love. I kept in mind the unique scorching-hot thumb that symbolizes the simple and pure love of the woman writer. This carefully-concealed pure love is something universal, capable to be felt and understood by every human mind, no matter what race or nationality it belongs to.

When I sit at my desk and pick up the pen, I’m often involuntarily reminded of the woman writer’s first love. It sets me thinking a lot.

If a writer is not honest about his language and feelings; if he is affected or put on an act; if what he writes is what he doesn’t mind or believe his works will naturally not be cared for, no matter who the reader is, whether he is his fellow townsman or he lives in a foreign country. When this unpleasantness occurs, we should not shift responsibilities, blaming “All this is the fault of globalization”. Neither the belief “The West is supreme” nor the narrow-minded nationalism will do anything good for literature’s development and progress. In the clamor of globalization, we should have the courage to emphasize love and strong will, and be able to produce writings with physical warmth like the hot thumb told by that woman writer, a vivid expression of the writer’s personal feelings.