Dai Wangshu’s exquisite prose

Dai Wangshu (1905?1950), whose original name was Dai Chaocai, and whose pen names include Dai Meng'ou, Dai Wangshu, Jiang Si, Ai Angfu, etc., was born in Hangzhou, Zhejiang in 1905. Below is the exquisite prose of Dai Wangshu that I brought to you for your enjoyment.

Dai Wangshu’s exquisite prose: At a border station

─? Travel Notes in Spain Part Three

Departing from Balto at half past twelve at night The express train arrived at Elon, the border between France and Spain, at six o'clock in the morning. In my hazy consciousness, I felt that the rapid speed slowed down and finally stopped. Someone was reporting in French and Spanish: "Elon, everyone get off the bus!"

I opened my sleepy eyes and looked out the window. What was in front of me was a small station like all small stations in France. Just a station. On the deserted platform, there were two or three porters who seemed to have not yet woken up, and a few passengers who were getting off the bus in a relaxed manner. I really didn’t believe that I had reached the border of Spain, but a voice called over louder:

─?Elon, everyone get off the car!?

Get off in a hurry The first thing I felt in the car was that it was a little cold. Is it the cold air of dawn, the thin cold of new autumn, or the mountain wind blowing with fog from the Birena Mountains? I turned up the collar of my coat, picked up my luggage and looked out the door.

Going out of this small door is a large open room with a baggage inspection table and a few low wooden fences, but nothing else. This is the junction point between France and Spain. After walking through this open space, it is Spain. I put my luggage on the luggage inspection table like other passengers. Then an inspector came and looked through it for a while, asked me if I had anything for tax declaration, and then scratched the word "?" with chalk on my suitcase. Send me away. Walking up further is the passport control office. It was a small window opening like the ticket office at the station. A middle-aged man with a beard sat under the electric lamp. Just looking at his bright eyes and the thick book in his hand will make you feel uneasy. I handed him my passport. He opened it and looked at the signature of the Spanish Consul in Lyon, looked at the photo in the passport, gave me a curious look, asked me the purpose of my trip to Spain, and entered my name into the big book. Then, contrary to my initial impression, he smiled, handed the passport back to me, and said to me, still smiling: "Spain is a lovely place. When you get there, you will Don't want to go back. ?

Really, Spain is a lovely place, and even the passport inspector has his own inherent lovely flavor. In this way, after passing through a wooden fence, I set foot on Spanish soil.

After passing this heavy wooden fence, it seemed that everything had changed: the signboards and signs were all written in Spanish. The working-class man, who was joking in a heavy southern French accent, also started talking to an old woman in clear Gastrian. The weather has obviously changed. The dark sky has become clear and green, and the sun shining through the clouds has dispelled the cold and brought warmth. However, the most obvious change is in time. When I got off the train, I once glanced at the clock on the station: six o'clock and one. It would take me about half an hour to check my luggage, verify my passport, etc., so it would be at least half past six now. Not so. On the clock at Elon Station in Spain, the hour hand clearly marked half past five. The fact is that the time in Spain and France are one hour apart due to different longitudes and latitudes, but in my mind at the time, Spain was always younger than France.

Because it was half past five, the station was still deserted except for the porters and sweepers who had begun to move around. The ticket office, baggage room, exchange office, newsstand, cigarette shop, etc. were not open, and there were only a few tourists. At this time, there is nothing you can do to kill time except sitting on the bench on the platform or walking back and forth on the station. The express train to Purgos doesn't leave until eight-twenty. Let's go for a walk in Elon Town. It's not very convenient to carry luggage, and it may take a long way. Besides, there's no point in running to town so early in the morning. So, I scattered my luggage on the bench and started walking around the border station.

If you think that this city on the border is a dangerous place, heavily guarded, with international spies active, and suppressing national and military secrets, then you are wrong. This is just a small Spanish town disappearing on the edge of the Birena Mountains. Carrying baskets filled with chickens and ducks, or carrying cages on their shoulders, those who came in twos and threes to take advantage of the first train were old women from mountain villages with turbans on their heads, farmers with dark complexions, and farmers with white hair. An old craftsman is like a child of an apprentice. The soul of an entire Spanish town can be found in these tiny characters. And this small station, isn't it completely Spanish? The gray bricks and stones, the dark wooden pillars, the slightly corroded eaves of the foreign ship, and the peeling tiles attached to the wall that are floating in the wind. The paper, the dilapidated freight cars parked on the tracks at the end of the station: all these tell you about Spain's decline, peace of mind, and perseverance.

The Spain of West Germany (Cid), the Spain of Don Juon (Don Juon), the Spain of Quixote (Quixote), the Spain in the minds of Alexandre Dumas or Mérimée are all gone now, or it can be said that they never existed in the first place. .

Indeed, Spain’s existence is multifaceted. The first is the Spain of all travel guides and travelogues, that is, the Spain of history and art. This Spain is thickly glazed and full of archetypal characters. In music, painting, dance, and literature, Spain appears in the world under this face and serves as its official representative. The average person's concept of Spain is also caused by this representative. When people mention Spain, you will immediately think of the Grand Gala in Purgos, the Palace Museum in Granada, bullfighting, singing and dancing (Tago), Dong Huang-style prodigal sons, and Quijote-style dreamers. , the LaCelestin-style old pious woman, the Carmain-style Gypsy woman, the fan, the shawl, the veil on the high crown, etc., and the Spanish reluctantly made your imagination The victims; and when you arrive in Spain and can’t see the traces of embroidery that have bloomed for a long time, the legendary characters, and the inherent Spanish products in your mind, will you feel disappointed? Anzai sighed. However, you have to know that this is the most superficial Spain. Its actual existence is already in a blur of smoke, and it will continue its life only in book history and works of art. Spain's second existence is a little more humble, a little more quiet. That is the Spain of scenery. Indeed, in the entire Europe, Spain is the country with the most beautiful and varied scenery. Vasconia, which is quiet and shrouded in fog and shadows, Gastonia, which is elegant and full of brilliance, Andalusia, which is majestic and majestic, and Valencia, which is illuminated and bright, will make people feel heartbroken. Stolen?'s clear Kadarne. In Spain, we can see almost every European country. Or the vegetation is lush and the mountains and rivers are bright; Or the mountains are deep and the cliffs are deep; Or the castle is desolate and cold, and the buildings are lonely and lonely; Or the gardens are clear and green, and the flowers are fragrant for hundreds of miles? These are all things that can make you dizzy, and as for Lingering. This is a more practical life, a Spain that is easy to understand (unless you are a countryman) and easy to do better than others. Because it opens up your love for the beauty of nature and makes you sincerely have a kind of comfortable, long and lonely meditation. But the most real, the deepest, and therefore the most difficult to understand is the second existence of Spain. This existence is the foundation of Spain, it contains the whole of Spain, speaks the whole of Spain to you in a silent language, represents its daily life, and symbolizes its eternal soul. The existence of this Spain is so humble that it evades your attention, so silent that it seems to be extinct. But if you can pay attention to observation and use your carefulness to understand, then you can grasp this humble and silent existence, especially in those small towns. This is a declining, tragic, and realistic existence with no glory and no dreams. Now, you can go into any small town in the early morning or afternoon. You wander along the narrow path, in deep peace. The sun fell from the quiet balcony with the door closed, and fell on a small square covered with gravel. Nothing disturbs the silence; the shouts of the street vendors have died down in the distance, and the ringing of the temple bells has died down. You cross the little square and pass a workshop, any workshop, a blacksmith's workshop, a carpenter's workshop, or a woolen maker's workshop. You stand for a while, watching them operate with that kind of enthusiasm, perseverance and love; you come to the front of a big house: the half-open door is rotten, the door knocker is full of rust, and it is painted with lime. The white walls are peeling or covered with black mold. From the door, you can see the yard inside that has been invaded by weeds and moss. Of course you don't push the door in, but behind this wall, inside this door, you will feel pain, sorrow, or failed wishes lying quietly. You walk up again, and the street is still quiet. A fountain is gurgling, and three or two pigeons are fluttering their feathers. An old woman walked by while supporting a girl. The temple bell rang slowly and then died. ?This is the deepest Spain. It lives a humble, silent, stoic and peaceful life, but it has such a charm that fills people with deep love. And this little station, didn’t it also show us this mysterious Spain?

When I was walking back and forth on the station, I was thinking like this in my heart. . Before I knew it, the station was gradually coming to life. Ticket offices, exchange offices, cigarette stalls, and newsstands all opened their doors one after another, and passengers from the town began to fill the small station with their noisy voices.

I came out of my meditation, went to change some Spanish money, went to the ticket office to buy a mileage ticket, and went out to buy a copy of yesterday's "EISol". Pack a cigarette and go back to the bench where my suitcase is.

There were already people sitting on the bench, an old woman and several children. One, two, three, four? One*** is four children. And the eldest child, who is twelve years old, has already begun to peel off the hotel stickers from various places on my suitcase one by one. I moved the box and sat down. At this time, two characters who seemed very unique to me appeared.

It is a mixture of the postman, the soldier, and the civil servants seen in Peking Opera. They wore green uniforms, carried swords, and wore hats made of black oilcloth like black gauze hats on their heads and faces. It goes without saying that the color of this uniform is strangely incongruous with the gray and gloomy land of Nisconia and this poor little station. It goes without saying that; but in this uniform, There is also an extreme inconsistency between the sword and the hat. ?This is part of the inherent complexity of Spain,? I thought.

It’s seven o’clock. A train arrived, but it was for Santanter. The train left, and the station became cold for a while. We had to wait until 8:20.

I looked at the railway tracks quietly, and my eyes followed the two railway lines shining under the early sun, all the way to the confused sky; there, my mind wandered. Get up.

Dai Wangshu’s exquisite prose: Bookstalls in Paris

When I was stranded in Paris, there were two things that I enjoyed during my travels: one was reading paintings. , the second is visiting books. In the boring afternoons or evenings, I always go out and spend my late time in various galleries and bookstalls along the river. Regarding the former, I want to talk about it in another short article. Here, I just want to talk about the fun of interview books.

In fact, it is better to say that it is "visiting books" than walking along the river or going in and out of various used book shops in the streets and alleys. I had no intention of finding any rare and unique book, and besides, it was no longer the time to dig out a copy of Patissierfranco-is in a wooden box with two copper coins each. The reason why I do this is just for my own hobby. Even if I come back empty-handed after watching it for a while, my selfishness is very satisfying. Besides, the Seine River in the dusk is so graceful and graceful!

I The place where I stayed was Ruedel`Echaud?, and it only took about three minutes to walk along the Seine Road to the bookstall by the Seine River. But I don’t usually take this shortcut. When I walk like this, the galleries on the Rue Seine will always hold me back. Besides, I have a habit of seeing everything from beginning to end. I would rather take a long way and follow the appointment. Kebo Road and Daxue Road go all the way to Buck Road, and then walk from Buck Road to Wangqiaotou.

The bookstalls on the left bank of the Seine River begin from there. From there to the Pont de Galluselle, it can be regarded as the first area of ????the bookstalls, although it is located in the seventh place of the Nobles in Paris. area, but there is no smell of crown cover at all. The bookstalls in this area can be roughly divided into the following categories: The first is those selling cheap new books, most of which are off-the-shelf products from various bookstores. The prices are indeed fair, but you just need to be able to bargain. For example, in a used bookstore, J. Renard's "Diary" sells for five to six hundred francs. You can buy it there for only two hundred francs, and it's brand new. My Galen's translation of Selfandel's "Model Novel" and the entire batch of "European Magazine Series" were purchased from there. There are books of this kind elsewhere, but they are not concentrated in this area. The second one sells English books, which probably has something to do with the nearby Ministry of Foreign Affairs or Ole Leon East Station. However, there are not many buyers of these English books, so the opportunity to spend two or three francs to bring a first edition of "A Man in the Garden of Ten Thousand Animals" back to your apartment is often available. of. The third one sells authentic ancient books, including white sheepskin-covered books from the 17th century, leather-backed books with decorative patterns from the 18th century, etc. They are all carefully stored in glass bookcases and locked, so they cannot be opened at will. Look, other ancient books of lesser value are piled up in the wooden box. I really don’t know how to start with this pile of ancient things that are crowded around me. This kind of bookstall is more lively, and most of the people buying books are middle-aged or elderly people. If the bookstall owner knows the value of the books on these bookstalls, you will be sold by him. If he does not know the value of the books, you will get an advantage. I once bought an early 1765 edition of DuLaurens' Imirce from a very shrewd bookstall owner there for five francs, and I still feel proud of it: first, because Imirce is It's a banned book, and secondly, the price is too cheap. The fourth category is those who sell prostitutes. There are only one or two such bookstalls in this area. The so-called prostitutes are actually just superficial. There is nothing special in their bones. Most of them are modern people's things and have nothing to do with the past. Liar. I remember that the first bookstall near Wangqiao was like this. The proprietress was a woman in her forties or fifties. When I stayed for a while, she treated me as a good customer and encouraged me to buy, which made me It leaves a very bad impression and I will stay away from you in the future. In fact, if you don't want to pay a big price for those authentic "secret" books, you still have to go out and look for them everywhere. I once found a pile of scrap books in a Jewish junk shop. I bought a copy of Cleland Fanny Hill with the original text for only one franc, which was really unexpected.

From the Gallusel Bridge to the New Bridge, it can be regarded as the second area of ??bookstalls. In this area, the influence of the Art School and the Numismatic Bureau opposite is significant.

Here, the bookstall owner also sells board paintings. Sometimes the small bookstall is full of dazzling displays, including original etchings, illustrations removed from books, theater posters, and colorful pictures of flowers, birds, and animals. Pictures, maps, landscapes, large and small, are all available, but books are ranked second. In these bookstalls, we rarely come across any books worth reading. The books are all worn out and covered with dust, and most of them are useless textbooks, catalogs from exhibitions and art dealers' auctions. In addition, in this area we can also find two stalls that specialize in selling old coins, coats of arms, etc. but not books. They are sandwiched between the bookstalls, making them a very special decoration. I always look away from these stalls selling paintings and coins. (I remember one day a French friend took me to stay in front of these coin stalls for a long time. He looked at them with gusto, but I felt really uncomfortable. When walking along the river, I don’t want to go with others.) However, there are one or two good book stalls in this area. One stall was set up by an old man. It was not that he had more books than others, but that he was particularly kind, and most of the transactions with him were successful. I have a copy of Le Grund Ecurt signed by Cocteau and given to the poet Fernand Divoire. I bought it from him at a very cheap price, and I bought it at Gallimar Bookstore. The first version of Opera signed by Cocteau and given to the poet Fargue cost me seventy francs. But I believe he lent it to me because the book was wrapped in wax paper and he didn't open it to take a look. When he saw the dedication, he might not sell it to me so cheaply. The other stall was run by a young man and had a good selection of books, mostly first editions and rare books of modern works, so I often visited him. I only know that this young man's name is Andre, because his colleagues call him that. He is very smooth and he claims to be familiar with various bookstores. He can get cheap and high-quality backdoor goods. If the customer specifies what book he wants, , he can manage it. But I asked him to make a copy of "The Complete Works of Gide", but he never did it for me.

What can be classified as the third zone is the section from New Bridge through San Michele Field to Xiaoqiao. This section is the most prosperous section of the bookstalls on the left bank of the Seine. In this area, the bookstalls are neater and more convenient. There are also ladies who have nothing to do at home and want to come here to read a few novels to relax; there are also students who are greedy for cheap and want to buy textbooks and reference books here; there are also literary lovers. Come here to find a few newly published books, and there are also some; scholars who want to study books, bibliophiles who want rare books, and curiosity seekers who want rare books can all come back satisfied in this area. In this area, the price of books is higher than elsewhere, but it is still cheaper than buying at a used bookstore. Brother Kengo searched for a long time before he found a copy of "The Diary of Gongol" in an old bookstore in Saint-Michel Square. He paid 600 francs and happily took it back, thinking it was a great bargain. But not long after, I He found the same book on a bookstall in this area, but the binding was much more sophisticated, and the asking price was only two hundred and fifty francs, which made him regret it. But this kind of thing is something that can only be met but cannot be sought. People who run to used bookstalls should first not have any specific purpose, and secondly, they should have leisure and patience. The bustling pedestrians on the street should look at the quiet passing water of the Seine River next to them. Otherwise, their legs will be sore and sweaty, their eyes will be tired, and they will still go back without results. Having said that, let’s talk about the bookstalls in this area. I’m not talking nonsense when I say that the books in this area are more expensive than other places. For example, a complete set of Echan-ges magazines only costs fifteen francs in the first area, but it must be twenty here. One less will not be sold. At that time, the original price of Celine's Voyage auboutdelanuit was 24 francs, and it was only 18 francs to buy it there, which was only 25% off the original price. These situations can sometimes make people angry, but in order to read them, I have to buy them back. The highest prices are found at the two stalls near San Michele Square that specialize in textbooks and reference books. In order to use them, students had to bite the bullet and buy them, which was always cheaper than buying new books. I have never been a patron of these stalls, but they have been my patrons. Because I always sell reference books I don’t need to them when I’m extremely bored. Here, I have to be fair: the prices they offer are indeed a bit higher than Jibel Bookstore. There is only one stall specializing in modern rare books in this area, which is not far from the San Michele Square and approaching the small bridge. The stall owner is a middle-aged man who doesn't speak much, and the price is not very expensive. But when he opens his mouth, don't think about bargaining: even if he agrees to you, the difference is limited, so look at the "Poruse" he displays. "Special Complete Works", the illustrated complete translation of "Tianfang Night Pond", and Chirico's illustrated version of Apollinaire's Calligrammes, I can only be jealous. There seem to be more poetry collections in this area than elsewhere. You can buy a copy of a collection of poetry by famous writers for four or five francs. As for collections of newer poets, you only need to buy a wooden box for one franc or even fifty centimes. Just look for it here. My copies of "The Sleeping Guqin Collection" by Reverdy illustrated by Jean Gris, which were only printed for a hundred copies, and the "Thirty Years War Collection" by the surrealist poet Gui Rosey, etc., were all dug out of these cheap wooden boxes. .

Also, I forgot to mention that there are one or two bookstores in this area that specialize in music scores, but I am a layman in this area and have never been there to learn about them.

The section from Xiaoqiao to Suri Bridge can be regarded as the fourth and final zone of the riverside bookstalls. From here on, the bookstall gradually became deserted. In the area near the bridge, you can also find some things you need. For example, there is a stall that sells a large number of books published by N.R.F. and Crassct. However, the lady boss bargains too hard. A book priced at fifteen francs always costs 15 francs. She wants to ask you for twelve or thirteen francs, and she often thinks she is good at it. All the great modern writers in her mind, such as Molecrick, Moloa, Ayme, etc., will try to extort money from you. , she is not willing to give up the price at all; on the contrary, she is willing to sell you the works of outstanding writers such as Larbo, Juanto, Ladecai, Alain and so on at a low price. As we walked past the small bridge area, it got worse every time we went down. At first, there were no good books. But there are still some stalls that can maintain the dignity of riverside bookstalls. In the future, there will also be stalls selling shabby popular novels and magazines, as well as old textbooks and useless waste papers. We are approaching Suri Bridge. There are even those selling scrap metal, old furnishings, and fake antiques; and as for the owners of those stalls, they look like the street patrols who are drinking, fishing or taking a nap on the banks of the Seine below. There is simply no difference between Clochard and Clochard. By this time, the luck of the bookstalls on the Left Bank of Paris has run out, your legs are tired of walking, and your eyes are tired of looking. If you still have money left in your pocket, you can go to the entrance of Avenue Saint-Germain. Go sit in a small coffee shop for a while, drink a cup of hot and strong coffee, and then open up what you have picked up along the way and massage it in advance. Otherwise, if you have already spent all your money, then walk up the Suri Bridge Go, lean on the railing of the bridge, look down at the long flowing water of the Seine River, which is full of ancient sorrow and saturated with the bells of the Notre-Dame Shrine, and then take a leisurely walk back slowly as the lanterns come on. It is also an economical There is also a poetic approach.

Speaking of this, I am talking about the bookstalls on the left bank of the Seine. As for the ones on the right bank, there are bookstalls from Pont Neuf to Shadeley Field, and from Shadeley Place to near the City Hall. There are two sections, but because of tradition, status, and goods, they are not as important as the Left Bank. I only stopped by when I still had time to spare after walking around the bookstalls on the Left Bank, or when I was coming out of Louvre. Although I gained something in between, such as Challa's L'homme approximatif or Henri Rousseau. But this is an extremely accidental thing; usually, I either come back empty-handed, or I am attracted by the fish, insect, flower and bird shop on the street. Therefore, it has happened that I originally wanted to visit a scholar but ended up buying a red-headed bird.

Dai Wangshu’s exquisite prose: Dream Seeker

Dreams will bloom flowers,

Dreams will bloom beautiful flowers:

Go in search of priceless treasures.

In the blue sea,

In the bottom of the blue sea,

There is a golden shell hidden deep inside.

Go and climb the nine-year iceberg,

Go and sail the nine-year dry sea,

Then you will meet the golden shell.

It has the sound of fish in the sky,

It has the sound of wind and waves on the sea,