By Liu Yu
Countless times I have picked up my pen, hoping to let my thoughts flow freely, yet faced with this bleak sheet of paper, I find myself unable to begin.
In the depths of my dark dreams, there stands a low fence. Once, it proudly built a high platform for me, where I could sing at the top of my voice. There, I spent many beautiful days. On the day I left, I left behind my youth and old affections, and now I have boarded the train to the land of dreams once more. How I wish the ticket I held tightly in my hand were a one-way pass, allowing me to die amidst the flowers of that blissful paradise. I dare not sing loudly, for I have been away too long, far too long.
I wish my life could be as tenacious as wild grass, yet as brilliant as wildflowers in bloom. But in the end, I cannot escape the punishment of loneliness. Jiang Xun once said that loneliness is the greatest gift God has given to humanity. Now, God has taken a liking to this stranger—me—and has opened the gates to the hell of loneliness ahead of time. Yet I still hesitate, afraid to step forward. I stake the great joys of this life as my wager—perhaps there, I may find that solitary jujube tree battling the vast sky?
At the center of the labyrinth lies the minotaur, the demon people long to see with their own eyes. He dwells in the heart of the circular ruins, sustained by human fantasies. The sunlight there is dazzling, yet few would call it heaven or hell—but surely, they are mistaken. It is the home of strange rocks, and what of the little creatures that leap from them? Ah, perhaps they have just awakened from beautiful dreams. Those dreams do not arise from collective karma but from individual causes—some near the mountains and fields, others suspended in the void.
It has been nearly two years since I last immersed myself in Lu Xun's philosophical reflections. I thought I had moved past the stage of being an "angry youth," devoting myself to Buddhist teachings and avoiding worldly affairs. Yet these past few days, a dear friend asked me about Lu Xun's time studying medicine in Japan. In a fit of passion, I spoke until tears welled up in my eyes, muttering a few anti-Japanese slogans in the process. Never mind where my pursuit of the ultimate truth lies—I couldn't even maintain basic tranquility. But perhaps this, too, is a form of spiritual practice: "willing to act, joyful to endure." And so, I picked up Wild Grass.
To some extent, wild grass represents vigorous vitality. Do not underestimate those tiny, grain-sized seeds—they can take root and sprout even in the most barren soil. Wild grass grows unchecked, flourishing and withering with the seasons. It arrives quietly and departs in silence, becoming nourishment for the next year. New life carries hope to a more distant future.
Wild grass pays no heed to the mortal world. It is content to be an unnoticed ornament. Yet upon reflection, only those who have achieved "perfection" in past lives can reincarnate into such a state, far removed from the suffering of the ordinary world. Helplessness toward reality drives people to focus on the multitude of living beings—as the saying goes, "All things flourish, each returning to its root." Is the fate of wild grass inevitably tied to the merciless flames? But then, the flames need not show mercy—the wild grass has already attained great joy. At the moment of destruction, it is reborn anew. Just as "hope" can only shine brightest against the backdrop of "despair." Perhaps wild grass itself serves as a messenger? I fervently hope that this "hope" accumulates great merit like wild grass, rising with the spring wind after rebirth.
Two years ago, when I read Lu Xun's preface to Wild Grass, I wrote: "Yet we live in this boundless 'hoped-for' emptiness, unable to express it, and gradually losing the ability to articulate it." At the time, my understanding was limited to criticizing the numbness of the "wild grass" masses. But now, I see that I deeply love the blooming and fragrance of wildflowers.
Natsume Sōseki once wrote in The Three-Cornered World: "Those who find pleasure in watching plays or reading novels are those who have set aside their own interests. While watching or reading, they become poets." When you merge with wild grass, you suddenly understand its heart: "to act for the benefit of others, to seek true enlightenment." In other words, it is the trial of "willing to act, joyful to endure." At the moment the flames come, it is the supreme state of great joy and fulfillment.
Here, I will use two more of Lu Xun's images to elucidate his philosophy. I strive to break free from the habitual ways of interpreting Lu Xun, but in the end, I find that even the most transcendent thoughts are shaped by environment and circumstance. The words he wrote carry his philosophy as a form of resistance, inevitably bearing the mark of critique. Indeed, the figures in Lu Xun's works—and Lu Xun himself—have become symbols of solitude, and the reason for this solitude is his choice of the path of "willing to act." Whether materialized as wild grass, a lonely jujube tree, or a shadow longing to bid farewell to its master, none of them reach the peaceful shore of a good end. Yet in their hearts, they attain the satisfaction of great joy.
In decay, wild grass stubbornly cries out the colors of spring.
In the lonely backyard stand two lonely jujube trees; in the distant night sky, countless stars shimmer with enchanting light and faint smiles. Two years ago, I wrote: "The backyard has few plant species, forcing emphasis on the two tall, desolate, perhaps already dead jujube trees. In the turbid night, self-righteous 'hope' transmits false strength to the weak, who have no reason not to believe in something they must look up to. Those who see through this can only watch helplessly—everything will continue. Spring passes, and winter will come again." This is the epitome of Lu Xun's era. How despairing it must have been for those who occasionally awoke, using their feeble actions to battle the vast sky. They shouted loudly: "Go, go! To the other shore! All beings, go! Awaken! Reach the shore of wisdom." But most of it was futile.
How does one move from suffering to liberation, from ignorance to enlightenment? One must walk all paths to reach the other shore. Only after awakening can there be great joy. This is the soliloquy of a lonely warrior.
Alas! Alas! How can a noble warrior bid a heartless farewell? The sages have long found their final resting place—what of us? We rush headlong toward the Pure Land, only to lose our way in the mortal world, adrift in an unnamed present. Ironic, isn't it? But this is the path the lonely ones have chosen for themselves. They will spare no effort in imagining the beauty of the afterlife.
Here, I realize that if we add a dimension of time and space to Lu Xun's philosophy, it may help readers better explore his inner world—the "willing to act" in this life and the "joyful to endure" in the next.
The shadow has left me—it must have found a one-way ticket to the next life. It would rather go and never return, to be with more shadows in the afterlife than to be lost in the hardships of the present. How amusing! The afterlife is worth yearning for, and the shadow has joined the ideal cycle of rebirth. But what of me? What does it matter to me?
I am curious—how did those wandering between the old and new eras guess at the path ahead? The master bid farewell to the shadow and hurried on his way, seemingly parting forever with this sinking world to find a clearer path. Yet when the blazing sun shines, he will vanish without a trace. If I were to view this world upside down, no one would remember the countless lonely figures who once wandered at dawn or dusk. They were wild grass, a jujube tree, a shadow, Lu Xun—they were me.
Lu Xun once said: "To see nothing in all eyes, to be saved in the absence of hope."
To this day, I still do not know why the shadow left me. Lu Xun merely described the process of the shadow's departure. What I read in it was the shadow's kindness—a self-sacrifice in the spirit of praise. But it circles back to the pitiable and wretched: the shadow grieves for my unenlightenment and pities my conservatism. Ironically, at the same time, I seem to watch its departure coldly, grieving its recklessness and pitying its folly.
Lu Xun once told a friend that his other writings were for others, but Wild Grass was for himself. Among these wondrous impressions, we can unfold infinite associations. Lu Xun speaks of disappointment and despair, of old orders and new systems, of the clever, the fools, and the slaves. Ultimately, he speaks of the relationships between people in that era, of rulers and the ruled.
We specifically use the relationship between "shadow" and "I" as a shallow analogy—reform versus conservatism, the Donghak Peasant Revolution versus the imperialist powers... More interestingly, this pair seems to be a universal model, applicable to all human dynamics during transitions between old and new.
"When I turn to dust, you will see my smile." He took a deep drag from his pipe, blew out a string of smoke rings, and sat in his rocking chair, gazing quietly into the distance.
Liu Yu is the lead editor of the cultural commentary "A Thousand Hamlets." Liu holds a BA in English Literature from HKBU and an MA in History from HKU.
The views do not necessarily reflect those of DotDotNews.
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