铁凝·《土墙上的划痕》

作家成功的路径千差万别，但有两点是他们必备的，那就是爱与意志。

很多年前，一位年老的女作家给我讲起过她的初恋。那是中国的抗日战争年代，她是八路军中一名14岁的战士。她暗恋着一个大她几岁的士兵，当时他们的部队驻扎在一个村子里。一天那士兵被派去前线，她和战友们去送。她知道他可能一去不回，却没有能力也没有勇气说出她心中汹涌的爱和巨大的悲伤。她就那么走在人群后边，沿着村口一户农民家的院墙一直到村外。那是中国北方农村常见的一种“干打垒”土墙，她一路走着，一边用大拇指在土墙上深深划着，一直划到墙尽头，一直到那士兵消失在原野上。后来，那士兵牺牲了，女孩每天都到村口去看土墙上被她划出的那条长长的深痕。半个多世纪过去了，年过80岁的女作家告诉我说，即使在今天，每当想起初恋，她的大拇指仍然会升腾起一种炽热。我记住了那灼热的大拇指，那是独属于这位女作家的简朴而诚挚的爱。而这样一种隐忍的纯情，我相信不同民族的听众都能够理解，因为这是人类的心灵能够共同感受到的东西。

当我在书桌前坐下拿起笔，有时会莫名其妙地想起这位作家的初恋故事。进而相信，如果作家的语言和感情是不诚实的，如果作家是在做作，如果他是在写他并不真正关心或相信的东西那么也没有人会关心他的作品，不论那读者是你的老乡或者是生活在异邦。而当这种不愉快的景况出现时，我们决不能推卸责任搬地去怪罪“这都是全球化惹的祸”。“西方之上”或狭隘的民族主义对文学的发育和进步都没有益处。在全球化的喧嚣中，我们应该有勇气重振爱与意志，写下有体温的字，如同那位女作家讲述过的灼热的拇指，那儿有生命的质感，有作家活生生的个人面目。

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.