乔伊斯的故事-第3章
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in a book which called “Xi Ling town”。
It’s an essay which was inscribed by Cheng Dichao and designed by Meng Xingshi； and the essay’s front cover is a pair of Chinese brush drawing。 This picture draws the materials from my hometown： the vapor change irregularly to the ink cloud in the night sky of a village on the plain； the night take her eyes （moon） overlooking my hometown。 This is a patch skin of the Yu Dong Plain candidly revealed in the moon； this is a time when the moon picture and the reflection of shady trees draw a picture in each courtyard wall； and those pictures integrate a Chinese brush drawing in my essay book cover。 And those pictures bee the beauty in Dr。 Saratid’s eyes。
“Joyce； your hometown maybe the same beautiful as the James Joyce’s hometown；” he encouraged to me。
“And you can catch up with James Joyce if you work hard to keep writing。 You can make a writing and talk about your writing experience when you do your Independent Study； it maybe is a new challenge； yes； Joyce； you should do it！” Dr。 Saratid likes to munch a candy when he sits in the meeting office of the college of education。 He always encourages us to do some significant works； like a man collecting shells in the Bang Sean beach。
“Yes； l like writing； sir；” I look at his eyes and talk what I prehend about writing； “Writing is my self…improvement； sir； I always make writing as my basic way of growth； and I like James Joyce’s literatures very much。 I wish to develop my writhing like him。” That must be my overseas chapter of my writer’s life； I begin to require myself as a writer when I got the writer recognition by the Writers’ Union in Yunnan province。 At some time in the past I h*e believed it was a big progress of my writing experiences。
In the meeting office of Human Resource Development （HRD）； we talk about the different understanding and demands within the different experience。
“So； Joyce； we can make a time to talk your writing； how about Thursday； I h*e some visiting hours； okay； we can talk about study and literature； let’s do it！”
“Yes； sir； I’m very glad to talk with you！” Joyce said。
Joyce
“Talk about Joyce； should I talk about the one who called James Joyce or the one who called himself Joyce when he study overseas and write poems in the primary time？” I puzzled。
In this absentminded time； I ask to myself in a corner of 17 apartment houses。 All feelings are about summer and it proved that I h*e spent one year in Thailand； accidentally the choppy writing and the dead plan on writing paper； I h*e nothing fun in my life； even less the reading and understanding of James Joyce’s works as his reader。
“Why call you Joyce？” Dr。 Anong asked me in her class。
“I can’t talk clearly why I call myself Joyce； from the disposition； feeling； or tendency； as his adherent I h*e not ever read enough works； but maybe it out of the plex which provides a spirit to me when I’m called Joyce by someone。” A mysterious power encourages me when I talk to myself in my mind or in silence； it’s about warmth。
Poetize is a daily action of my life。 It maintains me。 I always remember the old days when I looked up to the Hai Yuan Temple and the continuous mountains outside school。 The gloomy mountains always prompt me to yearn for our couplets； like that Chinese brush drawing in our central room； the couplets say that： there is no way to the Peng hill； yet a green bird finds the way solicitously for us。
I guess that our couplets is a miniature of the scene before my eyes； but there is no green bird flying to the mountains for me； I can only stare to the swarthy cedars from casement； I can only stay in the 105 room of the Li Ren （Virtuous Manners in Neighborhood） building with a numb thinking。 In night growls of mountainside house e endlessly； if I want to pose poetry； it must derive of the missing about my hometown； my girl； and the distant friends； if I lie awake all night and idle away my time； I polish a poem when I look at the swarthy cedars； it just prove that my day time is my suffering。
I can remember an impression about Hai Yuan temple。 It is in the c*e； the saint read the divinatory symbols and talked with my destiny； he said that there were private calumny outside and I should act dumb everywhere。
But the pretend person always wakes up in midnight； and billow the trivia which occur under the cedars in his mind。 If I h*e a book about the poet’s life under the turmoil surrounding； I can wash the criminal’s soul cleanly； not to the people who survive in the unprivileged situation。
I think the author’s ageing integrate the writing development and the thought development； it belongs to the human resource development issue； and the ageing beh*ior is outguess the plicated social phenomenon and supply the incisive judgment with a literature style。
It’s a characterization about master in literature； like James Joyce； the Irish author who was esteemed by me； he was loved by his father as eldest son； was loved by deity of literature with his gifted literary expression。
He cherished his insights。 And this destitute and homeless man reduced my experience too trivial or insignificant to mention when I floundered in the Yu Dong Plain； the Yunnan…Guizhou plateau； and Bang Sean seas。 He assiduously writing and reduced my writing experience to nothing when I wrote in 105 room of Li Ren building； read in the ； pose in the 17 apartment houses for teachers of Yunnan University； 4 apartment houses of Burapha University。
January 7； 1904； James Joyce began to write his novel； a Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man； he began his moral spirit。
This is Joyce！
A man who investigated and researched the social phenomenon； used the literature works to supervise； integrate and encourage the people’s morality and spirit； he is a man of letters。
And a man who lives with the defamation and leads a vain and humdrum life is a loser of the ideal’s destroying。 I warn to myself。
There should no name and title if a man can s*e the cultural life； I sedate myself like this when I h*e not enough courage to answer the name of Joyce。
He wants to improve people’s spirit by his works； he wants to affect the society by people’s psyche improving； but I only want to clean my life and my vexation by my poem。
My writing condition is a trough of poem literature； it’s a depreciatory epoch of poem； even can’t be changed by the fact that a jacobinic poet takes his pants down when he recites his poem。
It’s can’t turn round by this sensation； and I know it’s a weakness of people’s reading； so I also will be slighted as a poet； absolutely like a undefended innocent； thus I defend my damaged courtyard wall。
People should be forgiven； specifically the unintelligent villain； from our pity； when they lost their lily…white soul。 We should forgive an utterly useless person when he grovels and cadge as a beggar。 If a person lost his soul； he will ask for the power to make him live longer； like a beggar。
And poem will give him a reason to subsist by the hope and beauty from poem； like any other arts give people the aesthetically joviality。
Once a time my friend asks me： “does the world give the poem away because of its grime； or the dirty life of society makes the poem to valueless？” The answer maybe is that the poem is still there； and the poem changes into the sobbing of suffering； the *all sentence of expressing； the stimulating of ambition and the accusing of odiousness； the poet changes his identity and character in poem writing。
But the poet didn’t break his conscience； he never has to worry about it。 As a motto today； I write those words in my roommate’s *all blackboard； and hear to my roommate’s voice； he says： “Bear up； my brother。”
That is an incentive sentence to me when I make a writing abroad； pare with the situation of my study in the department of Chinese language and literature； I feel better。 I find the growing of a person is in her heart； not in the surface； whatever job he did。
So a person’s growing airspace depends on his innate idiosyncrasy； it’s a personal development mode。 Such as some Chinese adages： Do you h*e a thing for cripples or what？ You cannot make a horn of a pig’s tail。 In a word； the decisive element of one person’s prosperity is the internal cause。
I’m very exciting when I talk about the poem with Dr。 Saratid in the drawing room of human resource development department。 Maybe those are some plaints what I talk； and I look up at the declining orb； I always remember the lost former days。
The stories are about my studying of my memory which haunt me and never go away。
西陵镇
槐花香飘的西陵镇在她自己的夏日里，正是迷人时光。
槐花绽放，我应该在那树荫下的吊床上安稳地睡着，母亲推开木门的声音并没有把我惊醒，我的醒来是源于母亲身上的味道，我熟悉的气味带来的甜美。我的醒来不带哭声，我眼见着父亲挎着行囊推开家门，接着是母亲从木门外跟进来。我的醒来是在一个午后，阳光水一般的从桐树叶、槐树叶和密密麻麻的樱桃叶里滴落，间和着铜铃铛在围墙外的小学震荡的声音，我的醒来是一群学童在欢呼雀跃着奔出教室的那一刻，是母亲奔进家门的�
