Original Chinese by Zou Jingzhi, Translated to English by Jeremy Tiang
One day at the subway station, you hear the Mendelssohn concerto in E Minor, and instinctively touch the four fingertips of your left hand—but there's nothing there. They're smooth, the calluses gone without a trace. No one would be able to tell you once played the violin, practicing eight hours a day, slowly gliding across open strings to start with, using your whole bow, over and over, the instrument squawking like an undead chicken from G string to E, then back again. Day after day, knowing all the while how far from you the music was.
The Mendelssohn continues. You can't hide from its grace and purity, any more than you can escape failure.
Next, you learned scales, shifting positions, staccato, spiccato, where to find the harmonics, how to play vibrato. From Kreutzer to Jakob Dont, those tadpole-like music notes swallowed many years, during which the vast illusion of musicianship enfolded you. You'd read the stories of Paganini, of Jascha Heifetz, of David Feodorovich Oistrakh. You felt that someday, possibly, perhaps, maybe, who knows...
You brought your violin along when you were sent to the Great Northern Waste. Amidst these vast plains, it required a sturdy pair of hands more than ever before, but you couldn't possibly speak to poverty-stricken farmers about palms or Paganini. In summer you tilled the land, in autumn harvested the wheat, and in winter spread frozen manure. When your fingers pressed on the strings, the sounds they produced weren't as lively as before. They no longer obeyed you. Bit by bit, your violin felt like a solidified dream.
Mendelssohn's Concerto in E Minor also feels like a dream.
At this time, art was an extravagance. On the threshing floor, going through the repetitive motions, you remembered the melody to Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso, and hummed it quietly. Following the beat, you raised your metal flail and brought it down on the plump grains, up then down again. In an instant, it hit you fully, how far we were from the life of the imagination.
The Mendelssohn plays on, and this time round you don't need to worry about it being interrupted by a snippet from a revolutionary tune.
One evening, you were summoned from your dorm, and a stern-faced official said to you: bring your instrument, report to headquarters, you're needed to rehearse a model opera—a glorious, arduous revolutionary duty. You'll start tomorrow.
You went back to your dorm and retrieved your violin, wiping off the dust. The strings were loose, and when you tightened them, a hum rose from deep within its body, as if it was yawning after being roused. When you were done tuning, you set it down and examined your hands. The calluses were still there, but no longer on your fingertips—they were now on your palm.
In Taking Tiger Mountain, a long overture precedes the final assault, with sixteenth notes coming thick and fast. Such a vigorous piece of music certainly couldn't be undertaken by just one little violin—that'd be far too thin a sound. Instead, all the instruments take part, so you hear the scattered troops dashing through the air. But apart from the haplessness of everyone trying their utmost, there was no music, and you said this wouldn't do, perhaps all the instruments should go back to practicing scales. No one paid attention to you. An orchestra with just eleven days to rehearse an entire opera had no reason to heed such talk. And the show came together, an emotional miracle.
The Mendelssohn changes, growing more magnificent, shimmering.
It's not like you could just play Mendelssohn any time you wanted. That day, resting after the performance, you sat beneath a catalpa tree, running through some exercises. Your fingers had recovered their former power, and you began a Mendelssohn piece, sinking into it with something like hopefulness. The propaganda bureau chief, there for an inspection, happened to hear you. He asked, what kind of song are you playing on that fiddle? (He insisted on calling your violin a fiddle.) You told him. He said, who's this Mendelssohn, then? You explained. He said, ah, no wonder it sounds like some stinking bourgeois piano bar tune; if you've got nothing better to do, why not play Taking Tiger Mountain? Or a piece that tells a revolutionary story, like The Flowing River? Or better yet, learn the erhu, you'll be much closer to the people that way.
The righteousness of his bringing up the erhu and the people left you speechless. When you put your violin away, you looked at it lying flat in its case, a corpse ready for burial.
From that day, I began keeping a diary. In a corner of my bunk each day, I wrote all that was within me. No matter how late it was, even if it was just one line, I wrote. I grew mesmerized by these white pages that kept my feelings safe, words even more comforting than music notes, although they were silent, and only I could hear them. When I'd almost got through my first notebook, an educated youth from Shanghai sneaked a look. He left a note behind, stuck between the pages: your journal moved me deeply—you said many things that I've wanted to, and I hope you keep writing, but nothing too revealing. A revolutionary salute—you know who.
Thinking about it, that would make him my first reader, the first person to encourage me. I knew what he meant about being too revealing. After that, my entries often took the form of poetry. I remember only a kind of emotion, which I described at the time as 'a stark wind, white hair in the icy cold air.' Looking at it now, this line seems horribly affected.
I started with a sort of complete self-awareness, which was different from the violin. There was no score I could consult, and I never dreamed I'd be able to connect my writing with my life. It was more like a discussion, a dialogue with a blank sheet of paper, squeezing a few words from my heart each time. This flow of language could easily affect a person who wanted to say something, but couldn't get the words out.
I kept writing like this, until I left the Great Northern Waste.
Now I see this as just a beginning, one that had to do with abandoning the violin, although to this day I'm unable to claim this was what set me on my present path. That wouldn't be an honest account.
In 1977, I returned to Beijing aged twenty-five. There were all kinds of possibilities ahead of me, and to be honest, I tried many of them. For three years, I worked hard to attain a life of stable ordinariness. After that, I went back to writing, throwing my whole self into it. Those who knew me well were surprised by my dedication. In an essay about writing, I once said: anyone who still wants to write poetry after the age of thirty must be doing it for an inescapable reason. What that reason is, I still don't know, but it was something to do with my life, my very existence. I'm happy to say that anyone who writes is destined to write, and no matter what kind of life they'd ended up in, the outcome would be the same.
Decades have passed, and poetry has entered my life. I've only ever been grateful that it chose to do so.
I walk out of the subway station, and Mendelssohn disappears. Now I think about art, and how it never paused, nor could ever be interrupted. Once again, I now have no calluses on my left hand. Instead, there are fleshy pads on my right, where I grip my pen.
因为门德尔松
邹静之
那天在地铁站里，你听到了门德尔松的Ｅ小调，你下意识地摸了摸左手的四个指尖......什么也没有，光滑的，那些茧子都消失了，没有痕迹。谁也看不出你曾拉过琴，一天八个小时，从漫长的运弓开始，空弦，全弓，一下一下，那琴像只永远杀不死的鸡，它叫啊叫啊叫的从Ｇ弦叫到Ｅ弦，然后再叫回去。一天天，你知道了音乐离你有多么远......
门德尔松还在响，你无法躲避他流畅的清纯，像你无法躲避失败......
你接着学会音阶、换把、顿弓、跳弓，知道泛音的位置，怎么揉弦。从开塞拉到顿特，几年的光阴都被那些蝌蚪一样的音符给吞吃了，你被音乐家这个巨大的幻觉支撑着，你读过帕格尼尼、奥依斯特拉赫、海菲兹的故事。你觉得以后可能、或者、也许、说不准......
你带着琴去了北大荒。那么广袤的田野它更需要一双结实的手，你不能对贫下中农说关于手和帕格尼尼的话题，你夏天铲地，秋天割麦，冬天把冻实的粪刨开，你的手再按到指板上时听到琴弦沉重结实的声音，它们少了些灵活，不听命于你。慢慢的，你再看到那把琴时觉得它像一个具体的梦。
门德尔松的Ｅ小调也像梦......
艺术在某个时期是奢侈的，当你在打麦场上重复着扬场的动作而记起＜引子与回旋＞的旋律时，你轻声哼着，在节奏中举起木锹，看着饱满的籽粒散开落下，再扬起再落下。一时你体会到了，想像的生活离我们是多么遥远。
门德尔松还在行进着，你不必担心有样板戏的乐段插进来......
一个傍晚你被叫出宿舍，冷面人对你说：夹上你的琴，去团部报到，排练样板戏，这是一项光荣而艰巨的革命任务，明天就去。
你回到宿舍先把那琴取下来，擦抹了一遍，琴弦松着，上紧的时候，你听到琴箱中嗡地一声，像是醒来的哈欠。弦对准了，放下琴，你看了看自己的手，依旧有茧子，只是那东西巳从指尖换到了手心。
＜智取威虎山＞中，打虎上山一场有很长的前奏，十六分音符快而密集。这威猛的乐段当然不是一把小提琴就可胜任的，因陋就简，所有的乐器都加入了进来，演奏时你仿佛听到零乱溃散的队伍从空中逃过。除了竭力地无奈外，没有音乐，你说这不行，可能所有的乐器都要从音阶练起。没有人理会，一支要在十一天时间中排出一部大戏的队伍完全有理由不听什么练习曲这套话。戏排出来了，这是一种情感的奇迹。
门德尔松变幻着，愈加明丽，摇曳......
不是什么时候都可以门德尔松的。那天演出后休息，你在一棵楸树下先拉着练习曲，你感觉手指巳恢复如前，你试着拉起门德尔松，那样地投入，像个又看到希望的人。你被来视察的宣传股长听到了。他问：你这个手提琴（他一直把小提琴叫手提琴）拉的是什么调调？你回答了。他问：门德松是什么人？你回答了。他说：怨不得呢！听着像资产阶级酒吧间里的臭调调。闲了为什么不拉打虎上山？为什么不拉痛说革命家史、江河水？闲了学学二胡，那玩艺离人民近。
他提到了二胡和人民，那样正义。你无话。收起琴时，你看着那琴僵直地躺下，像被收殓的尸体。
从那一天起，我开始记日记了，每天在上铺的角落，将存积在心里的东西写出来，不管多晚，那怕只有一行，我要写。我开始迷恋那张可以安放心情的白纸，那些文字甚至比音符更能安慰我，它们无声，只有我一个人能听到。在快写完一本时，日记被一个上海知青偷看了。他在日记本中夹了一张字条：看完你的日记非常感动，你说了好多我想说的话，希望你把日记坚持写下去，只是不要写得太露。此致，革命的敬礼！知名不具。
想起来他该是读我文字的第一人，也是第一个鼓历我的人。我知道他说的太露是什么意思。这之后我有时用诗的形式来记日记，我只记一种心情，那时我曾写出过："风，凛冽的白发。"这种现在看来极为做作的句子。
我从一种完全的自觉开始了，这不同于拉小提琴，写作没有乐谱可以参照，我也从来没有梦想着有一天能够把写作和生活连在一起。更多的是交谈，与一张白纸对话，每次把一些文字从心里交出来时，那种自话自说的语流便很能打动一个想说什么而又无法说出的人。
就这样一直写到离开了北大荒。
现在看那只是一个开始。这一开始确实与放弃小提琴有关，但我到今天也不能承认就是因为那个事件而决定了我现在的道路，这么说不真实。
1977年我回到了北京，二十五岁，有各种各样的可能在等着我。实际上我也做了很多的尝试，有三年的时间我一直为过那种安稳平常的生活而努力着。三年过去后，我回到了写作，全身心的进入，那种迷恋的程度使熟悉我的人都疑惑。我曾在一篇谈创作的文章中说到：一个三十岁还要来写诗的人，必定有其迫不得巳的原因。这原因一直到现在我还不很清楚，但我知道与生活有关系，与生命有关系。我愿意接受一种说法：写作的人命定了要去写作，不论经历什么样的生活他都会这样。
十几年过去了，诗歌进入了生命，选择了她我至今唯有感恩
在走出地铁的时候，门德尔松消失了。想到艺术，突然觉出她从来就没有停顿过，也不会被什么事件所中断，就像此时，左手的指尖没有了茧子，右手握笔的地方却长出了肉垫。
Zou Jingzhi is an acclaimed Chinese playwright, poet and prose writer. Extremely influential as a poet in the 1980s, he has continued to shape public opinion in China, more recently through his stage productions and screenplays, including The Grandmaster (dir. Wong Kar Wai) and Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles (dir. Zhang Yimou). He is a founding member of the theater collective Longmashe, which regularly produces his plays. Zou is a member of the Chinese Writers Association and a resident writer of the Beijing Writers Association.
Jeremy Tiang is the translator of more than ten books from Chinese, including novels by Zhang Yueran, Yeng Pway Ngon and Chan Ho-Kei. He is the recipient of a PEN/Heim Grant, an NEA Literary Translation Fellowship, and a Henry Luce Foundation Fellowship. Tiang also writes and translates plays, and is the author of the short story collection It Never Rains on National Day (Singapore Literature Prize finalist) and the novel State of Emergency. He is the Asia Literary Editor at the New York-based Asian American Writers’ Workshop.