It's like instead of my father coming to visit, I went back to the past alone and went back to them. They moved, groped and talked, and the scene was familiar and monotonous, like a whirl of music. The light is dim, the words are short, the faces are rarely young and simple (all people), but things are old. When I wake up in such a dream, I will feel sorry for the fact that my father does not exist. I will grieve and weep for his death. It is the autumn of 1995. In 1969, my family was sent to the countryside in northern Jiangsu, when my father was 39 years old. In 1966, when the Cultural Revolution began, my father tried to end his life at the age of 36. Now I am thirty-four years old. My brother is five years older than me, thirty-nine. We are the same age as our father. Hao Nian, twenty-eight years old, is a young novelist. One day after the Pure Brightness this year, he accompanied me to visit my father's grave. Dad's tomb is in Wangjiangfan. Sixteen years ago, it was a new cemetery, and my father was one of the earliest residents. Now, with lush vegetation and crowded stone tablets, it is not as easy to find my father's tomb as it was at the beginning. We picked our way up the hillside. The grave-sweeping craze before and after the Pure Brightness had passed, and there were only two of us alive on the hill. It was the first time that I came to visit my father's grave with my friends instead of my family, so I was in a very relaxed mood. In previous years, I always comforted my tearful mother and sent the farmers who came to ask for money (they could not help but say, help you shovel the weeds beside the grave). If you don't give money or give less, the peasants will curse the dead in the ground or threaten to destroy the graves after you leave. Besides, it was a Pure Brightness, and there were so many people on the mountain that it was even more lively than the market. What embarrassed me even more was that my brother had to perform the ceremony every time, stepping back two steps to adjust his clothes and bowing three times to his father's tombstone. I always imagine a different way to sweep, not to come and go in a hurry, like a thief (sometimes even my father's grave is not recognized in order to avoid the peasants who want money),ultrasonic cutting machine, just like today, without the disturbance of others, we can stay longer and smoke more cigarettes in front of my father's grave. When I came, I thought of bringing my own tools to clear the weeds near my father's grave, and I found a pair of scissors. While I was in front of the tomb cutting off the thin bamboo sticks that were growing everywhere, Hao Nian turned to the back of the tomb and wrote his father's epitaph. The sunken text was mottled with paint, and it was classical Chinese, so it was quite laborious to read. Hao Nian looked at it for a long time. Later, I took out a piece of white paper from my backpack and asked him to copy down the epitaph. It's not so much copying as tracing, and some of the words we don't know at all. It took a lot of effort to finish the transcription. I will record the full text as follows: Fang Zhi (Han Jianguo), a native of Xiangtan, Hunan Province, a member of the Communist Party of China, devoted himself to the revolution at an early age and became a professional writer in 1957. Only when you walk straight, there is no obsequiousness; when you are forced by the times, you will have a hard time for life. As human beings, ultrasonic welding transducer ,ultrasonic metal welding, the masses share weal and woe. In the treacherous person then the pen cuts the mouth to punish, does not pretend to say the color. Therefore its hair and for the text, right and wrong, love and hate blazing, chivalrous bone into the marrow, strength through the seven letters. He wrote "By the Spring", "Out of the Mountain" and "The Mole". Each article, the stream path opens alone, the literary world is famous, observes its article to know that it is a person, knows its person to benefit from its article to live in the sentiment also. Late and deep, the fire is green; Wu Tian does not hang, quickly mourn Yuying. Whoo! It hurts! Alas, alas! February 1980. A peasant woman came up the hill with a shovel. Without saying a word, she helped us clean up the weeds in front of my father's grave. After all, my scissors were not as good as the shovel, so I let her go. I asked the peasant woman where there was paper money to sell? She said there was one in the shop below. I gave the peasant woman fifty yuan and asked her to go down the mountain to buy thirty yuan of paper money for us, and the remaining twenty yuan was for her (as a reward for shoveling grass and running errands). Peasant woman asks: "What kind of paper money to want?" I said, "Just a little of everything." A few minutes later, she came up from the foot of the hill, followed by a grass dog of mixed colors. She handed us a pile of paper money, which was the only kind. There are several stacks of ghost coins of 10000 yuan and 100000 yuan each, which are printed very crudely and on poor paper, but they are still trying to imitate the spirit of RMB. The leader's portrait has also been replaced by the Jade Emperor or the King of Hell.
Relatively speaking, I trust those gold ingots more. Although they are also made of paper, they are painted with a layer of silver powder on the outside, which looks like that. Paper ingots are strung with a thin thread, and there is a branch for people to hold in their hands when burning paper. Of course, the most attractive thing is the plain yellow papyrus, a thick stack, soft and rough, but also so abstract (compared with the ghost money and gold ingots, it is less like any concrete money). It is unlike any earthly money, and is therefore most likely to circulate in the underworld, if the underworld really needs it. Hao Nian and I set aside a place in front of my father's grave and burned all kinds of coins. The smoke filled the air and the fire was raging, which made the grass dog sneeze. It's so dirty, so thin, it doesn't even bark. He fawned like us, looked sad, and had no purpose at all-we didn't bring any food. It came up with the peasant woman and played a role in our sacrificial sweeping. As if in those ancient times, barren hills, fire, papyrus and ashes, a man and his friend, and his faithful dog, were at his father's grave. I am satisfied that we did not bow three times or lay a wreath. I thought this was the end of the day's sacrificial sweeping, but Hao Nian took out a stack of paper from his clothes and put it on the embers of the ghost money-he wasn't finished yet. These are the manuscripts of two novels, one is mine and the other is Hao Nian's. Hao Nian obviously came prepared (as to how my manuscript came to be in his place, there is no need to delve into it). The two manuscripts burned in front of my father's grave, the corners rolled up,ultrasonic dispersion machine, and the handwriting in the squares was gradually nibbled away by the ashes like black butterflies. Everything that is delivered to the dead must be passed through the route of burning, and must be tested by fire. Hao Nian has never met his father, but he has read his books. His respect for his father is that of the younger generation to the older generation. fycgsonic.com
