Passing by an old friend's village again

 　　I read Shu Feilian's *Feilian's Village* a few years ago, and I had a copy, but it's now lost. I saw *A Village of Grass and Trees* that day in Qingdao at a bookstore (the name was intriguing; my daughter told me about it for the first time, and I kept asking questions, puzzled). Because it was tightly sealed, I couldn't see the real book, so I assumed it was another village Shu Feilian had created and, not wanting to miss it, quickly bought it. Only after opening it did I realize I'd been tricked by Shu Feilian or the publisher; *A Village of Grass and Trees* was actually a revised reprint of *Feilian's Village*, just with a different title—the village was the same. Like a shepherd boy pointing in the wrong direction, unexpectedly passing through an old friend's village, how could I not be happy? Moreover, many of the illustrations were drawn by Chang Xiufeng, the "Grandma Van Gogh," like vibrant New Year's paintings, giving that simple Jiangnan village a festive makeover.

　　Such fine weather seemed perfect for strolling through Feilian's village.

　　The winter sun was just right, as the owner of the estate said, "It piled up in the porch, thick in the morning with a faint reddish tinge, but by mid-morning, the sunlight thinned, like watered-down wine." Even if it was watered down, sitting still in such a sun for a long time would probably leave one slightly tipsy. It's cold and people are lazy; where in the city is there a good place to go? Why not stroll to that village with hands in my sleeves, wandering around freely? Though it's an old landscape, under the flowing sunlight, not only the mountains, rivers, people, and plants, but even the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs take on a new meaning. That would be quite interesting.

　　Fei Lian believes that beneath every inch of the city lies a pastoral landscape. One day, it might become a pastoral landscape again. Of course, I certainly can't wait for that day of profound change. Right now, I'm sitting in my study in the city, traversing fields and valleys through Fei Lian's words. That village in Jiangnan was restored or rebuilt by Fei Lian with words, built up by every blade of grass, every brick, every tile, and every person. Through the changing seasons, the plants and trees come to life, spring sowing and autumn harvesting—"quiet people, quiet scenery, quiet writing style, like a silent film, leisurely and peaceful." The people in the village, the events in the countryside, all embody a tranquility born from the abandonment of clamor. Wind, rain, thunder, and lightning; the clouds above the village; the rice paddies brimming with people; the ponds covered in moss; cotton budding; rapeseed blossoming; white dew appearing; heavy frost falling… These things are distant to me, yet intimately close.

　　Thinking of Yangxi in Yixing, my little village thickly shrouded in the snow of time, how similar it is to Feilian's!

　　The most striking similarity is that it's where only our distant childhood resides. Childhood exists outside of time; it's a utopia of time. Like a drop of pine resin frozen in amber, the pendulum of time suddenly stops, and that moment always feels incredibly long. Back then, in that little village, our lives were like a newly sprouted bean sprout, with plenty of time to squander. Shu Feilian was like that, and so was I. I remember often wandering aimlessly along the small stone bridge behind the house, watching people wash clothes and carry water, watching motorboats chugging through the archway, billowing black smoke, and disappearing into the distance with the flowing water. In truth, the whole village is gone. Because all the people I was closest to by blood have gone far away. Such a village is truly unsuitable for a return in middle age; perhaps only suitable for midnight dreams. A little sad, but this is generally the gift time gives us.

　　Feilian's village is also a village we can never return to. He preserved the atmosphere of the past in his writing, spreading it on the wind. It permeates the lines, lingering for a long time. Interestingly, "Feilian" is the name of an ancient wind god. The smell of ripening crops and spreading grass, the crowing of roosters, the chirping of birds and the buzzing of cicadas, and the affected mannerisms of craftsmen, bachelors, bibliophiles, and others—I don't need to search to match them with my own rural memories. Just as in the Marxist-Leninist era, a proletarian could find comrades simply by listening to the melody of "The Internationale,"

　　I wandered through someone else's village and unexpectedly unearthed quite a few of my own long-forgotten possessions. However, it's quite interesting to bring them out and air them in this fine weather.

　　Finally, I can't help but say that while "A Village of Grass and Trees" is good, I still prefer its original title—"Feilian's Village." Of course, if the book is good, the title becomes irrelevant. Shu Feilian humbly hopes that readers will feel as if they've been brushed against the face by a gentle south wind after reading his writing, and then go about their business. However, reading such writing requires nothing more than immersion; nothing else is possible.