Today, I watched The Sinking of Lisbon Maru. Occasionally, quiet sobs could be heard in the theater. The documentary recounted how three British prisoners of war managed to escape the searches on an isolated island. The daughter of a fisherman who helped with the rescue recited their names one by one in a dialect-laced Chinese. Then, their photos appeared on the screen, clad in Chinese clothing. In those foreign garments, they consciously shrank their bodies to better fit, offering sheepish smiles to the camera. It was an amusing sight; the audience laughed. In a film filled with the living, the nearly dead, and the dead, they seemed comical and lighthearted. To survive was to be separated from the darkness and despair of the ship’s hold. To be alive was a cause for joy, a tiny prospect for insignificant people, a friend with a ruddy nose. A scholar researching the Lisbon Maru described it as a three-act tragedy. Indeed, all deaths conform to the script. But life itself is chaos, an absurdist play devoid of aesthetic meaning.
When I visited the pyramids, I had menstrual cramps so intense they felt like they could split the sky. The pain was unbearable; I couldn’t take a single step. It was as if my body were reliving the entire process of stone-laying from millennia ago. With every stone pushed into place, my flesh was torn apart, my fingers wracked with searing pain. I crouched before the pyramid, screaming silently within. For a moment, the sunlight wavered—an echo of the old folktale where Meng Jiang wept at the Great Wall. The golden stones tumbled down; the pharaoh sought to resurrect himself within me. The tour guide said the pyramids symbolized rebirth. Egypt, and later Europe, embraced the worship of monumental structures to make the divine visible. But in the secular world, the pyramids clearly proclaim the pharaoh’s death. The precondition for all prayers of resurrection is death—sublimity layered upon sublimity. Death lingers like a shadow. Just as the serpent of chaos beneath Ra’s solar barge, they painted it as waves that propel him forward. Set grips his harpoon, tempted to kill and yet to spare.
I first understood death when my great-grandmother passed away. To know death is like losing innocence—like a shattered porcelain vessel reduced to dust. It is an irreversible cognition. I felt my childhood ended then. In some ways, childhood is closer to death than adulthood is, for we are born from it. A child’s sorrow is therefore deeper, heavier, as it still holds the memory of death. I once read a passage from Zhuangzi on Weibo: “The True Men of old did not rejoice in life, nor did they loathe death. Their coming was unheralded, their departure unresisted. They floated along, arriving and departing with ease, never forgetting their origins, never seeking their end.” Those who do not know death are ancient souls, like water dissolving into water.
In therapy, my therapist told me I didn’t know which values I should follow. She gave me a chart to classify priorities as important, less important, or unimportant. My scalp tingled at the thought of ranking them. I have an innate fear of categorization. I forced myself through it, but the result was a mess—chaotic, disordered, impossible to define by any single moral code, principle, or personality trait. I joked that I was a quintessential modern person. Perhaps because of that, death is of such importance to me. In Game of Thrones, there is a concept I deeply admire: after Arya arrives in Braavos, she learns that although there are many gods, they all serve the same deity—the God of Death. Valar Morghulis—all men must die. I crave silence. I am exhausted by social media’s incessant whispers in my ear. The Leviathan with its thousand faces laughs at me from the shadows. Even on the bus, I find the presence of others unbearable. I knelt before the Pantheon, overwhelmed by the indistinct faces, longing to cry for help—yet upon recognizing them, I only felt revulsion. Self-loathing breeds hatred for others; narcissism leads to rejection; selfishness necessitates dependence. Death is a ticket to leave at any moment. And yet, I fear it. The sight of Kinkaku-ji burning to the ground—such beauty turned light and absurd in the face of death. Death is the only thing that truly belongs to us.
Not long ago, I read Yiyun Li’s The Deaths and Lives of Two Sons in The New Yorker. It felt as if I were reading about my own mother—or perhaps every mother. The deaths of her two sons were met with endless speculation, but in the end, it wasn’t so complicated. It was simply that the fruit of death had ripened. I deeply love Rilke’s poetry:
“Früher wußte man (oder vielleicht man ahnte es), daß man den Tod in sich hatte wie die Frucht den Kern. Die Kinder hatten einen kleinen in sich und die Erwachsenen einen großen. Die Frauen hatten ihn im Schooß und die Männer in der Brust. Den hatte man, und das gab einem eine eigentümliche Würde und einen stillen Stolz.”
The dead remain shrouded in mist to the living. In the beginning, there was the Word. At some point, time was not yet invented, nor was death. I do not recall whether the Bible ever mentions God creating death. Perhaps death has always been beyond religion. Perhaps it is simply another life within us finally coming to maturity. Water Margin ends with Lu Zhishen hearing the tide of the Qiantang River. “He thought it was the sound of war drums,” but others told him, “It is the tidal current.” What a beautiful phrase: “The tide comes because it keeps its promise.” At that moment, he understood another way of being—another world of life. Not life, yet something like life. And so, he attained nirvana. The flower that bears the seed of death bursts open—not in mono no aware, not in sentimentality, but in an indifferent, unknowing bloom. The moment it opens, the seed drops to the ground with a dull thud, like a skull, like an overturned jade bowl. Like a magnolia blossom.
Today, I realized I am myself.
This street is lined with cherry trees, their petals drifting down as I walk beneath them. Petal-thin boats descend along beams of light, the trailing hems of Sakura maidens’ dresses, an endless rain of spring’s tears. I have never seen mourning so lush—a funeral procession for the new year’s arrival. The trees form a canopy overhead, like the Milky Way. One day, I sat on the upper deck of a bus, passing through this joyous yet sorrowful carnival. I thought of my violin teacher. At the end of a lesson, he suddenly locked eyes with me and asked, “Is it simple?” In that moment, boredom, curiosity, and anticipation converged—he was waiting for me to say yes or no. A moment of recognition. Shostakovich and Beethoven fade into twilight. Humans survive on caffeine and scale exercises. The helplessness, boredom, absurdity, and fragility of genius. After leaving LSO, he started teaching violin, simplifying from a hundred shifting positions per minute to just one. After I die, I plan to submit a thousand job applications. A single distilled adjective turned into a hundred similar, meaningless sentences. In that question, he and I mourned each other. To live is merely to live.
Nick told Harry about Sirius beyond the veil: “He has gone on.”
He has gone on. To live for the future is laughable, lucky, insignificant, ugly. Yet he has gone on—through death, braver than a ghost, more corporeal than a phantom. For no reason other than that the seed within him had not yet fully ripened. Humanity marches onward, shrinking from colossus to man, shrink endlessly, infinitely, into insignificance.
Someone blew bubbles in the street. As the bus passed through them, I mistook them for falling cherry blossoms. In the breathtaking instant of a thousand suns bursting at once, I walked through the apocalypse—expressionless, unmoved.
今天去看了《里斯本丸沉没》，现场时有啜泣声。纪录片里讲到有三个英军俘虏在极东岛逃过了搜索，搜救渔民的女儿用带着方言的中文一个一个地讲了他们的名字，随之浮现的是他们穿着中国人衣服的照片。三个人在异族的衣服里有意识地缩小自己身型来适应，对着镜头讪讪笑着。娱乐性的一幕，在场所有人都笑了。在充斥着死者和近死者的生人者，他们如此滑稽、轻浮，幸存这样一件事让他们和船舱里的黑暗、绝望隔离了开来。活着就是皆大欢喜、活着就是小人物式的微小前程、活着就是那个鼻子红通通的普通朋友。研究里斯本丸的学者说这是一个三幕式悲剧，是的，所有的死亡都如此符合程序。活着是混沌、没有审美意义的荒谬剧。
去金字塔的时候我在痛经，穿云裂石的疼痛，我一步都没法走，仿佛体内闪回千年前垒石的全程。每一片石头被推进去时皮开肉绽、十指连心的剧痛。我蹲在金字塔前面，内里在无声地尖叫，一瞬间日色恍惚，好像是异国版的孟姜女哭长城的故事上演。金色落石滚滚而下，法老想要寄生在我体内复活。导游说金字塔意味着复活。埃及包括后来影响欧洲的巨物崇拜初衷是为了让神可见，但是在世俗世界，金字塔明明白白地宣告了法老的死。所有复活的祈愿的前提都是死，崇高之上叠加的崇高。死如影随形。就像拉神在太阳船下的混沌之蛇，他们把这画成推助其向前的波涛。赛特手持鱼叉，欲诱欲杀。
我第一次知道死是在我曾祖母去世的时候，知道死就像一去不回的童贞，碎成粉末的瓷器。是一件无可转寰的认知。我觉得我的童年在那时候就结束了。童年比我现在离死还相近，因为我刚从死亡里出生。所以童年的哭泣和悲伤都是一种深重、沉痛的悲伤，因为还遗留着死亡的记忆。之前在微博读到《庄子》里说，“古之真人，不知说生，不知恶死。其出不欣，其入不距。翛然而往，翛然而来而已矣。不忘其所始，不求其所终。”不知道死的人，很古的人，像水消失在水中。
之前在咨询师那里，她告诉我，我不知道我需要遵循哪些value，我对着她发给我的测试圆圈，对着重要次重要不重要列出一二三四五头皮发麻。我对分类有天然的恐惧。硬着头皮做完，我的组成混乱、无序，没有办法用任何一种一以贯之的道德、准则、性格归类。我那时候自嘲自己是个不折不扣的现代人。正因为如此，死对我如此重要。《冰与火之歌》里有个我非常喜欢的设置。艾丽娅在去了布拉夫斯之后，发现神那么多的脸，但是他们实际侍奉的神只有一个神。死神。Valar Morghulis，凡人皆有一死。我喜欢安静。我受够了社交媒体在我耳边的窃窃私语，利维坦的千面身体在阴影里嘲笑我，公交车上别人坐在我身边都让我觉得烦躁。我跪在万神殿前，每一张模糊的脸都让我想求救、在看清后每一张脸都让我厌恶。自厌从而厌恶他人，自恋从而拒斥他人、自私从而需要他人。死是随时离场的通行券。同时我又那么害怕死亡。见证金阁寺火烧后的世间至美在死面前变得如此轻浮、荒谬。死亡是唯一的身内之物。
在不久之前读了李翊云在《纽约客》上的，《两个儿子的死与生》。我仿佛读到我的母亲，或许是每一个母亲。两个儿子的相继死亡众说纷纭，其实一切并没有那么复杂。只是死亡的果实成熟了而已。我非常喜欢里尔克的诗，“死亡就藏在人的体内，如同果核位于水果中央。儿童们体内是小小的死，成人们体内是大大的死，妇女的死在怀腹，男子的死在胸膛。人们一直就有的死赋予人们一种特殊的尊严和宁静的骄傲。”
Früher wußte man (oder vielleicht man ahnte es), daß man den Tod in sich hatte wie die Frucht den Kern. Die Kinder hatten einen kleinen in sich und die Erwachsenen einen großen. Die Frauen hatten ihn im Schooß und die Männer in der Brust. Den hatte man, und das gab einem eine eigentümliche Würde und einen stillen Stolz.
对于死者的一切打探在活人世界都如同隔雾看花。太初有道，在某一个时刻，没有发明时间，也没有发明死。我记不得圣经中上帝有没有造出死这个词。或许死始终是非宗教的。或许死是体内另一个生命终于长成。《水浒传》的结尾中，鲁智深听到钱塘江的声音，“只道是战鼓响”，后来别人告诉他，这是“潮信”。非常美丽的一个词语，“因不失信，为之潮信。”他在那时候理解了另一种生的方式，另一种生的世界。非生而似有生，而生者不能与之归一。于是他圆寂了。含着死果的花怦然绽开，比之物哀之美而无谓无知，开的一瞬间含果落地，匝响如头颅，倒扣如玉碗。就像玉兰花。
今日方知我是我。
这条街上到处都种植着樱花，走在树下经常见落樱纷飞。顺光柱而下的粉薄轻舟，樱女曳溢的裙裾，飘飘缈缈、无穷无尽的春泪。从未见过这样盛荣的哭葬，哀悼新岁开始的仪仗。树笼在头上。似是银河。某天我坐在汽车最上层，穿行过这悲而似喜极的狂欢节。想到我的小提琴老师，在一堂课结束的时候忽然盯住我的眼睛，问简单吗？那一刻的百无聊赖、兴味盎然、期待我说是和不是。相认的瞬间。肖斯塔科维奇和贝多芬日薄西山，人要靠着咖啡因和和弦练习过活。天才的无奈、无聊、荒谬、软弱。离开了LSO后他开始教小提琴，从繁到简，一分钟一百个变位变成一个。我死过之后准备投够一千份简历，一个精纯的形容词变成一百句相似的废话。我和他在那一句问话里互相凭吊。活着，仅仅是活着。
尼克告诉哈利，在帷幕彼岸的小天狼星：“他继续往下走了。”
他继续往下走了。为未来活着是多么可笑、侥幸、渺小、丑陋的一句话，可是他继续往下走了，穿过死亡，比幽灵肉质而英勇。没有别的什么原因，只是因为那个果核还没有真正的成熟。人无限地行走，从大到小，从巨像变为人。无限地卑猥下去。
街上有人吹泡泡，公交车穿过的时候，我以为是飘飞的樱花。在这一千个太阳同时迸裂的惊心动魄一瞬间。我面无表情地穿过了这一秒钟的末世。
Noraeverland 