Wine and coffee

Reading Zhang ailing's novels and essays again, I don't know why, I unconsciously remembered the old song "Wine and Coffee" I learned from those 16-or 17-year-old girls when I was about 11 or 12. So, I turned on the music, and the songs of different women sounded one after another, but they all had a taste, which should be what people call the amorous feelings of old Shanghai. The age of that city was an ugly and real age full of dance, singing, cigarettes, alcohol, ambiguity, desire, hustle and bustle but extreme emptiness. Even looking back today, I can't help but feel that everything is very blurred.

In retrospect, this song "Wine and Coffee" can be used to summarize how Zhang makes me feel. Order a glass of wine and the story begins. She always stood on the sidelines, standing a little higher, slightly lower jaw, telling the stories of small potatoes without sadness or delight. Wine belongs to life, always pursuing a little intense stimulation and some pleasurable torture, and then most of the days are spent in numbness, and the life in drowsiness is over. When Zhang finished drinking the wine in the glass, the story was finished, and the ending was not the real ending, because the life of the characters in the story went on as usual, but it also seemed to tell you the ending, because life went on as usual. She doesn't preach, she doesn't talk about heroes, she doesn't set an example for readers, and she doesn't involve herself. I like this kind of communication, you can tell me the truth, I will think about it. There is such an ending, "A room full of people laughed, but they laughed a little nervously, wondering whether they should laugh or not." Mrs. Lou only knew that her husband had told a joke, but she didn't hear it clearly, so she laughed the loudest. " Whenever I read her words, my heart seems to be crisscrossed with lines, affecting every nerve, but I don't know where it comes from and where it is tied, so I can't tell, and it has nothing to do with the pallor of the language.

When the wine was finished, the story was over, and the coffee spilled over. The life she talks about is naturally mixed with bitterness, and it is a life in which people abuse themselves. Her bitterness, the bitterness of small potatoes, and the bitterness of the times are mixed together, making people's taste buds lose their sensitivity, but often can not taste the bitterness. Ordinary days look through the gauze of the times, as if you can still see the white sunshine, everything has become an art, a symbol, like many years later from other times to see the ordinary today.