Appreciation of Ji Xianlin's Classic Prose Works

Ji Xianlin's prose combines beautiful prose with China's photos, which is not only to accompany you to appreciate this masterpiece, but also to be treasured and given as a gift. The following are the classic prose works of Ji Xianlin that I recommend to you for appreciation.

Ji Xianlin's classic prose works recommendation: endowed with permanent regret.

The title of the book was written by Miss Han Xiaohui, so it was named "Ford". But I wrote the article willingly, so it's not stereotyped writing.

Why am I willing to write such an article? In short, a well-written topic not only won my heart, but also won my heart first: I have long wanted to write such an article.

I'm nine years old. In the past seven or eight decades, from rural areas to cities; From home to abroad; From primary schools, middle schools and universities to foreign research institutes; From "determined to learn" to "not exceeding the moment from what you want", there are twists and turns. Not only through yangguan avenue, but also through the wooden bridge; After experiencing "there is no road for mountains and rivers to regain doubts", I saw "another village with a bright future". Joy and sorrow go hand in hand, disappointment and hope go hand in hand. I have a lot of experience in Qi Fei. There are regrets everywhere. To choose the deepest, truest and most unforgettable regret, that is, the permanent regret, is also within reach, because it has never left my heart for a moment.

My eternal regret is that I should not leave my hometown and my mother.

I was born in an extremely poor rural area in northwest Shandong. Our family is the poor among the poor, and it can really be said that there is no poor place. During the ten-year catastrophe, I jumped out to oppose the perverse but popular "Lafayette" of Peking University, which was regarded as a thorn in her side and determined to get rid of it quickly. Her minions have fled to my hometown twice, deliberately "beating" me into a landlord. Their vicious teacher's arrogance has not frightened my villagers. When I was a child, a friend pointed to their noses and said loudly, "If Quanguan Village complains, Ji Xianlin's family will be the first!"

This sentence is not an exaggeration, he is telling the truth. Grandparents died early, leaving their father and other three brothers alone and helpless. The youngest uncle gave it to someone else. My father and uncle were so hungry that they had to go to someone else's jujube forest to pick up the dried dates that fell on the ground to satisfy their hunger. This is certainly not a long-term solution. Finally, the two brothers were forced to leave their homes and go to Jinan to make a living. At this time, they were only in their teens and twenties. In a big city without friends, Uncle Jiu must have gone through a lot of hardships to settle down in Jinan. So my father went back to his hometown and said that he was a farmer, but there was no land to cultivate. It must have gone through a lot of hardships. Uncle Jiu sometimes sends money home from Jinan, and his father lives on it. Somehow, I found a daughter-in-law, my mother. My mother's maiden name is Zhao, and her family is as poor as ours, otherwise she wouldn't get married. She has no food at home, so she has no money or leisure to go to school. So my mother doesn't know a word, and she has lived all her life without a name. Her home is in another village, five miles away from ours. This five-mile road is the longest road my mother has traveled in my life.

I, the man in Peking University who wants to be a landlord, was born in such a family and had such a mother.

Later, I heard that our family was really "rich" for a while. Probably at the end of the Qing Dynasty and the beginning of the Republic of China, Uncle Jiu used the last fifty cents left in his pocket to buy one tenth of the Hubei flood lottery and won the prize. The two brothers talked about "returning to their hometown with wealth" and going home to be proud. So he shipped the money home, and Uncle Jiu stayed in the city. His father made a plan for the village. He bought bricks and built a house at an amazing price. He also bought a field with a well at a fantastic price in huang tang. I was very excited and really proud. Unfortunately, the good times didn't last long. My father entertained friends from all over the world in the strange way of Huang Tang and Jiang. In an instant, the built tile house was demolished to sell bricks and tiles. Oil fields with wells have also changed their owners. The whole family has returned to the original situation. It was at this time that I was born in this world under such circumstances.

Of course, my mother experienced this great change personally. It's a pity that I was only a few years old when I lived with my mother. Tell me, I don't understand either. Therefore, the sudden ups and downs of our family are like a flash in the pan, and I haven't fully understood it. I'm afraid this mystery will become a mystery forever.

Anyway, our family has returned to the previous poverty state. It was later said that our family had only half an acre of land at that time. I don't know how this half acre of land came from. A family of three lives on this half acre land. Of course, Uncle Jiu in the city will also give some help, but things like the Central Hubei Flood Control Award are not rare once in a lifetime. Uncle Jiu doesn't have much money to help his brother.

How can I live at home? I'm too young to say clearly. I ate badly anyway, I know that. According to the standards at that time, eating "white" (referring to wheat flour) was the highest, followed by eating millet flour or stick-flour cake, and eating red sorghum cake for the last time was red, like pig liver. White has nothing to do with our family. "Yellow" (the color of millet flour or cake is yellow) has little relationship with us. Only "red" people spend all their time with each other. This "red" is bitter and astringent, and it is really hard to swallow. But if I don't eat, I'll be hungry. I'm really a little red.

However, children also have their own ways. My grandfather's cousin is a juren, and his wife I call her grandma. Their branch is very rich and has land. Although juren is dead, his family is still very good. My great-grandmother is still alive. Her own grandson died young, so she gave all her love to me. She is one of the few people in the whole village who can eat "white". She not only eats by herself, but also leaves half or a quarter of a white-flour bun for me every day. I wake up every morning and immediately jump off the kang and run to the village. Our family lives outside the village. I ran to grandma and called out sweetly, "grandma!" " She immediately smiled from ear to ear, put her hand back in her fat sleeve, and took out a small bun from her pocket and handed it to me. This is the happiest moment of my day.

In addition, I can occasionally eat a little "white", which I bought by myself. In the summer wheat harvest season, our family has no harvest at all. My aunt and aunt Ning, who live across the street-their family is extremely poor-took me to the rich fields in our village or other villages to "pick wheat". The so-called "wheat picking" means that when other long-term workers cut the wheat, there will always be some ears of wheat left. These are not worth picking up, so we poor people come to pick them up. Because there will never be much left, we only picked up half a basket for a long time, but for us, it is already a treasure. My aunt and aunt must take special care of me. A child of four or five or six years old can pick up ten catties and eight catties of wheat in a summer. My mother wiped all these off. In order to reward me, after the wheat season, my mother will grind wheat into flour, steam it into steamed bread, or paste it into white flour cake to satisfy my appetite. So I'm full.

I remember one year, when I was picking wheat, my performance might be a little "extraordinary". On the Mid-Autumn Festival-farmers call it "August 15th"-my mother got some moon cakes from somewhere and broke a piece for me, so I squatted down beside a stone to eat. At that time, for me, moon cakes were really amazing things, and it was hard to compare them with dragon liver and phoenix marrow. I seldom eat it once. I didn't notice if my mother was eating. Looking back now, she didn't eat a bite. Not only moon cakes, but also other "white" ones, which my mother has never tasted, are saved for me to eat. She may have been eating red sorghum cake all her life. You can't even eat this in famine years, you can only eat wild vegetables.

As for meat, the memory of eating seems to be blank. Next door to my mother's house is a workshop selling boiled beef. The old ox who worked hard for farmers all his life could no longer plow when he was old, so several farmers bought it at a very low price, killed it in an extremely barbaric way and cooked and sold the meat. Old beef is hard to cook, there is really no way. The farmer peed in the meat pot, so the meat was rotten. Farmers are kind-hearted. In this case, they told their neighbors, "Don't buy meat today!" My mother's family is poor. Although I love my grandson very much, I can only use a clay pot, spend a few dollars to make money and put a can of beef soup. Talk is better than nothing. I remember once, there was a tripe in the jar, which became my patent. I can't bear to eat it all at once, so I cut it piece by piece with a rusty iron knife and eat it slowly. This tripe can really be compared with moon cakes.

"White", moon cakes and tripe are rare. How about "yellow" "Yellow" is also rare. However, although I am only a few years old, I have come up with an idea. In spring, summer and autumn, grass and crops are growing outside the village. I will mow the grass outside the village, or cut sorghum leaves in other people's sorghum fields. Splitting sorghum leaves is not only forbidden by landlords, but also popular; Because the ventilation can be improved when the leaves are cracked, sorghum can grow better and the grains can be beaten more. Grass and sorghum leaves are for cows. Our family is poor and we have never raised cattle. My second uncle's family has land and often raises two big cows. My grass and sorghum leaves are for them. Whenever my child with less than three pieces of tofu walks into my uncle's house with a big bundle of grass or sorghum leaves on his back, I feel confident and not afraid. If I put the grass in the cowshed, I will always get a "yellow" meal, which will not be "rolled up" by my second aunt (in our local dialect, it means "scolding"). Speaking of Chinese New Year, I feel in my heart that I have made great achievements in feeding cattle in the past year and have the courage to go to my uncle's house to eat yellow flour cakes. Yellow flour cakes are steamed with yellow wheat and dates. Although the color is yellow, it ranks above the "white", because it is only eaten once a year during the New Year, and things are rare, so yellow flour cakes are expensive.

What I said above is all about food. Why do you talk about food when you talk about your mother? The reason is not complicated. First, as a child, I care about food easily. Second, almost all the delicious food I said above has nothing to do with my mother. Apart from "Huang", she has nothing to do with it. I stayed with her until I was six years old, and then I briefly went home twice. Looking back now, even my mother's face is blurred and there is no clear outline. In particular, I find it difficult and easy to understand: I can't remember my mother's smile anyway. It seems that she has never laughed in her life. Her family is poor and her son is far away. She suffered a lot. Where does the smile come from? Once when I went home, I heard Aunt Ning across the street tell me, "Your mother often said,' I will know that I can't come back when I send him out, and I won't let him go anyway!'" ""how much bitterness and sadness there is in a short sentence! I don't know how many days and nights the mother looked at the distance and looked forward to her son's return! However, this son never came back until his mother left this world.

For this situation, I was confused at first and didn't understand it deeply. In high school, a few years older, I gradually understood. However, depending on others, the economy cannot be independent, and I have empty ambitions, so I can't achieve them. I secretly made up my mind and vowed to marry my mother as soon as I graduated from college and found a job. However, before I graduated from college, my mother left me forever. The ancients said: "The tree wants to be quiet but the wind will not stop, and the son wants to raise it but not close." This is exactly what I should say. I can't bear to imagine my mother thinking of her beloved son on her deathbed; When I think about it, my heart will crack and tears will fill my eyes. When I rushed back to Jinan from Beiping and Qingping from Jinan to attend the funeral, I saw my mother's coffin and humble house. I really want to hit a coffin and go underground with my mother. I regret it. I really regret it. I shouldn't have left my mother. No matter what fame, status, happiness and honor in the world, you can't compare with being with your mother, even if you don't know a word, even if you eat "red" all day.

This is my "eternal regret".

Ji Xianlin's classic prose works recommendation: oleander

Oleander is not a precious flower, nor is it the most beautiful flower; However, for me, she is the most unforgettable flower.

I don't know why or when. In the city of my hometown, almost every family planted several pots of oleander and placed them under the screen wall in the gate, facing the gate. As soon as the guests enter the gate, there is a faint fragrance, green wax-like leaves and Xia Hong or snow-like flowers, which immediately make people feel as if they have entered their own door and feel at home.

There are two jars in our gate. One is red and the other is white. When I was young, I went in and out of here every day. Red flowers remind me of fire, while white flowers remind me of snow. Fire and snow are incompatible; However, these two pots of flowers bloom harmoniously together, just like there is snow on the fire, or there is fire on the snow. I enjoy it and find it very wonderful and interesting in my little heart.

Just across a wall, around the screen wall, is the yard. Our family has always liked flowers; Although there are no expensive flowers, there are all kinds of common flowers. Every spring, the winter jasmine first blooms yellow flowers to report the news of spring. Then there are peach blossoms, apricot blossoms, begonia, elm leaves, cloves and so on. The yard is full of flowers. In summer, it is full of cockroaches. Impatiens, carnations, cockscomb flowers, colored plums, Jiangxi wax, etc. , is colorful and beautiful. The aroma of cordate telosma permeated the whole summer courtyard, which I will never forget. In autumn, Hosta flowers bring a chill, and the chrysanthemum flower report is over. In short, in three seasons of the year, flowers bloom and fall without stopping; Although the scene is beautiful, there are many changes.

However, in the gate separated by a wall, oleander was there quietly and silently, and one flower was defeated and the other was in bloom; One toot turns yellow and the other toot grows; In the warm spring breeze, the heavy rain in midsummer, and the cold in late autumn, we can't see any special prosperity, nor can we see any special decline, and we won't go against the wind every day, from spring to autumn, from winter jasmine to Hosta and chrysanthemum. This toughness, compared with those flowers in the yard, is not a strong contrast?

But the beauty of oleander does not stop there. I especially like oleander in the moonlight. You stand under it, and the flowers are blurred; But the aroma is not vague at all, and it is a strong attack from the flower branches. It casts a shadow on the wall, the leaves are uneven and the fans are separated, which can cause me a lot of fantasies. I imagined it was a map, but it was a map. This pile of shadows is Asia, that pile of shadows is Africa, and the blank place in the middle is the sea. There happened to be some bugs crawling over. This is an ocean-going ship. I imagined that it was algae in the water, and a small pond really appeared in front of me. The shadow of a moth over the wall is a fish. I imagined it was an ink bamboo, and I really saw a painting. The breeze blew and the leaves fluttered, and this painting became a living painting. With such tenacity, it can arouse my fantasy, and I fell in love with oleander.

For many years, I have been in and out under this oleander. At first I was short, and I had to look up to see the flowers. Later, I grew taller and shorter in my eyes. I left home when I could see flowers at eye level.

I left home, and many years later, I went to many places. I have seen oleander in different places, but none of them left a deep impression.

Two years ago, I visited Myanmar. A few days after meeting in Yangon, many friends from Myanmar enthusiastically accompanied us to visit Bagan, the ancient capital of northern Myanmar. This place is famous for its stupa, isn't it? Wanta city? The title of. It is said that there were ten thousand pagodas at that time. Nowadays, although the number is not so much, it is rugged and towering, just like the mountains in Yangshuo and the stone forest in Yunnan. Like mushrooms after rain? This old saying is almost comparable. Although the flowers and trees are still green, the season is winter, bleak and cold.

However, it was in this place, in front of the building where we lived, that I accidentally found my old friend oleander. Each plant is almost as high as a floor, so that I didn't recognize it at first. There are more colors than those in China. Besides red and white, I remember there are yellow ones. Leaves are greener than I have ever seen before, like green wax, and flowers are blooming on high branches, more like patches of Xia Hong, clouds of snow and Huang Yun. Lush, lush, in sharp contrast with the desolate and cold ancient city.

I go in and out under this oleander every day. In the evening, I strolled upstairs with friends from Myanmar and talked about various issues, the history of Bagan, the cultural exchange between China and Myanmar, and the friendship between the Chinese and Burmese people. At this time, the ancient pagodas in the distance gradually disappeared into the twilight, while several ancient pagodas in the vicinity were brightly lit by electric lights, which looked like the dreamland of Lingshan. I can reach out and grab the top branches of oleander. The fragrance of flowers also floated upstairs from below, as if to make the friendship between China and Myanmar more fragrant.

In this way, the beautiful and moving memories of oleander are painted with the dazzling color of friendship between the Chinese and Burmese people. I prefer oleander from now on.