Short and pithy essays by Qian Zhongshu, Wang Meng, Ji Xianlin, Liu Yong and Yu.

It began to rain early in the morning. Rain is not a rare thing, but it is spring rain. As the saying goes, "Spring rain is as expensive as oil." In the rare drought, its preciousness can be imagined.

"Moistening things quietly", the spring rain is very small, as small as "nothing". However, I sat on the balcony and was divided into a small house with a big piece of iron on the top. The eaves dripping from upstairs hit the iron sheet and made a sound, so it was not "silent". According to common sense, I sat there, obsessed with the same kind of extinct language. I should have needed a quiet environment, a quiet mood to settle down and enter the role to interpret this gobbledygook. This sound of rain banging on the tin plate should be extremely annoying, so it is necessary to hurry and then.

However, the opposite is true. I sat there quietly and heard the sound of raindrops overhead. At this time, the sound is better than silence, and I feel boundless joy in my heart, as if I had drunk the fairy dew and took a sip, and I felt very high. This voice is sometimes slow and urgent, sometimes high and sometimes low, sometimes loud and sometimes heavy, sometimes like a golden voice, sometimes like a yellow bell, sometimes like pouring large and small pearls into a plate of jade, sometimes like playing the pipa, sometimes like flying from the blue, sometimes like a hundred birds contending, sometimes like a rabbit falling, I can't help it, I am elated and elated. The dead language seems to be alive, and I seem to be full of youthful vitality. I have rarely had such a spiritual realm in my life, let alone being humane to others.

In China, listening to the rain is an elegant thing. Although I don't think I am a complete layman, it's hard to say whether I can become an elegant person. I'm probably an animal between elegance and vulgarity. There are many works about listening to the rain in China's ancient poems. By the way, it seems rare in foreign poetry. My friend Zhang Yong recalled his cousin's poem: "Spring pool dreams often add a kind word. Every time I smell the rain at night, I think of sleeping together." It's quite poetic Even Sister Lin in A Dream of Red Mansions likes Li Yishan's phrase "Stay dry and listen to the rain". The most famous poem listening to the rain is, of course, Song Jiangjie's Young Beauty, which is not long, so I will copy it:

Teenagers listen to the rain in the song building,

The red candle is weak.

In the prime of life, listening to the rain on the boat,

Zhang Guoyun is low,

Broken geese are called westerly winds.

Now listen to the rain monk,

The temple is full of stars.

Sorrow and joy are always ruthless,

One step ago,

Drip till dawn.

Jie Jiang's mood when listening to the rain is quite complicated. He summed up his life by listening to the rain, from youth, prime of life to old age, and reached the realm of "total ruthlessness in joys and sorrows". However, there are considerable differences between ancient and modern concepts of the elderly. He is a "star on the temple" and his hair is a little white. The oldest seems to be only about fifty years old. From today's perspective, he is just between middle age and old age. Compared with myself, I am nine years old, and my temples are no longer "stars", but "Tongshan" on them. I am more qualified than him to reach the realm of "emotions are always ruthless". I have been able to "make waves, not happy or afraid".

But why am I in a high mood when I listen to the rain today? There is not much elegance in it. I am a complete "layman" here. I think mainly of wheat, which is the green wheat seedling on the vast Yuan Ye. I was born in the country. Although I left at the age of six, I can't talk about doing farm work, but I have picked up wheat, beans, mowed grass and cut sorghum leaves. I have farmer's blood in my veins. Until today, I have deep feelings for farmers and rural areas all my life. Farmers' greatest hope is to get more food. Drought threatens the growth of crops. Even though I have lived in the city for a long time, whenever it rains, I will look at Yun Ni and claim that I am as anxious as a farmer. Spring in the north, nine droughts in ten years. There seems to be another drought this year. I listen to the weather forecast every day and always observe the clouds in the sky. Worry, nothing can be done. What I saw in my dream was the rain in Mao Mao.

My dream came true this morning. I sat on this balcony, which is only a few feet long and a few feet wide. When I heard the rain overhead, I couldn't help being fascinated and relaxed. In Kokodaka's rugged wheat field, every leaf seems to open its mouth and suck sweet raindrops, like dew from heaven, which was a little yellow and withered, but now it turns green. It used to be green, but now it's greener. The universe adds a warmth and peace out of thin air.

My heart is back, back to the Yanyuan, back to the hill next to my building, back to the lotus pond in front of the door. My favorite February orchid is in bloom. They desperately struggled out of the soil, withstood the drought, and reluctantly opened red and white flowers, which were as bright as ever, giving people a feeling of loneliness. In the lotus pond, hibernating lotus just woke up, ready to impact the water. Of course, there is no shortage of water. But Mao Mao raindrops draw small circles on the water, which will lead to death. This was originally appreciated by poets in human beings, but Xiao Lotus was also happy to see it, and she was full of energy, and she was sure to drill out of the water soon.

My heart is closer to the next floor, and I received it from this balcony and my room. My head is jingling as before, and I'm in a good mood. But I'm always worried that it will suddenly stop. I prayed silently that the rain would ring for a long time and never stop.