Shi Tiesheng (史铁生, 1951–2010) is one of the most respected and beloved writers in modern Chinese literature. At the age of twenty-one he lost the use of both legs due to illness and spent the rest of his life in a wheelchair. The experience devastated him. By his own account, he became deeply depressed and violently angry, lashing out at the people around him — most of all at his mother, who bore the brunt of his rage with extraordinary patience and silence. He began writing partly as a way to survive psychologically, and his work is almost entirely rooted in his own experience of disability, suffering, and the search for a reason to keep living. He died in 2010 of a cerebral hemorrhage, having donated his organs — an unusual act in China at the time, and characteristic of the man his writing reveals.
Today’s reading, Autumn Remembrance (秋天的怀念) , was written in 1981, several years after his mother’s death. It is a short piece — barely a thousand characters — but it carries an enormous emotional weight. The essay describes the period after his paralysis, when his mother would quietly absorb his anger, suggest outings to distract him, and try everything she could think of to give him a reason to live. What Shi Tiesheng only understood after her death was that she was doing all of this while herself dying of stomach cancer — a fact she had hidden from him entirely. The essay is essentially an act of belated recognition: he finally sees, too late, what she was doing and what it cost her. It is included in the standard Chinese high school textbook and is one of the most widely read pieces of modern Chinese prose.
Also… are you guys noticing a pattern, here? Almost all widely-regarded modern Chinese literature, essays, and movies are bittersweet tragedies. I keep trying to find a more upbeat work of literature, but purely happy endings simply aren’t often taken seriously. So, apologies for the non-stop downer-fest.
Key vocab
暴怒无常 – bào nù wú cháng – violently unpredictable temper
悄悄 – qiāo qiāo – quietly; softly
侍弄 – shì nòng – to tend (plants); to look after
憔悴 – qiáo cuì – haggard; gaunt; worn out
央求 – yāng qiú – to plead; to beg
喜出望外 – xǐ chū wàng wài – overjoyed beyond expectation
絮絮叨叨 – xù xù dāo dāo – to chatter on and on; long-winded
诀别 – jué bié – final farewell; parting forever
昏迷 – hūn mí – to be unconscious; coma
双腿瘫痪后，我的脾气变得暴怒无常。望着望着天上北归的雁阵，我会突然把面前的玻璃砸碎；听着听着李谷一甜美的歌声，我会猛地把手边的东西摔向四周的墙壁。母亲就悄悄地躲出去，在我看不见的地方偷偷地听着我的动静。当一切恢复沉寂，她又悄悄地进来，眼边儿红红的，看着我。“听说北海的花都开了，我推着你去走走。”她总是这么说。母亲喜欢花，可自从我的腿瘫痪后，她侍弄的那些花都死了。“不，我不去！”我狠命地捶打这两条可恨的腿，喊着，“我可活什么劲儿！”母亲扑过来抓住我的手，忍住哭声说：“咱娘儿俩在一块儿，好好儿活，好好儿活……”
可我却一直都不知道，她的病已经到了那步田地。后来妹妹告诉我，她常常肝疼得整宿整宿翻来覆去地睡不了觉。
那天我又独自坐在屋里，看着窗外的树叶“唰唰啦啦”地飘落。母亲进来了，挡在窗前：“北海的菊花开了，我推着你去看看吧。”她憔悴的脸上现出央求般的神色。“什么时候？”“你要是愿意，就明天？”她说。我的回答已经让她喜出望外了。“好吧，就明天。”我说。她高兴得一会儿坐下，一会儿站起：“那就赶紧准备准备。”“哎呀，烦不烦？几步路，有什么好准备的！”她也笑了，坐在我身边，絮絮叨叨地说着：“看完菊花，咱们就去‘仿膳’，你小时候最爱吃那儿的豌豆黄儿。还记得那回我带你去北海吗？你偏说那杨树花是毛毛虫，跑着，一脚踩扁一个……”她忽然不说了。对于“跑”和“踩”一类的字眼儿，她比我还敏感。她又悄悄地出去了。
她出去了，就再也没回来。
邻居们把她抬上车时，她还在大口大口地吐着鲜血。我没想到她已经病成那样。看着三轮车远去，也绝没有想到那竟是永远的诀别。
邻居的小伙子背着我去看她的时候，她正艰难地呼吸着，像她那一生艰难的生活。别人告诉我，她昏迷前的最后一句话是：“我那个有病的儿子和我那个还未成年的女儿……”
又是秋天，妹妹推着我去北海看了菊花。黄色的花淡雅，白色的花高洁，紫红色的花热烈而深沉，泼泼洒洒，秋风中正开得烂漫。我懂得母亲没有说完的话。妹妹也懂。我俩在一块儿，要好好儿活……