Snow
08-03-18
18:27:37, 分类: 读书 Snow
SNOW
By Maxence Fermine
Yuko Akita had two passions.
Haiku.
And snow.
So starts the beautiful story SNOW. It is a thin book covered with light pink watermark of cherry blossom. Just like a pink glass of ice water, perfectly fit the hot summer tail.
Some review said it ‘’is a novel that reads like a poem, limpid, delicate, and pure like its title’’.
Accurate. From the beginning you can feel the tone the parable is being told.
The introduction says, it is a story in 19th century Japan. A young haiku poet named Yuko journeys through snow- covered mountains on a quest for art and finds love instead.
I am not really keen in the story, there is no new story under the sun anyway. What attracts me is that inside the story the writer really intends to tell, and the way he tells.
Frankly, when we recall a book we have read long time ago, it might surprise us that we can’ t remember the story, the hero/ heroine’s name, but some image, some smell: black hairs, whistle and warm breath under a red muslin muffle, Milky Way, bridge, white rose, wind through the hall…
And this book will let you remember the image: Snow.
“A poem that comes from the sky.
It has a name. A name of dazzling whiteness.
Snow. ”
Yuko’s poems have the same theme, snow. And just like snow, his poems are desperately white, without color.
That is the difficulty in writing, at some stages, you will find it has no color, no emotion. It is dull and cold. Sometimes you even can not notice, as inside you can not see the color.
Yuko is lucky enough to have someone guide him to learn the flaw of his art.
There is the dialogue between his master and Yuko.
“And why do I need to know about the art of tightrope walking?”
“Why? Because to write, is to feel your way step by step along a thread of beauty. Along the tread of a poem or of a story unfolding on a sheet of silk. For the poet, like the tightrope walker, must go forward, word by word, page after page, along the path of a book. And the most difficulty thing is not that you must keep your footing on the rope of language, with only a pen for balance; nor to keep going straight ahead, when the way is blocked by the sudden drop of a comma, or the obstacle of a full stop. No, the difficulty for the poet is to stay on the rope that is writing, to live every moment without losing sight of his dream, and to never come down, not even for a second, from the rope of the imagination.”
I read the book as an absolutely beautiful writing lesson.
The master’s wife is a tightrope walker, called Snow. “She had very white skin, eyes blue as ice, and hair of pale gold.” She died of dropping from the tightrope.
I assume at some moments when I am writing in the future, I will think of this woman’s gesture: she walked in the air. “Step by step, Breath by breath. Silence by Silence.” “Her hair was fair. Her gaze was clear.”
