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Yunte Huang, Charlie Chan: The Untold Story of the Honorable Detective and His Rendezvous with American History (W. W. Norton, 2010)

On a late August afternoon in 2010, I had a brief rendezvous with Charlie Chan’s “evil twin.”  Sitting in a quiet bar in the vicinity of Columbia University, I was catching up with a couple of old friends from the Bay Area, one of whom had just relocated to New York City to begin law school. Having just arrived on a four-hour bus ride from Baltimore, I was tired, hot, and for the moment more interested in the $2 Bud in my hand than in the happy hour conversation between my friend’s new chums from Columbia Law. So I carried on a slightly absent-minded dialogue with the other friend I knew, who had also relocated to the Bronx to attend medical school. Yet my mind snapped to attention, when, I heard my friend say “he was wearing a Fu Manchu.”

Since I was in a somewhat hazy state, I have no recollection of exactly whose facial features were being outlined (a “Fu Manchu” in my friend’s parlance being, I assume, something of a goatee that resembles the one worn by the infamous cultural icon), but I do recall pondering the offensive nature of the remark. Or, rather, whether or not anyone at the table should find the descriptor offensive. It was slightly troubling that my friend, born in Southern California to parents who had immigrated from Hong Kong, and who had lived and studied in California – a bastion of Asian American consciousness – for over twenty-some years, would drop “Fu Manchu” in a sentence in such a nonchalant manner. Then again, we were sitting down with a dozen new Asian American (most of whom would self-identify simply as “Asian”) enrollees at Columbia Law School and my friend, who had rowed crew at Berkeley, had just been carrying on a conversation with a former Harvard crew member. Certainly, no glass ceilings hovered over that table. So why should the spectre of a racially sensitive figure like Fu Manchu?

Fu Manchu, of course, plays an important part in the American story that Yunte Huang 黃運特 tells in his acclaimed “biography” of Charlie Chan, which is less a straight-forward narrative of the fictional detective or his real-life counterpart, Chang Apana 鄭平 (ca. 1871 – 1933) than an exploration of the tortuous history of “cultural miscegenation” – in this case, the interplay of cultural, social and political forces and personalities from Hawai’i to Harvard to Hollywood over the past century that led to Charlie Chan becoming first a celebrated and later a demonized Chinese American representation in fictional bestsellers and silver-screen blockbusters.

Yunte Huang and his Charlie Chan book have received much media and critical attention since the book’s summer release, so I need not add here one more piece of summary – and in any case, there is no topping the witty review written for The New Yorker by Jill Lepore, that other connoisseur of all things American. Let it suffice to say that the genius of Huang’s book lies not so much in his basic argument but in the vivid stories that he tells and the colourful style in which he has chosen to tell it.

I appreciated three aspects of Huang’s book the most. First, he is attentive to historical details and the changing cultural contexts of the American/Hawaiian/Asian American story (But I do have quibbles with his carelessness in treating the few instances of Chinese history that intersects his own – see below). Thus we learn of the year in which the first cattle appeared on the islands of Hawai’i and the number of executions performed (as well as the ethnicities of those condemned to the sentence) in Honolulu over a certain span of years. Seemingly “marginal” numbers and facts that have a bearing on Chang Apana’s life. We also learn that Charlie Chan’s anti-Japanese attitudes have less to do with any age-old antagonism between the Chinese and the Japanese (for surely there is no such thing), but with the truly anti-Japanese sentiments of the 1920s (the 1924 Johnson-Reed act had more to do with American fears of Japanese immigration than of Chinese immigration – which played out in an earlier era). All very nice and pleasing for the historian-as-reader.

The truly captivating details of Huang’s narrative comes through, however, in his command of the overlapping and mutually resonating cultural productions that seem to play a part in the becoming of Charlie Chan. For instance, Huang makes an intriguing comparison between Earl Biggers’ Chan and Agatha Christie’s Poirot (the fictional Belgian detective who was also fond of spouting proverbs). He also perceptively points out that Warner Oland, the most famous of a line of non-Asian Chans, had shuttled back and forth between Paramount and Fox to take on both the Fu Manchu and Charlie Chan roles – a schizophrenic division of labor between the bad and good Chinamen embodied by a single actor. We also learn that after the original Charlie Chan films were successfully shown in 1930s China, local imitations popped up, in which, ironically, “a real Chinaman imitates a Swede’s imitation of a Chinaman.” (pp. 258)

Then there is the personal dimension of Huang’s book. As Lepore and other reviewers have all picked up, Yunte Huang, who is a scholar known for “transpacific studies,” does not shy away from putting his own history and style on the page. We learn much about the author’s post-1989 transition to the United States (having been traumatized by the quelling of the student movement, he had vowed, at one point, never to return to China) and his first experiences as an immigrant. Surely the one-time owner/chef of a Chinese restaurant in Alabama knows a thing or two about the complexities of being Chinese American!

As for personal style, Huang seems to have developed specifically for this book a penchant for pop cultural references (just compare the prose of Charlie Chan to that of his Transpacific Displacement or Transpacific Imaginations). Perhaps he does so knowing that he is writing for Norton and thus a public audience who would be turned off by the academic jargon, but perhaps it is also the author’s way of paying tribute to his pop culture subject. Thus we learn that Chang Apana had once climbed walls in Honolulu like a “pre-Spider Man sleuth,” that a certain building in Canton, Ohio is painted like “Spongebob Squarepants,” and that “blaming him [Charlie Chan] for acting ‘inscrutable’ is like accusing Jerry Seinfeld of being too funny or whining too much.” Fair enough, since Charlie Chan himself is an icon of American popular culture. However, sometimes Huang’s witticisms do backfire, especially as he seems to pull “Chinese” metaphors out of nowhere: “As the American warships…sunk a Spanish fleet in the harbor of Manila, America’s Manifest Destiny in the Pacific became as clear as the broth of wonton soup.” (pp. 50) This is first time I’ve encountered foreign policy described in gastronomic terms and I’m not entirely convinced.

On the whole, it is impossible not to admire the honest, clever, and thoughtful manner in which Yunte Huang has researched and crafted this fascinating story. Nor can one disagree with his basic argument, which amounts to, in his words: “Like all racialized figures – including Uncle Tom, Aunt Jemina, John Chinaman, Ah Sin, Nigger Jim, and Fu Manchu – Chan [Charlie] bears the stamp of his time, a birthmark that encapsulates both the racial tensions and the creative energies of a multicultural America.” (pp. 147-148) In other words, if not appreciated, Charlie Chan, his real life counterpart, and his various creators must be understood within their proper historical contexts. Simply falling in line with the Asian American criticism (and identity politics) that have become something of a trend since the 1960s-70s is to fall into a most unfortunate trap – in which the strong distinctions between such a despicable character as Fu Manchu and much more endearing character as Charlie Chan become indistinguishable from one another. This, of course, is a problematic predicament, because “if every time we smelled the odor of racism in arts and literature we went out and rallied in the street, then we probably would have killed off everything from jazz to hiphop, from George Carlin to Jerry Seinfeld.” (pp. 282-283)

Very wise and sensible. For the most part.

My “beef” with Huang’s book lies not so much in his treatment of the American story, but in his throwaway lines on Chinese history and culture. These might be minor quibbles were it not for great media attention and critical acclaim given to this book. Listed as one of The New York Times 100 Notable Books of 2010, reviewed by many prominent magazines and newspapers, and with such headlines in the Chinese media as “Wenzhounese Professor Huang Yunte’s Work Nominated for the Most Prestigious Literary Award in the United States,” (“温籍教授黄运特作品被提名美国高规格文学奖”), I fear for the inattentive reader picking up on a few of the troubling depictions of Chinese history and culture found in the early pages of the book. I have in mind three especially egregious instances:

1. While telling us about Chang Apana’s stint with the Hawaiian Humane Society, Huang writes:

“As a Chinese, he came from a culture that even today believes in the reincarnation of souls. Under the influence of Buddhism, many Chinese believe that a soul after the death of a person will inhabit another body, but there is – and this is the tricky part – no guarantee that the latter will be a human body. If you have done something evil in this life, then in the next life your soul will inhabit the body of a dog, pig, horse, or any animal that belongs to a lower rung on the ladder of the species. So, to a Chinese eye, the unenviable life of a working mule is punishment for the bad deeds committed in the last life by the soul currently occupying the body of the mule.” (pp. 46)

When describing the gambling problem in Honolulu’s Chinatown at the turn of the 20th-century, Huang shifts into the present:

“It is not an exaggeration to say that even today we Chinese will place a bet on anything. From lottery tickets to card games, anything that involves probability and luck ties into the deep-seated connection with the Chinese psyche and numeracy.” (pp. 63)

With these asides, Yunte Huang has turned beliefs and practices shared by a significant group of Chinese residents in Honolulu’s Chinatown of the 1900s and by, certainly, many people in both rural and urban China that Huang has encountered in his own life into timeless and universal aspects of Chinese culture. For if reincarnation is seen through “the Chinese eye,” and gambling/an obsession with numbers is attached to “the Chinese psyche,” then surely, for the less knowing reader, these must be applicable to all Chinese across time and space! This is, of course, not so. And Yunte Huang could have chosen more appropriate phrasing or, better yet, left out these unnecessary asides altogether.

2. In describing Honululu’s Chinatown at the turn of the twentieth-century, Huang is right in pointing out that not only was it a locus of gambling and crime, but also a gathering place for revolutionaries. He notes that Sun Yat-sen (1866-1925), a contemporary of Chang Apana’s, had been active in Hawai’i during that period, and had set up the Revive China Society (興中會) there in 1894. However, Huang then succumbs into the same type of hyperbole that Sun himself was prone to use:

“If, as Sun said, ‘Hua Qiao [overseas Chinese] are the mother of revolution,’ Honolulu’s Chinatown certainly deserves to be called the cradle of modern China.” (pp. 59)

In one paragraph, Huang has resolved the issue of China’s first Republican revolution and credited no other participants or historical forces than those present in Hawai’i in the 1890s. Interestingly enough, it is Marie-Claire Bergère’s revisionist biography of Sun Yat-sen that Huang consulted for this section. Did he miss Bergère’s argument that Sun was much less an original revolutionary thinker than an opportunistic communicator who was able to make use of political alliances and social networks from not only Honolulu, but Hong Kong, Japan, London, and Indochina in his numerous anti-Qing activities? And is Yunte Huang truly ignorant of the large historiography on the 1911 revolution and subsequent social and political developments within China? Honolulu might be the cradle of Charlie Chan/Chang Apana and one of Sun Yat-sen’s revolutionary alliances, but it most definitely cannot be the cradle of modern China!

3. Finally, in describing the impoverished and isolated rural Guangdong (Canton) village in which Chang had spent several years of his childhood, Huang cannot but resist throwing in an autobiographical aside:

“It is worth noting that even a full century later, little had changed. When I was growing up, for example, in a small village in the waning days of Mao’s China, my ‘toys’ were mud-pies, tadpoles, ants, fireflies, grasshoppers, and whatever luckless insects fell into my hands…Such were the simple, rustic delights of childhood in rural China, both for Ah Pung and for me.” (pp. 25)

Again, the reader comes away with an image of a timeless China, even if Huang tries to pinpoint a specific geographic location, he has painted a picture of a southern Guangdong being just as underdeveloped in the 1970s-80s as it were in the 1870s. Since the playthings were the same for “Ah Pung and me,” no social or cultural changes need have occurred in the hundred years or so that separated the childhood of the author and his subject. This timelessness has been picked up by Jill Lepore in her review. But does she, and other readers, realize that some 270 pages later, Yunte Huang fully contradicts himself? While searching for Chang Apana’s grave, he tells his local guide that

“…at the age of eleven, I had secretly learned English by adjusting the dial of my grandfather’s battered transistor radio just so, and then memorizing the exotic language of the Voice of America.” (pp. 292)

Surely in his childhood, “Ah Pung” did not have access to such “simple, rustic delights” as radios and “Voice of America”!

********

“So, what is a Chinaman?” Huang’s answer to his own rhetorical question is that “Actually we cannot ask such a timeless question for the image of the Chinaman changes over time.” (p. 120)

It is unfortunate that such a carefully researched and historically attentive book (when it comes to its main subjects – Chang, Chan, Biggers, Oland, Hawai’i, America) cannot give China the same attention to changes over time.

One hopes, with some degree of optimism, that such inaccurate and irresponsible images of Chinese history and culture that I’ve pointed out above do not unconsciously sneak into the attentive reader’s mind. As Charlie Chan would remind all of us, “Biggest mistakes in history made by people who didn’t think.”

去年…明天…

新年之際
聽到這張精彩溫暖的EP
便更堅信這條由

自負 –> 自欺欺人 –> 自責 –> 自憐

自省 –> 自新 –> 自信 –> 自由

的路尚可走得
也並非只有寒窗孤寂

姜昕 《溫暖的房間》

有一些人從不會離開
像能穿越所有的阻礙
帶著撲朔迷離的色彩
一直陪伴在我們身旁

每當感到煩惱或不安
只要和他們傾心交談
總會收穫喜悅和釋然
重新揚起滿滿的風帆

歲月銘記真實誠摯的情感
把最溫暖的悸動寫進日記
然後坐在雲淡風輕的窗前
品味一本 芬芳的書卷

尤其是在迷失的夜晚
他們是最敏銳的夥伴
特意架起神秘的橋樑
前來擦亮我們的明天

然後陰霾就雲散霧開
場景彷彿也瞬間變換
忽然來到清晨的陽台
一起仰望燃燒的天空

歲月一定也愛他們的胸懷
捨不得讓他們的笑容更改
就像是被鑲進記憶的相框
掛在一面 永遠的牆上

歲月不能為他們蒙上塵埃
反而為他們鍍上一層金黃
就好像是來自不老的彼岸
只為守護 我們的心靈

姜昕 《往事如煙》

街上的人們不停的 來往又穿梭
這情景說起來平常 又不同以往
一晃這時間就過去 了那麼多年
我想我丟失了什麼 卻不能把握

風兒在吹著我的臉 和我的張望
回想起從前的時光 已不知去向
而白雲從容的綣卷 往事般慵懶
並不問北歸的雁群 經歷了變遷

穿過那茫茫人海 春回大地百花開
一回頭這麼多年 天還那麼藍
在春天心不在焉 漫天飛舞的夢幻
一轉眼往事如煙 天還那麼寬

穿過那茫茫人海 春回大地百花開
一回頭這麼多年 天還那麼藍
在春天心不在焉 漫天飛舞的夢幻
一轉眼往事如煙 天還那麼寬

是不是生命如流水 永不能追悔
所以才固執的相信 不朽的信念
就算這現實的世界 有太多遺憾
心底裡依然燃燒著 理想的火焰

心裡揣著火的日子

岑獻青 主編 《文學七七級的北大歲月》(新華出版社,2009

屬於別人的記憶,不敢“偷窺”太多,只撿與自己授課、求學歷程有關幾篇讀來看,卻也感觸甚多 – 那些年輕的臉龐!平日裡仰慕的學界前輩,媒體中常見的“公共知識分子”,還有純真年代中拜過的師長,在回憶文字與老照片中竟都顯得那麼地“青春”。

父輩人,確有與眾不同的經歷。畢竟,那時候,“教的人和學的人,心裡都揣著一團火”(黃子平)。較為諷刺的是,三十年後,換了若干個時空,兒女中卻還是有人無法抗拒“母文化”與“母親一代的文化”的雙重誘惑。於是,關注、了解他們曾經的“飢渴”已成為自己“飢渴”的一部分。即便是“偷窺”,也有了說辭。

其實做成這樣一部有私人及公共價值的集子,很是不易。今日集體回憶、來年便是史料。此類文章尤其推薦黃子平那篇“早晨,北大!”,但凡辦過刊物的,相信都能讀懂其中艱辛與樂趣。

當然,還有一些瞬間只會永遠屬於他們自己:“三十一年前初春的一天早晨,瑞雪飄飛,滿目經營,空氣冷冽而濕潤。文學七七級全體出動,北京同學領著大驚小怪的南方同學,燕園踏雪,像一群大孩子般滾雪球打雪仗,繞湖亂轉,還找了很多黑白相片。如今仔細端詳,都說往後拍的集體照再沒有那天的好…”

Humility and renewal

《大乘天》 [許巍 現場版] [齊秦版]

心無念  上九天

摩訶耶那提婆

火之焰  化紅蓮
紅塵一雙眼

拂塵緣  滌悲歡
菩提心是緣

心海無邊
回頭是彼岸

摩訶耶那提婆

極樂在心田

路漫漫  其修遠
回首望當年

天地間  取一念
大愛在人間

陳冠中 《盛世: 中國,2013年》 (牛津大學出版社,2009

關於這本“當代中國的反烏托邦小說”、“中國的美麗新世界”、21世紀版“新中國未來記”,已有不少評價與論述。單從印有兩位女警的書面及列出“新盛世主義的十項國策獻言”,便對書中內容略知一二。雖有心理準備,讀後卻仍覺出一身冷汗。

陳冠中書中反諷、影射之明顯,提出問題之尖銳 – “但到了今天,有社會主義特色的中國資本主義一黨專政,還能夠被替代嗎?還是已經是現實世界中的最佳選擇?”(第246頁) – 當然會引人反思。

“嗨賴賴”的當代中國社會好嗎?“九成自由”夠嗎?在可以隨時選擇去兩公里之內的三個“星巴克旺旺”之中任何一家去喝“桂圓龍井拿鐵”的時候,是不是可以忽視對連楊絳的書都不買的三聯書店?

面對這樣的取捨,自然使人憤怒。(“桂圓龍井拿鐵”:不就是熱奶茶嘛)

然而情況還可以惡化:

“小希回了一句:‘你們現在就是法西斯了,還用過渡嗎?’

何東生也不生氣:‘就算是法西斯,現在也只是初級階段,你們可還沒嘗到過真正的法西斯暴政滋味,聽你們說話就知道你們對邪惡缺乏想像力。’何東生腦中泛起黨內幾個法西斯野心家的樣貌,心想如果這幾個人掌了權,中國以至全世界都有得瞧。他甚至升起一股使命感,覺得自己有責任阻止他們上台。”(第247頁)

看來“集體的選擇性失憶”,還不是最糟的。

難道不是嗎?小說中難忘的比喻來自於魯迅的《失去的好地獄》:“在好地獄,人們還知道自己是在地獄,所以想改變地域,但在偽天堂久了,人們就習慣了,並以為已經是在天堂。”

何謂偽天堂?自然是由國家的政治、經濟實力為基本。也就是說,有了“民族”與“民生”,暫且不要“民權”。

不由想起Philip Kuhn在Origins of the Modern Chinese State中那句一針見血的話:“That history be sacrificed to power has seemed inescapable to Chinese of the modern age.” (pp. 1)

可是,對“歷史”的遺忘,或者“拒絕遺忘”難道只包括20世紀嗎?依我看,作為關注當今中國的“政治小說”,《盛世》也有它自己不經意的“選擇性失憶”。書中主人公愛讀的“經典”只有魯迅、張愛玲、金庸。而討論“盛世主義”國際政策之重要環節 – 中日合作時 – 也只提到孫中山1924年“跑到日本宣揚亞洲主義。”(第238頁)好像在魯迅之外、孫中山之前,就沒有了別的可能性!

早在1898年戊戌變法時便有了日中諸多精英組織的“興亞會”。而那時的“亞洲主義”卻似乎與其他許多思潮並存且相互影響。晚清的世界,“國際主義”、“世界主義”均有可能,那還不是“民族主義”的天下, 也沒太多孫中山說話的機會。 就連嚴復也不曾一味宣傳“富國強兵”,還認真考慮過“自由的所以然”

那麼魯迅呢?我們一定要遵從他那“好地獄”與“偽天堂”的對立嗎?難道只有這兩種選擇?要么我們大家都身穿“李寧阿迪達斯”合併品牌,帶著“嗨賴賴”的幸福感在“星巴克旺旺”吃喝,要么我們就陷入歷史的痛苦中,抓住對各種運動、嚴打的記憶不放?

試問,在“好地獄”與“偽天堂”之間,難道沒有一個“人間世”?在history和power的迴旋之間,誰來書寫humanity的存在?

溫暖的問候

近的遠的
觸到的觸不到的
同樣的祝福
同樣的牽掛

李健 《我的朋友》

忽然想起  好久不见
我的朋友  你还好吗

是否平常  像我一样
浮浮沉沉  虽然还飘流

我们随梦想  散落在天涯
天涯割不断  彼此的温暖

忽略了多少  曾有的真情
从来不计较  一生问候就好

说句珍重  我的朋友
长长来路  断了孤独
长长来路  心生温度

也是一種瘋狂

在懷疑面前,
放棄信仰固然容易,
誰知堅守也是一種瘋狂?


李健 《完美堅持》

眼看秋天金黄了寂静的山谷
而我还在春天里挥汗忙碌
等待和耕耘    谁更辛苦
阵阵的秋风也开始急速

在漫长的守候里
忍耐就是最坚强
接受追逐的希望
是我唯一的疯狂

有时坚持就是一种无路可退
就像大地不能停止开放花蕊
春风吹不绿所有原野
我蠢动的心 却总不停歇

在希望的田野上
总有成片的迷惘
阻挡双眼的迷雾
是心穿越的地方

只愿今后年年如此。

許巍:《四季》

鮮花盛開的季節里  是再次出發的起點
這五月城市的天空  有天使沐浴在星光里
春天是因為我思念你  春風里溫暖的琴聲
是海棠花開在藍天里  幽香的清雅宛如你

我如此愛你們的季節  是七月每次的來臨
雖然我和你相隔千里  卻依然和你在一起
古老的城墻就好象  沉默的蓮花綻放夕陽里
你們互相攙扶的身影  緩慢走在晚風里

秋天是因為你在身旁  這城市最美的天空
你的笑容和青山相映  讓我的心感到寧靜
西山在這九月的下午  成為了我的逍遙鄉
這個秋天與以往不同  也是人生的初次

放下渴望收獲的心  所有的一切都是因為你
簡簡單單的為你歌唱  陽光普照在冬天

迷 / 醉…

陶醉在這樣的音樂中
如盯上一幅美妙的連軸畫
怎都不舍得使目光轉移

畫的內容很簡單
僅是生命而已
卻讓人那么那么地迷戀它

他还忧伤吗?

这次去北京,想去看看单向街到底怎么回事。可书店都是人办起的不是吗?所以决定先看看人,看看这个许知远,到底都想些什么。不出所料,我们牛逼的C.V. Starr居然还真有一本《那些忧伤的年轻人》。

拿起来,先对封面内侧那段做作的“一个年轻人,在星巴克咖啡馆里,在大学宿舍床上,在北方春天城市街道边,完成了自己青春思想的历程…”皱了许久的眉。好像“青春”必须跟春天,跟北方(北京)的大学(北大)有关,好像“思想”必须源于咖啡,还不能是普通咖啡,不能是自己在家煮的,还非得是“星巴克”才行。开玩笑,去北京转转,有几个爱穿拖鞋的穷学生(1995-2000年的许知远)在星巴克写作?

可是他好像还不只是卖弄玄虚。起码从封底上还能看出他崇拜Edmund Wilson。于是就快速的翻阅起来。结果被这个略为忧伤的年轻人的真实打动、被当年与我同龄的他阅读量与知识面震撼。不到250页的篇幅,从蔡元培到梁遇春、从Rousseau到Freud、从Nietzsche到Francis Fukuyama、从Benjamin到Trilling,从Emily Dickinson到Kerouac,从姜文到李敖、从徐志摩到崔健,都被他很随意地(当然,也很简单地)解读了一番。而这一切的讨论都不重要,其实许知远的意思很简单。他也曾是个忧伤的年轻人,他曾在“网络时代”的名牌大学读理科,发现自己与当今抹杀人文气息的教育模式与社会体制是多么的格格不入。于是他不干了,他退学,他像梁遇春一样睡懒觉,他像余华喜欢毛巾打屁股的感觉一般喜欢穿着拖鞋穿行校园却不去上课,他逐渐地在宿舍里累积了1000多本书(而大部分与他的专业毫不相干)。他以这样“自由”的方式去捍卫70年代生人的一些自主性。没赶上50、60年代生的那些人主导的文化热,也不会像80后、90后那些连“小冰棍”都没吃过的小孩们一样沉迷于网络的许知远,自称为“过度的一代”却展现出太多对这个身份的不满与不安。

可是许知远也得成长。他不能总是那个听孔庆东侃大山就热血沸腾的男孩了。三十而立的他,走了叔本华推崇的“第三条写作的道路”,做了记者;去了趟旧金山,转了遍City Lights,于是办起了单向街。他多少成为了自己理想中的(公共)知识分子,把“We read the world”变成了一个“时尚”的品牌(去看看单向街的网站吧!)

但我想知道的是,他还忧伤吗?他还会怀念大学时期无所事事的冬天,与哥们儿们一起在阳光下抽烟的那一刻吗?

因为这点好像挺重要。因为我好像也老了,或许还脆弱,却也不容易忧伤了。


郑钧: 《天下没有不散的筵席》

(佤族伴唱:
独:哎,离别的时候不要太伤心呵
合:是的,是的,不要太伤心
让我们一起唱歌吧,让我们一起跳舞吧,
不要分甚么高低贵贱,大家尽情欢乐吧!)

我曾经以为生命还很漫长
也曾经以为你还和以前一样
其实我错了一切全都变了
就在你转眼的一瞬间一瞬间
我听见你说
佤族伴唱:多么甜蜜迷人呵

天下没有不散的筵席
一切全都全都会失去
天下没有不散的筵席
你的眼泪欢笑全都会失去
所以我们不要哭泣所以我们不要回忆过去
所以我们不要在意所以我们不要埋怨自己

佤族伴唱:
让我们一起唱歌吧,让我们一起跳舞吧,
不要分甚么高低贵贱,大家尽情欢乐吧!

总盼着和你能有个好结局
可惜我力不足我的心有余
如果我哭了也许是我老了
因为我变得很脆弱很脆弱害怕听你说
佤族伴唱:多么甜蜜迷人呵

天下没有不散的筵席
一切全都全都会失去
天下没有不散的筵席
你的眼泪欢笑全都会失去
所以我们不要哭泣所以我们不要回忆过去
所以我们不要在意所以我们不要埋怨自己

天下没有不散的筵席
一切全都全都会失去
你的眼泪欢笑全都会失去

佤族伴唱:如果你爱上哪位姑娘,一定要好好保护她,
如果有人想伤害她,你要用弓箭去射他

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