The Lesson Before I Quit Chapter 1

"I suddenly understood: There is only one way to stay with this difficult guy, that is, to continue writing about him... I don't want to limit the length or leave out all kinds of details. This is what Michael Mu is risking his own life for. The end of ", teach me the last lesson"---Daniel Chen.

Zhang Hu is the pen name Michael Mu gave Daniel Chen.

In 1982, Daniel Chen and Michael Mu went to the United States and met on the New York subway. They became both mentor and friend for nearly thirty years. After Michael Mu passed away in 2011, Daniel Chen began to write about Michael Mu. Eight years later, this collection was produced. The book uses extremely realistic pen and ink and careful and sincere words to bid farewell to Michael Mu and bring Michael Mu back to the readers.

It is rare that a person's death is described in such detail; and it is rare that such writing gazes at death so affectionately. This book starts from the end point and recalls Michael Mu’s lifelong journey of literature and art. With the publication of "Literary Memoirs" and "Michael Mu Talking about Michael Mu" after Michael Mu's death, as well as the completion of Michael Mu's former residence memorial hall and art museum, the author looks back on Michael Mu's long journey of giving lectures on "History of World Literature" in New York, and recalls the overseas orphans. Moments from Lu's life, moments when literary inspiration bloomed, and trips to England, the artist's thoughtfulness and insight reveal the origin and pursuit of Michael Mu's paintings. No one can describe Michael Mu's world to us so kindly and considerately.

Michael Mu is fun. When I first met him, he once said: "Your name is quite nice, but it's a pity that it's all horizontal and vertical strokes, so your signature is not easy to read." When I thought about it, it was true. Later, when we exchanged letters, he called me "Dan Qing" with the same pronunciation, added some strokes, and gave me the nickname "Fo'er", which was sometimes used as the letter's letterhead.

Whether the elegance and knowledge of changing names has been lost, I dare not say, but Michael Mu is good at it. I have personally seen him change the names of two or three friends, in front of them, with a smile, and he figured it out in a moment. Most of them changed the words based on the other person's original name, and it would look better and sound better---The changed name, at this moment But I can't remember it.

His writings in his early and middle years never expected to be published, but he liked to play with pen names, as if waiting for the day when he would be famous all over the world--"Sun Pu" in his childhood and "Yangzhong" in his elder years were changed to " "Michael Mu" and "Michael Mu". At that time, someone made great explanations, such as "The Heart of Muduo". When the old man heard about it, he said flatly: "There is no meaning, just take simple strokes."

I half believe him in this, because his rhetoric is always ambiguous and open to interpretation, but you can't catch him.

In the early 1990s, I secretly wrote some miscellaneous articles for a music magazine in Shanghai. To avoid making people laugh, I once wanted to use a pen name. But I couldn't think of anything, so I asked Michael Mu. I said, my mother's surname is "Zhang" and my given name is "Zhang". Please help me think about it. He pondered for a moment, and next time he met, he handed over a piece of paper with the word "Zhang Hu" written on it, along with a brief note.

I was so happy that I quickly asked what the word "沪" meant. Since he remembered it carefully, he reminded him: Didn't you say you like mountains? "Hu" refers to rugged mountain roads. I saved that piece of paper, but unfortunately I can't find it. I only remember that there are four words in the meaning of "Mountain Road Yu Hu", which is very elegant. Among the few books he has saved is an old version of the "Kangxi Dictionary", which he often reads. Where did the character "沪" come from? I don't know.

However, I have never used this pen name, and the reason is difficult to say. Perhaps the wording is too quaint and unsuitable for an unlearned educated youth like me, and Michael Mu specially gave it to me. It is like a treasure that I refuse to show to others. As time goes by, I can't find a suitable opportunity. Since the new century, there have been more and more manuscripts signed by my real name. The sudden appearance of "Zhang Hu" is both abrupt and artificial, so it always makes me embarrassed every time I think about it...

What makes it particularly difficult for me is that very early on Michael Mu asked me to write about him in the future. He debuted too late, had no background, and had no one to talk to. He actually hoped to be born late--not only me, but also several other young people--how could I write articles at that time, so he kept It's dodge, and I know it from his many "private words" that are not disguised: he will not be satisfied with any article written about him. To be honest, among all the critics, who can take him seriously?

Unless he meets another Michael Mu. As for the other side of Michael Mu, I am so familiar with it that I can’t make it short. In the past thirty years, I have seen firsthand how much he longed for someone to write about him. In the new century, Sun Pu was almost eighty years old, and finally some scholars in Beijing and Shanghai began to seriously comment on him. He read each article, remembered the words in it, recited it like a rite, wrote their names in the manuscript, and remembered it. Did this really quell his lifelong longing? That was the countless echo he heard in the human world.

But I was still cruel and never wrote about him until he died.

After the funeral, the day after I returned to Beijing, I sat down to write about him without a moment's hesitation. It’s not that I am confident that I have the ability to write about him, but I saw him die there, and the world has been separated from yin and yang ever since. I suddenly understood: there is only one way to stay with this difficult guy, which is to keep writing about him.

Since then, every time the anniversary of his death approaches, I will write a piece of memory for the commemorative issue issued at that time. During this period, I learned to quote his poems, and those poems actually made some of my passages slightly better. After the old man had a memorial hall and an art museum successively, and he had to write some words every year for exhibitions related to him, eight years passed and this collection was born.

What to do with the title of the book? "Missing Michael Mu" and "Michael Mu and I" are all too overused, so I thought of "Zhang Hu" again. However, it is difficult to name it, and it is also difficult to use it: who knows outside the world? In the end, "Zhang Hu" can only be used as the title of the collection, and it is still not a pseudonym.

When he mentioned me in his posthumous manuscript, he still wrote my real name - Michael Mu, do you mind? Only you know that "Zhang Hu" is me.

Written in Wuzhen on June 15, 2019

This notebook is where I recorded Mr. Michael Mu’s ramblings while he was on his sickbed. When he fell asleep, I would draw him. I have known my husband for nearly thirty years, and this is my first and last time to draw him.

Tongxiang First People's Hospital, the whole building is brand new. Room 11 in the VIP ward of the inpatient department on the twelfth floor is Michael Mu's ward. Lying on the bed with railings on both sides, my husband had an infusion tube inserted into his left wrist. He woke up intermittently and the head of the bed was raised. He leaned on his side and murmured to me. His voice was originally deep and hoarse, and he had been unable to laugh and talk in the past two years. Is it because of my arrival now? He talked more. He said something, paused, and suddenly looked at me seriously:

then who are you?

This question made me even more shocked than yesterday when my husband refused to acknowledge me when I first arrived. Yesterday, at dusk on November 16, my wife and I rushed from Hangzhou Airport to Tongxiang Hospital and went straight to my husband’s bedside. Unexpectedly, the first words he said when he raised his face were:

"Where are the pirates! Are they gone?"

I could laugh instinctively, but at the same time I was confused: Mr. is delirium! The hasty imagination I had on the way here about how to deal with my husband's serious illness was no longer valid - now he has become someone I don't recognize.

"Take them away! Beat them all away!" I leaned towards him and responded loudly, like I was lying to a child. At the same time, I quickly calmed myself down and prepared to take over this suddenly unfamiliar experience. He leaned closer and looked doubtful: "Oh, so that's it..."

Today, in the morning, my husband started talking to me again. It was the familiar look in our conversations in the past. Suddenly, "Who are you?" I will never forget that moment.

"I'm Daniel Chen!" I yelled at him, and another thought came to my mind at the same time: It's over, sir, he's going to die... He was stunned for a moment, then his expression turned calm. After a while, when he explained what he thought was important, he switched to Mandarin and said calmly and clearly:

Well...you tell them not to arrest me...it is very painful to put a person in solitary confinement and deprive him of his freedom...

Now I want to try to write down this memory: this year, from mid-November to late December, I stayed at Michael Mu’s bedside several times, and then, his funeral. This was the first time I witnessed an old person, critically ill, exhausted, dying. I don't want to limit the space or leave out details. This is the last lesson Michael Mu has taught me by taking his own life.

*

Time forward: In late October this year, my husband was hospitalized for the first time six years after returning to his hometown. The original intention was to treat cataracts. Mr. and Mrs. Linda Chunyang from Beijing who accompanied him to the hospital had a close friendship with Michael Mu in recent years and were on their way to Wuzhen to visit his husband. A physical examination was required before the operation. Upon examination, the pulse was only over 20, the name of the disease was "AV block type 1, second degree", and the blood pressure and lung function were also extremely abnormal. The hospital immediately issued a critical notification and immediately transferred him to the cardiology department. After treatment, various data quickly recovered, and the re-examination was close to normal. The husband clamored to go home, so Chunyang escorted him back to Wanqing Xiaozhu in Wuzhen: it was a home built by the town for Michael Mu on the site of his hometown ten years ago.

Chunyang talked to me on the phone every day, reporting on his condition. Finally, he said that after returning home, my husband could sit up, eat, and talk and laugh as before. After working on it for more than ten days, Chunyang and his wife returned to Beijing: it was early November.

Earlier, in September, Mr. Leonard Bing, a Chinese architect in New York, discussed the "Michael Mu Art Museum" with Mr. Leonard, and I was there. Earlier, in mid-July, Mr. Charles Xianghong, the leader of the town, told Mr. Charles Xianghong that the plan for the art museum would be launched within the year, and I was also there. On the other hand, Xiang Hong accompanied Mr. Xiang to visit the venue that day.

The obvious and sudden weakness began in the autumn of 2010. Although Mr. Xiang did not have any symptoms of illness, he was extremely old and his bones were broken. He was thin and squatting on his seat, silent and motionless. He no longer took care of himself as carefully as before. He tried his best to open his lips and spoke softly, but his eyes were smart and moist, looking up at us back and forth like a child. If he could sit up or move a little bit, he would need the help of two young men, Dylan and Oliver, to help him.

When I was trying to persuade my husband to accept the filming, my method was to keep teasing him with jokes - this is what he taught me.

The year before last, the year before last, my husband was still able to walk on his own. After dinner, he would go back to the living room and have a long talk, each making a cup of green tea. The British-style writing table next to the window, the antique cabinet against the wall, the leather sofa in the middle, and the handwritten banner of "Wuzhen" in the Book of Songs were all shipped back from the New York apartment. Now we are in our hometown in Wuzhen, we are sitting opposite each other, my husband has a cigarette, I have a cigarette, and there are two young men beside me. The whitewashed walls and wooden beams of Jiangnan are dark, and the days will be very long.

Long gone are the all-night conversations. After holding on until eleven or twelve o'clock, the husband said apologetically, "Well, let's take a rest." After returning home, he usually goes to bed at eight or nine o'clock.

I feel so lucky now that I think about it. Last winter, exactly one year ago, in December 2010, two New York filmmakers shot a documentary for Mr. Wang here for ten days. Looking at the photos from that time, Mr.’s face is quite plump. The film came out this spring, with high-quality images and careful editing. He looked as energetic as ever. He only wore a cotton hat all the time, and a blanket covered his knees when filming. He looked like an old man with all the blessings --- I got to know him in recent years. This is how Michael Mu's junior looked at his husband, thinking that at this age, he could be called healthy, but I knew that he was really in decline. When I met Michael Mu, he was only fifty-six years old, younger than I am now. When I returned to China at the age of seventy-nine, I remembered Michael Mu. He had indeed become an old man in these years.

From left: Tim, Michael Mu, Francesco, me, translator. In the last few days of the ten-day shooting, Michael Mu had gotten used to it and got up early every day to wait for them to come. He died a year later.

"Look, the old man moves slowly and slowly. When I was young, I always thought he was just pretending!" Michael Mu joked to me like this again one time. When he said this, he was only in his sixties and he was walking with me on the street. walking. Now that my husband's behavior is getting slower and slower, I have forgotten these words---he later wrote them into haiku---and now I think of the way he swallowed his laughter until he bowed down. I no longer have the strength to laugh despite my chest pain.

Who doesn’t feel a little tired of the old man in his twilight years? In recent years, to be honest, it has been rare for my husband to excite me. The eloquence, words and laughter are all still there, but like all old people, even Michael Mu finally talked about the names, aphorisms, and anecdotes that I had heard long ago--his work in the 1930s. The story of how my mother led the neighbors to put out fires has been told to me six or seven times - I laughed or expressed surprise. My husband seemed to notice my pretense immediately, and then he looked at me with a sly chuckle that I have been familiar with for many years. In the moment of looking at each other, we exchanged mutual forgiveness---but I hope I'm not wrong---After a moment of silence, he started talking to someone else.

He no longer keeps me. Sometimes I stay for one night and then leave. In the guest room on the second floor, the window opens to the bamboo shoots in the west. When I arrived last year, I drove near Dongzha and saw my husband waiting at the gate of the house with his head full of white hair. Last year, he only stood at the door curtain of the living room to greet me. For example, in winter, he would hold an old-fashioned hot water bottle against his chest. By this year, it was difficult for my husband to stand up, so he sat on the sofa and waited for me to come forward when I entered the room. I leaned over to hug him: he became more and more like a child. I wanted to leave the next day, so I followed him slowly to the eaves of the small door. When he stood still tremblingly - his whole body was very light - he gave me a hug and nodded slightly to me. Walked away.