He also knows incantations； the kind hunters use when they go into the mountains。 They are called mountain black…magic or hexes and he has no qualms about using them。 He really believes they can drive wild animals into pits or get them to step into snares。 They aren’t used only on animals； they’re also used against other humans beings for revenge。 A victim of mountain black…magic won’t be able to find his way out of the mountains。 They are like the 〃demon walls〃 I heard about as a child： when someone has been travelling for some time at night in the mountains； a wall； a cliff or a deep river appears right in front of him； so that he can’t go any further。 If the spell isn’t broken the person’s feet don’t move forward and even if he keeps walking； he stays exactly where he started off。 Only at daybreak does he discover that he has been going around in circles。 That’s not so bad； the worst is when a person is led into a blind…alley： that means death。
He intones strings of incantations。 It’s not slow and relaxed like when he is singing； but just nan…nan…na…na to a quick beat。 I can’t understand it at all but I can feel the mystical pull of the words； a demonic awesome atmosphere instantly permeates the room； the inside of which is black from smoke。 The glow of the flames licking the iron pot of mutton stew make his eyes glint。 This is all starkly real。
While you search for the route to Lingshan； I wander along the Yangtze River looking for this sort of reality。 I had just gone through a crisis and then； on top of that； a doctor wrongly diagnosed me with lung cancer。 Death was playing a joke on me but now that I’ve escaped the demon wall； I am secretly rejoicing。 Life for me once again has a wonderful freshness。 I should have left those contaminated surroundings long ago and returned to nature to look for this authentic life。
In those contaminated surroundings I was taught that life was the source of literature； that literature had to be faithful to life； faithful to real life。 My mistake was that I had alienated myself from life and ended up turning my back on real life。 However； real life is not the same as manifestations of life。 Real life； or in other words the basic substance of life； should be the former and not the latter。 I had gone against real life because I was simply stringing together life’s manifestations； so of course I wasn’t able to acomurately portray life and in the end only sucomeeded in distorting reality。
I don’t know whether I’m now on the right track but in any case I’ve extricated myself from the bustling literary world and also escaped from my smoke…filled room。 The books piled everywhere in that room were oppressive and stifling。 They expounded all sorts of truths； historical truths to truths on how to be human。 I couldn’t see the point of so many truths but still got enmeshed in the net of those truths and was struggling hopelessly； like an insect caught in a spider’s web。 Fortunately； the doctor who gave the wrong diagnosis saved my life。 He was quite frank and got me to compare the two chest X…rays taken on two separate ocomasions： a blurry shadow on the left lobe of the lung had spread along the second rib to the wall of the windpipe。 It wouldn’t help even to have the whole of the left lobe removed。 The outcome was obvious。 My father had died of lung cancer。 He died within three months of it being discovered and it was this doctor who had correctly diagnosed it。 I had faith in his medical expertise and he had faith in science。 The chest X…rays taken at two different hospitals were identical； there was no possibility of a technical mistake。 He also wrote an authorization for a sectional X…ray； the appointment was in half a month’s time。 This was nothing to get worried about； it was just to determine the extent of the tumour。 My father had this done before he died。 The outcome would be the same whether or not I had the X…ray； it was nothing special。 That I in fact would slip through the fingers of Death can only be put down to good luck。 I believe in science but I also believe in fate。
I once saw a four…inch length of wood which had been collected in the Qiang region by an anthropologist during the 1930s。 It was a carved statue of a person doing a handstand。 The head had ink markings for the eyes； nose and mouth； and the word 〃longevity〃 was written on the body。 It was called 〃Wuchang Upside Down〃 and there was something oddly mischievous about it。 I ask the retired village head whether such talismans are still around。 He tells me these are called 〃old root〃。 This wooden idol has to acomompany the newborn from birth to death。 At death it acomompanies the corpse from the house and after the burial it is placed in the wilderness to allow the spirit to return to nature。 I ask him if he can get me one so that I can carry it on me。 He laughs and says these are what hunters tuck into their shirts to ward off evil spirits； they wouldn’t be of any use to someone like me。
〃Is there an old hunter who knows about this sort of magic and can take me hunting with him？〃 I ask。
〃Grandpa Stone would be the best；〃 he says after thinking about it。
〃How can I find him？〃 I ask right away。
〃He’s in Grandpa Stone’s Hut。〃
〃Where’s this Grandpa Stone’s Hut。〃
〃Go another twenty li on to Silver Mine Gully then follow the creek right up to the end。 There you’ll find a stone hut。〃
〃Is that the name of the place or do you mean the hut of Grandpa Stone？〃
He says it’s the name of the place； that there’s in fact a stone hut； and that Grandpa Stone lives there。
〃Can you take me to him？〃 I go on to ask。
〃He’s dead。 He lay down on his bed and died in his sleep。 He was too old； he lived to well over ninety； some even say well over a hundred。 In any case； nobody’s sure about his age。〃
〃Are any of his descendants still alive？〃 I can’t help asking。
〃In my grandfather’s generation and for as long as I can remember； he was always on his own。〃
〃Without a wife？〃
〃He lived on his own in Silver Mine Gully。 He lived high up the gully； in the solitary hut； alone。 Oh； and that rifle of his is still hanging on the wall of the hut。〃
I ask him what he’s trying to tell me。
He says Grandpa Stone was a fantastic hunter； a hunter who was an expert in the magical arts。 There are no hunters like that nowadays。 Everyone knows that his rifle is hanging in the hut； that it never misses the target； but nobody dares to go and take it。
〃Why？〃 I’m even more puzzled。
〃The route into Silver Mine Gully is cut。〃
〃There’s no way through？〃
〃Not anymore。 Earlier on people used to mine silver there； a firm from Chengdu hired a team of workers and they began mining。 Later on； after the mine was looted； everyone just left。 The plank roads they laid either broke up or rotted。〃
〃When did all this happen。〃
〃When my grandfather was still alive； more than fifty years ago。〃
That would be about right； after all he’s already retired and has become history； real history。
〃So since then nobody’s ever gone there？〃 I become even more intrigued。
〃Hard to say； anyway it’s hard to get there。〃
〃And the hut has rotted？〃
〃Stone collapses； how can it rot？〃
〃I was talking about the ridgepole。〃
〃Oh； quite right。〃
He doesn’t want to take me there； nor does he want to find a hunter for me； so he’s leading me on like this； I think。
〃Then how do you know the rifle’s still hanging on the wall？〃 I ask； regardless。
〃That’s what everyone says； someone must’ve seen it。 They all say that Grandpa Stone is incredible； his corpse hasn’t rotted and wild animals don’t dare to go near。 He just lies there all stiff and emaciated； and his rifle is hanging there on the wall。〃
〃Impossible。 With the high humidity up here in the mountain； the corpse would have rotted and the rifle would have turned into a pile of rust；〃 I argue。
〃I don’t know。 Anyway； people have been saying this for years。〃 He refuses to give in and sticks to his story。 The light of the fire dances in his eyes and I seem to detect a cunningness in them。
〃And you’ve never seen him？〃 I won’t let him off。
〃People who have seen him say that he seems to be asleep； that he’s emaciated； and that the rifle is hanging there on the wall above his head；〃 he goes on unruffled。 〃He knew black…magic。 It’s not just that people don’t dare go there to steal his rifle； even animals don’t dare to go near。〃
The hunter is already myth。 To talk about a mixture of history and legend is how folk stories are born。 Reality exists only through experience； and it must be personal experience。 However； once related； even personal experience becomes a narrative。 Reality can’t be verified and doesn’t need to be； that can be left for the reality of life experts to debate。 What is important is life。 Reality is simply that I am sitting by the fire in this room which is black with grime and smoke and that I see the light of the fire dancing in his eyes。 Reality is myself； reality is only the perception of this instant and it can’t be related to another person。 All that needs to be said is that outside； a mist is enclosing the green…blue mountain in a haze and your heart is reverberating with the rushing water of a swift…flowing stream。
一个人的圣经
作者：高行建
《一个人的圣经》可说是《灵山》的姐妹篇，和《灵山》同样庞博。不仅把中国当代史上最大的灾难写得极为真实，而且也把人的脆弱写得极其真切，令人惊心动魂。《一个人的圣经》不仅成为一部扎扎实实的历史见证，而且成为展示一个大的历史时代中人的普遍命运的大悲剧，悲怆的诗意就含蓄地对这种普遍的人性悲剧的叩问与大怜悯之中。它告诉人们一些故事，还告诉人们一种哲学：人要抓住生命的瞬间，尽兴活在当下，而别落进他造与自造的各种阴影、幻象、观念与噩梦中，逃离这一切，便是自由。
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“他不是不记得他还有过另一种生活，像家中一些还没烧掉发黄的老照片，想来令人有点忧伤，但太遥远了恍如隔世，也确实永远消失了。被警察查封的北京他那家，曾保留他已故的父亲留下的一张全家福合影，是他那大家庭人口最齐全的一张。他祖父当时还在，一头白发，已经中风了不能言语，躺在一张摇椅上。他是这家的长子长孙，照片上唯一的孩子，夹在祖父母