A traveler told a story when the train was running: he stayed in an abandoned medieval mansion, which used to be a Sultan's palace. These empty houses seem to be inhabited by some people from the past. The traveler learned that atrocities had happened here in the past, and even stones were cursed. These stones are so hungry that they will swallow anyone who stays in the palace for more than three nights. And he was driven by curiosity to live in the palace. That night, he seemed to hear a group of female ephemera playing in this palace more than 250 years ago. After listening carefully, there is nothing. Every morning when I wake up, I think the idea of the night before is ridiculous. But whenever night falls, he hastily abandons the clutter of the day and enters the palace. The next night, he saw a strange woman in harem dress waving to him, so he followed him. Unexpectedly, he staggered and the phantom disappeared. Later, when he was lying in bed, he seemed to hear the woman's painful and piercing cry for help. The novel ends with an unexpected twist. It is unknown to readers how the narrator who is still living a comfortable life can prevent disaster. Before the story was finished, the listener got off at a station where the train stopped.

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You can see the corner of the room inside, and the ground is covered with a Persian carpet woven by seiko. Who sits on the throne, can't see clearly-I see a pair of petite and beautiful feet wearing brocade embroidered shoes under a yellow robe, lazily resting on the rose velvet carpet. On one side of the table, there are some apples, red fruits, oranges and a bunch of grapes in a crystal glassware. There are two small cups next to them, and a glass bottle filled with golden yellow wine pulp. Everything is waiting for the arrival of guests. A fragrant and intoxicating smoke rose from the room, which really fascinated me.

I stepped over the black man's open legs in fear. He suddenly woke up, and the sword fell from his arms on the slate and tinkled.

Snape, I heard a loud cry. I was surprised to find that I was soaked with sweat and leaned against my crib. In the early morning light, the first quarter moon is like a sallow when a painful patient wakes up. Manhal Ali, a madman, shouted in an empty alley at dawn according to his daily routine: "Fuck off! Get out! " "Everything is fake!" "Everything is fake!"

In this way, my first night in Arabic novels suddenly ended-but there are still 1000 nights!

Night strongly opposes my day. I go to work with a tired body during the day, cursing the empty night-and after the night, I feel that my activities during the day are really low, fake and ridiculous.

At dusk, with a feeling of excitement, I fell into a net of ecstasy. I became an unprecedented person who was not written into history millions of years ago. At that time, I thought British tight coats and thin suit pants were extremely ugly. At that time, I wore a red velvet hat, a wide coat, embroidered robes and silk robes, and sprinkled a few drops of perfume in colorful headscarves. In a word, I dressed myself proudly, threw away my cigarette, took a long pipe soaked in rose perfume and sat smartly in a high chair, as if a lover was waiting for a tryst with his lover.

Later, as the darkness became darker and darker, many strange things happened that were difficult to describe in words. Under the spring breeze, some pages full of mysterious stories seem to be flying in the cabins of the huge palace. Some remaining pages were picked up far away, but the pages behind it disappeared. I ran with those flying pages and wandered in those huts all night.

In this intermittent whirlpool of dreams-a heroine sometimes flashes like an electric flower in the fragrance of myrtle flowers, sometimes in the clank of stringed instruments, and sometimes in the swaying wind where fragrance, dew and dew blend. She wore saffron trousers, a pair of delicate feet with red inside, embroidered shoes with brocade, embroidered clothes with brocade on her upper body, and a gorgeous crimson hat on her head, kissing her radiant forehead and golden tassels on her forehead again and again in front of the hat-all these flashed like electric flowers in the night, and she suddenly didn't know where to hide.

She fascinated me, and in order to meet her-almost every night I wandered in the dreamy winding streets and huts of the sleeping underground world-I kept wandering from here to there!

One evening, I lit two candles on both sides of a big mirror, trying to dress up as a prince. At this moment, I suddenly saw in the mirror that the Arab girl's shadow clung to mine. She looked at me with her head down, long eyelashes and big black eyes, and looked at me with an affectionate and painful pleading expression. In the blink of an eye, she showed a graceful dance, whirled her youthful and mature body up quickly, and immediately shed flashing and trembling raindrops of pain, desire, confusion and ridicule, and then her figure disappeared without a trace in the mirror. A gust of wind stole the fragrance of the mountain forest and blew out my two candles. I took off my clothes and went to the bedroom near the dressing room. I was so excited that I closed my eyes and lay in bed. At that time, there seemed to be rich and affectionate love, countless warm kisses and many gentle touches in the breeze around me, in the fragrance of Alawalli forest and in the silent darkness. I also heard a charming and sweet voice coming from my ear; I feel a breath full of fragrance, hissing on my forehead; The beautiful woman's light shawl fluttered my cheek again and again-I was ecstatic because of her touch. This charming female snake seems to wrap all parts of my body tightly with her intoxicating shawl. I take a deep breath and use my unconscious body to fall asleep slowly.

One day before dusk, I decided to go for a ride. Later, I didn't know who would stop it-but I refused. I took off the gentleman's clothes hanging on the nail, and just as I was about to put them on, the sand on Susidi Beach and the dead leaves on Alavari Mountain danced and rolled up a strong whirlwind, blowing my clothes all over the sky. At the same time, a very sweet laughter whirled with the wind, flapping every surprise curtain, flying high into the clouds and disappearing next to the sunset world.

I didn't ride a horse that day. From the next day, I abandoned the gentleman's clothes forever.

However, in the middle of that night, I suddenly woke up from my sleep and vaguely heard-as if someone was crying-sobbing under my bed, in the soil, under the cornerstone of the palace, in the damp and dark cemetery:

"Help me! Please break the illusion of the long night, smash the door where you are sleeping and having nightmares, help me get on the horse, cling to me with your body, cross the forest, cross the mountains, cross the river and take me to the sunny world! Help me! "

What am I? How can I save you? I can save the beauty of hope submerged in the swirling torrent of dreams. Oh, incomparable beauty! When were you born? Where do you live? Were you born in a date palm grove by a cool stream or in the arms of a homeless woman wandering in the desert? What vicious robber snatched you from your mother's arms like flowers in the garden, rode on a galloping horse, crossed the scorching desert and took you to the market where the kingdom auctioned female slaves? Where, and which king's attendant, carefully observed your shy youthful brilliance, paid off the gold coins, crossed the ocean, sent you to the golden sedan chair, dedicated to your own emperor, and locked you in the cold palace all day? What a strange history! Between the sound of strings, the clang of anklets and golden fruit wine, there are swords and swords flashing, poisonous flames and mocking blows! Endless luxury! Endless prison! The left and right slave girls were wearing jeweled bracelets and swinging in the dust. The king was lying at their delicate white feet, and his shoes were inlaid with countless jewels. On the threshold, men in black are exactly like angels in the underworld, dressed as gods and standing with swords in their hands! You're floating in a torrent of intrigue and amazing luxury, red with blood and filled with jealousy. You are like a bud in the desert, thrown into the world of death-into the ruthless great coast. Unparalleled beauty! What era are you from and where are you?

At this moment, crazy Manhal Ali suddenly screamed:

"Get out of here! Fuck off! Everything is fake, everything is fake! "

When I opened my eyes, it was bright. The doorman handed the mail to me, and the chef came over and asked, "What are you cooking today?"

I said, "No need. Now I can't stay in this house any longer. " That day, I packed all my things and moved to the office. Klimhan, an old clerk in the office, looked at me and smiled. I was not satisfied with his laughter, but I ignored it and buried myself in my work.

As the evening approaches, my mood is getting more and more depressed-it seems that I should go at once-it seems that it is not urgent for me to supervise the statistical work of cotton quantity, and the management system is not particularly important-everything that exists, everything that walks around me, work, eating and drinking, seems to me to be poor, meaningless and boring.

I threw down my pen, closed the thick ledger, walked quickly outdoors and ran away in a two-wheeled carriage. At dusk, the two-wheeled carriage came to the door of the marble palace and stopped by itself. I quickly got off the bus, climbed the stairs and slipped into the house.

Everything is quiet today, and all the darkrooms in the palace seem to frown at me and express their dissatisfaction. I walked into the house with remorse, but who did I tell? Who do you apologize to with your hands folded? Nobody! In the dark, I wandered between huts with a depressed heart. I thought to myself: If I had a harpsichord in my hand, I would sing to someone and say, "Oh! Vulcan, the bird that tried to abandon you and run away, is suffering now. Please have mercy and forgive this time! Burn its two wings to ashes! "

Suddenly, tears as big as beans rolled down from above to my forehead. Overlapping dark clouds are spinning over the Arawali Mountains. The dark forest, the black water of the Susdi River stubbornly waits for the coming of terror. The river, the land and the sky were suddenly frightened. A sudden wind, like lightning, broke free from the shackles, wailed painfully and roared through the forest. There was no way. The tall and empty rows of houses in the palace fainted and cried because the railings of doors and windows were blown unbearable.

Today, all the staff and servants live in the office, and no one here lights a lamp. On a dark and windy night, in the dark palace where I can't see my fingers, I realized very clearly that a beautiful woman was lying on her back on the carpet under the bed, holding two fists, clutching her loose hair, and blood was gurgling down her white cheeks. From time to time, she gave a cold and violent laugh and cried from time to time-the storm and rainstorm blowing in from the open window sounded the alarm for her hot body.

All night, the storm didn't stop and the sobs didn't disappear. I wandered in the dark room with useless sadness, and I couldn't find where she was. Who should I comfort? Who does this battered self-esteem belong to? Where does this restless heart pain and this inner sadness come from?

Manhal Ali's madman shouted, "Go away!" "Fuck off!" "Everything is fake!" "Everything is fake!"

I found it was already dawn. And Manhal Ali, in this dark storm-in this downpour-paid tribute to the hungry stone palace and repeated his call as usual. In a flash, I think maybe this Manhal Ali, like me, suffered misfortune when he came to live in this palace, and now he has become a madman and fled outside. However, lured by the charming illusion cast by the stone demon, he came to worship it every morning.

At that moment, when the storm came, I ran to the madman and asked, "Manhal Ali, what is fake?"

He didn't answer my question, suddenly pushed me down, swam like a caught monster, screamed like a lost bird, and kept spinning around the room. Just to try to remind himself, he shouted over and over again, "Fuck off!" " ""fuck off! " "Everything is fake!" "Everything is false! "

(Bing Xin translation)

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1878, Tagore, 17 years old, went to Bader, Armada, to meet his brother. The judge's official residence of the second brother is in Shahbak's palace in the Islamic Empire. The former owner of this palace was Sha Han Jia (1592- 1666), who built the Taj Mahal. He was the Mughal emperor of India (reigned 1627- 1658). Taj Mahal is the mausoleum he built for his favorite concubine Muma Taj Mahal. It is very luxurious and spectacular, and it is the most distinctive building in India. Now it is a famous tourist attraction. Because the second brother has to go to the court office during the day, and the second sister-in-law and the children are in England, Tagore is the only one in such a big house. He swims around in it all day, as if suffering from serious sleepwalking. Here, he felt that he really saw the history, and it was so heavy. There are many sad stories hidden here, but now, things have changed, and he feels a mysterious power and unspeakable horror. He thinks this is a good novel material, and he has an impulse in his heart. But he can't seem to find the connection between history and reality. It was not until more than ten years later that he wrote the famous novel The Hungry Stone.

Tagore's short stories are full of poetry. Writers are good at using poetic visual art language to create prose novels, and their poetic language often makes readers indulge in the plots and characters described in the novels, leaving an unforgettable impression. The poetic language in Hungry Stone outlines the artistic conception, which makes people feel as if they are there: "Although there is no figure in front of me, I clearly feel that a group of happy and lively girls came to the river to take a bath that midsummer evening." "I heard it clearly, with laughter like a gurgling stream and banter of chasing each other." "I clearly feel that the shallow water of the Sedi River is stirred up by many arms wearing jingle bracelets. The girls laughed and threw water at each other. The naughty trampling of the female ephemera jade foot makes the water droplets splash into the air like sparkling pearls. " The scenes brought by these poetic languages are mysterious and full of beauty. Who are these strange women? They are so beautiful! So happy! You see, they "walked past us with silent steps and silvery laughter" and "jumped into the Susdy River". Now they are coming out of the bathroom again. "Just like a gust of wind blew away the fragrance in the air, they also flew away in the breath of spring!" ""What am I? How can I save you? I can save the hopeful girl who is submerged in the swirling dream torrent. Oh! Unparalleled beauty! When were you born? Where do you live? Were you born in a date palm grove by a cool stream or in the arms of a homeless woman wandering in the desert? "A string of poetic questions! Short and rhythmic, a few words and short sentences are a group of poems, which is the charm of poetic language contained in Tagore's novels!

Tagore's description of the scenery is never tedious, and he can draw a vivid picture with just a few strokes. Maybe it has something to do with his being an excellent painter. This lyrical style of scene blending is the style feature of Tagore's short stories. The mood of the hero is often integrated with the scenery of nature. In Sisters, the author wrote: "This kind of love that she didn't realize before suddenly woke her up with soft music. She seems to have swam a long way upstream, and there are splendid pavilions and gloomy jungles everywhere on both sides of the river; But in the disillusioned happiness and hope, she can't find a foothold. " In Hungry Stone, the young man's sense of success when he first became a cotton tax collector made him feel that everything was wonderful. When he stood by the Susidi River, "the sand slope on the horizon is colorful and beautiful against the sunset glow." On this shore, in the shallow river under the stone steps, pebbles shine. Without a breath of wind, the fragrance of mint and fennel floated from the nearby mountains, as if adding a burden to the frozen sky. "In this case, readers can't help enjoying the beautiful scenery with the protagonist, and they want to move an easy chair to have a rest. Tagore's best skill is to use these poetic and delicate words to make beautiful pictures, which will bring readers fantastic enjoyment and leave no trace.

There was almost no tradition of novel creation in ancient India, and Tagore was mainly influenced by the West in his novel creation. However, Tagore's short stories have made pioneering contributions in structure, poetic language and lyric style. The Hungry Stone is an example.

(Zhu Lijuan)