Night, the Sound of a Fiddle Floating from Beside the Cowshed (Part 1)
夜晚的提琴聲
翻譯：王天元
朗誦者：Buse Kurt
Original by Haonan | Haonan's Sky
April 8, 2025, 15:41 Guangdong
This article today is about a fellow farmer I knew during my time in the countryside. I simply want to tell readers that in the 1960s and 1970s, there was a young man with remarkable musical talent and a pure heart who lived this way on this land. In the article, I haven't used his real name because I haven't obtained his consent yet—I still haven't been able to find him. But I can guarantee that everything I write here is true. He must be around 75 or 76 years old this year. Let's temporarily call him Yaqiu here.
The Educated Youth Who Could Play the Fiddle
Half a year after going to the countryside, I was transferred to work at the brick factory in Lingtian Work Area. The living conditions were much better than those in the mountains. We lived in brick houses with electric lights. The toilet was no longer two circles surrounded by thatch without a roof. What's more gratifying was that when going home for holidays, I didn't need to spend over an hour going down the mountain—instead, I could directly ride a bicycle from the doorstep.
Our dormitory building stood on the east side of the main road, which ran from south to north as the only road connecting the headquarters to the deeper mountainous Shuikou Work Area. Although called a "main road," it only allowed two cars to pass each other narrowly, and there weren't many vehicles on it usually.
Behind our dormitory was Tianxin Village, where the local Hakka people lived in clusters. The village had about a hundred households. The adobe houses, as primitive as the earth, were scattered orderly at the foot of the gentler hills in this hilly area.
The dormitory had four rooms. The seven of us female educated youths lived in the largest room in the north. The room next door, separated by a wall, housed the male educated youths, and beyond that were the homes of veteran workers with families.
Our room had nothing except four bunk beds. We used the extra bed to store miscellaneous items. Therefore, all our after-work activities—chatting, reading, doing handicrafts, listening to the radio, and sewing—had to be done "on the bed." I still remember how overcautious the male educated youths from next door were when they occasionally came to talk, not ,daring to sit by our beds.
The dormitory was on the east side of the road, and on the west side was a small thicket where the team's cattle pen was located. In the dead of night, lying in bed, we could hear the "moo" "moo" sounds of cows chewing their cud from time to time.
One night shortly after arriving at the brick factory, around eight or nine o'clock, the seven of us sisters were each doing our own things on our beds. Suddenly, a gentle violin melody floated into the dormitory through the window, opening our young hearts and ears.
Standing on the doorstep, I followed the sound. The music drifted slowly from beyond the thicket, near the cattle pen. Due to the thicket blocking the view, I couldn't see the figure of the person playing the violin. The night was hazy, and the clear sky was deep and pure. In this beautiful space, the music was plaintive and desolate, as if telling a sorrowful story. Although we didn't understand music at that time and couldn't tell what piece was being played, we could all feel the player's sadness, the bitterness, and the melancholy in his heart. The music was like a cold wind, blowing a chill into the cool night. It was also like wisps of smoke carrying sorrow, floating over the adobe houses of Tianxin Village and toward the distant dark blue mountains.
"Is there someone here who can play the violin?" I asked in surprise.
"It's Yaqiu next door," my dormmate told me.
Yaqiu was a young man who came to the farm in 1965. Of medium to short stature and thin, he had quite regular features. Usually, he rarely spoke, let alone was seen smiling. Because of his silence, lack of smiles, and habit of always keeping his head down when meeting people, his originally handsome face seemed呆板. He always gave the impression of being listless and weak, even walking as if without energy. In a crowd, he was like a grass that hadn't yet grown tall, the easiest to be overlooked and forgotten.
In those days, ordinary people were not only materially poor but also had a monotonous cultural life—"eight plays for eight hundred million people." The violin was a very high-end instrument in our eyes. Except for playfully imitating the action of playing the violin with our heads tilted, we had never touched a real violin, let alone learned to play it. Therefore, when a violinist stood before us, I felt extremely envious.
One day after hearing the music, I met Yaqiu face to face.
"Qiu XX, can you play the violin?" I asked boldly, full of admiration.
Ordinarily, we would address older educated youths with "Brother" or "Sister" after their names, but I don't know why I blurted out his name directly that day.
"Yes," he replied in a low voice, and that was all.
The staff at the brick factory included local veteran workers, mainly Hakka people born and raised there, as well as educated youths from the classes of 1962, 1963, 1965, and our 1971 class. There were also fewer than ten "Five Categories "
Yaqiu came to the farm in 1965. Some veteran workers said he was the youngest at that time, only 15 years old. Calculating this way, by 1971, when we went to the countryside and got to know him, he was only 21 or 22 years old but had already spent six years braving the winds and rains of rural life.
Growing Up with the Sound of the Fiddle
Over time, we gradually noticed that Yaqiu didn't seem to have a regular schedule for playing the violin at night. Most of the time, he would play once every week or two, sometimes not for a long time, and occasionally he would play for three or four consecutive days. Each time he played for about two or three hours, usually stopping around 11 o'clock. The pieces he played were mostly sad; I don't remember ever hearing him play any cheerful or festive music.
One night, when I went out to pour water, I saw him carrying his violin back across the road from beside the cattle pen.
"Brother Qiu, you've been playing for so long. Aren't you tired?" I asked out of curiosity and with a touch of concern.
"Not tired!" He responded with a rare hint of a smile. "I started learning to play the violin when I was very young. This is nothing."
"Oh, so you've been playing for many years."
"Yeah," he replied in a low voice.
Gradually, I learned from the veteran workers that Yaqiu's parents were both labeled as "Rightists" in the 1950s and sent to a labor farm. At that time, Yaqiu was less than ten years old, and he grew up with his paternal aunt. His family was a literary and artistic family, with everyone having artistic talents. Influenced by the strong artistic atmosphere at home, Yaqiu started learning the violin at a young age and played quite well, showing some talent. Perhaps due to the family issue of his parents being Rightists, he not only couldn't go to an art unit but was also designated to go to the countryside.
After learning about Yaqiu's background, when I paid more attention to him, I found that he was indeed different from others in some ways. He never swore. Although usually taciturn, he was never rude to others. When not working and resting, he paid attention to the style of his clothes. I thought these might be due to the upbringing of an intellectual family and the edification of the family's artistic atmosphere.
Some fellow farmers also recalled that he had a foldable bicycle, which was very rare in those days, though he didn't use it often. This showed that his family's economic situation had once been quite good.
Haonan
The Fifth Day of the First Lunar Month, 2025
(精彩下期繼續(xù))
The Frustration of Innocence
Back then, in our spare time as educated youth (zhishi qingnian知識青年), we often read novels and literary magazines from before the Cultural Revolution—books that weren’t officially banned. Of course, we didn’t dare touch banned works like Dream of the Red Chamber, since there were political instructors in the production team overseeing ideological education.
We were fortunate that the farm allowed two days off every two weeks. Every time someone went back to the city, they’d bring back some books or magazines. Then, the boys’ and girls’ dormitories would share them, taking turns in line to read.
Once, I happened to exchange books with Yaqiu. I cautiously asked him, “Since you’ve played the violin for so many years, haven’t you ever thought of applying to an arts troupe or something similar?” I didn’t dare voice the second half—“Why did you come to the countryside?”
He sighed. A trace of frustration, regret, and sorrow passed through his eyes. Perhaps sensing my sympathy, he unexpectedly opened up to me about his story:“Of course I did,” he said. “I applied to the ?? Performing Arts Troupe. I had already passed six rounds of auditions. I thought I might finally make it.”
He paused. “It was all my fault.”
“What happened?” I asked, anxious on his behalf.
“They gave me a form to fill out. Under ‘family background’…” He held out his hand and flipped it over, gesturing from front to back. “Originally, it was like this—but I wrote it like that. I was afraid if I wrote the truth, I wouldn’t pass. But when they ran a political background check, I failed even worse. It’s all my fault.”
By that point, I had roughly understood what happened. In those days, if you weren’t from a worker or peasant family, you were already starting from behind. You weren’t necessarily labeled a bad person, but it was very hard for people to accept that you were a good one. And if you lied on such a critical matter as your family background? Who would dare accept you? The fact they didn’t charge you with a crime was already lenient. But how could a fifteen-year-old possibly understand such complex and cruel social realities?
I realized I had touched the most painful part of his heart and didn’t dare continue the conversation.
Now, as I tap on my phone screen to write this piece, I finally understand why I had found him so withdrawn when we first met. If a person’s childhood and adolescence are like a growing seedling, then when he was still just a sprout, the harsh wind and freezing rain of his parents being labeled “rightists” had already drenched him. When he struggled to grow a bit stronger and poked his head above the ground, he was again struck down—branded as a “rightist’s son,” and “dishonest.” That fragile hope he had nearly touched was cruelly snatched away. The blow cut deep—into his bones and into his soul.
That he could still quietly hold onto his dreams and stay alive with hope—he had already withstood more than most.
But who could truly feel the warmth he lacked?
The Violin He Couldn’t Let Go
At the time, whenever we had our mid-month and end-of-month farm holidays, those of us whose homes were in Guangzhou would jump on our bikes like birds flapping our wings and fly home. Yaqiu would just stand there quietly watching us leave, a wooden expression on his face, eyes full of melancholy. His parents were in a labor camp; he had no home to return to. He rarely visited his aunt’s home. Every time we left for home in high spirits, it was a new wound for him.He never spoke of his family, and after a while, no one asked.
In truth, I felt deeply sorry for his fate. Imagine growing up without your parents, living with an aunt—though family, still a life of dependence. What bitter days those must have been. When he finally grew older and played the violin beautifully, he should have had a bright future. But because of youthful naivety, he lost his chance. Can we blame him? What does a teenager really know? Life was indeed cruel to him.
Look at kids today—fifteen or sixteen-year-olds still acting spoiled or rebellious in front of their parents. But in those days, he already had to bear full responsibility for his actions.
Over time, we came to understand why there were days when Yaqiu didn’t play the violin at all—it was because he was exhausted. And why sometimes he would play nonstop for days—because he realized his fingers were losing their touch, and he feared losing the skill. Even though, like all of us, he felt his future was shrouded in uncertainty, deep in his heart he still hoped that one day he could stand on stage as a professional violinist.
Life… is never easy.
I left the farm in 1974. That year, many Guangzhou-based companies and schools directly recruited from city-run farms. But the older generation of educated youth were often too old to meet enrollment criteria. By 1975, recruitment standards in construction, commerce, and other sectors were relaxed. Most of the old zhiqing from the ’62, ’63, and ’65 batches returned to the city then.
Yaqiu likely left the farm during that time too. But because he had always wrapped himself in solitude and never formed deep bonds with anyone, no one knew where he went.
The Echo
Ever since leaving the farm, whenever someone mentions a concert, what floats into my ears is the faint, sorrowful sound of a violin drifting from the cowshed on those lonely nights.
Even now, as I write this article, what I see before me is still Yaqiu’s melancholic gaze.
Yaqiu, do you know? The fellow farmmates who shared their youth and sweat with you back then now gather again with white hair. When we recall you, it’s always your mournful violin that we remember. We still want to hear you play—only this time, we hope the music won’t be filled with sadness.
We’ve been looking for you. We all want to know: in all these years since you left, have you been well?
And we wonder, when the wave of reform and opening up came—so full of unexpected opportunities—did you manage to join an arts troupe and finally stand on stage, fulfilling your dream of becoming a professional violinist?
Though decades have passed, the sound of your violin on those nights still echoes clearly in our ears. It lingers, it flows, it never fades.
Life often only reveals its true flavor after it’s long gone and slowly savored.
Yaqiu, your music was the cry of your soul, the blood and tears of your heart. That blood and those tears have long since blended into our shared youth. Intertwined so deeply—how could they ever be separated? How could they ever be forgotten?
Yaqiu, we miss you!
Haonan, completed in Foshan, March 2025
中文版
今天的這篇文章，寫的是我下鄉(xiāng)時的一位農(nóng)友。我只是想告訴讀者，在上世紀(jì)六、七十年代，有一位彼有音樂才華的很單純的青年，曾在這片土地上這樣生活。文中，我沒有讓他的真名實姓出現(xiàn)，因為我還沒征得他的同意，我一直沒能找到他。但我可以保證我寫的這一切都是真實的。算起來他今年有七十五、六歲了。在這里我們暫且叫他 亞丘吧。
會拉提琴的青年
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下鄉(xiāng)半年，我被調(diào)到嶺田作業(yè)區(qū)的磚瓦廠工作。生活條件比在山上時強多了。住的是磚瓦房，有了電燈。廁所也不再是茅草圍著沒有頂?shù)膬蓚€圈圈了。更可喜的是，放假回家，不用花一個多小時下山，出門就可以直接蹬自行車趕路了。
我們的那幢宿舍座落在大路的東邊，大路由南向北是從場部通向更深的山里水口作業(yè)區(qū)的僅有的一條路。說是大路，僅容得下兩車相遇擦肩而過，平時車不多。
我們宿舍的背后是當(dāng)?shù)乜图胰司奂幼〉奶镄拇濉４遄哟蟾庞邪賮響羧思?。一座座土坯房象坭土那殷原始，錯落有致地趴在這丘陵地帶較平緩的山腳處。
宿舍有四個房間，我們七個女知青住最北邊最大的房間，一墻之隔那間房住的是男知青，再過去就是拉家?guī)Э诘睦下毠さ募摇?/span>
我們的房間里除了四張架子床什么都沒有。多出來的那個床位大家用來放了雜物。所以我們工余的一切活動包括聊天、閱讀、做手工、聽收音機做針線都是要“上床”的。至今我都記得，隔壁男知青偶爾過來說說話，不敢往我們床邊坐下的那個拘謹(jǐn)?shù)臉幼印?/span>
宿舍在大路的東面，路的西面是一小片灌木林，那里有隊里的牛圈。夜深人靜時，躺在床上可以聽到牛反芻嚼料時不時發(fā)出的“哞”“哞”聲。
初到磚瓦廠的一天晚上，大概八、九點鐘了，我們姐妹七人各自在自己的床上做自己的事。悠悠然，一陣柔和的小提琴聲穿過窗戶飄進宿舍，撩開了我們年輕的耳目心扉。
站在門前的臺階上，我循聲尋找。琴聲透過灌木林從牛棚那邊緩緩地飄過來。因為灌木林的遮擋，我看不見拉琴人的身影。夜色朦朧，啨朗的夜空深邃而又潔凈。在這凈美的空間。琴聲哀怨、凄涼，如訴如泣。我們那時候雖然說都不懂音樂，說不出拉的是什么曲子，卻都能感受到拉琴人的悲涼，心中的苦澀和憂傷。琴聲像冷冷的風(fēng)，把涼涼的夜吹起了寒意。又像一縷縷扯著愁緒的云煙，飄過田心村那座座土坯房，飄向遠(yuǎn)處黛墨色的的山巒。
“這里有人會拉小提琴？”我有點驚訝。
“是隔壁的亞丘”。同宿舍的姐妹告訴我。
亞丘，一位1965年來農(nóng)場的青年。中等偏矮的個子，瘦瘦的，五官倒是挺端正的。平時極少聽見他說話，更別說看見他笑了。因為他的少言寡語，沒有笑容，見到人還總喜歡低著頭，以至于令他那張原本英俊的臉龐變得呆板了。他平時給人的感覺總是蔫蔫的，弱弱的連走路都像是沒有力氣。在人群中，他就像草叢中還沒長大冒頭的那棵草，最難被發(fā)現(xiàn)，最容易被忘記。
那個年代，普通老百姓不但物質(zhì)上貧乏。文化生活也是”八億人民八出戲”，非常的單調(diào)干涸。小提琴在我們眼里那是非常高檔的樂器。除了玩耍時歪著腦袋模仿拉琴的動作，真正的小提琴我們根本沒摸過，更別說學(xué)琴了。所以，當(dāng)一位會拉琴的小提琴手站在我們面前，我是非常非常羨慕的。
聽到琴聲后的一天，我跟亞丘打了個照面。
“丘??，你會拉小提琴啊？”我大著膽子，羨慕地問他。
平時，我們稱呼老知青都會在名字后加個哥或姐，我也不知道那天為什么沖口而出對他直呼其名。
“是的?！彼吐暤貞?yīng)了一句，便再也無話。
磚瓦廠的人員除了有當(dāng)?shù)赝辽灵L的以客家人為主的老職工。占比例最多的就是62、63、65屆和我們71屆的知青。還有不到十個“五類分子”。
亞丘是65年來農(nóng)場的。有老職工說他是當(dāng)年年齡最小的才15歲。這樣算下來，到1971年我們下鄉(xiāng)時認(rèn)識他，他也就只有21～22歲，但已經(jīng)在農(nóng)村的風(fēng)里雨里熬過了6個年頭。
伴著琴聲長大
時間久了，我們漸漸發(fā)現(xiàn)亞丘夜晚拉琴好像沒有什么規(guī)律，大多時候一兩個星期都會拉一次，有時候好長時間都不拉。偶而又會連續(xù)三四天連著拉。每次拉琴大概兩三個小時。一般都會拉到快11點就收琴。他拉的曲子多是哀傷的，記憶中沒聽他拉過什么歡快喜慶的樂曲。
有天晚上，我出來倒水，見他提著琴從牛圈那邊穿過大路回來。
“丘哥，拉了這么久，累不累??？”我好奇而又帶點關(guān)切的口吻問他?！?nbsp;
“不累！”他少有的，似乎有點微笑地回應(yīng)我。”我很小就開始學(xué)琴了，這不算什么?！?/span>
“噢，那你拉琴拉了好多年了?！?/span>
“是啊。”回答的聲音有點低沉。
漸漸地我從老職工嘴里得知：亞丘的父母親在五十年代雙雙被打成了“YP”，去了勞改農(nóng)場，那時候亞丘還不到十歲，他是跟著小姑長大的。他們家可以說是文藝世家，全家都有文藝特長。受家庭濃烈的藝術(shù)氛圍影響。亞丘很小就開始學(xué)琴了，還拉得不錯，應(yīng)該是有些天分的?？赡苁鞘芨改赣H是右派這個家庭問題的影響吧，非但去不了藝術(shù)單位，還被指定要下鄉(xiāng)。
在知道了亞丘的身世后，再去留意他，發(fā)現(xiàn)他還是有著一些跟別人的不一樣。他從來都不會說粗話。平時雖然少言寡語卻從不會對人無禮。在不用出工休息的時候他對衣著的款式還挺講究。我想這些可能就是知識分子家庭的教養(yǎng)，和家里藝術(shù)氛圍熏陶的原因吧。
還有農(nóng)友回憶，記起他有一架在那個年代非常罕見的可折疊的自行車，他不常用。這說明他的家庭經(jīng)濟狀況曾經(jīng)是很不錯的。
不諳世事的挫折
那個時候，我們知青的業(yè)余時間常常會閱讀一些不被公開推薦的，文×前的小說和文藝書籍、雜志。當(dāng)然不敢看《紅樓夢》之類的禁書，因為隊里有指導(dǎo)員管政治教育。
得天獨厚的是農(nóng)場每兩周休息兩天，每次返城休息，總有人帶些書籍雜志回來。然后是男女宿舍互通有無，排著隊輪著看。
有一次，好像是跟亞丘交換書籍。我小心翼翼地問他：“既然你拉琴拉了這么多年，怎么沒想法去考個藝術(shù)團體之類的單位？”下半句“為什么來農(nóng)村？”我沒敢說出口。
“唉！”他嘆了口氣，眼里飄過一絲沮喪、懊悔和憂傷?？赡苁撬杏X到了我的善意和同情，竟然破天荒跟我說起了自己的事：“怎么沒呢？”“我曾報過??文工團，都已經(jīng)復(fù)試了六次了。我想著我可能成功了?！?/span>
他停頓了一下：“都怪我！”
“怎么了？”我很替他著急，急切地問道。
“他們叫我填表，家庭出身一欄…”他伸出一只手掌，做了個一反一正的動作?！啊緛磉@樣，我寫成了這樣?！薄拔揖褪桥掳丛瓉砟菢訉憰ú贿^，誰知道一政審，更通不過。都怪我自己?！?/span>
他說到這里，我已經(jīng)大致明白了事情的緣由。在當(dāng)時那個環(huán)境下，不是工農(nóng)家庭出身你就已經(jīng)比別人矮了一大截了，不說你是壞人，但要認(rèn)可你是好人很不容易。在報告家庭出身這么重大的事情上你還不老實。誰敢用你？沒給你定罪已經(jīng)算是放過你了。但這些當(dāng)時社會復(fù)雜而殘酷的常識，對于一個十五歲的孩子，怎么可能理解？怎能明白？
我發(fā)現(xiàn)自己觸動了他內(nèi)心最痛苦的地方，就不敢繼續(xù)跟他對話了。
今天，當(dāng)我觸點著手機屏寫這篇文章，我明白了為什么我剛開始認(rèn)識他的時候會覺得他蔫蔫的。如果把一個人的童年和少年比作正在成長的苗。他還是幼苗的時候，就遇上父母被打成YP的寒風(fēng)冷雨而被澆了個透。當(dāng)他掙扎著努力地生長剛強壯了一點點露了頭。又被“YP的兒子，”“不老實”殘忍地掠奪了他快要摸到的希望。這種打擊是深入骨髓痛徹心扉的。他能蔫蔫地繼續(xù)守著理想，活著盼著，可以說已經(jīng)是經(jīng)受住了。
可是，誰能體會到他缺少溫暖呢？
放不下的提琴
那時侯，每逢農(nóng)場月中和月底放假，我們這些家在廣州的知青一個個跨上自行車，像鳥兒撲楞著翅膀往家飛去。亞丘只是靜靜地看著我們離去，臉上木木的，眼神是憂郁的。他父母親在勞改農(nóng)場，他沒有家可回。小姑那里他并不常去。我們每一次的興高采烈地回家，對他就是一次傷感的刺激。他從來不跟別人提家里的事，時間長了，大家也就不再問了。
其實，我內(nèi)心很為他的命運唏噓。想想，一個人在孩提時代父母就遠(yuǎn)離了，跟著小姑生活，雖是親戚但也是寄人籬下，那該是多難熬的日子。好不容易長大了幾歲，拉得一手好琴。本該可以有個好去處了，卻因為年少不更事，丟失了機會。這能怪他嗎？十幾歲的孩子懂什么？命運對他確實殘酷了。
看今天的孩子，往往十五六歲的初中生還在爸媽面前任性、撒嬌、判逆。而那個年代的他卻已經(jīng)要為自己的行為負(fù)責(zé)了。
時間長了，我們漸漸明白亞丘為什么有時候好些天不拉琴，那是他累了。為什么有時候又連續(xù)拉好幾天，那是他發(fā)現(xiàn)自己手生了，害怕丟了這份手藝。盡管當(dāng)時知青們都覺得前路茫茫，但他的內(nèi)心深處還在期望自己有一天能站在舞臺上，當(dāng)一個職業(yè)提琴手。
人啊……真不容易！
我是1974年離開農(nóng)場的。那時候廣州市許多企業(yè)和學(xué)校直接去市屬農(nóng)場招工招生，但老知青們因年齡偏大不符合招生條件。到了1975年有些建筑、商業(yè)等行業(yè)對招工的年齡放寬了許多，農(nóng)場的大多數(shù)62、63、65屆老知青都是在那個時候回城的。
亞丘應(yīng)該也是在那個時候離開農(nóng)場的。由于他多年來總是包裹著自己。沒有跟誰有深度的交往，所以農(nóng)友們沒有人知道他的去向。
余音
自從離開農(nóng)場后，每當(dāng)有人提起音樂會。我耳邊就會響起的那些夜晚從牛圈飄過來的帶著縷縷愁緒的提琴聲。
當(dāng)我今天寫這篇文章的時候，我眼前呈現(xiàn)的的還是丘哥那憂郁的眼神。
丘哥，你知道嗎？當(dāng)年同在農(nóng)場拋灑青春和汗水的農(nóng)友們白首相聚。憶起你想起的還是你那悲涼的琴聲。還想聽你拉琴，但希望那琴聲不再只有悲傷。農(nóng)友們一直在找你。大家很想知道，離開的這些年你過得還好嗎？
還想知道，當(dāng)改革開放的浪潮襲來，曾有那么多的意想不到，你是否有機會進了藝術(shù)團體，走上舞臺實現(xiàn)了自己成為職業(yè)提琴手的夢想。
雖然幾十年過去了，那些夜晚的琴聲一直在我們的耳旁清晰地回響、流淌、沒有消散。
生活往往過去了，慢慢咀嚼，才知道他真正的味道。
丘哥，你的琴聲那是你心靈吶喊的啼血，是你心底哭泣的淚，這血和淚早已揉進了我們共同的青春，水乳交融如何分得開？如何能忘懷？
……
丘哥，大家想你！
浩 男
2025年正月初五 一稿于廣州
2025年3月完稿于佛山
《讀〈會拉提琴的青年〉有感》
王繼紅老師的作品《會拉提琴的青年》，以真摯的情感和細(xì)膩的筆觸，為我們描繪了一位名叫亞丘的知青在特殊年代的坎坷命運，讓我深受觸動。
文中的亞丘，擁有音樂才華卻命運多舛。他在年幼時父母便遭遇不幸，寄人籬下的成長經(jīng)歷讓他的性格變得內(nèi)向、憂郁。而在追求音樂夢想的道路上，僅僅因為年少時在家庭出身一欄的錯誤填寫，便親手?jǐn)嗨土俗约哼M入藝術(shù)團體的機會。這對于一個滿懷希望與夢想的少年來說，無疑是沉重且殘酷的打擊。作者通過對亞丘的描寫，讓我深刻感受到了那個時代的無奈和悲哀。
作者以回憶的方式，將亞丘的故事娓娓道來，讓我仿佛置身于那個年代的農(nóng)場。文中對環(huán)境的描寫，如宿舍周邊的景象、夜晚的寧靜，都為亞丘的故事增添了一份凄美。而對亞丘拉琴場景的刻畫，更是充滿了感染力，那哀怨、凄涼的琴聲，仿佛穿透了文字，直抵我的內(nèi)心，讓我對亞丘的痛苦和憂傷感同身受。
這篇文章不僅讓我看到了亞丘個人的悲劇，更讓我思考了時代背景對個體命運的影響。在那個物質(zhì)和精神生活都極度匱乏的年代，普通人想要實現(xiàn)夢想是如此艱難。同時，也讓我更加珍惜當(dāng)下的生活，我們生活在一個充滿機遇和包容的時代，只要有才華和努力，便能有更多實現(xiàn)夢想的可能。
文章的結(jié)尾，作者表達了對亞丘的深深思念和牽掛，也讓我感受到了那份跨越歲月的深厚情誼。盡管時光流逝，但曾經(jīng)共同的青春歲月永遠(yuǎn)銘記在大家心中。
這是一篇感人至深的文章，它讓我對過去的歲月有了更深刻的認(rèn)識，也讓我懂得了珍惜現(xiàn)在、把握未來的重要性。
總策劃:騰團長
出品人:李淑林
