Tagesarchive: 27. August 2025

在苏州昆曲博物馆，我站在《昆剧传世演出珍本全编》前，轻声念过一卷卷剧名，不是来看展，而是为唤醒沉睡的节拍。魏良辅的像静立，正始元音无声回荡；汤显祖的梦仍在牡丹亭里飘摇。戏服垂落如尾音，曲谱静卧如心跳，我以楚辞的湘音对话昆曲的古声。昆曲，不是遗产，而是一场尚未唱完的呼吸。At the Kunqu Opera Museum in Suzhou, I stood before the Complete Edition of Kunqu Masterpieces, softly reading their titles— not as a visitor, but to awaken rhythms long asleep. The statue of Wei Liangfu keeps silent, the primal tones still echo; Tang Xianzu’s dream drifts within the Peony Pavilion. Costumes hang like lingering notes, scores lie still like heartbeats, and with the voices of the Chu Ci I answered the ancient sounds of Kunqu. Kunqu is not heritage to observe—it is a breath unfinished, still singing.

在苏州平江路，我推开一间茶座，不是为了一壶桂花乌龙，而是为了一曲《秋思》里未寄出的信。琵琶轻响，三弦低回，江南的呼吸从茶香里慢慢流出。评弹，不只是故事，而是节奏唤醒记忆的方式。At Pingjiang Road in Suzhou, I stepped into a teahouse not for a pot of osmanthus oolong, but for the unspoken letter hidden in the song Qiusi. As the pipa plucked and the sanxian sighed, the breath of Jiangnan drifted through the tea’s fragrance. Pingtan is not just storytelling—it is a rhythm that awakens memory.

在南京秦淮河，我坐上船，不是去看灯火，而是把一夜的非遗与梦交还给水。水声缓慢，灯影流转，香君的叹息、湘夫人的回声，都仍在河心回旋。秦淮，不是景点，而是一首未完的诗。