I still remember some events from my childhood in Chongqing. My family lived on Shizi Mountain in Nanshan, from where we could visit the higher Zhenwu Mountain. On Zhenwu Mountain, there was a particularly dangerous stretch of path—on the inner side was a steep cliff, and on the outer side, a deep precipice. That day, I was having a lot of fun. On the way back, I deliberately walked close to the edge of the cliff, hopping and jumping, even leaping forward in a skipping gait. At seven years old, I didn't yet understand the preciousness of life. My actions were partly motivated by a desire to make my mother anxious when she saw me. Below the cliff in the valley, a strange rock protruded from the wild grass. The stone naturally formed a coiled snake shape, with a raised section in the middle resembling a snake's neck and head. According to legend, married couples who threw stones from the cliff and hit the body of this stone snake would have a son. Naively, I thought I understood adult matters. Hearing such talk from the adults and recalling my games of playing bride and groom with a neighbor girl, I actually picked up a stone and threw it forcefully down the cliff. Not having good control over my throwing balance, my posture looked even more perilous from the side.
I still remember my mother's appearance that day. She stayed close to the inner cliff wall, moving slowly forward. She must have regretted not firmly holding my hand before we entered that dangerous section, keeping me close to her. As she moved forward herself, her eyes remained fixed on me. I playfully hopped and threw stones, constantly laughing and teasing her, provoking her anger. The edge of the cliff was just inches away from my lively, carefree self. Later, especially after growing up, when I recalled my mother's demeanor during that moment, I was deeply amazed. According to ordinary psychological and behavioral logic, my mother should have frantically called out to me, or even come over to pull me to the inner side of the path. But instead, she remained utterly calm—no shouting, no yelling, no sign that she intended to step forward and intervene. She simply kept her lips pressed together, gazing at me calmly, moving forward parallel to me.
Finally, we completed that dangerous stretch of path. After turning a bend, both sides of the road were lined with cliffs covered in reeds and shrubs. Only then did my mother come over and take my hand. Still silent, I only felt the cool, damp sweat overflowing from her thick palm.
It wasn't until middle age, when I somehow brought up this old story, that I asked my mother why she had been so calm that day. Only then did she tell me: First, in such a situation, one must remain calm, because panicking, shouting, or scolding would have made me nervous and could have led to a misstep. Second, she noticed that I was aware of the danger posed by the cliff beside me and was deliberately provoking her. Although I didn't understand how absurd it was to risk my life so recklessly, at that moment I had a certain level of self-protective awareness and ability. A life will face many dangers, and often people will deliberately approach danger—that is, take risks. At that time, she thought it wouldn't hurt to let me enjoy the thrill of adventure. I was astonished that my mother could have such a profound second layer of thought.
My mother has been gone for nearly twenty years. The spiritual legacy she left me is extremely rich, and among the most precious aspects is her exceptional calmness in the face of great danger or great joy. When I was writing my first novel, "Bell and Drum Towers," my mother lived in my small study. I bent over my desk, writing on manuscript paper, while she quietly leaned against the bed behind me, reading other people's works. Sometimes, I would turn around excitedly to tell her that I felt a particular passage was excellent, even reading a section aloud to her. She listened without comment, without words of encouragement, only offering a calm smile. Sometimes, she would explain certain parts of the work she was reading—a piece written by a fellow writer. I didn't have time to read it myself and didn't think it had any reference value for me, so I wasn't particularly patient listening to her introduction. My mother naturally thought the work was well-written, but she didn't add any praise. Instead, she calmly and objectively explained it to me, concise and to the point, with a penetrating effect. Later, when "Bell and Drum Towers" won the Mao Dun Literature Prize, my mother was already living with my brother in Chengdu. I wrote to them to share the good news, and my mother quickly wrote back separately. But her letter didn't mention my award at all—no congratulations—only calmly instructed me on several household matters, all things I was most likely to overlook when caught up in the excitement of so-called career success.
In 2000, on my third visit to Paris, I went again to the Louvre to see Leonardo da Vinci's "Mona Lisa." Among the many spectators, I suddenly had a very private feeling: the expression on Mona Lisa's face doesn't necessarily have to be summarized as a smile. In fact, it is sacred tranquility—a quiet strength with both tension and stability, silently bearing the ups and downs, joys and sorrows, separations and reunions, dangers and surprises of life. By then, my mother had been gone for many years. As I gazed at the Mona Lisa, I felt my mother's face superimposed over it, continuing to show me: no matter what life brings, whether expected or beyond reason, tranquility is always an essential psychological treasure.