20/12/2024
約莫2年前，拍攝陶老師故事時，知道他熱愛中華文化，對中文的敏感度恐怕是比編輯還深切，對古文書籍更是如數家珍，老師伏案上的毛筆，筆管長期握持，留下的痕跡、毛筆筆頭的毫毛都毛ㄘㄤˋㄘㄤˋ，可見陪老師度過一段不長時間，如今見到他回憶念師範時，從香港”冒險”帶回心心念念的毛筆，那畫面很立體的，像VR投射在編輯眼前。
讀過中文版的冒險歷程，也別忘記往下滑英文版(畢竟老師的另個專項是教英文寫作)，因為兩種語言呈現的想像，很不一樣。(學語文的人應該懂這是怎一回事~~~)
👉《 #你絕對用得上的英文寫作》
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#陶維極
毛筆 A Brush with Customs (English follows)
本猩讀師大國文時的規定，我們所有的作文都要用毛筆寫，還要磨墨：老師看到作文是瓶裝墨水寫的，不收。
這是非常好的訓練，但是需要毛筆。學校福利社賣的墨、硯還可以，可是毛筆比較適合掏耳朵，寫字功能不大。最好的毛筆是上海工藝的寫意毛筆，但時值文化大革命，紅衛兵囔著要血洗臺灣，局勢緊張，所以所有大陸製品都是匪貨，不能進臺灣。美國也不能進中國大陸的貨，所以想要買寫意毛筆，只有香港。
我念大學時，臺灣還沒有開放觀光護照；國人要出國，需要用考察之類的名義。能考察的人不會冒著險幫一群窮學生帶毛筆。那只有香港僑生、外籍生才可能從香港闖關帶筆回來。外籍生，那時師大唯一外籍生，就是我，所以我寒暑假如果能回西貢，想辦法物色寫意毛筆。
若能帶毛筆回來，拿到的人通常會削掉「上海工藝、寫意」字樣，免得麻煩。拿匪貨不是開玩笑的。我後來送一支給住校外的同學，上面有標籤，他小心翼翼撕下貼在牆上紀念。可是搬家時還是撕下燒了，省得麻煩。
香港有家裕華國貨店賣寫意毛筆。傳說兩岸配合，有臺灣旅客光臨，陸方就匯報臺北警備總部。真假不知，多數旅客不想探險，可是我很好奇，尼克森已經去過北京，我總可以試試看到國貨店吧。加上很想要有好筆。
大二升大三暑假從西貢回臺灣過香港，到裕華看看。琳瑯滿目，紅印普洱成堆，宜興茶壺如山，景德鎮瓷器滿架，純絲棉襖羅列，還有夢寐以求的寫意毛筆幾百支。我選了七八支。香港回歸前，所有店員、公務人員，上班時間都是一號棺材臉。我很開心付了錢拿了筆，店員抿嘴、兩個死魚眼瞪我，宛若希望推我下火山口。不管，我開心啊，回民宿拿出了毛筆一支一支把玩、觀賞。然後藏在背包裏，準備回來闖關。
師大是窮人家的孩子念的學校，所以我們大一註冊時，裁縫幫我們量身做制服。那個年代的臺灣，人工便宜，學校這樣做制服很划算。每一個學生發制服：卡其西裝外套一件，口袋上繡「國立臺灣師範大學」。白襯衫兩件，黑色領帶一條，男生褲子兩條、女生裙子兩件。外套就是那麼一件，襯衫、褲子、裙子還會再發。很多學生一年到頭就是穿著制服，因為家裏實在沒錢。很合身，但說實話，料子很差，好像穿上了塑膠袋一樣。
這跟香港買毛筆有甚麼關係？因爲我有計畫。坐飛機準備闖關，刻意穿上了繡師大的卡其制服外套。寫到此冷靜思索一番，走私追訴期應該過了吧。
好，在松山機場下降，準備過海關。那時還沒有設Xray檢查行李，要海關人員搜。全世界的海關人員異常靈敏，藏甚麼過關，八成會被發現。聽跑單幫的人說偷帶了兩條昂貴的綢緞圍巾，在行李藏的很好。下松山機場過海關，海關員打開龐大笨重的行李，信手伸進去，毫不猶豫摸出絲圍巾，冷冷地問，「這是甚麼？」朋友說好像雷達鎖定，很恐怖。真恐怖。
加上那時的規定，要從哪道過海關，不能挑，在場官員指定，不能換。有點緊張。我前面一對約莫六十歲的善良美國夫妻，行李放上台，海關員摸摸行李，抽出一顆橘子，怒目瞪他們，說，You cannot bring an orange into the Republic of China!用力將橘子摜在地上。兩位夫妻臉色蒼白，後面穿著師大制服的呆瓜心與胃互換了位置，心想我完蛋了！他一定會找到匪貨，我被開除，簽證取消入黑名單我完了我完了。
他訓了他們一頓，然後放行。輪到我了。我硬著頭皮把背包放上台子。他看我一眼，說，「你讀師範大學嗎？」「是。」「哪一系？」「國文系。」「很好，中國文學精湛深奧，」還算友善，我可能不會死！突然他頭靠近我，低聲問我，「毛筆藏在哪裏？」我沒辦法賴，我只好老實指藏毛筆的位置。他微笑，說，「好好學習中國文化。下一位！」把我的背包往關外推。
When I studied Chinese Lit at NTNU, the rule was that all our assignments had to be written with brush and ground ink. If you used bottled ink, the teacher wouldn’t accept it.
It was great training, but you needed the right tools. The ink and inkstones sold in the school store were okay, but the brushes were better at swabbing out dirty corners of a desk drawer than writing. The best brushes were made in Shanghai, which posed a problem. The Cultural Revolution was raging, and the Red Guards were bellowing that they were going to wash Taiwan in blood. It was a tense situation, with all products from the PRC banned. You couldn’t buy Red Chinese products in the US, either, so the only place to get brushes was in Hong Kong.
In those days, tourist passports were not available to local citizens (Japan had just opened up a few years earlier). If ROC citizens wanted to go abroad, they had to have documents for government business or inspecting something or some formal reason. People who could conjure up those documents sure weren’t going to smuggle in brushes for some poor students. So it was up to Overseas Chinese students from Hong Kong and the foreign student. There was only one foreign student in NTNU then, and that was me. I visited my mother in Saigon during a winter vacation and a summer vacation, so I wanted to give it a try.
In Hong Kong, there was a store called Yue Hwa Chinese Products Emporium where they had brushes for sale. People said that there was cooperation across the Strait: if an ROC citizen went into Yue Hwa, they would notify the authorities in Taipei. Nobody knew if it was true of not; years later, when the tensions thawed, the other side obligingly reported people taking trains into the PRC, so it could have been true. Few wanted to risk going into Yue Hwa. Me, I was curious, and figured that since Nixon had already been to Beijing and let Mao slobber on his lapels, I could give the Emporium a try. And I really wanted some good brushes.
I spent the summer of 1974 in Saigon; there’s a whole bundle of stories there I will recount eventually. On the way back, to start my junior year, I stopped over in Hong Kong, and went to Yue Hwa. They had piles of tea, Yixing pottery, Jingdezhen porcelain, more silk than you could shake a stick at, and hundreds of the brushes of my dreams. I chose half a dozen.
In the days of British rule of Hong Kong, all clerks in government offices and private businesses treated you like they had a grudge against you personally. Never mind, brushes in hand, I paid the clerk, who glared at me like she was plotting my demise. Never mind, I happily went back to the hole in the wall I was staying in to admire my haul. Then I hid them deep in my pack and prepared to try my luck with Customs.
NTNU is the teachers’ college, and most of the students were poor. At freshman registration, every student was measured carefully, and our uniforms were tailor made for us. In those days, labor in Taiwan was very cheap, so this was actually the most economical way for the school to provide us with uniforms. Each student got a khaki blazer with NTNU embroidered over the pocket, two white shirts, one black necktie, two pairs of khaki pants for each male student, and two khaki skirts for each female student. More shirts, pants, and skirts would be issued in following years, but you got only the one blazer. A lot of students wore nothing else, because they were too poor to buy new clothes. The uniforms fit well, but the material was cheap, and it felt like wearing a heavy plastic bag.
What has that got to do with buying brushes from Shanghai in Hong Kong? My plan. I had brought my khaki blazer along on the trip, the one with the name of our school, a national university, embroidered over the pocket. By the way, the statute of limitations for smuggling is up, isn’t it? Asking for a friend.
So there I was on my way to smuggle brushes into Taipei’s Sungshan Airport. Airports didn’t use X rays in those days, the Customs officials searched bags individually. Customs officials all over the world were known for developing a sixth sense for finding hidden goods. Years later someone told me she was bringing in two very expensive silk scarves undeclared, hidden expertly in her luggage. When she put her luggage on the counter in Sungshan Airport, she said it was like the official had radar. He stuck his hand into her luggage and without hesitation pulled the two scarves from their hiding place. He looked at her and dryly asked, “What are these?” Enough to make the blood of any smuggler run cold.
In those days, you did not pick which Customs official searched your bags. You were assigned to a certain row and could not switch. I was getting a bit nervous. In front of me was a pleasant American couple in their sixties. They put their bag on the counter. The official probed inside, pulled out an orange, looked at them with lightning in his eyes, and said implacably, “You cannot bring an orange into the Republic of China!” and dashed the orange to the floor. The old couple blanched, and the idiot in the NTHU uniform behind them felt his organs rearrange themselves, I’m done, I’m finished, I’m ruined I’ll get expelled I’ll lose my visa I’ll be blacklisted I’m cooked I’m cooked!
The official talked to them sternly and let them pass. My turn. Stiff upper lip, now, I heaved my backpack onto the counter. He looked at me and asked in Mandarin, “Do you study at NTNU?” “Yes.” “Which department?” “Chinese Lit.” “That’s excellent, Chinese literature is vast and deep.” He seemed friendly enough. My hopes were rising. Suddenly he leaned close to me and asked, “Where have you hidden the brushes?” Lordy, lordy, I was caught and there was nothing for it, I pointed out where they were. He smiled and said, “Work hard and learn all about Chinese culture. Next!” and pushed my backpack through.
(photo: 不是寫意的毛筆, some of the brushes I use now)
