Nai Win Swe - Love in the Night and the End of the Night

Looking back at one's own shadow

In the People's Daily's criticism section under the headline "Malay Mee Shumawa, Sandar, Myawaddy," my "Love Night" was attacked by Htet Myat.

It's dirty to see something that belongs to her like water in a rotten ditch, which is made up of a mixture of mud and mud, so that no one can guess who she is. It stinks and stinks. If Nai Win Swe had produced young people like Ba Min, the young people would be in the dark of the moon.

I also wanted to portray the protagonist as a revolutionary hero. But when he is covered up with fantasy and fantasy, he becomes a cowardly, lovelorn man.

Nai Win Swe's ugly, poisonous flower.

And so on, my “Send it to the Lord” and “Love is not enough” were buried deep under the night of love. There were small gaps between his anger. If a few months ago, I had stood on those small gaps and looked down at him in anger, I don’t know if I would have laughed out loud. Or would I have hugged him and attacked him?

At this moment, I don't want to laugh like that.

Because I'm starting to see my incomplete pot shaking. I'm built with so many little gaps to fill.

When I wrote “Mahuraya Metta,” I was probably around twenty. At that time, I was thinking, “I am a very good person.” That is why I wrote that magnificent novel with a foolish heart.

In that story, the warrior Queen Vishnu conquered the people of the east and the people of other nations with many tricks and attacked Sri Kshetra. I killed many people of the east. I drowned them in a sea of ​​blood. I supported the Queen's imperial system. Now that I have deeply felt the freedom of the people, I am now criticizing myself.

In my “Night of the Dead,” I wrote about people with skin diseases. I felt like I was standing on their side, on behalf of the socially excluded. One writer thought, “Don’t write this kind of novel. If you look at it from their perspective, they’ll want to kill themselves.” When a young man who thought books were educational said, “You’ll only learn how terrible skin diseases are when you read them, so stay away from them,” I was filled with grief.

In my “Myasa Pae Yoon” I have attacked a problem from one side. I am attacking the fake and depraved plays on the modern stage and trying to bring back the old plays of the feudal era. I cannot deny that the modern people are demanding modern plays.

That's why I often feel like writing an article about the Myasaphet Theater. I forget that during the fascist revolution, when there were no filmmakers, people everywhere came to see the plays while the puppet shows were going around. Those plays stirred up the people for the fascist revolution.

Now, too, playwrights should abandon the fake dramas and create bold, dynamic, and revolutionary plays that are in step with the people's march and history.

"Send it to the king," the clever one declared in his attack paper that the song became famous because of the beautiful and tearful cries.

I remember Myaung Mya Ba Swe writing in Shwe Tu Journal, “There are countless people like Nyo Nyo and his friends who sacrifice their lives to earn a living by serving others.”

I don't see the brilliance in Ma Thein Shin.

I know how skillfully the presentation of Ma Thein Shin should be. I know how many beautiful things should be embedded in it. The critic should also be aware of how much tenderness Ma Thein Shin should have in terms of time and place. I know how to write in a novel like “Half-Awake Dream”.

I am not defending what he is attacking. I do not need to. I am a person who is passionate about finding the truth. I do not want to be a person who becomes weak and exhausted while defending the ego.

Because the one who is marching towards the new horizon is the one who wants to use his strength within the people. We will have to throw open the rusty iron door of the old house and march towards the horizon.

I didn't want to be left alone. At that moment, I was lost. I was a brilliant "blind man." I stood alone. My eyes were the skeptical eyes of a commoner's life. When I saw something in front of me, I looked at it with disgust. I looked straight ahead. Not with a look that came from behind and analyzed.

That is why in my “Love Night” I wrote about things that I did not have the ability to do, with the vague feeling of a blind person. If readers think that I am an expert, many views will be distorted.

"Life is night."

The night is beautiful.

Beauty and love

"A night of love that is coming together..."

I want to write.

“Life is only in birth and death. For a person who has devoted his life to the new horizon of humanity, life is not boring. If life is called night, then his night is a night of love and beauty. He must yearn for life every second.”

I, on behalf of the character, recited those lines with great enthusiasm, but because of my own blurred vision, I couldn't guide my character.

Then, my character led me, looking forward into the darkness.

We are fighting two battles at once. One is historical duty (content), the other is art. Without art, we will only distribute boring, dry, and rambling advertisements. Without understanding historical duty, we will only distribute beautiful, poisonous flowers.

I want to grasp "active fiction" in terms of time and place.

I believe that he will stand on the basis of material phenomena and lead the way in social progress and the progress of human history.

The dry, twisted, and twisted "photographic illustration" of people who went to a place for a week to study and then returned to take photographs and reprint them without any public demand would be a piece of trash for human history.

I, on the other hand, painted a life that I could not possess in the night of love, and my character could not accept the love I had given him. He was longing for love, love... and love. Every time he had time, he recited love poems like a drug addict. Throughout his life, he wrote poems for Mya Sandar, painted pictures of Mya Sandar, and sometimes, unable to do so, he painted paintings that deeply expressed his feelings that he did not understand, and that no one else could understand. He did not die simply in death, but died in the midst of paintings.

Since he knows there is no other life, at least when he dies, he wants to be able to compare Mya Sandar and Myebon with each other...

He wandered aimlessly in his own little fantasy world, escaping from human life and drowning in his own loneliness. In my "Night of Love," I wrote about something I could not control, and it became a "superegoistic" literature and was ruined.

I don't know if the teachers would call it Egyptian esotericism.

(People's Star was suspended and had to be brought back.)

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