话剧开始，一串似懂非懂的文言文像口号一样，从演员们的口中琅琅上口。汉字不按现代使用的方式排列，我在陌生和熟悉之间捕抓内容的含义，可能，搞不明白才 是最好的理解方式。就像话剧三炉沉香里的小演员脱口而出的“为什么不能问为什么？”，得到的回复是“小孩子不要问那么多”
中国古代以木为底，在其表面刻字，成简，并编成册。在木上刻字费时，所以用更精简的文句，才成就文言文在当时书写的流行方式，因时制宜。
过世的阿嬷的房间被锁上了
言论的封闭，为政治体系所需。儒家的君君臣臣父父子子，就建立在“家”这个最基础的单位。父亲为一家之主，一个村落以村长为首，一个国家以君王为主。君君臣臣父父子子，谈的是礼，礼教，规矩。现代西方科学的冒出头，却强调“质疑”
这就有打破言论封闭的诉求，“为什么君王高高在上？”“为什么我天生就是奴仆？”“为什么有贵族？”“为什么那些人过得比我苦？”我想，没有质疑，就没有人权，没有民主，没有投票制。
过世的阿嬷的房间被锁上了，里头传来声音
不能以下犯上的君君臣臣父父子子，就只好封闭言论，以辈分的高低为事件对错的判断准绳。
过世的阿嬷的房间被锁上了，里头传来声音。夜半钟声回荡在走廊间，我双后按着垮下，似乎想把如厕的欲望压下去
三炉沉香在演员们例行了仪式后，一小演员开始发问：为什么？
这股声音很快就被压制，制服了。小孩的好奇，可能是一种危险。对于没设防的大人，这或许还威胁着权威，也或许“为什么”其实是件破坏规矩，破坏和谐宁静的刀刃。
好奇捅破了虚妄，捅破了权威，捅出了真相
真相如伤口流出的血水般涌出，可是，这样真的好吗？
dont question. we already have enough on our minds by now.
Let the funeral monks do their job. we paid them well. Gramma is taken care of.
在阿嬷的葬礼上，演员跟着一道士兜着圈子，时而跳跃时而奔跑时而吼叫，被生死界限隔着的阿嬷，会因为我的跳跃我的奔跑我的吼叫而过得更好吗？
“我只能相信阿！我只能信佛啊！如果不信佛，怎么会有菩萨和轮回？怎么会有来世和永生在那里等着他？如果我不信佛，我又怎么能够相信？”一演员表情生动地说着。
还是不能问“为什么”。因为“为什么”摔破了相信，割断彼此信以为真的联系，像汪洋里的船，没有星星的指引而失去了方向。迷茫迷惑，在浪涛里翻滚。我是谁？我会去哪里？我应该做什么？我又不应该做什么？我从哪里来？我又要往哪里去？
久被压抑的“为什么”，若忽然在一象征权威的父亲脑袋里炸开，那原本信以为真的天堂，信以为真的地狱，那以为做好事就能上天堂，做坏事就会下地狱的说法，不就没了依据？那爱我疼我的阿嬷，又上了哪儿？而我，又会去哪儿？
Still can't ask "why". Because the "why" broke the belief, cut off the connection between each other's belief, like a boat in the ocean, without the guidance of the stars and lost its direction. Perplexed and confused, rolling in the waves. who am I? Where will i go? what should I do? What should I not do? Where am i from Where am I going again?
不如，就不问
why dont you shut up
If the long-suppressed "why" suddenly explodes in the head of a father who is a symbol of authority, it is said that if you believe in heaven and hell as true, then you think you can go to heaven if you do good things, and go to hell if you do bad things, no No basis? Where did the grandma who loves me and love me go? And where will I go
过世的阿嬷的房间被锁上了，里头传来声音。夜半钟声回荡在走廊间，我双后按着垮下，似乎想把如厕的欲望压下去。在一瞬间，我发现我忍不住了，只好往前奔 跑。经过了阿嬷的房间，阿嬷被锁上的房间，那偶尔传出声音的房间，那四堵木制的墙，隔不开那扰人的声音，那不晓得是什么声音的声音，我奔跑着，我不往回 看，我不能回头，我不敢，我怕。我怕
The dead grandma's room was locked, and a voice came from inside. In the middle of the night, the bell reverberated in the corridors, and I pressed the queen down, seeming to want to suppress the desire to go to the toilet. In an instant, I realized that I couldn't help it anymore and had to run forward. After passing by Grandma’s room, the room where Grandma was locked, the room where sounds occasionally come out, the four wooden walls, the disturbing sounds cannot be separated, the sounds that I don’t know what sounds are, I Running, I don’t look back, I can’t look back, I dare not, I’m afraid. I am afraid
阿嬷不是母亲的母亲吗？她生前不老是买了好东西偷偷拿给我吃还刻意不让母亲看到，这不是爱我的阿嬷吗？哪怕在神台面前，她拒绝我烧九根香，拜九次，以让观音普萨更记得我，但，阿嬷她在教训我了之后，不也歉意久久，向菩萨说了好多好多“小孩不懂事”之类的话吗？
阿嬷的房间，为什么这么可怕呢？
人，是否往生了，就和在世的性格不一样了？
电视里的鬼魂，不是都受到不公平的对待，才变成冤魂的吗？
那阿嬷是否有未了的心愿，才让阿嬷的房间变得恐怖兮兮的呢？
那阿嬷还有什么未了的心愿呢？
“小孩子不要问这样多，静静！”
话剧三炉沉香，打出了童年被埋下的问号。
那些不能问，不可以问的，是否会让我的孩子延续着我被抹煞的好奇心？
“小孩子不要问这样多”
会不会有那么一天，我也这么跟我的孩子说
“不要问这样多，静静”
When a death occurs, the living room of the deceased’s home is cleared of all furniture and household items, as death is considered to be a polluting element. The idols of deities and mirrors at home are covered with a piece of red cloth or paper so as to avoid offending them by “exposing” them to death.5 A red or white banner is plastered over the main door of the house to indicate that a death has occurred in the household.6
The fact that her mother didn’t want to talk about it at all only made things worse.
Death is the biggest taboo topic among Chinese people. Merely mentioning mortality is believed to beget bad fortune, bringing the inevitability closer than it perhaps already is. Parents refrain from broaching the subject with their children to protect them; people pay extra for cellphone numbers without the digit 4, which sounds like the Mandarin word for death; and few people register as organ donors or write their own wills for fear of cursing themselves. When tragedy does strike, many people find they haven’t the slightest idea how to handle it.
Qiao, who was 23 when her family learned of the cancer diagnosis, recalls that her gravely ill mother refused to talk about anything related to her own mortality. She didn’t want to discuss writing a will, Qiao tells Sixth Tone, “and she never clearly said how she would like to be buried.”
Autumn comes with the fragrance of lotus,
The maiden dreams
of her hometown every night.
She wakes to the absence of father,
and mother,
She wakes in the presence of moonlight.
As gramma hums the tune of the four seasons under her breath, sunbursts of warm rays beam through the bars of the kitchen window and lay in strips on the cluttered tabletop, throwing shadows of all shapes and sizes into relief; on unidentifiable boxes, a jar of dry biscuits, a cracked plastic container stuffed with chilli and ketchup packets, a nest of old rubber bands stuck to the table and an assortment of elaborately labelled pill bottles.
The hissing crackle of hot oil PoPs in the humid air; two drops sizzles in succession on the table. The symphony commences; the clash of the wok and frying crescendoes while the aroma of fish with a hint of ginger and soy sauce quickly fills the air, mingling with the permeating scent of sickly sweet sandalwood.
Didi, sticky from playing ash at the newly fitted incense altar in the living room, rearranges the still-smouldering sticks that gramma had placed in. Noticing it for the first time, he cocks his head and stares at the woman framed in the grey-toned picture. He calls into the kitchen: “Gramma! Why is mummy alone in this photo?”
Father comes into the room while putting on a white sash over his white shirt. A bundle of incense, which probably bought from the temple visit in the morning, peeks out from under his arm.
Baba, when will I see mummy? Didi asks.
Baba stops in his tracks and hesitates as he takes in the scene.
Didi! Don’t dirty the altar. It’s disrespectful! Gramma spent an hour setting that up yesterday, do you want her to be angry?
Didi hastily backs away from the mess and tucks his ash-stained palms behind his back. He pouts. "Mummy said she going to have a meeting with God. Why she haven’t come back?"
Baba sighs, squats and reaches out to pinch Didi's cheek.
Didn’t mummy tell you? Didi shakes his head. The racket from the kitchen stops.
In the background, the gradual sputtering honks from an old newspaper van begins to worm its way through the neighbourhood.
Mummy went on a long journey.” Baba said.
Didi struggles and squirms away. “Mummy says you’re wrong and you liar.
baba’s eyes jerk up and focus on didi. His nostrils flare.
What did she say to you?
Didi clenches his fists and clams up.
Baba drums his fingers in an erratic rhythm on the edge of his trousers, and curves them deep into his pockets as he stands.
The kitchen door slides open and immediately the tang of fried tenggiri cascades into the room. The steaming orange plate emerges first, followed by a pudgy hand covered in liver spots, then by a tubby belly, a crinkled face, beady eyes and a violently permed shock of hair.
Gramma scowls at the scattered pile of ash.
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