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还没有电灯的时候,乡村的夜晚总是被一盏煤油灯高举着,同时被高举的还有那段静谧安恬的,尽管是打着补丁的岁月。夏季的院子里,女人总是在亮着一盏煤油灯的窗前一边缝着永远也缝不完的生活,一边拉着家长里短。男人们则在烟雾缭绕里有一句无一句地讲着比毛主席语录更深奥的农事。而我的《红灯记》选段也总是在压轴时分恰到好处地登场:“奶奶,您听我说。我家的表叔数不清,没有大事不登门……”夜渐渐深了,拿着小板凳的人们各自散去,而俯在作业本上熟睡的我,竟看到小小的煤油灯在熄灭之前散出七彩的光。
When the lights were off, the night in the country was always lifted by a kerosene lamp while the quieter and quieter part of the village was lifted, albeit in patchy days. In the summer yard, the woman always sews the life that can never be sewed while holding the head of a kerosene lamp in the front of the window. In the smoky world, men are saying something without words about agriculture far more profound than Quotations from Chairman Mao. And my “Red Lantern” selection is always on the finale just right debut: “Grandma, you listen to me. My family’s uncle uncle, no major unmanned entry ... ” The night getting deeper, get People on the stool ran away from each other, and as I was asleep in homework, I saw the small kerosene lamp emitting colorful lights before it went out.