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十八岁之前,我以为将来我一定会生活在西藏。二十一岁时,我觉得我会和一位藏族姑娘结婚。二十四岁,我在西藏转了一圈,带着无限的眷恋回到了破落的故乡。曾经天马行空的少年已经日渐变得中规中矩,我被日益臃肿沉重的现实生活所逼迫。在偶尔缅怀过去的时候,那些我曾反反复复聆听的藏歌,越过繁乱嘈杂的市井,持久地回响激荡在我的心田,恍惚之间让我觉得,那些往昔近在昨天,那些朋友就在身边。1996年冬,我家邻居买了我们村第一台录音机,很豪华很气派。相比村里其他人,只能冬季农闲时才能来听听歌,我们可谓是近水楼台先得月,一年四季,都能听上他们家录音机播放的歌曲。大人们爱
Before the age of eighteen, I thought I will live in Tibet in the future. At twenty-one, I think I will marry a Tibetan girl. Twenty-four years old, I turned around in Tibet, with infinite attachment back to the dilapidated hometown. The once-more-juvenile juvenile has become increasingly law-abiding, being forced by the increasingly bloated realities of life. In the memory of the past occasionally, those Tibetan songs I have heard repeatedly, across the chaotic and noisy marketplace, lasting echo in the turmoil in my heart, trance made me think that those past, yesterday, those friends in the Around. The winter of 1996, my neighbor bought our village’s first recorder, it is luxurious and very impressive. Compared to other people in the village, only in winter to listen to songs when slack off, we can be described as a matter of fact, all year round, can listen to their home tape recorder playing songs. Adults love