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读罢《藏刀记》,望着照片上斯文的眼镜下那依稀可辨的带着蒙古特质的作者的脸,我的心剧烈地激荡着。遥望作者当时握着这把英吉莎匕首写下了这篇文章。笔者生性驽钝,游历甚少,读着《藏刀记》并未联想到胡马羌笛,却是昆曲《林冲上梁山》的段子,是那个手提红缨枪,唱着吴侬软语,却透着刚烈之气的英雄。我与作者远隔千里,一个长在江南润酥细雨中的青年竞能与长于燕京的中原汉子产生共鸣,必定是有文化深处的原因吧。
Reading “Tibetan Knife”, looking at the face of the author of the Mongolian trait with vaguely spectacle under the glasses of Swen, my heart was stirring violently. Looking at the author at the time, holding the English-German shark to write this article. The author was blunt and seldom traveled. He read “Tibetan Knife” and did not think of Huma’s flute. He was a piece of Kunqu Opera “Ling Chong Shang Liang Shan”. It was the portable red spear gun and sang Wu’s soft language. The hero of gas. I am separated from the author a thousand miles away. A young man competing in the wet rain in Jiangnan Run resonates with the man of the Central Plains who is longer than Yanjing. It must be the reason for having a cultural depth.