有一篇小说这样开了头 :先说树脂吧 ,就是红松身上流下的油。它在风中会凝固成金黄色……当我踏过白鹤岛晃晃悠悠的吊桥 ,走上它六角凌花的水泥板铺就的小径时 ,不知为什么 ,这个小说的开头就从那模糊混沌的黑暗深处升浮了上来 ,在阳光下发出淡金色的光晕 ,耀眼、梦幻、不很真 There is a novel that goes the first way: let’s say resin, the oil that flows down the red pine. It solidified in the wind into a golden yellow ... ... When I walked Crane Island, a dangling suspension bridge, embarked on its hexagonal Linghua cement paved path, I do not know why, the novel’s beginning from that fuzzy chaos Lighten up in the darkness of the sky, issued a pale golden halo in the sun, dazzling, fantastic, not very true