我坐在自己的工作室里,望着窗外雾蔼茫茫中的树丛和林立的楼群,心中有种难以名状的创作冲动。 五年前,我只身闯北京时,租的是一阴暗潮湿的被市民们用来做饭的私建小屋。当时的生活条件很艰苦,我把自己的生活费降低到每天几元钱。那时常感到危机向我袭来,而且是一种精神坍塌的感觉,生命几乎到了极限,只差一步就有可能彻底崩溃。想起寒风赖骨的腊月我躲在漏风的没有暖气的小屋里写作的情景,心中便涌起一股苦涩。握笔的手被冻得冰冷,腿脚几乎都麻木了。那个时 I am sitting in my own studio, looking out the window amidst the thick trees and lush buildings, with an indescribable creative impulse in my heart. Five years ago, when I was alone in Beijing, I rented a dark, wet private-built cottage that was used by the citizens for cooking. At that time, the living conditions were very poor. I reduced my living expenses to a few dollars a day. I often feel the crisis hit me, but also a sense of spiritual collapse, life is almost to the limit, only a single step may collapse completely. Think of the breeze of the twelfth lunar month, I hid in the air-conditioned, unheated cottage writing scene, the heart of a surge of bitterness. The hand holding the pen was frozen cold, legs are almost numb. That time