孩子们,这是八月初的一个早晨,美国南部的阳光舒适而透明,流溢着一种让久经忧患的人鼻酸的、古老而宁静的幸福。助教把期待已久的发榜名单寄来给我,一百二十个动人的名字,我逐一地念着,忍不住覆手在你们的名字上,为你们祈祷。在你们未来漫长的七年医学教育中,我只教授你们八个学分的国文,但是,我渴望能教你们如何做一个人,以及如何做一个中国人。 Children, one morning in early August, the sunshine in the south of the United States is comfortable and transparent, overflowing with the ancient and tranquil bliss of bitterness. The aide sent me the long-awaited list of candidates, one hundred and twenty moving names, one by one, and I could not help but lay my hand on your name and pray for you. In your long seven-year medical education, I only teach you eight-credit Chinese, but I am eager to teach you how to be a man and how to be a Chinese.