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在无数个夜晚,我曾梦见一盏油灯,燃着豆大的火苗,栖息在我的屋子里。我坐在它身边,依偎着这灯光,在寂冷的夜里取暖。那是在故乡,在故乡的村庄,周围没有了声音,只有我和我的灯光。外面也许有月光,也许黑黢黢一片。而我的屋里,装满了灯光,虽然很微弱、很让人担心下一刻是否会熄灭。那样的夜晚,我除了写作,还能做些什么?俯下身去,在灯光之下,在一张陈旧的桌上,摊开稿纸,写着我想写的文字。人生的惬意,不过如此了。
On countless nights, I dreamed of an oil lamp burning a large flame of bean and inhabit my house. I sat beside it, clinging to the light, heating up in the cold of the night. It was in my hometown, in my hometown village, there was no sound around, only me and my lights. There may be moonlight outside, maybe dark black one. And my room, full of lights, although very weak, is very worried about whether the next moment will go out. On that night, what else can I do besides writing? Fall away, under the light, on an old table, spread the manuscript, writing the words I want to write. Life comfortable, but so.