序言为一个活着的人立传是不明智的,为一个身份卑微且有诸多丑陋之处的农民立传是不讨巧的。但我不能逃避,我必须这样做,因为他的血液正在我的体内流动。他不是我,我也不是他,可我们在灵魂深处却互为彼此。所以,我对自己说,勇敢些吧!写父亲就是写自己。当我开始下笔书写时,父亲仿佛已经站在了我的面前:他焦黄皴裂的右手把烟送到嘴里,猛吸一口,吐出来,烟雾便缭绕起来,像是虚幻的仙境。然后,他用牙狠狠地咬住了 Preface It is unwise to preach a living person. It is no excuse to make a publicity for a peasant whose identity is humble and ugly. But I can not escape, I must do this, because his blood is flowing in my body. He is not me, I am not him, but we are each other in the depths of the soul. So, I said to myself, brave! Write my father is to write their own. When I started to write, my father seemed to have stood before me: his foul, cracked right hand took the smoke to his mouth, took a swallow, spit it out, and smoked it, like a fantasy fairyland. Then, he bit his teeth hard