周围朋友经常谈起文学经历,有的回忆小时候如何喜欢读书写作,有的说起文学怎样改变了他坎坷的生活道路,扔掉“敲门砖”拾起了“金砖”。面对这些不乏自豪的侃侃而谈,我基本上是礼节性地迎合几句。是啊,当年豪气干云的文学如今衰败沦落,你怎么还好意思自弹自唱“忆往昔峥嵘岁月稠”呢。也有编辑和哥们撺掇:你也是文学老人了,该回忆一下创作生活和经历了。我愕然。看来,一个人年龄大了,开始他自己并不知道,如我,是一 Friends often talk about literary experiences around, and some memories of how to read and write as a child, and some talk about how literature has changed his rough road of life, throw away “knock on the door ” picked up “BRIC ”. In the face of these very proud and talkative, I basically meet a few words courtesy. Yes ah, when the heroic cloud of literature is now declining decline, how are you sorry to play voluntarily “remember the past years of thick” it. There are editors and buddies: You are an old man of literature, the memories of creative life and experience. I am stunned. It seems that a person is old and does not know who he is, as I am