去年春夏之交,我因病在北京西郊一所疗养院疗养.这里环境幽静,景色宜人,只是远离市区,消息比较闭塞.一天,我坐在庭园里的一张长椅上小憩,一面翻阅着家人送来的一些过期报刊.突然,一条令人惊愕的报道映入眼帘:“杰出的苏联作家瓦连京·卡达耶夫四月十二日逝世,终年九十岁.他的逝世,使多民族的苏联文学受到沉重的损失……”.这么说,他已经不在人世了.一阵揪心的痛楚和茫然的失落感蓦地袭上心头.眼前绿树成荫,繁花似锦的景色变得模糊不清了. Last year at the turn of spring and summer, I was convalescing in a sanatorium in the western suburbs of Beijing due to illness, where the environment was quiet and the scenery was pleasant except for the urban area where the news was rather obstructed. One day, I sat on a bench in the garden and rested. Glanced over some of his family’s overdue newspapers.A sudden, a staggering report greeted: “outstanding Soviet writerVarljaninKedayev died on April 12, at the age of 90. His Died, so that the multiethnic Soviet literature suffered heavy losses ...... ”So to speak, he is dead .A row of painful heart and loss of sense of loss hit at heart .At the present tree-lined, blossoming scenery Become blurred.