三十多年前,我在家乡那个小小的山村小学堂里读书。学堂设在山脚下一个破旧的土地庙里。全校只有一个老帅。课堂就设在神台前面。神台上的菩萨和神台下的学生几乎一般多,而且老是那样古怪地瞪着我们。庙外山鸡的叫声伴着老师讲课的声音。幽静的破庙充满了神秘的气氛,我们的头脑里也充满了神奇的幻想。孩子们常常把听来的妖怪故事,增添上自己的想象,互相讲述着,并且把自己吓得毛骨悚然。也许,这也算是一种“文学创作”吧,可是,那时候我们对作文却不感兴趣。 Thirty years ago, I was in my little village elementary school. The school is set in a dilapidated temple at the foot of the mountain. The whole school only one coach. The classroom is set in front of the divine desk. Bodhisattva gods and students under the stage almost almost god, and always so weird to stare at us. Temple pheasant cry accompanied by the teacher's lecture voice. Quiet temple full of mysterious atmosphere, our minds are full of magical fantasy. Children often add their own imagination to the monster stories they hear, telling each other and scaring themselves horrified. Perhaps, this is a kind of “literary creation”, but at that time we are not interested in writing.