在文学艺术这个行当里,那种从一开始就是出于自己的选择,并作百折不挠的追求的人,一定多的是。但是我得承认我不是。如果硬是也给自己找个说法,那么,我愿意说是“在劫难逃”。事情起因于1971年的冬天.那年我21岁,还在北大荒的一个小农场度着不死不活的日子。偏偏就有 In the line of literary art, there must be more of those who, from the very beginning, are out of their own choosing and are persevering pursuits. But I have to admit that I am not. If you just find yourself to find an argument, then, I would say that is “hard to come by.” It happened in the winter of 1971. That year I was 21 years old and lived an indefinite life on a small farm in the Great Northern Wilderness. But there is