他们把林海音跟何凡台北家的客厅誉为“台湾文坛的一半”。在那个客厅里,在他们夫妇俩去过的每一处地方,说话的总是林海音,沉默的总是何凡。前年林海音一走,我挂念的是何凡坐在寂静的客厅里坚持那份沉默:无言的记忆伴着飘渺的等待,从老北平灰蒙的风沙中走到老台北缠绵的阴雨里;从《北平日报》他写专栏的玻璃垫上返照出城南那串骆驼队晃出来的旧事。 They hailed Lin Haebin and He Fan’s living room in Taipei as “half of Taiwan’s literary world.” In that living room, at every point where the couple had been there, it was always Lin Haiyin, where silence always came. The year before last year, Lin Haiyin went away. What I miss is where to sit in the still living room, and to persist in the silence: the silent memory accompanied by ethereal walks from the dusty sand of old Peking to the lingering rain of old Taipei. From Peiping Daily, he wrote a column on the glass back to the south of the camel team came out of the town of the old story.