这个初春的傍晚,窗外的街上有风在无声地刮,街灯开始亮了。我在想,其实,我早就应该写小说的。可是,在我三十五岁以前,我没有认真去写一篇小说。细想,我为什么没写呢?回首过去的时光,我想我应该用忏悔的心情来面对已经不再年轻的自己。这么多年来,我之所以没有坐下来,动笔写小说,终究是生活里的物质和情感带给我太多的牵绊。现实的生活,这些实实在在的具体的物质细节,容不得我静心来表达属于自己的文字。现在,我终于写了一些。书架上搁放着我七年以来发表的杂志样刊,杂七杂八的,也有近一百本了。这是属于我自己的文字,是我一个字一个字敲打出来的,散发 The early spring evening, the wind on the street outside the window scraping silently, the street lights began to light up. I was thinking, in fact, I should have written novels. However, before I was 35, I did not seriously write a novel. Think about it, why did not I write it? Looking back past time, I think I should use the penitent mood to face the already no longer young. For so many years, the reason why I did not sit down and write novels, after all, is the material and emotional life brought me too much traction. Real life, these concrete physical details, can not tolerate me to express their own words. Now, I finally wrote some. On the shelves, there are nearly 100 magazine magazines that I published in the past seven years. This is my own text, I typed word by word, distributed