回顾自己与父亲相处的岁月,总有许多片断纷至沓来,重合,迭加,却难以聚焦。我只能写下最深的几个印象。 印象之一:父亲总趴在办公桌前,写呀、写呀,似乎永无休止的时候。从我刚有记忆,在延安的窑洞里,父亲穿着厚厚大大的灰色棉衣,坐在小方桌的煤油灯下,桌下放着炭火盆,他就在那里写;进北京城后,坐在长方形办公桌的电灯座灯前、他在写着;直到他生命的最后时刻,他还要人扶他半靠着坐起,伏在我们支在他面前的玻璃板上,颤颤抖抖地写出了向巴金祝寿的贺电,虽然他记错了日期……他一生到 Looking back on the years when I was living with my father, there were always many pieces coming together, overlapping and overlapping, but it was hard to focus. I can only write the deepest few impressions. Impression: father always lying at the desk, write, write, it seems endless time. From what I had just remembered in his cave in Yanan, his father was wearing a large, thick gray cotton coat sitting under a kerosene lamp on a small square table with a charcoal brazier under the table where he wrote. After entering Beijing, he sat in a rectangle He was writing in front of the lamppost at the desk, and until the last moment of his life he had to help him sit up against the glass and lay on the glass we had in front of him, shaking and writing He sent a message of congratulation to Bachin, though he remembered the date ... He was in his life