我曾经一度幻想能像三毛一样成为一个优秀的笔者,用我那愚钝的思维去解读世界,用平庸的文字记录世间的一切。喜欢一个人独坐角落,迎着冬日的阳光,手持三毛的作品的温暖感觉!看着她的书,每到精妙之处或感同身受时,便停下,细细品读。再不,找个本子抄下来,生怕哪一天将其遗忘,唯独 I once had the illusion of becoming an excellent writer like San Mao, interpreting the world with my dull thinking and recording everything in the world in mediocre words. Like a person sitting in a corner, facing the winter sunshine, the warmth of the work holding three hair! Looking at her book, every exquisite or empathy, stop, read carefully. No longer, find a copy down, for fear of which day will be forgotten, alone