我推窗看着下面熙熙攘攘的街道,突然想起了艾略特的一句诗,大概是:“看,曾经有那么多的人活着!”立即我想到了身边的死亡事件,想到了历时数年写成的长篇小说《死后回忆》。我想起三毛、顾城、加缪、王国维,想到邓肯、凡高、波德莱尔、普拉斯、海明威、叶赛宁、茨维塔耶娃、川端康成、山岛由纪夫,这些人都是我喜欢的。当然我还喜欢曹雪芹、蒲松龄、鲁迅甚至还有海子。但历数起来,我所喜爱的艺术家中,死于非命的占了90％以上。我坐在阳台上,看着窗外灰蒙蒙的天,感到这些死于非命的艺木家一个个地回来了,来到我的身边,神情严肃地看着我,让我害怕。我逃离阳台,来到电脑面前。我在不安之中,写下对于他们的纪念： I pushed the window and looked at the bustling streets below. Suddenly I remembered Eliot’s poem. Presumably: “Look, there were so many people who were alive!” Immediately I thought of the death around me and thought of writing for years. The novel “Reminiscent of Death”. I think of San Mao, Gu Cheng, Ka Ying, and Wang Guowei. I think of Duncan, Van Gogh, Baudelaire, Plas, Hemingway, Yesenin, Tsvetayeva, Kawabata Yasunari, and Yamaji Yukio. These people are I like it. Of course, I still like Cao Xueqin, Pu Songling, Lu Xun and even Hai Zi. However, in history, over 90% of my favorite artists have died. I sat on the balcony and looked out at the grey sky outside the window. I felt that those art homes who had died were coming back one by one, came to me, looked at me with seriousness, and made me afraid. I fled the balcony and came to the computer. I am uneasy and write down the memorial for them: