张爱玲总是让我无来由地心痛。她的书是一柱烧得正旺的紫檀香,熏得人昏睡如梦,又飘飘然地乐在其中。她说的故事是巴赫的曲子,没有大悲大壮,都是舒曼轻柔的音阶,平淡而接近自然。她营造的意境,是五彩斑斓的梦,满是奇异的想像与通感,又像刚洗干净贴满了墙的小手绢子,“苹果绿,琥珀色,烟蓝,桃红,竹青,一方块一方块的”,带着水气,很有画意。 Eileen Chang always let me feel painless for no reason. Her book is a column of red sandalwood that has been burning so much that people are lethargic and dreamy. The story she describes is Bach’s song. There is no great sadness or strongness. They are all Schumann’s soft scales. It is plain and close to nature. The artistic conception she created was a colorful dream, full of strange imagination and synaesthesia, and a small handkerchief that had just been washed and plastered on the wall. “Apple green, amber, smoke blue, pink, bamboo blue, a square A square, with water, very painting.