夏天的飞鸟,飞到我窗前唱歌,又飞去了。 秋天的黄叶,他们没有什麼可唱的,只是叹息一声,飞落在那里。
Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away。 And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh。
The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about.
我相信小说家的职责是走进世界,带回关于人类状况的消息。
时间不会流逝,流逝的是穿越时间的我们。
The journey of discovery is not a straight path, but a winding road filled with surprises and revelations.