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.