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我的屋子不常锁门,时常丢些东西,上星期一条万宝路和旧式的菲力浦音响没了,可书架上一大叠的诗一点没少。我还跟朋友说:没人偷我的诗歌手稿,这可真让人有点伤心,我总觉得那些诗,比烟酒音响值钱。朋友也道:美死你,还想让人偷你的手稿?你以为你是谁呀。我想:可能我太自以为是了,把那些写满字行的纸片当成“存折”似的,以为凭它早晚能取出一份光荣。记得某诗人接受采访时说他的一部诗稿丢了,可能是被人偷了云云,我当时还挺羡慕人家,不得了,能郑重说自己
My room was not often locked and I often lost something. Last week a Marlboro and old-fashioned Phillips acoustics were gone, but a large stack of poems on the shelves was barely missed. I also told my friends: Nobody stole my poetic manuscripts. This is really a bit of a sad thing. I always think those poems are more valuable than alcoholic drinks and tobacco. Friend also said: you are beautiful, you want to steal your manuscript? Who do you think you are. I think: Maybe I’m too self-righteous. Think of the paper that is full of characters as a “passbook.” I think it can be used sooner or later for its honor. I remember a poet in an interview said that one of his poems lost, may be stolen, I was envious of others, incredibly, can be serious to say herself