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几年前,读美国垮掉派诗人金斯伯格的诗集,有一首诗叫《在纽约我的厨房里》,我非常喜欢,我看见了一个老单身汉诗人美丽而典雅的厨房:冰箱的门上钉着毕加索郁郁寡欢的自画橡;水槽上有法国诗人兰波在那里凝神静思;四周白墙上装饰有美国印地安人的油画。厨房里还有加热器、榨汁机、吊水壶支架、干净的围裙和洁白的麻布……而宽敞明亮的空间足以让诗人打一套太极拳。天哪!这个疯子金斯伯格,你看他有多么幸福。那时候我们一家住在阴暗拥挤的筒子楼里,根本没有属于自己的厨房,大家
A few years ago, when I read the poetry collection of the American collapsing poet Ginsburg, there was a poem called “My Kitchen in New York.” I really liked it. I saw a beautiful and elegant kitchen of an old bachelor. The door of the refrigerator Picasso pinning the unhappy self-portrait oak; sink on the French poet Rimbaud meditate there; surrounded by white walls decorated with American Indian oil paintings. The kitchen also has heaters, juicer, jug holder, clean aprons and white linen ... and spacious and bright enough for the poet to play a Tai Chi. Gosh, this madman Ginsburg, how happy he is to see you. At that time, our family lived in the dark and crowded building, there was no kitchen of ours, everybody