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我一向讶于造词的奇妙。且看“尝试”一词。尝,品尝,蕴含了味觉的丰富体验;试,试验,囊括了变幻莫测的神秘。两者碰撞,便攀生出无穷的况味。因而,在我的字典里,尝试,即在追溯中咀嚼生命的本味,探寻自我深处的真我。博尔赫斯曾说,死亡是活过的生命,生命是路上的死亡。我觉得,是尝试赋予路的远方的只是形骸的消逝,活过的无畏,却非灵魂的终结。尝试,宛如逐梦人信仰的月光。在《月亮与六便士》里,当接近退休的恩特里克兰德留下字条,毅然决
I have always been surprised at the fantastic make-up. And look at the word “try”. Taste, taste, contains a rich experience of taste; test, test, include the mystery of unpredictable. Collision between the two, they climbed the infinite condition of taste. Thus, in my dictionary, try to chew the essence of life in retrospect, to explore the true self in the depths of self. Borges said that death is a living life and life is the death on the road. In my opinion, trying to give the road a faraway place is just the disappearance of the bodily form, the fearlessness that has survived, but not the end of the soul. Try, like the dream of people who believe in the moonlight. In “The Moon and the Sixpence,” leaving a note near the retired Entriker, resolutely