被窝是青春的坟墓

每个星光坠落的夜晚，我裹紧棉被沉沉地闭上眼睛。浅浅的睡眠，沉沉的梦幻，醒来，你已在彼岸。

一粒红尘

那是一个离我的生活很遥远、很遥远的一个世界。我沉默着与之对峙，心里默默地计算着抵达它的时间丈量着我与它之间的距离。

双城记

这是最好的时代，这是最坏的时代。这是智慧的时代，这是愚蠢的时代。这是希望的春天，这是失望的冬天。人们应有尽有，人们一无所有。 人们直通天堂，人们直达地狱。

自深深处

You admired my work when it was finished: you enjoyed the brilliant successes of my first nights, and the brilliant banquets that followed them: you were proud, and quite naturally so, of being the intimate friend of an artist so distinguished: but you could not understand the conditions requisite for the production of artistic work. I am not speaking in phrases of rhetorical exaggeration but in terms of absolute truth to actual fact when I remind you that during the whole time we were together I never wrote one single line. Whether at Torquay, Goring, London, Florence or elsewhere, my life, as long as you were by my side, was entirely sterile and uncreative. And with but few intervals you were, I regret to say, by my side always.