在我的斗室中,悬挂着一幅舅舅的字。这是用行草写的一首唐诗,那扎实的间架,苍劲的笔划,飞动的气韵、洒脱的布局,都使我十分喜爱,百看不厌。我还记得,这是在“文革”前一个春节的晚上,舅舅于亲朋济济一堂的欢乐气氛中,一挥而就的“绝品”。如今,这幅字已成为舅舅的遗作,更显得珍贵了。 In my cubicle, an uncle’s word is hanging. This is a poem written with a row of cursive poems, that a solid frame, vigorous strokes, flying aura, free and easy layout, I am very fond of, never tired of. I still remember that this was an unforgettable wave of my grandfather’s solilitude in the joyful atmosphere of friends and family during the night before the Spring Festival of the Cultural Revolution. Today, this word has become the remains of uncle, even more precious.