The famous thousand-word prose

In a hurry, Zhu Ziqing's swallow has gone, and there is still time to come again; The willows are dead, when they are green again, the peach blossoms are dead, and when they bloom again. But, smart, tell me, why are our days gone forever? Someone stole them: who is that? Where is it hidden? They escaped by themselves: where are they now? I don't know how many days they gave me; But my hands are getting empty. Counting silently, more than 8 thousand days slipped away from me quietly; Like a drop of water on the tip of a needle in the sea, my days are dripping in the stream of time, without sound or shadow. I can't help bursting into tears. Go wherever you go, and come wherever you come; What's the hurry between going and coming? When I get up in the morning, two or three sunsets shoot into the hut. Sun, he has feet! Gently and quietly moved; I also follow the rotation blankly. So-when washing your hands, the days pass from the basin; When eating, the days pass from the rice bowl; When I was silent, I passed by my eyes. I think he is in a hurry. When I reached out to cover my arm, he passed by the covered hand again. When I was lying in bed at dark, he passed me and flew away from my feet. When I open my eyes and see the sun again, it will be a new day. I covered my face and sighed. But the shadow of the new day began to flash with a sigh. What can I do in the days when I fly away, in the world of thousands of families? Only wandering, only running; In the rush of more than 8,000 days, what is left except wandering? The past days, like smoke, were scattered by the breeze, like fog, evaporated by Chu Yang; What traces did I leave? Did I leave traces like hairspring? I came into this world naked, and I will go back naked in the blink of an eye? But it can't be flat. Why did you come for nothing this time? You are very clever. Tell me, why are our days gone forever? Appreciating Zhu Ziqing's "Hurry" can't help but remind people of Gorky's masterpiece "Clock". Although their styles are quite different, the two writers happen to coincide, grasping the images that people are accustomed to and easy to ignore, or expressing their feelings or commenting, lamenting that youth is fleeting and life is short, and there is an urgent need to cherish time, cherish life and make a difference. Invisible and intangible time has passed away from people mercilessly and hurriedly. With his rich imagination, Zhu Ziqing vividly captured the trace of the passage of time. At the beginning of the article, the author depicts the picture of swallows gone, willows withered and green, and peach blossoms withered, rendering the rise and fall of natural objects and the change of time sequence, suggesting the traces of time passing. From this, the author reminds himself that more than 8,000 days in 24 years have disappeared like "a drop of water in the sea", "I can't help but shed tears". The author further describes in detail the moments of eating, washing hands, sleeping and even sighing in daily life. Time flies, and his past days disappear like "smoke" blown away by the breeze and "fog" evaporated by Chuyang. The author deeply feels that since he "came to this world", he can't "walk this time for nothing" and reveal the theme in an orderly way. Undoubtedly, Zhu Ziqing's thought of cherishing the inch of gold coincides with the ancient poem "Young people don't work hard, but old people are sad" and the motto "An inch of time is worth an inch of gold, and an inch of money can't buy an inch of time". And Zhu Ziqing's description of places that people ignore will surprise you even in ordinary life (Shan Ye Collection). One afternoon before the Spring Festival, I went to see a friend in the suburbs of Chongqing. She lives above the town hall in that village. Walking up the dark reverse stairs, I entered a room with a square table, several bamboo stools and a telephone on the wall. Then I went into my friend's room, separated from the outside by a curtain. She is not at home. There is a note on the table by the window saying that she will go out temporarily and asked me to wait for her. I sat down at her desk and picked up a newspaper and read it. Suddenly I heard the outside door creak open. After a while, I heard someone moving a bamboo stool. I opened the curtain and saw a little girl, only about eight or nine years old, with a thin and pale face, purple lips with cold, short hair, worn-out clothes and a pair of sandals barefoot, boarding a bamboo stool to meet the listener on the wall. When she saw me, she seemed startled and shrank back. I asked her, "Are you going to call?" As she climbed down the bamboo stool, she nodded and said, "I want to go to XX Hospital to find Dr. Hu. My mother just vomited a lot of blood! " "I asked," Do you know the telephone number of XX Hospital? " She shook her head and said, "I was just about to ask the telephone office ..." I quickly found the hospital number from the phone book next to the machine and asked her, "Who should I invite to see a doctor?" She said, "Just say that Wang Chunlin's family is ill and she will come. "I got through the phone, she thanked me gratefully and then left. I grabbed her and asked, "Is your home far?" She pointed out of the window and said, "It's just under the big yellow fruit tree in the mountain nest, and it's within walking distance." With that, he went downstairs. I went back to the house, read the newspaper from beginning to end, and picked up a copy of Three Hundred Tang Poems. Halfway through it, it was getting darker and darker, but my friend still didn't come back. Bored, I stood up, looked at the misty mountain scenery outside the window, saw the hut under the Huangguoshu, and suddenly wanted to see the little girl and her sick mother. I went downstairs and bought some red oranges at the door, stuffed them in my handbag and walked along the uneven stone road to the door of the hut. I gently closed the door and made a clear "plop". Just now, the little girl came out to open the door, looked up at me, paused, and then smiled and motioned me in. The room was small and dark, covered with boards against the wall. Her mother lay flat with her eyes closed. She is probably asleep, her head is covered with blood, and her face is turned inward, only to see the messy hair on her face and a big bun at the back of her head. There is a small charcoal stove by the door, with a small casserole on it, steaming slightly. The little girl asked me to sit on the stool in front of the stove. She squatted next to me and looked at me all the time. I asked softly, "Has the doctor been here?" She said, "yes, I gave my mother an injection ... she is fine now." She said, as if to comfort me, "Don't worry, the doctor will come again tomorrow morning." I asked, "Has she eaten? What's in this pot? " She smiled and said, "sweet potato porridge, our New Year's Eve dinner. "I remembered the oranges I brought, so I took them out and put them on the low table beside the bed. Without saying anything, she reached for the biggest orange, peeled off a section of skin with a small knife and gently rubbed the lower part with her hands. I asked in a low voice, "Who else is in your family?" She said, "There is no one now, my father has gone out ..." She didn't go on, but slowly took out an orange from the orange peel and put it next to her mother's pillow. The dim light of the small orange lantern gradually dimmed, and it was even darker outside. I stood up to leave and she took my hand. She quickly took the big needle of twine and surrounded the small orange bowl relatively, like a small basket, carrying it with a small bamboo stick. She also took a short foreign wax head from the windowsill, lit it inside and handed it to me, saying, "It's dark, the road is slippery, and this little orange lamp will shine on you up the hill!" " I took it appreciatively and thanked her. She walked me out. I don't know what to say. She seemed to comfort me and said, "Dad will be back soon. My mother will definitely get better then! " She drew a circle in front of her with her little hand, and finally pressed it on my hand: "We are all fine!" " "Obviously, this" everyone "also includes me. Tears swirled in my eyes ... I walked slowly on the dark and humid mountain road with this clever little orange lamp. This hazy orange light really can't shine far, but the little girl's calm, brave and optimistic spirit inspired me, and I seemed to feel that there was infinite light in front of me! My friend has come back and saw me carrying a small orange lamp and asked me where I came from. I said, "From ... from Wang Chunlin's house." She said in surprise, "Wang Chunlin the carpenter, how do you know him?" Last year, several students from Yamashita Medical College were taken to a producer's party, and later Wang Chunlin also disappeared. It is said that he often delivers letters for those students ... "That night, I left the mountain village and never heard from the little girl and her mother again. But from then on, every Spring Festival, I will think of that little orange lamp. 12 years have passed, and the little girl's father must have come back early. Her mother must be fine, too, right? Because we are all "good"! The mission of literary appreciation is to create all kinds of beautiful images to meet people's aesthetic needs. The leading girl in Bing Xin's sketch "Little Orange Lamp" is a very ordinary and poor peasant girl, but her words and deeds contain inner beauty everywhere-the beauty of mind and sentiment. The author vividly depicts the beautiful and moving artistic image of the little girl through ingenious and unique artistic conception. This article describes that I happened to meet a little girl while visiting friends in the suburbs of Chongqing, which left a deep impression on me for a long time. The story told in this article took place in Chongqing on the eve of the Spring Festival in 1945. It was an accident from dark afternoon to night, as gloomy as the environment and climate in Chongqing at that time. The little orange lamp is a symbol of light in the dark society, and it is also a portrayal of the little girl's calm, brave and optimistic spirit. This is the eve of War of Resistance against Japanese Aggression's final victory, and the Kuomintang has stepped up its crackdown on producers and anti-Japanese patriots. Under the white terror, the broad masses of the people suffered greatly and longed for the light. The author symbolically reveals that the dark rule of Kuomintang reactionaries will be destroyed and a bright new China will be born.