外甥得法文作，我的心情激起。
一作家的，我手我口，更我感。
然而，作路是漫和寂寞的！一直有勇走深的路...
我跟外甥：最引人的故事，永存在於真幻之，既亦近，能生活在此空，很快！
作家路不好走，但一旦要走，就千不要停下，那管你的知音有多少...
外甥得的：
http://paper.wenweipo.com/2009/05/16/HK0905160020.htm
"Un Simple Mur"得文章英文翻版：
I am a simple wall of convent. Being a wall, my only objective is d' to help the convent to remain upright. During years, it was my only goal. The monks lean under my arc. For me, c' was the direction of my existence. It is as simple as that, not? But which is l' man with a brush, which has examined me with interest during hours? Lastly, he said something to itself, plunged his brush in l' ink, and painted on me. I had the feeling like being washed with a towel, it is wet, and refreshing. But with the difference d' to be washed, I became salt, not clean. Who is this man? Is it a bad person, who soils me with her ink? The monks always say that " people who make dirtinesses in the convent are méchants". I more and more often see this man, every day. Each time it comes, more and more of lines d' ink appear on me. It is, in any case, a strange man, who speaks to me during his work. “I will transform you into a marvellous painting.” “They scorn what I do now, but they it verront." He is an interesting man, and I start to enjoy his presence. There was nobody who spoke to me front. I should perhaps start to hold a newspaper on him.
Day XX of the month XX,
1495 It is almost of the end of l' year, and I believe that I start to see what l' man is making. Its lines start to resemble familiar forms - I believe that I see the shapes of people and a long table. There is nobody other which sees these things, however. There was a monk who thought that l' ink was dirtiness and tried to clean it. The man with the brush has it hunting for far, launched curses and said that the monk could not appreciate l' Article The man with the pineau. As that which I go l' to call from now.
Day XX of the month XX, 1496
The man with the Brush sealed the door, to have more place for `peindre'. Its ink took the form d' a table, d' a part with fourteen people. I know what it is now; it is not a normal man, but an illusionist. On me, with l' ink, it created a forged coin, which has depth. It is an extraordinary magician, the animals and the insects test really d' to enter the room, even if its illusion n' is not completed.
Day XX of the month XX, 1497
For some reason, I do not see any more l' man with the brush. It n' did not come since months. I cannot say that it became loneliness, because to in its place, from many other people came. But, they did not come to request; they came to look at me. They cannot use me me as carries, and they do not come to request. Therefore, which is the reason of my existence?
Day XX of the month XX, 1498
One day, l' man with the brush returned. He said to me, " Afflicted. You missed something. But I will finish it.” In said, it started to work once more. What did he want to say? Its illusion of thirteen fascinated men became clearer and more detailed than ever. More and more from people came to see his work. But one day, the man with the brush suddenly disappeared. I never re-examined it.
Day XX of the month XX, 1517
I think that I know now why the man with the brush said qu' it missed something. During these last years, its illusion quickly disappeared. There was nobody any more which came to see me. The monks cut out a door in me. The new one, I am a simple surrounding wall. Perhaps what should I be happy? But curiously, I only feel….
Day XX of the month XX, 1796
Why I hold this newspaper, still? c' became a document on me, and either on the man with the brush. I n' did not see a monk since many years. It ya of the French soldiers that hide in the convent now. They having fun to throw l' clay on me. I notice qu' they throw it to the head of the thirteen men on " the peinture". I feel something like anger. C' is strange, why a wall, like me, is concerned with this painting which disappears?
Day XX of the month XX, 1943
The convent is bombarded. Walls randomly, like me, are damaged by the glares d' shell. D' others are completely reversed. However, a bomb fell close to me, and I fell. Fortunately, the sandbags prevented me from breaking me. After l' attacks, it became very calm. How long I was only, in this convent in ruin? That points out certain a time to me, when it n' there had nobody except a man with a brush, and not of noise if not the `plish' of l' ink. " Wait, look at this wall! Is it a painting? " “Yes, it is one! It is a spectacular lucky find!” J' hear the voices of people. Before I include/understand, much people are around me. A wall should not have feelings, but I feel something which resembles happiness. Tese people have the same smile as that which l' man had; l' man who had sat meadows of me and m' showed its art, many centuries ago. in an isolated convent.
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