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Zhu Ziqing(1898-1948) His parents name him Zhu Zihua.His nickname is Qiushi and he style himself Peixuan.He changed his name into Zhu Ziqing later.His family is in Shaoxin , Zhejiang province,the hometown of Luxun.But he is born in East Sea ,Jiangsu province. He is a well-know essayist、poet、scholar and democratic soldier.His essaies are pure like moonlight.Reading his books like drinking a cup of tea.Zhu Ziqing sets up his special writing style,which makes China’s modern essaies more colourful.His main works contain Look for Morning、Trail、The Figure、You and Me、The Standard and Scale etc. The following essay is the one that i like most.It tells us we should make most use of time.Because time never stops running.All of us just have several yeals to take,why not do some meaningful things for good menorious? Here is the essay.I hope you will enjoy yourselves. Rush Zhu Ziqing Swallows may have gone, but there is a time of return; willow trees may have died back, but there is a time of regreening; peach blossoms may have fallen, but they will bloom again. Now, you the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? -If they had been stolen by someone, who could it be? Where could ire hide them? If they had made the escape themselves, then where could they stay at the moment? I do not know how many days I have been given to spend, but I do feel my hands are getting empty. Taking stock silently, I find that more than eight thousand days have already slid away from me .Like a drop of water from the point of a needle disappearing into the ocean, my days are dripping into the stream of time, soundless, traceless. Already sweat is starting on my forehead, and tears welling up in my eyes. Those that have gone have gone for good, those to come keep coming; yet in between, how swift is the shift, in such a rush? When I get up in the morning, the slanting sun marks its presence in my small mom in two or three oblongs. The sun has feet, look, he is treading on, lightly and furtively; and I am caught, blankly, in his revolution. 'Thus,--the day flows away through the sink when I wash my hands, wears off in the bowl when I eat my meal, and passes away before my daydreaming gaze as I reflect in silence. I can feel his haste now, so I reach out my hands to hold him back, but be keeps flowing past my withholding hands. In the evening, as I lie in bed, he strides over my body, glides past my feet, in his agile way. The moment I open my eyes and meet the sun again, one whole day has gone. I bury my face in my hands and heave a sigh. But the new day begins to flash past in the sigh. What can I do, in this bustling world, with my days flying in their escape? Nothing but to hesitate, to rush. What have I been doing in that eight-thousand-day rush, apart from hesitating? Those bygone days have been dispersed as smoke by a fight wind, or evaporated as mist by the left behind any gossamer morning sun. What traces have I left behind me? Have I eve left behind any gossamer traces at all? I have come to this world, stark nakedness; am I to go hack, in a blink, in the same stark nakedness? It is not fair though: why should 1 have made such a trip for nothing! You the wise, tell me, why should our days leave us, never to return? March 28, 1922
This is your userpage, not an article page. You must create your own article. Njnu-ban-xueshenghao (talk) 11:48, 17 September 2011 (UTC)
