“我坐在我的这个小室里,我,布里格,二十八岁了,什么人也不认识我。我坐在这里,微不足道。但是,这个微不足道者开始思考着,思考着,在巴黎一个灰色的下午,六层楼上……”这儿写的几乎就是我,而不是诗人里尔克,更不是他虚构的布里格。二○○四年,在我二十八岁的最后一个月,我来到巴黎,身上只有五百多欧元,为了节约,我住在火车北站附近一条街的老宅子的顶楼,恰恰是六 “I sit in my cell, I, Brig, twenty-eight years old, and no one knows me.I sit here, insignificant.However, this insignificant began to ponder, thinking, in the A gray afternoon in Paris, six floors upstairs ... ”It was almost me, not the poet Rilke, nor his fictional Brig. In 2004, in the last month of my 28th year, I came to Paris with only over 500 euros. To save, I lived at the top floor of an old mansion in the street near North Railway Station,