星期三, 十二月 20, 2006
"MY FATHER’S SUITCASE"
I am so moved and resonated by reading this article that I extracted some paragraphes of his words on writting in this blog entry. Hope they are also beneficial for some people who also have a desire and dream on writting.
"When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man—or this woman—may use a typewriter, or profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I do. As he writes, he may drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time, he may rise from his table to look out the window at the children playing in the street, or, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or even at a black wall. He may write poems, or plays, or novels, as I do. But all these differences arise only after the crucial task is complete—after he has sat down at the table and patiently turned inward. To write is to transform that inward gaze into words, to study the worlds into which we pass when we retire into ourselves, and to do so with Patience, Obstinacy, and Joy.
If a writer is to tell his own story—to tell it slowly, and as if it were a story about other people—if he is to feel the power of the story rise up inside him, if he is to sit down at a table and give himself over to this art, this craft, he must first be given some hope. The angel of inspiration (who pays regular visits to some and rarely calls on others) favors the hopeful and the confident, and it is when a writer feels most lonely, when he feels most doubtful about his efforts, his dreams, and the value of his writing, when he thinks that his story is only his story—it is at such moments that the angel chooses to reveal to him the images and dreams that will draw out the world he wishes to build.
he (his fatther) would never have tolerated the difficulties that I had tolerated, that it was not solitude he loved but mixing with friends, crowds, company.Still, later my thoughts took a different turn. These dreams of renunciation and patience, it occurred to me, were prejudices that I had derived from my own life and my own experience as a writer. There were plenty of brilliant writers who wrote amid crowds and family, in the glow of company and happy chatter.
Patience and toil are not enough: first, we must feel compelled to escape crowds, company, the stuff of ordinary life, and shut ourselves up in a room. The precursor of this sort of independent writer—one who reads to his heart’s content, who, by listening only to the voice of his own conscience, disputes others’ words, and who, by entering into conversation with his books, develops his own thoughts and his own world—was surely Montaigne, in the earliest days of modern literature.
What is happiness? Is happiness believing that you live a deep life in your lonely room? Or is happiness leading a comfortable life in society, believing in the same things as everyone else, or, at least, acting as if you did? Is it happiness or unhappiness to go through life writing in secret, while seeming to be in harmony with all that surrounds you?
For me, to be a writer is to acknowledge the secret wounds that we carry inside us, wounds so secret that we ourselves are barely aware of them, and to patiently explore them, know them, illuminate them, own them, and make them a conscious part of our spirit and our writing.
A writer talks of things that we all know but do not know that we know. To explore this knowledge, and to watch it grow, is a pleasurable thing; the reader visits a world that is at once familiar and miraculous. When a writer uses his secret wounds as his starting point, he is, whether he is aware of it or not, putting great faith in humanity. My confidence comes from the belief that all human beings resemble one another, that others carry wounds like mine—and that they will therefore understand. All true literature rises from this childish, hopeful certainty that we resemble one another. When a writer shuts himself up in a room for years on end, with this gesture he suggests a single humanity, a world without a center.
But, as can be seen from my father’s suitcase and the pale colors of our lives in Istanbul, the world did have a center, and it was far away from us. I know from experience that the great majority of people on this earth live with the same feeling of inauthenticity and Chekhovian provinciality, and that many suffer from an even deeper sense of insufficiency, insecurity, and degradation than I do. Yes, the greatest dilemmas facing humanity are still landlessness, homelessness, and hunger . . . but today our televisions and newspapers tell us about these fundamental problems more quickly and more simply than literature ever could. What literature most needs to tell and to investigate now is humanity’s basic fears: the fear of being left outside, the fear of counting for nothing, and the feeling of worthlessness that comes with such fears—the collective humiliations, vulnerabilities, slights, grievances, sensitivities, and imagined insults, and the nationalist boasts and inflations that are their next of kin. . . . Whenever I am confronted by such sentiments, and by the irrational, overstated language in which they are usually expressed, I know that they touch on a darkness inside me.
I also know that in the West—a world with which I can identify just as easily—nations and peoples that take an excessive pride in their wealth, and in their glory at having brought us the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and modernism, have, from time to time, succumbed to a self-satisfaction that is almost as stupid.
So my father was not the only one: we all give too much importance to the idea of a world with a center. The love and hate that Dostoyevsky felt toward the West all his life—I have felt this, too, on many occasions. But if I have grasped an essential truth, if I have cause for optimism, it is because I have travelled with this great writer through his love-hate relationship with the West and I have beheld the world that he built on the other side.
Like the land that slowly begins to take shape, rising from the mist in its many colors like an island spied after a long sea journey, this other world enchants us. We are as beguiled as the Western travellers who voyaged from the south to behold Istanbul rising from the mist. At the end of a journey begun in hope and curiosity, there lies before us a city of mosques and minarets, a medley of houses, streets, hills, bridges, and slopes—an entire world. Seeing this world, we wish to enter it and lose ourselves in it, just as we might in a book. After sitting down to write because we felt provincial, excluded, marginalized, angry, or deeply melancholic, we have found an entire world beyond these sentiments.
The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is: Why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can’t do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but—as in a dream—can’t quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy."
"When I speak of writing, the image that comes first to my mind is not a novel, a poem, or a literary tradition; it is the person who shuts himself up in a room, sits down at a table, and, alone, turns inward. Amid his shadows, he builds a new world with words. This man—or this woman—may use a typewriter, or profit from the ease of a computer, or write with a pen on paper, as I do. As he writes, he may drink tea or coffee, or smoke cigarettes. From time to time, he may rise from his table to look out the window at the children playing in the street, or, if he is lucky, at trees and a view, or even at a black wall. He may write poems, or plays, or novels, as I do. But all these differences arise only after the crucial task is complete—after he has sat down at the table and patiently turned inward. To write is to transform that inward gaze into words, to study the worlds into which we pass when we retire into ourselves, and to do so with Patience, Obstinacy, and Joy.
If a writer is to tell his own story—to tell it slowly, and as if it were a story about other people—if he is to feel the power of the story rise up inside him, if he is to sit down at a table and give himself over to this art, this craft, he must first be given some hope. The angel of inspiration (who pays regular visits to some and rarely calls on others) favors the hopeful and the confident, and it is when a writer feels most lonely, when he feels most doubtful about his efforts, his dreams, and the value of his writing, when he thinks that his story is only his story—it is at such moments that the angel chooses to reveal to him the images and dreams that will draw out the world he wishes to build.
he (his fatther) would never have tolerated the difficulties that I had tolerated, that it was not solitude he loved but mixing with friends, crowds, company.Still, later my thoughts took a different turn. These dreams of renunciation and patience, it occurred to me, were prejudices that I had derived from my own life and my own experience as a writer. There were plenty of brilliant writers who wrote amid crowds and family, in the glow of company and happy chatter.
Patience and toil are not enough: first, we must feel compelled to escape crowds, company, the stuff of ordinary life, and shut ourselves up in a room. The precursor of this sort of independent writer—one who reads to his heart’s content, who, by listening only to the voice of his own conscience, disputes others’ words, and who, by entering into conversation with his books, develops his own thoughts and his own world—was surely Montaigne, in the earliest days of modern literature.
What is happiness? Is happiness believing that you live a deep life in your lonely room? Or is happiness leading a comfortable life in society, believing in the same things as everyone else, or, at least, acting as if you did? Is it happiness or unhappiness to go through life writing in secret, while seeming to be in harmony with all that surrounds you?
For me, to be a writer is to acknowledge the secret wounds that we carry inside us, wounds so secret that we ourselves are barely aware of them, and to patiently explore them, know them, illuminate them, own them, and make them a conscious part of our spirit and our writing.
A writer talks of things that we all know but do not know that we know. To explore this knowledge, and to watch it grow, is a pleasurable thing; the reader visits a world that is at once familiar and miraculous. When a writer uses his secret wounds as his starting point, he is, whether he is aware of it or not, putting great faith in humanity. My confidence comes from the belief that all human beings resemble one another, that others carry wounds like mine—and that they will therefore understand. All true literature rises from this childish, hopeful certainty that we resemble one another. When a writer shuts himself up in a room for years on end, with this gesture he suggests a single humanity, a world without a center.
But, as can be seen from my father’s suitcase and the pale colors of our lives in Istanbul, the world did have a center, and it was far away from us. I know from experience that the great majority of people on this earth live with the same feeling of inauthenticity and Chekhovian provinciality, and that many suffer from an even deeper sense of insufficiency, insecurity, and degradation than I do. Yes, the greatest dilemmas facing humanity are still landlessness, homelessness, and hunger . . . but today our televisions and newspapers tell us about these fundamental problems more quickly and more simply than literature ever could. What literature most needs to tell and to investigate now is humanity’s basic fears: the fear of being left outside, the fear of counting for nothing, and the feeling of worthlessness that comes with such fears—the collective humiliations, vulnerabilities, slights, grievances, sensitivities, and imagined insults, and the nationalist boasts and inflations that are their next of kin. . . . Whenever I am confronted by such sentiments, and by the irrational, overstated language in which they are usually expressed, I know that they touch on a darkness inside me.
I also know that in the West—a world with which I can identify just as easily—nations and peoples that take an excessive pride in their wealth, and in their glory at having brought us the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, and modernism, have, from time to time, succumbed to a self-satisfaction that is almost as stupid.
So my father was not the only one: we all give too much importance to the idea of a world with a center. The love and hate that Dostoyevsky felt toward the West all his life—I have felt this, too, on many occasions. But if I have grasped an essential truth, if I have cause for optimism, it is because I have travelled with this great writer through his love-hate relationship with the West and I have beheld the world that he built on the other side.
Like the land that slowly begins to take shape, rising from the mist in its many colors like an island spied after a long sea journey, this other world enchants us. We are as beguiled as the Western travellers who voyaged from the south to behold Istanbul rising from the mist. At the end of a journey begun in hope and curiosity, there lies before us a city of mosques and minarets, a medley of houses, streets, hills, bridges, and slopes—an entire world. Seeing this world, we wish to enter it and lose ourselves in it, just as we might in a book. After sitting down to write because we felt provincial, excluded, marginalized, angry, or deeply melancholic, we have found an entire world beyond these sentiments.
The question we writers are asked most often, the favorite question, is: Why do you write? I write because I have an innate need to write. I write because I can’t do normal work as other people do. I write because I want to read books like the ones I write. I write because I am angry at everyone. I write because I love sitting in a room all day writing. I write because I can partake of real life only by changing it. I write because I want others, the whole world, to know what sort of life we lived, and continue to live, in Istanbul, in Turkey. I write because I love the smell of paper, pen, and ink. I write because I believe in literature, in the art of the novel, more than I believe in anything else. I write because it is a habit, a passion. I write because I am afraid of being forgotten. I write because I like the glory and interest that writing brings. I write to be alone. Perhaps I write because I hope to understand why I am so very, very angry at everyone. I write because I like to be read. I write because once I have begun a novel, an essay, a page I want to finish it. I write because everyone expects me to write. I write because I have a childish belief in the immortality of libraries, and in the way my books sit on the shelf. I write because it is exciting to turn all life’s beauties and riches into words. I write not to tell a story but to compose a story. I write because I wish to escape from the foreboding that there is a place I must go but—as in a dream—can’t quite get to. I write because I have never managed to be happy. I write to be happy."
星期二, 十二月 19, 2006
走出迷途
今天依然在原地彷徨，仍然没有往前进的方向哪怕迈进一小步，之前的坏习惯象魔咒一样统治着自己！何时能挣脱出来，想的办法很多，可行的却很少，几乎没有，不能再这样下去，要尽快找到一个可行的办法去执行了，不然过了这周压力真的会让自己窒息！
一伙人从同一个起点出发，走上了人生的旅途，开始时大体还能在限定的路上走着跑着，遵守了旅途的规则，慢慢的有的人落伍了，落在大家的后面，可是他们还是在后面跟着，慢慢的限定的路消失了，大多人仍沿着正确的轨道前进，虽然速度不太一样，有的人就偏离了人生的轨道，并且开始不遵守旅途的规则，而且还认为自己有个性，走着自己的路，我就是属于这一类人，其实偏离方向比落在后面更惨，你不知道什么时候才能找到正确的方向，而且现在自己好像已经陷入沼泽了，无法挣脱，既看不到前进的方向，又不能往后走，继续沿着错误的方向走下去吗？一意孤行，事实证明根本走不下去，而且违背了规则，迟早会被亮红牌的！
一直在想，是不是人在困境下人都会把问题严重化，以致于自己失去了真正解决问题所需要的平和、积极的心态和冷静思考的机会。但愿事实也是如此，如果是这样，那就应该先让自己冷静下来，勇敢的面对问题，因为现在的自己整个人比较乱，无论从心态还是从行为的方式，都让自己没办法把事情处理好，事情处理不好以至于认为是环境使我必须如此。
还好，还有不少的跑在正途的朋友，在呼唤着自己走向他们，赶紧的..............................
一伙人从同一个起点出发，走上了人生的旅途，开始时大体还能在限定的路上走着跑着，遵守了旅途的规则，慢慢的有的人落伍了，落在大家的后面，可是他们还是在后面跟着，慢慢的限定的路消失了，大多人仍沿着正确的轨道前进，虽然速度不太一样，有的人就偏离了人生的轨道，并且开始不遵守旅途的规则，而且还认为自己有个性，走着自己的路，我就是属于这一类人，其实偏离方向比落在后面更惨，你不知道什么时候才能找到正确的方向，而且现在自己好像已经陷入沼泽了，无法挣脱，既看不到前进的方向，又不能往后走，继续沿着错误的方向走下去吗？一意孤行，事实证明根本走不下去，而且违背了规则，迟早会被亮红牌的！
一直在想，是不是人在困境下人都会把问题严重化，以致于自己失去了真正解决问题所需要的平和、积极的心态和冷静思考的机会。但愿事实也是如此，如果是这样，那就应该先让自己冷静下来，勇敢的面对问题，因为现在的自己整个人比较乱，无论从心态还是从行为的方式，都让自己没办法把事情处理好，事情处理不好以至于认为是环境使我必须如此。
还好，还有不少的跑在正途的朋友，在呼唤着自己走向他们，赶紧的..............................
星期一, 十二月 18, 2006
自寻烦恼
昨晚熬夜看了曼联的一场球，这是这个赛季看的第三场完整的看曼联的球，结果是曼联0：1告负。心情自然不好，我就纳闷了，看的三场球，第一场0：1负于阿森纳，第二场1：1平切尔西，加上这场，都是失分的球，我现在在想，是不是不该再看曼联的球了？
心里总是强烈的有一个倾向，可为什么结果为什么反着这个倾向呢？我一直问这个问题，不只是看球，好多生活上的事都是如此，虽然生活的压力已经迫使自己接近于绝境了，却还是关注这些无聊的事，心态是必须要改变的，不然这种坏心情必将伴随我今后的生活！
其实从冷静客观的角度去看待这些事情的话，好多类似事情发生是有其必然性的，内心不悦并不能使事态有所好转，相反，它会阻碍你去分析清楚真正的问题的所在和着手解决！
改变总是会有反复的，我有心理准备，但我仍将继续下去！！！！
星期六, 十二月 16, 2006
侥幸就行了吗？
太长时间以来，判断自己所做的事能否获得一个好的结果基本上是根据感觉来的，这样就很容易产生侥幸心理。经常去假定情况按照自己设想的有利自己的方向发展，梦想结果也是如此！可是一次次的经历验证95％的情况下，结果并不是自己想要的结果！
仔细想来，好像自己还从来没有一件事是根据理性去计划，一步步执行，一步步控制，最终达到最终结果的！都是在对事情一知半解时，然后根据自己感觉去做，感觉做了就好，根本不用去考虑是否会成功，因为感觉告诉自己是会成功的！令自己奇怪的是，明明结局不是如此，却心安理得，觉得理所当然，下次碰到事时还是如此的行为方式。
改变，是必然的！如何改变是摆在眼前一个很大的课题！
仔细想来，好像自己还从来没有一件事是根据理性去计划，一步步执行，一步步控制，最终达到最终结果的！都是在对事情一知半解时，然后根据自己感觉去做，感觉做了就好，根本不用去考虑是否会成功，因为感觉告诉自己是会成功的！令自己奇怪的是，明明结局不是如此，却心安理得，觉得理所当然，下次碰到事时还是如此的行为方式。
改变，是必然的！如何改变是摆在眼前一个很大的课题！
星期日, 十二月 10, 2006
一篇不错的文章
心理学课上，周正教授正在授课："上次下课时，一个男孩子递了张纸条：'我是个比较内向的人，又没什么特长，不会踢足球，不会打篮球……唯一的爱好是写作。
进入大学后，看到周围的同学在交往、工作中左右逢源、如鱼得水、洒脱干练，很是羡慕。就要步入社会了，我该如何规划自己的前途呢？……周教授，我想我还是当一名作家比较好，一个人，也不错，您说呢？'这个问题要不要回答？"周教授扬了扬手中的纸条。 "回――答――"同学们兴致大起，"作家梦"可是不少惮于竞争之人的救命稻草啊！
周教授放下手中的纸条："好，今天我就当面回答这位同学――我的态度，很简单：凡是做'作家梦'的人，都是逃避现实的、无能的人……"
话音未落，下面已是一片嘘声。 "我来问问你们，一支笔、一张纸的事，谁不会？当作家，就是这么简单，人人都会。我常说，一流人才在军界和商界，二流人才在政界，三流人才在学术界。
对军人而言，你领十万人，我领十万人，没本事，死的十万就是你的。这里要的是综合素质，是挑战，所以军界的人是最强的。
商界也是如此，投入两个亿，三个月后，可能家破人亡，你干不干？要的是同样的素质。
政界就不同，他可以调整、迂回，政策不行可以再改，是有余地的，但要负责任。
而学术界，一次不行两次，两次不行三次……永远不行都可以。军人和商人的成败一目了然，唯有作家可进可退，无所谓胜负成败……"
有人若有所思地点头。
"某著名作家在一所大学做讲座的时候，有同学问他怎样才能当作家？他说：'首先养活你的家，再说当作家！'"
周教授认真地看着大家，眼神里自然地流露出一种深切的关爱，"
《论语》中记载：有一次孔子来到卫国，见卫国人很多，就说'庶矣哉'，意思是'卫国人多啊'。
旁边有人问'既庶矣，又何加焉？'意思是'人多，怎么办呢？'
――问题来了，有人，人多了，怎么办？我们该做点什么呢？你们认为孔子会怎么说？"
"教之――"大家很自信，大教育家嘛。
周教授微笑着摇摇头："子曰：'富之。'
――孔子说：'让他们富起来。'你们以为有了人就要教育，却不知道在教育之前，首先要让人富起来。旁人又问：'既富矣，又何加焉？'
――'人们富足以后，又该如何？'"
"教之――"大家会心一笑。"对，人富足了才有条件接受教育。吃不好穿不暖的时候，教育是句空话，况且对衣食无安的人大谈教育，这种行为本身就不厚道。孔子不愧是教育大家，他这'不富不教'的意义很深远！
按照心理学家马斯洛的需求层次理论，人只有满足了基本的生理需求以后，才会去考虑安全、爱与被爱的需要，才会有自我实现的需要。"
"举例而言：勒紧腰带过日子的小两口，到了情人节，丈夫一咬牙，送爱妻一大束玫瑰，这时候妻子是什么感觉？" "浪漫吧？" "是浪费！"同学们争起来。 "还不如送我一双毛皮手套呢！你看看，这个冬天我的手又冻了，净花冤枉钱……"周教授开玩笑似的嗔怪道，大家在嬉笑中亦有所感悟。
"当人过日子都紧张的时候，是不会想着浪漫的，那是有钱人的享受。问你们一个常识：知道雄鸟追求雌鸟的时候，送给雌鸟的是什么？" "虫子。" "对啊，一送虫子，雌鸟就会意了：这家伙生存能力强，跟着它，今后我们的孩子不会挨饿。这是一个连鸟都明白的道理。"
下面安静极了，生怕漏掉周教授的任何一句话。 "'仓廪实而知礼节，衣食足而知荣辱。'
自古以来，人们便说'饥寒起盗心'。能吃得好、穿得好，生活安定之后才能让晚辈过正常的生活。如果没有东西吃，连父母的东西也会抢过来吃，兄弟的就更不用提了。在人们陷入最差的生活状态时，就顾不得什么道义。这就是人类真正的本性。
中国的先哲早在几千年以前，就已指出了人类的真实形貌。"
"在衣食无法获得满足时，依然能保持礼节，这是凡人做不到的事情。"
"如果希望这种兽性不要出现，期待我们最理想的人性流露，也为了维持社会秩序，提高道义，彼此能懂得礼貌，并以此幸福生活，就必须确保每个人都能有自己的收入。换句话说，要让大家能赚到钱。基于义务，我们必须要赚钱才行。
"必须赚钱！――看来，所谓"以人为本"，我们并不比古人懂得多。 "雄性丧失了生存能力就丧失了天赋雄性之本性。历史表明，男人的不幸、民族的不幸源于贫穷。所谓'贫病交加'、'穷凶极恶'……因此，你们必须认识到：挣钱是公德，要重视金钱。我这样告诉你们：男孩子，你可以不会踢足球，不会打篮球，可以不会作诗，不会弹钢琴，不会做饭。可以什么都不会，但是必须会挣钱。"
周教授的话字字珠玑、鞭辟入里。我感觉很多男孩子的眼睛在放光，不知他们看到的是压力还是希望？
"最后，再给你们一个例子，你们用心思考。比如说，快到春节了，太太说：'该过春节了，咱爸咱妈想来深圳这边，看看咱们和小外孙。'她先生立刻就说：'来啥来？根本不用来！咱已经忙得够呛了，再让他们过来，净添乱！再说，这路上，老年人多不方便！'这个男人现在是什么状态？" "气急败坏！"有人笑着回答。
"记住，凡是气急败坏的男人都是穷男人。但是另外一家，太太说：'老公啊，快过春节了，老人们都想过来看看咱们，一年没见面了！'先生说：'哦，好啊好啊，应该让他们过来。这样，你让他们坐飞机过来。'这个男人就不气急败坏，他很平静。'还有，你看，咱家的房子，这三层七八间，冷冷清清的，孩子也没有人陪着玩。爷爷奶奶来了，或者姥姥姥爷来了，家里有生气，过年过节的有生气多好！'他为什么这样说？因为这个男人有钱，他不怕，他有地方住，有钱让父母过来。他有办法显示他的孝心，而且这种男人往往不会发脾气。因为他有很大的控制权，有很好的基础，任何事情到他这里都可以化解，可以平静对待。然后，一家人高高兴兴地过了春节。老人走的时候，先生问太太：'爸妈他们有什么要求没有？''没有没有，他们都很高兴，一点要求都没有。'先生说：'我听见了，他们说老三要结婚，没房子住，他们想空出房子去住老房。这怎么可以呢？这样，在老家花6万块钱，我们出3万，三弟拿3万，盖一栋两层小楼让他们住，爸妈就不用动了。'听了这话，太太抱着丈夫说不出话来，这样的老公哪个太太不爱不感激呢？好，房子盖成了，弟弟说姐夫是好人，全村羡慕，父母开心，一家生活幸福。3万块钱，只是他一个月的工资，他愿意拿出这3万块钱。" 周教授最后说："愿意做哪一个，你们自己选择。但是，要记住：知识不一定会带来金钱，挣钱靠的是能力。"
进入大学后，看到周围的同学在交往、工作中左右逢源、如鱼得水、洒脱干练，很是羡慕。就要步入社会了，我该如何规划自己的前途呢？……周教授，我想我还是当一名作家比较好，一个人，也不错，您说呢？'这个问题要不要回答？"周教授扬了扬手中的纸条。 "回――答――"同学们兴致大起，"作家梦"可是不少惮于竞争之人的救命稻草啊！
周教授放下手中的纸条："好，今天我就当面回答这位同学――我的态度，很简单：凡是做'作家梦'的人，都是逃避现实的、无能的人……"
话音未落，下面已是一片嘘声。 "我来问问你们，一支笔、一张纸的事，谁不会？当作家，就是这么简单，人人都会。我常说，一流人才在军界和商界，二流人才在政界，三流人才在学术界。
对军人而言，你领十万人，我领十万人，没本事，死的十万就是你的。这里要的是综合素质，是挑战，所以军界的人是最强的。
商界也是如此，投入两个亿，三个月后，可能家破人亡，你干不干？要的是同样的素质。
政界就不同，他可以调整、迂回，政策不行可以再改，是有余地的，但要负责任。
而学术界，一次不行两次，两次不行三次……永远不行都可以。军人和商人的成败一目了然，唯有作家可进可退，无所谓胜负成败……"
有人若有所思地点头。
"某著名作家在一所大学做讲座的时候，有同学问他怎样才能当作家？他说：'首先养活你的家，再说当作家！'"
周教授认真地看着大家，眼神里自然地流露出一种深切的关爱，"
《论语》中记载：有一次孔子来到卫国，见卫国人很多，就说'庶矣哉'，意思是'卫国人多啊'。
旁边有人问'既庶矣，又何加焉？'意思是'人多，怎么办呢？'
――问题来了，有人，人多了，怎么办？我们该做点什么呢？你们认为孔子会怎么说？"
"教之――"大家很自信，大教育家嘛。
周教授微笑着摇摇头："子曰：'富之。'
――孔子说：'让他们富起来。'你们以为有了人就要教育，却不知道在教育之前，首先要让人富起来。旁人又问：'既富矣，又何加焉？'
――'人们富足以后，又该如何？'"
"教之――"大家会心一笑。"对，人富足了才有条件接受教育。吃不好穿不暖的时候，教育是句空话，况且对衣食无安的人大谈教育，这种行为本身就不厚道。孔子不愧是教育大家，他这'不富不教'的意义很深远！
按照心理学家马斯洛的需求层次理论，人只有满足了基本的生理需求以后，才会去考虑安全、爱与被爱的需要，才会有自我实现的需要。"
"举例而言：勒紧腰带过日子的小两口，到了情人节，丈夫一咬牙，送爱妻一大束玫瑰，这时候妻子是什么感觉？" "浪漫吧？" "是浪费！"同学们争起来。 "还不如送我一双毛皮手套呢！你看看，这个冬天我的手又冻了，净花冤枉钱……"周教授开玩笑似的嗔怪道，大家在嬉笑中亦有所感悟。
"当人过日子都紧张的时候，是不会想着浪漫的，那是有钱人的享受。问你们一个常识：知道雄鸟追求雌鸟的时候，送给雌鸟的是什么？" "虫子。" "对啊，一送虫子，雌鸟就会意了：这家伙生存能力强，跟着它，今后我们的孩子不会挨饿。这是一个连鸟都明白的道理。"
下面安静极了，生怕漏掉周教授的任何一句话。 "'仓廪实而知礼节，衣食足而知荣辱。'
自古以来，人们便说'饥寒起盗心'。能吃得好、穿得好，生活安定之后才能让晚辈过正常的生活。如果没有东西吃，连父母的东西也会抢过来吃，兄弟的就更不用提了。在人们陷入最差的生活状态时，就顾不得什么道义。这就是人类真正的本性。
中国的先哲早在几千年以前，就已指出了人类的真实形貌。"
"在衣食无法获得满足时，依然能保持礼节，这是凡人做不到的事情。"
"如果希望这种兽性不要出现，期待我们最理想的人性流露，也为了维持社会秩序，提高道义，彼此能懂得礼貌，并以此幸福生活，就必须确保每个人都能有自己的收入。换句话说，要让大家能赚到钱。基于义务，我们必须要赚钱才行。
"必须赚钱！――看来，所谓"以人为本"，我们并不比古人懂得多。 "雄性丧失了生存能力就丧失了天赋雄性之本性。历史表明，男人的不幸、民族的不幸源于贫穷。所谓'贫病交加'、'穷凶极恶'……因此，你们必须认识到：挣钱是公德，要重视金钱。我这样告诉你们：男孩子，你可以不会踢足球，不会打篮球，可以不会作诗，不会弹钢琴，不会做饭。可以什么都不会，但是必须会挣钱。"
周教授的话字字珠玑、鞭辟入里。我感觉很多男孩子的眼睛在放光，不知他们看到的是压力还是希望？
"最后，再给你们一个例子，你们用心思考。比如说，快到春节了，太太说：'该过春节了，咱爸咱妈想来深圳这边，看看咱们和小外孙。'她先生立刻就说：'来啥来？根本不用来！咱已经忙得够呛了，再让他们过来，净添乱！再说，这路上，老年人多不方便！'这个男人现在是什么状态？" "气急败坏！"有人笑着回答。
"记住，凡是气急败坏的男人都是穷男人。但是另外一家，太太说：'老公啊，快过春节了，老人们都想过来看看咱们，一年没见面了！'先生说：'哦，好啊好啊，应该让他们过来。这样，你让他们坐飞机过来。'这个男人就不气急败坏，他很平静。'还有，你看，咱家的房子，这三层七八间，冷冷清清的，孩子也没有人陪着玩。爷爷奶奶来了，或者姥姥姥爷来了，家里有生气，过年过节的有生气多好！'他为什么这样说？因为这个男人有钱，他不怕，他有地方住，有钱让父母过来。他有办法显示他的孝心，而且这种男人往往不会发脾气。因为他有很大的控制权，有很好的基础，任何事情到他这里都可以化解，可以平静对待。然后，一家人高高兴兴地过了春节。老人走的时候，先生问太太：'爸妈他们有什么要求没有？''没有没有，他们都很高兴，一点要求都没有。'先生说：'我听见了，他们说老三要结婚，没房子住，他们想空出房子去住老房。这怎么可以呢？这样，在老家花6万块钱，我们出3万，三弟拿3万，盖一栋两层小楼让他们住，爸妈就不用动了。'听了这话，太太抱着丈夫说不出话来，这样的老公哪个太太不爱不感激呢？好，房子盖成了，弟弟说姐夫是好人，全村羡慕，父母开心，一家生活幸福。3万块钱，只是他一个月的工资，他愿意拿出这3万块钱。" 周教授最后说："愿意做哪一个，你们自己选择。但是，要记住：知识不一定会带来金钱，挣钱靠的是能力。"
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