我想极少有人知道二十年前甚至三十年前你是那么一个漂亮的男人。金发密布,体形瘦削,至于眼睛,眼睛依旧像今日一样,深深的,深深的,要审判这个世界和己身的欲望,复又夹杂一丝丝迷茫,或有时天真,像BL中黑人女孩径直在庭审中高歌tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya tomorrow时,饶有趣味审视着女孩的才能。
所以在Sex, Lies and Videotape中, 我轻易倾倒了。在White Palace中,我再次心动了。在Crash,在Pretty In Pink,在Secretary中,我不断地不断地伤感了。时间机器在我们尚不知的时候运转,固然美人迟暮教人惆怅。而美少年的消逝更让我等一票女性观众伤怀。
Please do allow me to deliver a message, one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:
“Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg.”
Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will do it. But if there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?