星期一和星期二，会议和读大样的间隙，继续读与上海博物馆合作的“文博特刊”的样稿：CDIKSTVXZ。

Compass指南针。被中国历史教材灌输大的我们，鲜有不知道指南针与中国历史的关系的。可是，知道到了应该知道的时候，戛然而止。这种戛然而止带来的痛，值得我们一次一次地回望。

Delacroix德拉克鲁瓦。嗜血的浪漫主义画家，虽不是在我们眼前、我们耳边、我们嘴里的那个画家，但是，他用画作展示的惊心动魄的一生，值得我们将目光从毕加索的身上移开一会儿。

Isis伊西斯。过往深似海，除非专门研修这一国别、这一段历史，怎么会将目光投注在伊西斯身上？或许，我们会浮起浅笑弱弱地问：我这一辈子不知道伊西斯，又如何？当然不会少你一缕衣、一粒粟，但是，知道后你也许会多感受到些微母性的光辉。

Kyoto京都。金阁寺旁边的小巷子，碎石子铺成的小街，叫我更记得京都。此文多涉及寺院，可是，我宁愿相信此文是一篇引言，引导我们去读林文月的《京都一年》以及三岛由纪夫的小说《金阁寺》，等等。

Shah’ AbbasⅠ波斯的阿拔斯一世。我想重点推荐一下此文。阿拔斯一世早已是故人，且已被后人盖棺论定。即便如此，每一支笔会写出不一样的阿拔斯一世。我们这一篇《阿拔斯一世》，由孟德斯鸠的《波斯人信札》开篇，随后乘上飞毯，让我们领略到阿拔斯一世时期的风土人情。

Tea茶。一时语塞，说到茶的时候。这几年，关于茶的书籍一本接一本出摊，好评如潮的好书也不止一本，比如，潘向黎的《茶可道》。茶，刚一入口只是苦，反复涵咏才能体会到其中的甘，所以，没想过用一篇文章引导我们的中学生读者弃可乐就茶，但，茶能牵出很长很长一段历史。往往，贴近市井的历史最本真。

Van Gogh梵高。似乎已经没有惊人之语用来评说这位备受灵魂远远走在肉体前面的痛苦折磨的画家了，那么，我们就炒炒冷饭吧。况且，冷饭是对特别钟爱梵高的粉丝而言。比如，我喜欢梵高在一般等级上，所以我就不知道那首我在上世纪80年代就听熟的“Starry,  Starry  Night”原来是唱给梵高的。

Xerxes薛西斯。我也是在读过这篇文章后才深切地体会到波斯文明居然如此悲催。任何为人类文明贡献过智慧和力量的文化，都值得我们深情地注目，所以，从薛西斯开始，上溯到他的父亲大流士，再往上，他的外公居鲁士，也许，薛西斯就不仅仅是斯巴达300勇士手下的败将了，他也是英雄！

Zen禅。同样一个汉字，中文的读音和日文的读音大相径庭，而在英文世界里，借用的读音源自日本，这没法叫我们不郁闷。事已至此，我们只有更了解乃至亲近禅宗，才能以禅宗的百炼钢化作绕指柔的优游不迫，去怀柔英文管禅叫Zen而不是Chan的事实。

与工作相关的文字多无趣，“文博特刊”是例外。可惜的是，例外不多，于是我这里在一点一点地品赏。

而那首因为梵高而写的美国民谣，却是魅力犹存，它或许能让我们寡淡的工作时间变得有点儿色彩。

Starry starry night

paint your palette blue and grey

look out on a summer's day

with eyes that know the darkness in my soul.

Shadows on the hills

sketch the trees and the daffodils

catch the breeze and the winter chills

in colors on the snowy linen land.

And now I understand

what you tried to say to me

and how you suffered for your sanity

and how you tried to set them free.

They would not listen they did not know how

perhaps they'll listen now.

Starry starry night

flaming flowers that brightly blaze

swirling clouds in violet haze

reflect in Vincent's eyes of China blue.

Colors changing hue

morning fields of amber grain

weathered faces lined in pain

re smoothed beneath the artist's loving hand.

And now I understand

what you tried to say to me

and how you suffered for your sanity

and how you tried to set them free.

They would not listen they did not know how

perhaps they'll listen now.

For they could not love you

but still your love was true

and when no hope was left in sight on that

starry starry night.

You took your life as lovers often do,

But I could have told you Vincent

this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

Starry starry night

portraits hung in empty halls

frameless heads on nameless walls

with eyes that watch the world and can't forget.

Like the stranger that you've met

the ragged men in ragged clothes

the silver thorn of bloody rose

lie crushed and broken on the virgin snow.

And now I think I know

what you tried to say to me

and how you suffered for your sanity

and how you tried to set them free.

They would not listen they're not listening still

perhaps they never will.