Who has seen mint grass on the windowsill? How to know the information of the author Tintin?

The author of mint grass on the windowsill (formerly known as Tintin) is 26 years old this year. He suffered from "systemic lupus erythematosus" at the age of 16, and died after ten years' suspension. For ten years, she suffered from aphasia, insomnia, auditory hallucinations and hallucinations because of drugs ... However, unexpectedly, she felt happier than others because she heard voices that others could not hear and saw scenery that others could not see. /kloc-Mincao, who was absorbed as a member by Jiangsu Writers Association at the age of 0/2, has been writing this song of life with her heart and pen-

Even in the loneliest times,

Even though tears make me unable to see the world clearly,

I'm still listening,

The sound of happiness.

Miss the flowers that belong to spring in summer.

Mint grass

10 years ago, she was 16 years old and suffered from "lupus erythematosus". Since then, her life has been disrupted, and she has been dropping out of school and receiving chemotherapy. Due to the side effects of the drug, she suffered from insomnia, aphasia, auditory hallucinations and hallucinations. A beautiful girl is suffering from a disease that should not belong to her. However, she is not cowardly or world-weary. She is stronger and knows more about the value of life. Moreover, when she suffers from insomnia, aphasia and hallucinations, she thinks she is happier than others, because she sees the scenery that others can't see and hears the music that others can't hear. Her name is Cao Min, a beautiful, strong, intelligent and sensitive girl.

Bi Shumin: For "Peppermint on the Window"

Li Xiuwen, who had only met once, called me in hot weather and said that she hoped I could write something for mint grass. I know this is Xiuwen's trust in mint grass and me. I cherish trust, so I put pen to paper in extreme busyness.

I was shocked when I read the words of mint grass. They are so sincere and pure, with a stubbornness that I would rather die than surrender. I thought it was more sad. I have been a doctor for many years and have witnessed countless lives and deaths. My heart has become as tough as shark skin in the friction of blood and tears again and again. But the words of mint grass melted it like nitric acid, making it into a net with faint water and light inside.

Mint grass is seriously ill. She deeply felt the pain and passed it on to each of us. In this kind of communication, mint grass is no longer lonely. Her words are her companions and accompany her through the difficulties. After reading these words, I sighed and cherished them. The blood of mint grass is thin because of treatment, but this thin blood is still boiling and burning. I respect her justice and courage.

I hope that patients and patients will read these beautiful and firm words, and you will feel the power under the surface of a pair of pale fingers.

Li Xiuwen: Mint grass continues your unfinished song.

"If I shout, who will hear me in the sequence of angels?" Late at night, I write, I read poems, and I imagine sad Rilke standing under an oak tree. I can also imagine him standing in a pub and Rodin's studio, which belongs to my imagination and no one can control it. I may not need an angel to listen to me. However, some people need it, just like mint grass on a full moon night. As soon as I was rescued, I pushed open the door of the emergency room. My friend Mincao sent a short message to my mobile phone: "There is a tiger sniffing roses in my heart."

Just a few hours ago,

I just wrote the inscription of an article, which contains sixteen words: there is a tiger in your heart, you can smell the roses carefully; After the feast, I was in tears. A few years ago, during my trip, I saw these sixteen words on the broken wall of an unknown bus station in Aba. To this day, I can still remember that I suddenly felt sad at that time-this is the case now. I grabbed the phone and called Tintin to tell her about my trip. Oh, no, it's mint grass (actually, I prefer to call her Ding Ding, which is the name on her ID card).

This is just one of the countless rescues she has experienced. My friend Cao Min was born to die. She has been suffering from lupus since she was 15 years old. This has been an indescribable eleven years. No one can help her. She must face herself alone. Therefore, she changed from Tintin to Cao Min and wrote these long and short sentences that made me cry many times. I understand her weakness and sadness, as well as her desire and despair. She can't stand extreme weakness and severe auditory hallucinations. That's just because she is so attached to the world that she can still find the biggest surprise in the deepest despair, just as Rilke said, "Because beauty is nothing, just the beginning of the horror we can just bear."

Just like her "fun run", she underwent chemotherapy for a whole day. When no one was in the middle of the night, our Tintin secretly went to see the sea while the doctor on duty was asleep, but the waves didn't make her smile. On the contrary, it only made her more aware of her weakness and went home crying-that's it, she is not a hero, and secular desires are just like you and me, so. Just like the pianist who ignored the Nazis with music in the film The Pianist, Tintin also made himself forget his fate with weak and sensitive records. Only in this way can illness become her lifebuoy.

Live, Tintin, or Mint Grass, use your life interest to make death meaningless, and let your body melt in words, just like a drop of water melts in another drop of water; I'm talking to two names, Tintin or Mint Grass. When Ding Ding was ill, we invited Mincao to come out and ask her to sing, and continued to sing her broken porcelain and broken heart. As for us, we can't help you. We can't replace your destiny. We can only read your words and witness that you came to this world, leaving behind love and resentment. Similarly, we can't answer your question: why is love so difficult and resentment so unbearable?

I like a poem by Hesse called Children in July, which reads: "We are all children in July, and the red poppy is our compatriot. It was in the wheat field, shining red on the burning wall, and then its petals were blown off by the strong wind. " However, Hesse added: "Our life should also be like a night in July, carrying dreams, and we should complete its round dance." Several times, I tried to send this poem to Cao Min by mobile phone to let her continue her dance, but my SMS skills were really inferior to hers, and I didn't receive it.

Would she have written more and better if (although it was impossible) the disease had not entangled mint grass? I absolutely believe it, but whether sad or confused, neither she nor I can live my life again. Those chests stand where we have walked, and they are like scabs, printed under our eyebrows. When you push them aside, they are still there. So her short sentences are her unfinished songs and a small part of her irreplaceable fate.

From the first time I read Cao Min's words, I wanted to find an opportunity to publish a book for her. As far as I know, this is also the same wish of her and her mother. This dream is coming true, but she has not been spared from weakness and auditory hallucinations. It was when she had just come back from the dead. I wrote to her and said: The reason why I want to publish this book is not to make this book your graveyard.

So, Tintin is still mint grass, and I'm still talking to two names. Live, write and continue your unfinished song.

Deng Yiguang: Compared with mint grass, we have no time to be sad.

Do we have sad times? Like mint grass, for example, at 8 o'clock in the morning, I go to the hospital for treatment day after day, and because the treatment reflects vomiting, I let the disinfectant squeeze myself into a baby, and I don't even have the right to reinfect. My life is fragile into a blade of grass, but I stubbornly like the comedy world, pure novelty and warmth-in name only?

We have no time to grieve. Our life is so thin that we don't know what sadness is. We are not as complete as mint grass, not as happy as her, not as healthy as her. Our sadness only comes from ourselves.

I couldn't believe it when I first heard Xiuwen say mint grass. A girl who suffered from an incurable disease at an early age has been treated for many years. No one promised to give her life except the mother who refused to give up because of her daughter's desperate fate. Once after the treatment, she washed the vomit in her mouth, carefully combed her braids and went to the seaside with a pale face. She went there to see the sea and listen to what the sea said. ...

I can't believe there is such a life in this world, weak and sensitive; I can't believe that life ends at the beginning, before it blooms, when there are not many experiences to tell, and when I go to the hospital every morning. I can't imagine how this life claiming to be mint grass went to the seaside, what kind of sea can it see and what kind of sea language can it hear? Is she really different from us? Is what she saw and heard really different from what we saw and heard?

The person who spent two years understanding a song is gone. The people who designed the hospital into a fairy tale castle have disappeared; Life is torn inch by inch, but I can never see anyone who misses eating green peppers and refuses to cry. I mean, when everyone becomes smarter and smarter, when life can meet any of our requirements without our fantasies, the seriousness and persistence of wanting to know what a song is about is gone now; Knowing that life is cruel, compromising, or fighting against life's injustice, estrangement, or splitting oneself has gradually become a fashion spirit. This innocence and joy of turning the hospital into a fairy tale castle is gone forever.

Mint grass is one of those people who disappeared. She appeared among us with our lost ability to listen to happiness and have sadness. This should be seen as a return. She came back to us and told us to be alert to our rigid life, smile silently and learn to be sentimental again.

We have no time to grieve, we should grieve for it. Because of this, when the book mint grass on the windowsill is published, I will cross the street to the bookstore across the street on a sunny afternoon and read it quietly at home. Maybe the door will be knocked, maybe the lights will go out, maybe the sea will overflow into the house. No matter what happens, one thing is certain: I will always remember what I read.