《骆驼祥子》
THE DEATH OF THE MOTHAfter a time, tired by his dancing apparently, he settled on the window ledge in the sun, and the queer spectacle being at an end, I forgot about him. Then, looking up, my eye was caught by him. He was trying to resume his dancing, but seemed either so stiff or so awkward that he could only flutter to the bottom of the window-pane; and when he tried to fly across it he failed. Being intent on other matters I watched these futile attempts for a time without thinking, unconsciously waiting for him to resume his flight, as one waits for a machine, that has stopped momentarily, to start again without considering the reason for its failure. After perhaps a seventh attempt he slipped from the wooden ledge and fell, fluttering his wings, on to his back on the window-sill. The helplessness of his attitude roused me. It flashed upon me that he was in difficulties; he could no longer raise himself; his legs struggled vainly. But , as I stretched out a pencil, meaning to help his to right himself, it came over me that the failure and awkwardness were the approach of death. I laid the pencil down again.
The legs agitated themselves once more. I looked as if for the enemy against which he struggled. I looked out of doors. What had happened there? Presumably it was midday, and work in the fields had stopped. Stillness and quiet had replaced the books. The horses stood still. Yet the power was there all the same, massed outside indifferent, impersonal, not attending to anything in particular. Somehow it was opposed to the little hay-coloured moth. It was useless to try to do anything. One could only watch the extraordinary efforts made by those tiny legs against an oncoming doom which could, had it chosen, have submerged an entire city, not merely a city, but masses of human beings; nothing, I knew, had any chance against death.
Nevertheless after a pause of exhaustion the legs fluttered again. It was superb this last protest. And so frantic that he succeeded at last in righting himself. One’s sympathies, of course, were all on the side of life. Also, when there was nobody to care or to know, this gigantic effort on the part of an insignificant little moth, against a power of such magnitude, to retain what no one else valued or desired to keep, moved one strangely. Again, somehow, one saw life, a pure bead. I lifted the pencil again, useless though I know it to be. But even as I did so, the unmistakable tokens of death showed themselves. The insignificant little creature now knew death. As I looked at the dead moth, this minute wayside triumph of so great a force over so mean an antagonist filled me with wonder. Just as life had been strange a few minutes before, so death was now as strange. The moth having righted himself now lay most decently and uncomplainingly composed. O yes, he seemed to say, death is stronger that I am.
《骆驼祥子》
老舍
祥子想找个地方坐下，把前前后后细想一遍，哪怕想完只能哭一场呢，也好知道哭得是什么；事情变化得太快了，他的脑子已追赶不上。没有地方给他坐，到处是雪。小茶馆们已都关上门，十点多了；就是开着，他也不肯进去，他愿意找个清静地方，他知道自己眼眶中转着的泪随时可以落下来。
即没有地方坐一坐，只好慢慢的走吧；乐事，上哪里去呢？这个银白的世界，没有他坐下的地方，也没有他的去处；白茫茫的一片，只有饿着肚子的小鸟，与走投无路的人，知道什么叫做哀叹。
上哪儿去呢？这就成个问题，先不用想别的！下小店？不行！凭他这一身衣服，就能半夜里丢失点什么，先不说店里的虱子有多么可怕。上大一点的店？去不起，他手里只有五块钱，而且是他的整部财产。上澡堂子？十二点上门，不能过夜。没地方去。
不知不觉的，他来到了中海。到桥上，左右空旷，一眼望去，全是雪花。他这才似乎知道了雪还没住，摸一摸头上，毛线织的帽上已经很湿。桥上没人，连岗警也不知躲到哪里去了，有几盏电灯被雪花打的仿佛不住的眨眼。祥子看看四外的雪，心中茫然。
他在桥上立了许久，世界像是已经死去，没一点声音，没一点动静，灰白的雪华似乎得了机会，慌乱的，轻快的，一劲儿往下落，要人不知鬼不觉的把世界埋上。
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