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     Ld Username: Ld Registered: 01-2007 |
這裡我想起另一個小故事。已故沈宣仁教授退休後移居洛杉磯，年中會開車到三藩市探望家人，我等舊學生總是相約一聚。大約五、六年前，在沈宣仁教授去世的前兩三年吧，有一回Dr. Shen在電話上興奮地說：「我找到一位幾十年沒有聯絡的崇基學生，你會有興趣一起見他的。」說的是林鼎彝(註)。Dr. Shen說：「他是個很反叛的學生，但很有原則，當年他經常和學校『對著幹』，特別是通識教育，批評得非常厲害，做過很多激進的事。我很欣賞這學生，最近才知道他就住在三藩市灣區，我很想見他，很想知道他怎麼樣。」Dr. Shen惦念著的是一個當年「作反」的學生！那次在奧克蘭海邊的咖啡室，我在旁邊聽著沈教授和林鼎彝訴說舊事，各自還是堅持當年的想法是對的。我感動的是，數十年後，他們毫不保留地表示互相欣賞。 談崇基的人文土壤各異 吳瑞卿 (1975/歷史) 沈宣仁教授追思礼拜紀念文集---- 遲來的一課 | ||
| Ld Username: Ld Registered: 01-2007 |
His Works, My History Robert Fan Designed Magnificent Buildings. Then Mao Came Along.  Searching for Family History in Modern Shanghai, the Washington Post's Maureen Fan went to homes designed by her grandfather, architect Fan Wenzhao, or Robert Fan, who left Shanghai when the Communists took over in 1949. By Maureen Fan Washington Post Foreign Service Wednesday, May 27, 2009 SHANGHAI -- I am standing at a desk in the Xuhui District Housing Bureau with a photograph of an old document, in search of my past. Two middle-aged bureaucrats sit behind desks, one scowling and the other eating a takeout lunch with chopsticks. "We'd like to know what the procedure is for getting back the house that belonged to her grandfather," my interpreter tells them. I look just like them, and for a moment they can't understand why someone else is speaking for me. But the Chinese my mother taught me was Cantonese, which turns out to be the wrong Chinese. After some prodding, the scowling man pulls out a weathered ledger that says a real estate agent named Zhang controlled the property after 1958, authorizing the government to rent it out. When I insist that my father and uncle know no such person, and that the family couldn't have rented out the house in the 1950s, the bureaucrat grows irritated, telling me there was "no corruption" back then. "What do you know?" he says coolly. "You're only the third generation." The history of a country changes, but often the buildings do not. They continue to stand, mute witnesses to the narrative around them. Those who control them, manage them or live in them fill them with meaning, and that's what they stand for, until history changes again and they represent something else. I come from a family of architects, and so the buildings matter to us. My grandfather was one of the most prominent architects in Shanghai, and designed the Nanking Theater, now the Shanghai Concert Hall; the Rialto, Astor and Majestic movie theaters; the YMCA building on Xizhang Road South; numerous university buildings and private residences; and the Railway and Health ministries in the southern city of Nanjing. But the buildings that drew me most were the ones my family once lived in. In particular, I kept returning to the house at 1292 Huaihai Rd., the last house my grandfather Robert Fan (or Fan Wenzhao) owned before he left China in 1949, just as the Communists took power. He and my grandmother lived here with their four children, including my father, and a handful of servants. I first visited this house in 1986, just after college, and again in 2002. I stand before it now, trying to read the history of my family in its sprawl. My father and mother are also architects, retired from their San Francisco practice since the 1990s. I'm a journalist, raised in suburbia with only an academic understanding of China until I came back in 2005 to study Mandarin and work as a correspondent for The Washington Post. Fifty years after he left, my father came back to the house he lived in on Huaihai Road, but he refused to go inside. He stood on the sidewalk staring at the house, his eyes red. He didn't want to change the meaning it held from his childhood. I go in. The house is three stories, pale yellow, like margarine, with flaking green trim and rusty scaffolding that juts haphazardly from the facade. The front porch is a tailor shop, and along one side, a tiny storefront sells cheap shoes and socks. I walk tentatively up the steps, into a labyrinth of dark rooms. The air smells like old wood and dust, mingled with the cooking of 10 families that occupy every inch of the place, from tiny rooms in the basement to the attic. Mice dart between the loose electrical cables and portable stoves that line the dingy hallways. There's a toilet next to the kitchen sink, a curtain drawn around it to provide a modicum of privacy. On the second floor, I find an elderly man sitting in an unheated room crammed with detritus: plastic bags, coat hangers, stacks of dried food. He wears a stained aqua windbreaker and a brown knitted cap against the cold. "Come in. Sit down," he smiles, motioning me and my interpreter to wooden chairs. I explain that my grandfather once owned this house. From a drawer the man fishes out a limp photocopy of a ruling issued by the People's Court, Xuhui District, in 2002. It lists my grandmother Fan Xiao Baolian as the "property owner of house No. 1292 in mid-Huaihai Road." "It is not clear where the property owner went," the People's Court declared. But I know the property owners went from a life of luxury in this spacious house to renting a small two-bedroom apartment in Hong Kong, still a British colony in 1949. Their children, in search of degrees and passports to help end their statelessness, scattered to the United States, with the end result that I -- their eldest grandchild -- was born and raised in a lily-white suburb in California. The man, a retired plastics worker, encourages me to visit the district housing bureau to reclaim the property. If I win, he tells me, the government will upgrade his room. As I set out for the bureau, I don't know whether I'm doing it more for him or for me. 'With Your Own Culture' I was drawn to my grandfather's buildings because I hoped I could pull some kind of meaning from them and learn more about him and China. He died in Hong Kong when I was a teenager and too young or ignorant to extract stories about why he left China and whether he had any regrets. From my father, I got only the barest details in between his understandable rants against the Communist Party. "Mao Zedong was not just against capitalists. He took away freedom of speech. He launched the Cultural Revolution. He killed 2 1/2 million of his own people," my father said in one of his many tirades. "Not being for Western dancing, that's fine. But he burned Confucius's books and destroyed Chinese culture. He called America a paper tiger when America was way ahead. He was an uneducated hypocrite, and he took away the best years of my life." In Shanghai, my grandfather spoke English at home, counted foreigners among his friends and kept Mies van der Rohe chairs in his living room. On weekends, he took my father, uncle and two aunts to see the Marx Brothers or Johnny Weissmuller's Tarzan free of charge, in theaters he designed. They were the privileged minority, preparing their children for university and jobs as doctors, lawyers, architects and engineers while Shanghai's poorer citizens died of starvation in the streets. If my father was bitter about Mao, I cannot fathom what my grandfather must have felt. He always believed in being open to trends outside of China. He graduated from the University of Pennsylvania in 1921, thanks to scholarship funds made available by the Americans, and returned to Shanghai heavily influenced by Paul Philippe Cret, the dean of the Beaux-Arts tradition. He began by designing buildings that incorporated both Chinese and Western elements, such as the YMCA building with its upturned eaves and large plate-glass windows. But after a tour of Europe in 1935, he began to criticize the "Chinese style" and fully embrace modern Western-style architecture, as in his design of Shanghai's Majestic Theater in 1941. This wasn't so surprising when Shanghai was known as the Paris of the East, a cosmopolitan, international center of trade headquartered along the Bund. But when Chairman Mao promised to nationalize private property and redistribute wealth less than a decade later, my grandfather's world and the future of anyone with Western attitudes were doomed. And yet, many Western buildings outlasted those whims of policy, surviving the wrenching change that China has undergone over the past 50 years. In 2003, the neoclassical Shanghai Concert Hall built by my grandfather and an architect named Zhao Chen was lifted off the ground and moved 217 feet, to allow space for an elevated roadway nearby. Some say it was saved from the wrecking ball -- at a staggering cost of $20 million -- because it is one of the few Western-style buildings designed by the Chinese. One of the men responsible for saving it was Wu Jiang, former deputy director of planning and now vice president of Tongji University. In his dissertation, he countered the argument that such buildings should be torn down because they are a reminder of China's shameful colonial subjugation. "History cannot be changed or blotted out," Wu told me. "We should respect ourselves. No matter whether they are beautiful or not, those buildings represent your past." In 1989, Shanghai had a list of 62 protected historic buildings. Today, thanks to him, it has more than 2,130. I had heard about Wu as I asked around for names of people who knew my grandfather. Wu's grandfather had also been an architect, and I was thrilled to discover that Wu's grandfather actually worked for my grandfather. Wu, 49, described the difficulties his grandfather faced as a Western-trained architect who stayed in a China that had begun to set the clock backward. Wu's father, trained as a civil engineer, was ruined by the Cultural Revolution, which reduced him to an impoverished existence in the countryside and made him a stranger to his son, Wu said. As he spoke, I thought, I could have been Wu. "Every family like us has similar stories," Wu continued. "A lot of families were totally destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. But if you survived, you had a much better life. People like me were sent to university." If you survived. Wu contrasted his life with his father's and felt grateful for going to university. I felt soft, contrasting his father's fate with my own father's acknowledgment that he could never have survived Mao's political campaigns. Then, just when I found myself feeling lucky for having been born in the United States, Wu explained why he turned down chances to emigrate. "Chinese people have a different cultural background. Here, you are with your own culture," he said. "My grandfather told me an architect needs to stay in his own culture. I argued that some Chinese architects like I.M. Pei are famous in the United States. But my grandfather said no, no, no, he's not a Chinese at all." The Clash of Ideals By the time my father finally returned to Shanghai in 2002, China was well into its third decade of a reform policy begun by Deng Xiaoping in 1979. My father stared through a rainy mist at the modern skyscrapers of Pudong, opposite the colonial buildings of the Bund. His disdain at some of the uglier buildings could not hide a kind of national pride, even after half a century in America. "Amazing, they kicked out all the foreigners and managed to do all this on their own," he said, impressed. It was quickly followed by a bitter aside. "Why did they have to kill so many people, destroy so many families and sabotage their own culture to get to the same place? "What was all the suffering for?" My father had just entered St. John's University in Shanghai when the Communists defeated Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalists. Under the Communists, the university was dismantled piece by piece. The Harvard-trained founder and dean of the school of architecture, Henry Wang, was persecuted and imprisoned during the Cultural Revolution, reportedly turned in by his own students for being too Western. By 1952, a xenophobic mentality had taken hold. Citizens were forced to shout slogans against "imperialistic capitalists." My father had to confess at weekend "study sessions" that his mind was poisoned because he came from a capitalist family. He and his friends were questioned for frequenting cafes and eating Western food. Other Chinese deemed too friendly with foreigners were persecuted so much that they chose suicide. When my father finally received an exit permit to visit my grandfather, he told none of his friends. He packed a knapsack with a sweater, a book and a few essentials and climbed onto a train with my grandmother, leaving behind his younger brother, then 19, and all their belongings. His two sisters had already gotten out. What did that feel like, I often asked my father. "That was a long time ago," was his stock answer. In China, I came to see, there is no dwelling on misfortune. No whining. No hand-wringing. There's even a term for it: "to eat bitterness." But I was raised in Marin County, where feelings matter, and I wanted to know what it was like. Pressed, my father finally said, "Of course, I didn't feel good, but I knew Grandpa would get him out." My uncle got his exit visa about six months later, but the family couldn't have known that that was certain. What was clear was that once my father was out, he had no interest in visiting China again. For 50 years, he refused to go, even though my mother went twice, and I went. He finally relented in 2002, worn down by the arguments of friends. One family friend in particular, from a prominent Shanghai banking family that had lost everything when they fled, told him she had made peace with her own bitter memories by focusing on the improvements the Communists delivered. The Communists had installed a state-run economy and cradle-to-grave job security in exchange for political loyalty. They promised to end the appalling corruption of the Nationalists but they soon substituted their own abuses of power, collectivizing farmland, sparking famines and subjecting citizens to brutal political campaigns that led to the 1966-76 Cultural Revolution. That campaign of terror against the educated and merchant classes is still felt today in the "lost" generation it produced. But at least people were no longer dying in the streets, the friend said. My father would have belonged to that generation if he had stayed. Instead, he attended graduate school near Boston, worked in New York and raised a family in California. He never looked back. As a family, we visited my grandfather in his high-rise apartment in Hong Kong. My father would describe his life in America and my grandfather would take out his chalks and draw for me. We never talked about China. The 2002 trip did not change my father's views. But it seemed to jar -- perhaps along with my posting to Beijing -- his stoic pattern of not thinking or talking about the past. One day last year, my father and I walked a well-used path with views of the Golden Gate Bridge and I talked about working in Beijing. He began talking about the revered former dean of architecture at St. John's who had studied under Walter Gropius, the founder of the Bauhaus school, and returned to China in the hopes of starting a school in the same modern tradition. Instead, Henry Wang found himself trying not to use English and having to criticize students for reading too many Western magazines. Wang and his wife, who taught English, were both placed under house arrest. They died shortly afterward, my father said, beginning to cough violently. I looked up to see that my father was actually crying. "Thank God Grandpa sent me to Harvard," he said, barely getting the words out. In his view, my grandfather's foresight had saved both their lives and my father's career. My father must have been thinking the same thing in Shanghai, standing before the house on Huaihai Road and trying to keep his emotions under control. He was silent for a long time, according to a family friend who accompanied him. When I tell him Xuhui District Housing officials say it's impossible to get the house back because there is no policy or procedure for dealing with pre-1949 houses, my father says he doesn't care. But there is another home, designed by my grandfather, that means more to him. This is a larger building on Yongfu Road that my father remembers as the "Bauhaus house," for its angular lines and turreted, rectangular windows. He lived here from 1932 until 1941, when he was 11. ad_icon Here, a retired doctor named Du Guoxing has rented two rooms on the second floor since 1958. Du shows me the original mosaic floor in his bathroom and the view onto the back garden where my father played as a boy. Du and his wife actually have another place to live. "But I still spend time every day in this house to commemorate my parents," he said. "A neighbor told us the original owner was an architect, who used to live in the room next to ours. His two daughters shared this room." It is in the lines of this house that I can see my grandfather's hopes and ambitions. This house is boxy and square from the outside, absent decorative detail and almost industrial in style. The windows are galvanized steel, once painted black but now red with rust. Inside, the stairway landings are geometric half circles. In places, I can see the original parquet floor and solid metal door handles. This is my grandfather, trained in the Beaux-Arts but following the modern International movement that came into fashion after he returned from the United States. At a time when most Shanghai voices urged a focus on traditional Chinese design, I see him rejecting decoration that serves no purpose, applying that foreign mantra "form follows function." I imagine him poring through American architectural magazines, not unlike the students in China today, studying the latest Western trends. I picture him lecturing colleagues and apprentices on paying attention to the competition and not looking inward, as China did for so many years. I can see the cost of doing so in the jumbled lives of the many tenants in the house on Huaihai Road. But that house seems to no longer have any real meaning for my family. Instead, it is the house on Yongfu Road that tells me the most. It reminds me that China once looked forward and outward, and is doing so again today, faster than it has ever done before. News researcher Zhang Jie contributed to this report. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/05/26/AR2009052603481.html?sub=AR ======================================= http://www.cccalumni.hk/uploads/newsletters/newsletter200712.pdf 斯樓斯情 -崇基校園建築 文: 江燕妮 (2001/新傳) 圖: 靳杰強 (1966/物理) 壹 「樸雅融文照海山」 由古至今，從東至西，人與地均有密切的關係。雖然有謂「大學者，非大樓也，乃大師也」，但以今 世大學之規模看來，談大師、說理念之餘，硬體建設顯然也不容忽視。 大學之理念須推及至實在的建構，實在的建構又與大學之發展息息相關。大學建築在創建大學獨特歷史、文化方面的作用是不言而喻的=E F觀乎四海內之大學，各具獨特歷史、文化意義，各自的內在涵義均反映在校園建築中。香港中文大學，從來都是地靈人傑的大學城，而大學城最早的組成部分便是崇基校園。正是因為崇基山水環抱，地理條件得天獨厚，中大成立後，便決定選址馬料水，成就了今天的中文大學。去年，崇基校史檔案館舉辦了《創校文物展》；今年，承接《創校文物展》之餘韻，中大建築系顧大慶教授、仁社(67年)老校友與學院合力成就了「宏圖再現」展覽會，重點著墨崇基校園老建築與發展。誠然，當我們每天均遇上同一人同 8 0物，未必會洞察其可愛珍貴之處，此乃人之惰性與習慣性使然。尤其是在青蔥無憂的歲月裡，小伙子們在校園內與松鼠牛蛙、梧桐白蘭、如茵綠坡、樸雅建築擦身而過，也渾然不覺自己身處花樹栽培、疊山環水的景致中。「宏圖再現」展覽會正好勾勒出差點給遺忘的史料與校園發展的重要過程。 建築大師范文照 崇基校園面向蒼蒼鞍山、洋洋吐露，建築物既收入了山水的千姿百態，亦凝集了與自然融合的精華，具有鮮明的「野趣」特色。而締造崇基校園建築藝術與自然美結合的建築師又是何許B A呢？范文照(1893-1979)也。 范文照在中國近代建築史上享有重要地位，是中國第一批到美國攻讀建築的留學生，比另一建築大師梁思成(梁啟超之子)和他的夫人林徽因更早學成返國。范文照畢業於上海聖約翰大學，再在美國賓夕法尼亞大學攻讀建築碩士，三十二歲奪得「中山陵」設計第二獎，後來更成為南京「中山陵」的建築師。范文照設計的上海音樂廳（原名南京音樂廳）亦給上海政府列為「近代優秀建築保護單位」，受到不遺餘力的保護。 當年正是因為在崇基校史檔案館無意中看到范文照這響噹噹的名字C引起顧大慶教授的好奇心，想一窺大師的設計歷程，才展開了資料搜集研究，以至後來在學院及六七年級仁社支持下，重塑各建築細則，製成早期校園的模型。「很可惜，」顧教授惋惜道，「范文照設計崇基建築的手繒圖一張也找不到，餘下只有碩果僅存的建築物及零星的記錄、筆記而已。」 樸雅餘韻 顧教授指范文照代表了實事求是的現代風格，他解釋道：「范文照的設計不重外表，重功能，且專注解決現實的問題和與地形的結合。他的建築多就地取材，配合四周環境，用石頭鋪建築物表面便是其中一個特色。」無怪乎應林堂、華連堂等這些我們現在還看得到的早期學生宿舍，均以石塊堆砌成牆身，與周遭林蔭相映照，渾然天成，和諧而樸雅。 建築與當代社會環境關係密切。五六十年代，香港社會整體條件不大好，蓋房子的經費很少，施工時間又短，有時候幾個月時間便要蓋好房子。顧教授闡釋說：「房子往往蓋了一半，不夠經費便要停工，待有錢再繼續施工。我們的學生宿舍也斷續了多次才能蓋好呢！在這樣的條件下，便會發展出建築師實事求是的風格。」建築，正好是那個年代的反=E 6，歷史的寫照。 後期周耀年李禮芝建築師事務所接手設計崇基校園，仍秉承了范文照實而不華之風。顧教授強調：「范文照的設計樸雅 實用，以配合校園內的山光水色。那年代的設計水平很高，而且有很好的設計傳統。」社會在發展，價值也在改變。顧教授 表示：「以往社會條件有限，建築設計都會著重發展建築物原來的內在特質，沒甚麼裝潢；而現在條件富裕了，則反其道而 行，著重由外在給建築物附加裝飾。可以說，現在的設計水平較舊時遜色。」社會要發展，去舊立新無可避免。但若舊之價 值無可取代，甚至新不如舊，又該如何取捨呢？ 《小戴禮記》〈大學篇〉謂：「大學之道，在明明德，在親民，在止於至善。」受過大學教育者，都應明辨是非，目光 遠大，不能只顧眼前小利而妄顧先賢所種下之根本。道，由多代人努力艱辛營建出來，由從前走到未來，我們既要有遠景， 也要顧及歷史之延續，薪火之相傳；認清大學之理念，便應堅定不移，擇善固執，此乃謂「止於至善」。 「樸雅融文照海山」之建築，承載了我們幾代人流金歲月的回憶，映照了一張張青春的臉龐、一份份求學4熱情、一段段深刻的感情與往事…… 它，既是一代大師僅存的校園建築，更是大學、社會發展的歷史印記，敢問，有誰可摒棄這流金歲月、建築瑰寶、歷史印記呢？ 貳 崇基建築簡史 一九五一年十月，崇基學院成立。翌年，聖公會何明華會督與李應林院長踏破鐵鞋，終於覓得新界十一咪半附近狗肚山一帶沃地(即馬料水)為崇基校園所在。一九五六年，建築師范文照先生完成建築設計圖，馬料水新校舍工程陸續展開。 崇基校園發展大致可分五個階段，五十年代為創建初期，主體建築基本完成；一九五六年初開始建設，同年底即落成啟用。六十年代為崇基校園基本成形期，所謂老校園的主要建築均已落成，所有設計均出自范文照和周耀年李禮芝建築師事務所，故建築風格統一，形成獨特的「田園」風貌景致。七十年代，眾志堂和新圖書館等一批新建築落成，開始在校園引入不同的建築風格。八十至九十年代，開始大規模拆卸老建築，建設新教學樓。二千年，隨著利黃瑤璧樓和崇基行政樓之落成，老校園中心區的原來面貌基本消失。 部份現存的崇基老建築有： (一) 女生宿舍 (今華連堂)=2 0(1955-1958)在范文照最初設計中，華連堂(圖一)原為男生宿舍。建築工程分兩個階段完成，而范文照原來設計的房間面積比較大。一九七○年，命名為「華連堂」以紀念已故校董華連博士。仁社敬贈母校之校園模型 (二) 臨時女生宿舍 (今蘭苑) (1956)一九五六年，建校委員會決定建造臨時學生宿舍，設計師很可能是范文照，但無任何文字記錄。臨時女生宿舍是磚結構建築，正式宿舍建成後，此樓曾用作為史地系歷史地理室及學生組織辦公室，至九十年代末，改為現時的「蘭苑」。「蘭苑」位於今之何添樓(早期飯堂)側(圖四D方之平房)，藏於花木之間，是崇基至今尚存的最早建築。 (三) 教職員宿舍第一至三座 (1956-1957)范文照該是教職員宿舍第一座和第二座之設計者。范文照曾如斯描述：兩座不相連的兩層高建築，各提供四個單位，起居室和飯廳成「L」形的空間，起居室備有壁爐，廚房面對飯廳，廚房後門連接開放式洗衣間和傭人房。第三座的設計者則無從稽考，按時間推論，該是周耀年李禮芝建築師事務所。 (四) 男生宿舍 (今應林堂) (1956-1958)在范文照最初設計中，應林堂(圖三最右)原為女生宿舍，但因其比較靠近鐵路及校園邊緣，從9 D安角度考慮，改為男生宿舍。應林堂建造經費來自美國長老會和復初會的捐贈。整個建築工程分兩個階段，先建西翼，再獲捐款後完成東翼。一九七零年，命名為「應林堂」以紀念已故校長李應林博士。 (五) 禮拜堂暨學生中心 (今崇基教堂) (1959-1962)由周耀年李禮芝建築師事務所設計。崇基教堂(圖二)位於校園西北角的高地上，從火車站看去位置突出，屬地標性建築。教堂設有696 個座位，從內可遙望馬鞍山。當年建設費達百萬港元之巨，全部由加拿大聯合教會捐贈。 (六) 醫療院 (今教職員宿舍第七座) (1960-1962)一九五七年「崇基募捐醫療院委員會」成立，動員學院教職員和學生募捐籌資，由周耀年李禮芝建築師事務所設計，後改為學院教職員宿舍第七座。 (七) 教職員聯誼會會所 (1962-1966)由周耀年李禮芝建築師事務所設計。會所選址在教堂對面，岩石之上，旁有水澗流過；會所為平屋頂，對稱平面，分上下兩層，上層為教職員餐廳，下層為閱覽室和客房，主入口在上層。 (八) 教職員宿舍第五座 (1963-1965)由周耀年李禮芝建築師事務所設計。樓高六層，每個單位兩房一廳，並設有電梯和停車場，可供十二戶居住。教職員宿舍第六座緊靠E7五座，一九六五年建造，翌年落成，設計與第五座相同，後成為大學的賓館「博文苑」。 在學院發展過程中，有不少別具歷史價值的建築給拆卸，當中以教學樓建築群(圖四)之拆卸尤其令人惋惜。原教學樓建築群乃仿「四合院」式設計，由教學樓第一座至第八座組成，蓋建歷時十年之久(1958-1967)，前三座由范文照設計，其餘則由周耀年李禮芝建築師事務所完成。建築群分三個梯級，自山坡腳向上伸延，現址為許讓成樓、王福元樓、李慧珍樓一帶。整個建築群中只保留了第六座(現為李慧珍樓北翼)和第七座(現為李A 7珍樓南翼)而已。 崇基健筆黃秀蓮(1980/中文)、盧廣鋒(1967/歷史)均撰有鴻文談崇基校園早期建設。蒙作者慨允，黃文〈且慢，那是崇基古蹟〉及盧文〈樸雅融文照海山〉同刊今期《崇基校友》之電子園地（http://www.cccalumni.hk/enewsletter），不容錯過。 |