《夜驰白马》是一部描写青年追求梦想的小说，主人公在面临困难和挑战时，始终坚持自己的信念和目标，勇敢前行。小说通过主人公的成长和奋斗，展现了坚持与勇气的重要性，让人感慨生活中的种种困难都可以被战胜，只要心中有梦想和勇气。
夜驰白马读后感(一)
读过这部文集后，总结了权聆的几个创作特点，跟大家分享。
个人认为，正是这些特点使她的作品呈现独特的幽冷的光华，令人过目难忘。
第一、在短小的篇幅内设立戏剧性极强的冲突，巧妙推动情节的发展；第二、叙述手法凝练、冷静，想象力丰富、瑰丽；第三、长于精心构筑多重叙事线索，叙事角色之间的转换纯熟、流畅、自然；第四、善于营造氛围，作者用寥寥几笔就能勾画出作品独特的时空处境；最后，作者显然研习过一些现代西方的创作方法，作品中能看出魔幻现实主义和意识流的痕迹，但作者将这些西方的创作手法与中国故事很好地结合起来，形成了较独特的创作风格。
夜驰白马读后感(二)
怎样将人物锁死在时间的平面里
年关交界，《夜驰白马》书到。翻了两个故事，同事问我如何，我说很好，邪气森森。
像我生活平凡，读书便容易有个体会——互文见义。翻起故事来，只觉得都很好，如果非用一二三四说出怎样好法，大约只好这样来描述我的感受：某篇节奏好像阿加莎•克里斯蒂的《夜莺别墅》，某篇的女子款款行来忍不住想到张爱玲，某篇的主角携手而行竟叫我联想到《故事新编》里的《铸剑》，而某篇和某篇，居然把《民国时期的土匪》自动翻译出来作了脚注……哎呀，真好。“好”字里的苍白，便是看书人与写书人之间的差距。
这本书最合我心意之处，便是篇篇将人锁死。
《夜驰白马》没让我瞧出格外的好，偏偏单独挑出来作了书名，我猜是这篇里藏了锁头：“哎，千年如一日，孩子，我常常想，或许真有位高人在天际外饶有兴致地观察我们，把我们当作他圈养的丰盛餐食，间或撒点雪花、撒点乌鸦，如同我们在馅饼上撒香葱芝麻，然后大口大口地吞食。”也正因为如此，我越发地不喜欢这篇，缺了主旨上神神叨叨的含蓄，再诡异的结构也抵不上气质上的邪气森森。
你看，如果你当真看到现在，必定还不知道故事怎样锁死自己的主角。这么说吧，从前有一条河，河里有许多鱼虾，河水翻滚呀，有的鱼虾争斗不息，却没看到大波浪就要来啦，有的大鱼借着波浪起伏吃掉了好多小虾，还有的鱼虾随着水势起伏，下的变上，上的变下……
《夜驰白马》叫人欢喜，很重要一点就是：人是人。《星星掉进河里》的女人胸口插着匕首被抬到冯老爷的床上，我卡在“像折断的豆芽菜”里没想明白死掉的究竟是哪个，把最后一段读了两遍，想到那个女人袅娜的步子、土匪头头一班手下的眼红和“土匪配妓女最是绝佳”的轻飘来，那个全部描述不过百字的女人居然叫我心底一片茫茫的酸，对犯下事科的徐老大，却是恨不上来，只陷在故事背后那个苍茫的时代里，只有无力。不能恨，简直是对想要大刀阔斧直来直去的读者的一大惩罚，我也好想横刀立马，起码在故事里快意恩仇——带着洞悉故事的精明，指着一个人骂，怂包。《星星掉进河里》不行，《鹅美人》不行，连《我希望活下来》都不给好人一个痛快。故事虽好，终归还是时不时合上书停下来，需要透透气，缓一缓。
仍然地，我偏喜欢跟着作者冷冷看人锁死。时间的平面上，有人见机驶舵，有人暗然神伤，啪哒一声，锁落，他们都锁在他们挣不脱、也许也从未想过挣脱的时间的平面上。
除了这一点，作者显然还找到了另一个锁死的玩法。时间不是有个平面吗，那么我们让它首尾相接，比如《处女公墓》；我们让它扭一扭再首尾相接（想想莫比乌斯带），比如——《夜驰白马》。
我矫情地疼痛和热爱着时间的冷漠，难免分外赞扬顺其自然冷漠着的作者。
最后，借老子作最后的概括：天地不仁，以万物为刍狗。
夜驰白马读后感(三)
Right now the case was being brought up again,all due to a woman’s hatred, a very resentful woman. She would walk through the empty house and deserted garden, going over family affairs item by item, cursing her long-deceased husband, cursing a certain woman, and going over and over again the injustice of fate which had denied her a child to look after her in her old age. Surprisingly, during her lucid intervals, this same woman could recite verses of poetry. It became known far and wide that there was an old woman in this town who could recite poetry. However, she would give people a fright when she stretched out a scrawny hand and call out to some young fellow who happened to be passing by. Her fading figure was wrapped in a riding habit, though she had no whip in her hand. Even so, one could imagine what a fine figure she had cut in her day. She would explain to whoever would listen that this particular style of riding habit had been in fashion for a couple of years, but that after the war, no one wore it anymore. When she was on this topic, her eyes though anxious, would look quite harmless. But then she would be compelled by a strange impulse to clutch at young fellows passing by and ask: “Did you tell them that you had that child with her？ Don’t say that the child was ours. I forbid you to say that the child was ours…” Like a ghost from the past, she was allowed to babble on, making no sense at all.
