: Shuxiang
On a rainy afternoon in Chu Qing, I received two books from afar.
When I got home, I couldn't wait to open the package, and two new books overflowing with ink suddenly came into view. These two books were donated when I participated in an essay-writing activity of a literary society. Open the title page of the book, and the thick book fragrance comes to my face. For people who love words, books are undoubtedly the most precious gift. Facing the new book full of ink and looking at the vigorous and heavy signature of the author on the title page, I felt a lot of emotion in my heart for an instant.
I had a childhood without books and paper, and my parents were honest farmers. They work hard from morning till night, barely eating and wearing. After being a little sensible, I wanted to ask my parents for money to buy books, but I was persuaded by myself again and again. There is a little friend in the village who is about my age. Because my grandfather was a private school teacher when he was alive, there were many books at home. When I know this, I often beg her to lend me books. Occasionally, I will take out snacks I can't bear to eat and exchange books with her. To borrow books from her house, you have to stare at the gap between her parents' work in the fields and sneak in through her back door. If the little friend's fierce mother finds out, it will be difficult for her to borrow books in the future.
Every time my friends and I tiptoed, lit a flashlight and climbed to the attic to look for books, it was the happiest thing in my whole childhood. From black-and-white picture books to Jin Yong's martial arts novels, I don't want to miss any of them, and I will always be attracted by old pages covered with thick dust. When I was young, the world with books was so beautiful. Tianyu clarifies that the clouds are light and the wind is light, and even the river will play cheerful notes.
Many times, in order to borrow books from my little friend, when her parents are at home, I can only wait silently on the path in front of her house. Staring at the door for fear of missing a book in the blink of an eye. I don't want to leave even if night falls and the willow shoots are on the moon. Many times, on the moonlight path, I imagined that book over and over again. The moment I took the book from my little friend, my heart was full of happiness. In my young and innocent heart, I look forward to meeting every book.
In order to study, I borrowed all my friends in the village. But I didn't forget to tell them: keep it a secret for me, and don't tell dad about my borrowing books everywhere. In the eyes of her grumpy father, a little girl from the countryside can't help adults do housework well. What's the use of reading so many broken books? Can she be a meal? But whenever my eyes touch that page, my father's scolding and my mother's complaining will always be forgotten by me. My mother didn't object to my reading at first, but since I burned my rice and my cotton shoes because of reading, I began to criticize me, saying that the more I read, the more I lost them.
There is no library in the whole primary school and junior high school. Want to borrow books to read, can only be a dream. It was not until the third year of high school that I subscribed to the composition weekly under the organization of the class teacher. Although the printing is rough, I finally have my own extracurricular book. I can't put it down, over and over again. Later, in order to live far away, she became a working girl. I still love reading. Although there is a small library in the factory, most of them are fashion and entertainment magazines. Although I have a library card, it is difficult to find my favorite literary books. Walking on the streets in the south, bookstores of all sizes attract my attention most. When I see a bookstore, I can't help walking in. Looking at the well-ordered books and smelling the thick ink in the air, the past about books came to mind again.
Later, the convenience and speed of e-books made me deeply addicted. On the e-book shelf, books that have been admired for many years can finally be seen. Reading in a quiet night has become my favorite thing. In the book, you can listen to the sound of flowers and enjoy the dance of flying snow. Some kindness, strength and optimism that can only be bred in the sun can always be found in the pages. It often makes me yearn for the dawn in the long night and look forward to the bright sunshine in the bleak. Describe a few graces and you can invite the breeze into your arms. Copy a few drops of peace, and you can embrace the bright moon and fall asleep.
Obsessed with books, moved by the warmth of a grass, the warmth of a few willow leaves, immersed in books, warm in the simplicity of a piece of paper, plain in a few words. I don't care whether the article is brilliant or not, as long as a few threads are indifferent and one is simple, it will make people feel warm and quiet. Those smart and graceful clouds will flow thousands of miles on a moonlit night and blend with the melodious sky. Outside the window lattice, the twittering of willow and shore, the twittering of breeze and waning moon are all at the bottom of memory eyes, rippling countless ripples. Time flies, my thoughts dance, out of reach, not only falling mottles, but also old dreams that cannot be gathered.
When I was a child, my desire and obsession with books, like a pure blue lake, showed the true colors of my dreams. How many clear and meaningful expectations does the yellow pages of that book have? No one knows how much warmth and sadness those books have brought to my young heart in the pale and lonely time. After many years, I found my way in the new green bushes, only to find that my former sadness had long been hidden in the distant horizon. Only books, such as deep valleys and orchids, are refreshing. When water-like time slips through your fingertips and overflows your heart, it is a cascade of vicissitudes.
Looking at the book in front of me, I burst into tears. Those faint books, lush time, clearly and vaguely mottled into years, beautiful memories. Wandering in the depths of time, pavilions and waterside pavilions, Su He reflects the sunshine. Light fragrance and shallow heart sound, in Ying Ying's eyes, gently get their hands on. As for the memory of architecture, is the flute blowing from the willow trees in the evening breeze still melodious in the lush grass? The wild goose crosses the place, the blue boat crosses itself, and the morning light is touched by time. Smog? Or a faint stare that can't be waved away? Spread out the memories, some memories as thin as cicadas are coming from the cool time. Lian Bu moved lightly in the afternoon sun, sending out charming luster, reflecting those eyes that are no longer clear. Only faint shadows are left for myself in a hurry. When the familiar morning bell and evening drum ring in my memory, can I still see the innocence in the depths of my soul through the ubiquitous impetuousness, some beliefs that I still adhere to, and myself that have been immersed in earthly fireworks?
Over the years, I have often recalled my youth in countless tranquility. Those anxious and enthusiastic waiting, the magnificent flowers born in my dream, once made me ecstatic in my loss. Those who grew up in the past sun and moon are as clean as crystal, clear in the depths of the years and as beautiful as wind and frost. Everywhere I see, there are green cages and dark sleeves. When your thoughts bloom silently in the sun, you can always see the soul's lonely dialogue at the bottom of your eyes as clear as water.
Now when I see books suitable for children, I always buy them home one by one. But they scribble and tear at will, which always hurts me. The past comes to mind. How does the child know how many books his mother has copied before? They don't even know that those beautifully printed and illustrated extracurricular books used to be my mother's dream baby. It seems that it's really time to tell the children more about the story that their mother borrowed books everywhere when she was a "maid" and let them know how happy they are when they have books! .
The books I borrowed as a child have long since disappeared. But those happy times born of books are fresh in my memory. Gently open the book in front of you, like meeting an old friend I haven't seen for years, and my heart is full of peace.
A few lines of light thinking, research ink into injury. The moonlight is full of lights. On a quiet night, I hold a book and look at the end of the world.
: Shuxiang
I love reading, and I also like reading. This hobby can be traced back to my first contact with books. Whenever I smell the fragrance of brand-new textbook ink issued at the beginning of the new semester, there is always a sense of excitement. The new book is really good. I won't let go after a long hug. I sniffed it deeply and indulged for a long time. How many years have passed, I still miss the feeling that the aroma of textbook ink permeates the whole body. Today, I still have a soft spot for books, and it is growing day by day. The bedside is layered all the year round, and the books are ups and downs. I like to have books to sleep with me every day.
A room full of books, with a lifetime. In my early years, when I moved into my new house, I designed a study. The study is not particularly large, with two rows of mahogany bookcases. The cupboard is full of literary classics, biographies, reference books, calligraphy and painting that I have accumulated for many years. They are all my favorites. As for how many books there are, I have never counted them. Now it's more exaggerated. It is impossible to put it on, so we have to pile it up. Although the crowd is crowded, I am still willing to shake off my fatigue, shut myself in the study, throw the noise outside the door, and slowly indulge in the full pile of books alone.
It is spring and autumn, and it is also a thousand years. Xue Xiaochan said that ink is a black soul. Ink is lonely, a bridge between pen and paper. Mo Xiang, it's Leng Xiang. She gave life and temperature to ink, and a few words made it poetic. Ink fragrance and book fragrance are exactly the same, light, not turbid, not floating, not greasy. I don't know if it is because of the book's elegance that reading becomes elegant. In my opinion, you can't read a book with free thoughts. Even if there is, it may not be able to enter the mind. It is nothing more than "the geese pluck their feathers and only wet their feathers." When I study, my heart will be silent. First of all, I will wash away my impetuousness, and then I will filter out the complexity of life. Then I can slowly taste Mika in the book, chew the distant drums and horns word by word, and the love and hate in previous lives. When your eyes are tired, just look at the silver moon outside the window and hold a cup of green tea in your hand. Just take a sip and the tea soup will slowly swallow. That kind of ease, that kind of calmness, that kind of carefree, that kind of artistic conception, everything is redundant. Have a book, this life is enough!
The journey of life is a huge dream-making project. The process of reading is actually a process of realizing dreams. The reason why a wise man is wise is that he can throw away the baggage to the maximum extent and make his heart self-sufficient. Life is contradictory and confused, and we can't adapt quickly, so we can't talk about happiness. After all, I still can't get over it. Half a life is bumpy and not confused. I still appreciate the kindness given me by the book. It was a bookshelf full of books that helped me clean up a piece of pure land in my heart. I built a spiritual home with a good book. From then on, I calmed down and faded.
I don't think this book is cold. On the contrary, I feel that the book on my pillow is like the body fragrance of a simple village girl. I can love, smell and warm my life. I wonder how much this elegant fragrance is in the world? I can't imagine how quiet the night is without books.
Close the book, calm down, close your eyes, those dreams, start, until old. ...
: Shuxiang
When writing this topic, I found that my favorite female writer Ding Limei wrote a book "Scholarly Companion", but I didn't give up this book, because I spent nearly three years writing again, moving forward happily in my heart, so clean that I was out of the world.
If it hadn't been for the disaster three years ago, if it hadn't been for my father's death, if it hadn't been for a friend from a foreign land who introduced me to see the works of his classmate, a Sichuan woman writer, and if it hadn't been for a brother who recommended me to read The Complete Works of Plum Blossoms, I would still be outside the text and have no chance to read.
When I was a child, my father liked to study. My father was blind in one eye because of an accident. He returned to the unit to do logistics management. There were not so many newspapers and magazines to read at that time. The most popular newspapers in the office are current affairs newspapers, such as Sichuan Daily and People's Daily. My father's office is on the first floor of the building. Even during the day, the two ends of the corridor look a little dim because there is no light. As a child, I was actually afraid of the dark. On weekends, when I am bored, I will definitely run to my father's office. The sunshine outside the window shines into the whole wide desk and is scattered on the newspaper. Just like a hungry man saw a long-lost loaf of bread, I eagerly picked up those newspapers and didn't understand the current political news, just for the faint smell.
When I was in high school, I had magazines like Reader and Youth Digest. My family is poor, but my father often goes to the newsstand to buy it, saying that it is to improve my writing for the college entrance examination. But I fell in love with Zhang Ailing, Xi Murong and Gu Cheng, especially Jin He. Our family lives at the end of the west of the city, a few steps away from the state-run cinema and next to the state-run waste station. Occasionally, we will save money to buy movie tickets for my father, and even save money to sell junk with my sister. Coupled with the lucky money for the New Year, we will buy books that pass by newsstands countless times throughout the year. We will be intoxicated with their gentle words for a long time, and even fantasize that one day we can turn our own words into type like them.
I only wrote a story about youth when 19 years old, and it was included in a youth magazine. So far, it has never been changed, but in the following years, I realized inner peace. I am willing to be only a calm woman who walks on the road of scholarly reading and is quiet and punctual.
After reading the book, my love for words turned into dependence. The school is in the suburbs of Chengdu, which does not prevent me from saving money to buy some paper books that I will like at first sight. Campus is a place where youth is scattered, with clear water and green land, pavilions and small bridges, dusk, morning rain and dew, a book and a piece of paper. Those two years were so simple and happy. Gradually, some thoughts were written into words, printed into newspapers with the simplest roller ink machine, and signed "Morning Paper", as if the whole youth were immersed in those inks.
Youth is over, because the pain that life is destined to add has been separated from books for more than ten years. Every day seems to be racing against opportunity and fate. More than ten years ago, when I first joined the work, I once struggled whether to buy a book or a kilo of rice, and finally bought a book. No matter what life is like now, in fact, it's not the day when I have to scrimp and save when I buy a set of books, but I can't clean up my mood. Only that day, at my father's funeral, my brother said, "Sister, please sum up my father's life!" " "And I, ashamed, don't want to a word. Only on that day, because of an inevitable disaster in life, did I find that what has been with me is those warm words that never give up.
Gradually, in the morning, after work, at dusk, under the shadow of the lights, in all the time that can be squeezed out, walking in the words of the book formats the equation of life, which is less heavy and more relaxed; Less pain, more happiness; Less tangled, more calm. Many times, on the balcony, there are unknown tall buildings, a cup of tea and a favorite book in the distance. Those years have been silent since then, and it is beautiful to think about it.