请耐心听我讲完一个故事。一排排老式书架向远处延伸,整齐又错杂,像个迷宫。她的脚步回荡在图书室沉闷的空气里。她一直在努力辨认书脊上的形色字迹,却发现头脑一片模糊。唯一记起的,是自己在找一本书。什么书?谁写的?为何要找这本书?她不知道。拐过弯,又是一排同样的书架。只是本该贴着索引卡的地方,却是一张纸片。纸片上的文字醒目而刺眼:“你要找的书,在我这里。”纸片已经和书架上的尘埃融为一体,然而字迹并不显得模糊。她轻轻捻起纸片,用小指扫了扫灰尘,将上面的字反反复复看了几遍。 Please listen to me finish a story. Rows of old bookshelves extended to the distance, tidy and complicated, like a maze. Her steps echoed in the dull air of the library. She has been trying hard to identify the handwriting on the spine, but found her mind vague. The only thing to remember is that you are looking for a book. What book? Who wrote? Why should I find this book? She did not know. Turn corner, but also a row of the same bookshelf. Just the place where the index card should be, but it is a piece of paper. The words on the sheet are eye-catching and glaring: “The book you are looking for is here with me.” The piece of paper has merged with the dust on the shelves, but the writing does not seem obscure. She gently twisted the paper, sweeping the dust with a little finger, the above words repeatedly read it several times.