小时候,在那个贫穷古朴的村庄里,有着小窗台的炕头上,爷爷手中已泛黄的一本不知名的书,是我心中全部的书的世界。它没有姣好的容颜,却笑靥着向我招手,那被磨薄、磨烂的书页里有多少读书人的喜爱,激起我对美丽文字的恒久向往。虽然源于一种对最初完美的忌惮,我没有去翻开过心中的第一本 When I was young, in that impoverished village, there was an unknown book in the hands of a grandmother with a small bay window, which was the world of my book. It did not have the same good looks, but smiled and waved at me, and how many scholarly beloved ones in the thin, worn-out pages inspired me to yearn for beautiful text. Although from a kind of perfect fear of the first, I did not go through the first of my heart