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八年前,我居住在我们这座古称“句余”的县城的一条小街上,那就是西门街。我住的是一排二层楼房中的底层一间,楼前有林梧桐,开酒盅大的花,春天里一夜风骤雨疏,就会落一地的红红白白。屋后有园,呈半封闭的回廊,长有桅子花、半人高的棕榈和楷杷树,断墙残垣很有些《聊斋》的阴森。这间幽静沉默的小屋就是我最早的读书处。 每年春天,桅子花开的时候,就会有一两只黄蝶在我的后园翩跹,它们的翅膀在春阳下优雅地开阖着,常会引得我放下书本长久地凝视。而到了冬天下雪的时候,我就把前后门都洞开,让大片大片的雪花混着雨水肆无忌惮地窜进来,它们伴着破旧的收录机中一支感伤的老歌飞舞着,落在我未及合拢的书上。
Eight years ago, I lived in a small street in our ancient county called “Sentences”, which is Simon Street. I live in a row of two floors in the ground floor of a building in front of Indus, open cup of large flowers, rainy night in the spring, it will fall to the red and white. House after the park, was semi-enclosed corridor, a long gardenia flowers, half-man’s palm and tree in the capital, the wall ruins are some “ghost” of the ghost. This quiet and silent cottage is my earliest reading office. Each spring, when the gardenia is open, one or two yellow butterflies flutter in my back garden. Their wings gracefully open and close under the spring sun, often causing me to lay down the book and stare at it for a long time. By the winter when it was snowing, I opened the front and rear doors so that large tracts of snow drifted with impunity, accompanied by a sentimental old song from the old tape recorder, Closing the book.