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那些镌刻着岁月痕迹的书页给我的味道很特别。当我用双眼抵触那些泛黄的纸张时,一股从心底盘旋而上的沧桑之意便会侵袭整个身体,包括边页、边角留下的淡淡折痕,这些会让我的思绪蓦然涌起一阵潮流,那些漫延在我脑海里的饱含亲切怀恋的细小涓泉,多半是关于爸爸和流年的遐思。墨香是让人熟悉与回味的,只不过在那一摞从爸爸手里接过的书本上,我还闻到了岁月留下的陈腐味。由于本身对于纸页的眷恋大过那些无谓的鄙俗,而爸爸也一直对我说,书的年龄是可以穿越朝
The pages engraved with the traces of years give me a special taste. When I confront my yellowed paper with my eyes, a vicissitudes of my mind hovering over the whole body, including the side pages and the faint creases left by the corner, all make my thoughts go awry Starting a trend, those who are in my mind full of cordial nostalgia of the small Juanquan, mostly on the father and fleeting reveries. Ink is familiar and aftertaste, but in the pile of books taken from my father, I also smell the smell of the years left by the rotten. Because of their attachment to the paper than those unnecessary senseless vulgar, and my father has always said to me, the book’s age is to cross the North