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两年前的盛夏,我和文珍相约一叙。临别已是傍晚,阳光斜照在文珍脸上,她细白的皮肤上起了一层荧光,玻璃种翡翠般清亮,她一转脸,又像薄云后面透出来一弦新月。有那么几秒钟,在深圳行人最稠密、市声最嘈杂的华强北商圈,我确实什么也听不见了。她的文字也是如此,洁净皎然有冰雪之色。《气味之城》是逼近语言极限的小说,我读的那个晚上,香烟和水之密语的气味破纸而出,像某种染料一样,悄悄地覆盖了被台灯照亮的小书房。精致细密的感觉一簇簇地钻出纸
Two years ago, summer, I and Wen Zhen similar to a Syria. Parting is already evening, the sunlight shining in Wenzhen’s face, her fine white skin plays a layer of fluorescence, glass kind of jade as clear, she turned to face, and like a thin cloud through the back of a string Crescent. There are so few seconds, in Shenzhen, the most densely populated city, the most noisy Huaqiang North district, I really did not hear anything. The same is true in her writing, Jiao Ran has a clean snow color. The City of Scent is a novel approaching the language limit. The night I read, the smell of the whispers of cigarettes and water broke through the paper and, like some kind of dye, quietly covered the small study lit by a lamp. Exquisite detail of the feeling of drilling paper