The drift of books

Most writers have a rich inner world. I always feel that living as a writer has to bear more spiritual weight than the average person. After all, the daily state of a writer is that everything is running in his heart, and all he can think of is how to put it into words to describe it. Therefore, in my room, the weight of the study is the heaviest. Those books allow me to reach the vast frontier of other people's destiny and receive the signals from the source of rich life.

Many of the books in the study are gifts from literary friends, including those sent by express mail, those given to me in person at parties, and those given to me in person at home. A person who gives away his work is a trust of his soul. But there are quite a few books that I did simply browse through like a circle of friends on WeChat and never opened them again. My reading now, to be honest, gradually lost the patience of the old carriage slow letters far away, to the bookstore to buy books or online books, a number of books have not finished reading. What's more, the more I read the book, the more I feel that one's time is really limited, from the morning to see the splendor of the sunrise, to the dusk 10 minutes of the evening sun burn, and soon after the dusk, the day burned into ashes.

The intersection of these books and I happened, unfortunately did not fully penetrate into my life. But I still categorize them one by one in my study collection. This is a book lover's nagging psychology: a good book can not read, but not get into the hands, not placed in the study, the heart is always empty and unsettled. And the reader and the author of the interaction, I default to the best light as water, thin as paper. The water is light, so that you can not leave one day, paper thin, to feel the soul of the indistinct, only if there are some ties.

Literary friend You has self-published 13 full-length novels. Most of the long novels he wrote are over 300,000 words, and he writes very fast, a 530,000-word long novel only took 7 months. He sent me 13 long novels, none of which I have read in their entirety, but this does not affect my friendship with him. In the early summer of last year, he came to my office from his home in an old alley full of rosebushes and presented me with a new book, saying with a smile, "Teach me more! That night, I invited Brother You to eat grilled fish downstairs in the unit. Brother You was drunk, and I was ready to help him go home. You said, we go to the roof to sit. On the roof, looking at the lights in the night sky of the city, suddenly fell into a state of no words to say. After a long time, Brother You said, "Brother, I want to slow down a bit, my 14th full-length novel, next year to write, you are not in a hurry to read it. I nodded and said, "No hurry.

Not long ago, a writer from Jiangsu Province sent me a collection of essays by courier, the book is a biography of the Grand Canal. I stroked the heavy book, remembering that it departed from the ancient canal city in Jiangnan and arrived in my city a long way away, and a heart floated above the canal, gazing at the steamy, warm city.

Now, I still often go to those old book stalls in the nooks and crannies of the city, picking and choosing from those old yellowing books, rubbing my hands and eyes with the spots left by time on the old books. I can't help but feel the drift of these books, which also resembles the drift of fate.