我对阅读最遥远的记忆,是那片星空,和星空下荡漾在晚风里的文字。那是一个普普通通的夜晚,奶奶摇着扇子睡在躺椅上乘凉,我坐在小椅子上,在被树叶搅碎的月光里读着一本破旧的《唐诗三百首》。上面有注音,那些不认识的字我也能读出来。“剑外忽传收蓟北,初闻涕泪满衣裳。”“荷笠带斜阳,青山独归远。” I read the most distant memories of the sky, and the waves under the stars in the evening breeze. It was an ordinary night, and my grandmother, who slept with her fan on the couch and enjoy the coolness, sat on a small chair and read a worn-out “Three Hundred Tang Poems” in the moonlit moonlight. There are phonetic, those who do not know the word I can read it. “The sword outside the receipt of thistle North, the first smell of tears full of clothes. ” “Dutch with sunshine, Castle Peak alone far. ”