在一个初夏的夜晚 ,夜已很深。父亲走入他极少涉足的我的房间 ,似乎是漫不经心地浏览着书柜 ,又坐下来 ,顺手折叠起胡乱堆放的衣袜。“下个月 ,我不去上班了。”他说。当时天气凉爽 ,灯光下飞舞着烟尘。我低着头 ,凭直觉我确信父亲那时也没看我———我们已习惯以这样的方式交 In a early summer night, the night has been deep. My father walked into my room, where he rarely touched, as if he had casually browsed the bookcase and sat down, folding his casually piled socks. “I will not go to work next month,” he said. At that time, the weather was cool and smoke was flying under the lights. I looked down, and with intuition I was convinced that my father had not looked at me at the time - we were accustomed to doing it this way