在我的书柜里,有一包珍贵的遗物,是父亲留下的。遗物里有一本《泰戈尔文集》、几本摘录和读书笔记。文集购买于1990年11月,如今书页已经泛黄。那是我在异域求学的第一个冬天,十六岁的花季里交织着孤单、彷徨。靠什么打发陌生又迷茫的日子?唯有读书。我节衣缩食买来这本书,如饥似渴地读写、激情澎湃地吟诵。泰戈尔,这位温暖的智者,慷慨地为我开启了一扇知识之窗,文学之门。 In my bookcase there is a bag of precious relics left by my father. Relics have a “Tagore anthology”, a few excerpts and study notes. The collection was purchased in November 1990 and is now yellowed in pages. That was the first winter I had studied in a different country. I was lonely and lingering in my 16th year. Rely on what sent the strange and confused days? Only reading. I bought this book for short, eagerly read and write, passionately recite. Tagore, the warm wise, opened a window of knowledge, literary door for me generously.