那好像是1998年的夏天,小城的马路像暑假一样安静,在高纬度的阳光中,一切都亮闪闪的。那年我十六七岁,和往常一样兴冲冲地下楼,骑着自行车钻出胡同,车筐里放着《大卫·科波菲尔》的上册,一路经过客运站、百货大楼、县委广场,骑到电影院向北拐,两三百米外就是县城的图书馆。还书,填单,借下一本,紧张地在窗口前徘徊。等了十多分钟,管理员回答说,还是你自己进来找吧。就这样,第一次推开书库的大门,藏书架一排排延伸下去,微尘在阳光 It seemed like the summer of 1998, the streets of the town were as quiet as the summer holidays, and everything was twinkling in the high latitudes of the sun. That year I was sixteen or seventeen years old, and as usual excitedly downstairs, riding a bike drilled alley, car basket stood “David Copperfield” on the book, all the way through the bus terminal, department store, county party square, Ride to the cinema to the north, two or three hundred meters is the county’s library. Return books, fill orders, borrow a book, nervously wandering in front of the window. Wait for more than 10 minutes, the administrator replied, or you come in to find it. In this way, for the first time opened the door to the library, library shelves extend in rows, dust in the sun