In recent years, I've moved several times, each move attracting a large crowd. The furniture itself isn't particularly impressive; it's the endless bundles of books that draw the attention. Weeks before the move, I have to ask several students to help take the books down from the shelves in order and bundle them together. It's hard work; two students even developed blisters on their hands. The move is done in an assembly line fashion, with a row of people standing on the stairs, passing the bundles down one by one. This careful procession is quite amusing, no wonder people gather to watch.
I certainly wouldn't call myself a bibliophile. I do have quite a few good books, but none are rare or exceptional editions in a bibliographical sense. What I'm satisfied with is the solemn atmosphere of my study, with books forming walls. The bookshelves reach to the ceiling, one after another, creating a kind of overwhelming cultural pressure. Stepping into the study is like stepping into a long history, overlooking a vast world, and navigating among countless glittering stars of intelligence. I suddenly felt both insignificant and expansive; my study became a ceremonial space, managing the ebb and flow of life.
A manager from a foreign travel agency came to my study, his eyes wide as he slowly surveyed it, then stood in the center, lost in thought for a long time, before finally saying earnestly, "Really, I want to pursue scholarship too." I thought he was just joking, but later another friend told me that this manager is now genuinely enthusiastic about visiting bookstores and has already set up a rather impressive study.
I thought, he's someone who has seen much of the world's beauty, so why could the cluttered state of my humble study have such a profound impact on him? Perhaps the answer is that he suddenly smelled the fragrance of life, the crystallization of humanity's collective wisdom.
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