The Warmth of Old Books

　　During my school years, always short of money, I developed a habit of buying secondhand books. 　　Back then, every weekend, a few of us book lovers would head to the rarely visited secondhand bookstores or stalls, searching through the vast piles of books for those few that would capture our hearts. Sometimes we'd search through everything without finding anything, and other times, we'd arrive just in time to find those coveted books lying there, yellowed and worn, like an old friend reunited in a familiar place. 　　I truly miss those secondhand bookstores and stalls that nurtured my mind. In the bustling city, they were always so inconspicuous, barely managing to carve out a place for themselves. Those booksellers, wearing old-fashioned glasses and simply dressed, would always sit quietly beside their piles of books, observing passersby with gentle eyes. Whether you bought something or not, they would greet you with a smile as you came and went. 　　When I was studying in Guiyang, the Yangming Flower and Bird Market was a place I frequented. An elderly gentleman there, surnamed Yu, was the most principled bookseller I ever encountered. He wouldn't budge on his prices, because he knew the value of every book perfectly well; once you tried to bargain, he wouldn't sell it to you. Over time, I started chatting with him. He said he disliked people who were extravagant with other expenses but haggled over every penny when buying a book. His words have resonated with me ever since. 　　From buying secondhand books out of financial constraints to later becoming hopelessly fascinated by them, I feel like I'm living against the flow of time, meticulously noticing the publication date of every book. Over time, I've discovered that my bookshelves are now old-fashioned and steeped in antiquity. Fortunately, the scent of time, weathered and eroded, is genuine and profound. 　　Holding an old book in my hands, I always approach it with a sense of reverence, for the book's enduring beauty despite its age, and for those connected to it: the author, the editor, the first buyer, and the unassuming old man tending the used bookstore. 　　Later, I discovered that the older the book, the more peaceful I felt while reading it, and the deeper my understanding of the words became—I couldn't quite explain why. Later still, I would search everywhere for the same old edition of a book; if I couldn't find it, I felt a pang of loss; if I did, I felt like I'd struck 　　gold. The first thing I do when I get an old book is check its publication date, then I open the title page to see the name of its former owner, where they were from, and if they left any memorable quotes. Those who are less expressive leave the book spotless from cover to back, pristine and leaving room for imagination. Those who are diligent will have their headers filled with tiny handwriting, the ink varying in color and style. Those who cherish their books leave them without a single crease, perhaps even with delicate or rustic bookmarks. 　　Two summers ago, during my trip to Guangzhou, I was almost stunned when I opened a set of "A Dream of Jinling" with ochre covers at a used bookstore not far from the Sun Yat-sen Memorial Hall. The title pages of all eight volumes read: "Purchased by Wang Ziying in Huishui, October 1980." Looking at the faded yet vigorous and lively ink, I couldn't help but sigh. Who was this Wang Ziying? When did he visit my hometown? Perhaps he was originally from Huishui. In what year did he leave his homeland with his beloved books, arriving in this not-so-quiet southern metropolis, only to part ways with his books? 　　Holding the books close to my chest, I sat under a large banyan tree, conjuring a story about Wang Ziying. 　　It's said that old things always allow us to live in a certain year or day of the past—days accompanied by gentle breezes, bright moons, sorrow, and dreams. This feeling seems even stronger for an old book. Today, the world is more restless and bustling; every day, so many new things flash before our eyes. But I still believe that there will always be some people willing to reverently kneel down and touch and listen to those old books that are almost forgotten by time.