I want to hold your hand when you want to leave me, when you want to disappear, hold it forever
Shen Congwen once said to you, "we love each other for a lifetime, but it's still too short."
And I just want to hold your hand and don't want to say anything, because nothing can summarize my heart to you.
Do you know why? Why should I hold your hand?
Because literature is you! It's you! It's you who let me see the joys and sorrows of the world. It's you who let me appreciate the poetic life. It's you who let me understand the true meaning of life. It's also you who let me overcome the dangers and transcend the limits! ("come out after a long call", it turned out to be literature. The front is the bedding.)
Yes, you let the spring flow through my heart, let the fire burn my enthusiasm!
It's you who let me see Li Bai holding his sword out of Chang'an, Su Dongpo wandering into Hainan, Wu Jingzi cultivating the Confucian forest, Cao Xueqin sending the Red Mansions full of sorrow; it's you who let me see the hatred of the count of Monte Cristo, the beauty and desolation of Tess, the departure of Nala, Anna's sleeper track, Paul's pursuit, Helen's struggle; it's you who let me experience the world through time and space!
Or you, in a late night, turn out you, appreciate you, love you, like you, especially love those poems.
In the middle of the night, you can feel the grandeur of "boundless fallen trees, endless Yangtze River rolling" and the delicacy of "the sky street dries like a crisp rain, the grass color looks close but not far away"; you can feel the heroism of "the horse made Lu is fast, the bow is like a thunderbolt, the string is startled" and the politeness of "willow bank, the wind is clear and the moon is waning"; you can feel the leisure of "picking chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge, and you can see the South Mountain leisurely"; you can park in the maple forest at night, and the frost leaves are red in February The romance of flowers.
In such a late night, because of you, it is full of color and taste; because of you, it becomes rich and wonderful.
It's still you - when I'm discouraged, I say to me, "I'm born to be useful" and "I'm not born to be defeated." In my struggle, he said to me, "in this way, where there is a will, there is a way." When I succeed, say to me: "full loss, modest benefit." (full of affection, the influence of literature on the growth of "me" is expressed.)
You make me full of self-confidence, let me shout out: "look up to the sky and laugh to go out, my generation is not Penghao people."
It's you who keep me naive, who can create a "white jade plate" with children and make me a beautiful Chang'e fantasy.
It's you who wring me, wring my spirit, my body. (I'm afraid that the "twist" is a little rough, isn't it
It's you, let me extend the pain into a golden ornament as thin as cicada's wings.
It's you, blowing open the closed flower bud, bringing the full garden of tulips.
It's all because of you - how literature wants me to let you go, how I want to lose you! Please, don't dodge, let me -- hold your hand! (collect the full text, referring to the title and the beginning of the article. Feelings are further sublimated.)