在一个又一个细雨如麻或月光如水的深夜，我都在读鲍尔吉原野的散文，那本《掌心化雪》让我一遍一遍看不够。只有选择这样万籁俱静的深夜才适合读原野的书：青草上露水正在凝结成珍珠，窗外的月光像洗旧厂的白绸子，房檐上燕巢里雀儿呢喃，孩子们正在妈妈怀中梦见吃云彩的长颈? In the middle of the night after a drizzle of rain or moonlight, I was reading Baldwin’s prose, which made me palpable again and again. Only by choosing such a late-night nirvana to read the wilderness books: the dew on the grass is condensing into pearl, the moonlight outside the window is like the white silk of the old factory, the bird’s nest is tossing in the nest, and the children are dreaming in their arms See the long neck of eating clouds?