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十一年前一个腊月的早晨,我坐了45个小时的火车从福建来到北京,投奔那个长胡同里红门大院的出版社作一名外国文学编辑。梦醒前还是满眼的扶桑花和碧澄的闽江水,睁开眼已是北京冻白了的长安街。我身无长物,只有怀中温热的文学硕士证书和帆布包里厚厚的劳伦斯译稿和论文草稿。我是十七岁上来北京玩时偶然路过那座红门的,少年时读过的不少好书,就是从那儿出来走向那么些热
Eleven years ago, on the morning of a twelfth lunar month, I took a 45-hour train from Fujian to Beijing and went to the publishing house of the Red Gate Compound in that long alley as a foreign literary editor. Before he woke up, he was still eyeful of hibiscus flower and Minjiang River water of Bi Cheng, and his eyes were now Chang’an Avenue, which was frozen in Beijing. I have nothing to grow, only the arms of the warm Master of Arts certificate and thick canvas bag Lawrence translation and draft papers. I was a 17-year-old when I came to Beijing by chance when I crossed the red door, and many good books that I read during my childhood years went from there to go so hot