走进苏州,穿过喧嚣的大街,走进幽静的小巷,一座座旧居古宅,让人们追忆起往昔的人文荟萃。在那些不起眼的墙门里,走出过多少大名鼎鼎的文人墨客,隔着早已长出藓苔的黛瓦粉墙,随处都有让人如雷贯耳的名字出现:王鏊、唐寅、金侃、汪士钟、潘祖荫、沈秉成、吴梅。他们在阅尽了人世的千山万水后,躲在小巷深处,筑一书楼作为终老的归依。当我用探索的目光,走进百年藏书楼,轻轻叩开那一扇扇神秘的门扉时,它们无一不在诉说着昨日的翰墨书香。 Into Suzhou, through the hustle and bustle of the streets, into the quiet alley, a block of old houses, so that people recall the past, the humanities blend. In those modest walls, out of the famous writer of more than the famous, across the wall has long grown moss Daiwa powder, there are everywhere the name of thunderstruck: Wang Kui, Tang Yin, Jin Kan, Wang Shizhong, Pan Zuyin , Shen Bingcheng, Wu Mei. After they have read the worldly treasures, they hid in the depths of alleyways and built a bookstore as their permanent home. When I explored the eyes, into the centuries-old library, gently knocked open the mysterious door that fan, they are all telling yesterday’s Book of Sylphs.