“你好,托尔斯泰先生!”老先生依旧记得小儿子第一次这么叫自己是在三十多年前的一个星期二傍晚。小儿子坐了一个半小时的公交车回来。他依旧不愿意开车,即使如今有经济能力负担一辆车子,他还是没去学开车。小儿子看了他那本小说,在不可思议和敬佩之间,他坐在书房的沙发里,没由来地说了这句话,而从此之后,在老先生接下来四十多年的生活里,这个句子时不时就会在愈渐混沌的思绪中响起。在进入七十岁那年,好几个月断断续续 “Hello, Mr. Tolstoy! ” The old man still remembers the first time the youngest son called himself a Tuesday evening more than thirty years ago. The little son took a half-hour bus back. He still reluctant to drive, even if now have the financial ability to afford a car, he still did not go to school to drive. The younger son read his novel, between incredible and admirable, he sat in the couch of the study, never came to say this sentence, and since then, the old man in the next forty years of life, From time to time, this sentence will be sounded in the increasingly chaotic thoughts. Into the seventy years old, months off