A trip to the library was like a great journey to a different country. To get there, we had to walk a mile. But our weekly journeys to the library were a piece of perfection. I had around me at one time all the people I loved best — my father and mother and brothers and sister — and all the things I loved best — quiet, space and books.
I read a lot of books about science: not the spaceships my brothers preferred, but the birds and the bees —literally. I brought home a book of birds and searched the trees for anything other than robins (知更鸟). I went through a phrase of loving books with practical science experiments and used up a whole bottle of white vinegar by pouring it on the sides of our apartment building to prove that it was constructed of limestone (石灰石).
One Saturday, as I wandered through the young adult section, I saw a title: Little Women, by Lousia May Alcott. I had learned from experience that titles weren't everything. A book that sounded great on the shelf could be dull once you got it home. So I sat in a chair near the shelves to skim the first paragraphs.
I read and read and read Little Women until it was time to walk home, and, except for a few essential interruptions like sleeping and eating, I did not put it down until the end. Even the freedom to watch weekend television held no appeal for me in the wake of Alcott's story. It was about girls, for one thing, girls who could almost be like me, especially Jo. I had found someone who thought and felt the way I did.
