The nanmu writing desk of the "Wanjuan Building" is stacked like a mountain, and the young bookbinder Yunjian stares at the continuously depleting "Ice Wing Xuan Jiao" in the bowl of glue — that is the "paper meat" (handling fee) deducted by the bookstore per volume. He cuts and presses the paper, his ten fingers cracked like dried mulberry bark (transactions), but the bamboo pen holder at his waist, which holds his wages (capital), remains empty like a newly split reed tube.
The old book repairman, Mr. Shen, suddenly slaps half a sheet of worm-eaten golden silk paper into the young man's palm. The back of the paper reveals fine golden threads, heavy and pressing. "Foolish child," he says, his withered finger tracing the broken edge of the silver cutting knife on the desk, "if you only focus on the paper corners that wear away on the surface, even nailing through ten thousand volumes won't secure half a page of a tattered scroll. The bones of an old bookworm lie within the 'paper vein's floating threads.'"
He leads Yunjian to the shadowy back of the attic. In the corner, filled with the smell of mold, stands a 'test paper old book support' with a notched frame, its sandalwood skeleton covered in spiderweb-like wind cracks. Mr. Shen takes the young man's goose feather brush, which is covered in paper scraps, and instead of dusting it off, he flips the feather root over and gently sweeps it through the deep gaps of the book support's mortise and tenon joints. In an instant, tiny golden dust begins to drift out of the cracks, like star sand drawn by a magnet, naturally adhering back up the feather tube along the groove, silently and quietly,凝聚成 a thin layer of golden scales at the split of the feather root, the touch slightly numbing like the cumulus clouds before a thunderstorm.
"The visible glue is for the surface's appearance," Mr. Shen scratches off a bit of golden scale from the feather root with his nail, his eyes reflecting the dim light from the wooden gaps, "the 'paper veins' nurtured by this book support (handling fee reduction) are the backbone of the book binder himself."
Yunjian holds his breath, feeling the crisp and heavy sensation of the golden scales at his fingertips, as if holding a segment of solidified lightning. He looks back at the snow-like Xuan paper on the writing desk, and the feather brush in his palm suddenly feels heavier — this time, what is being smoothed is not just the frayed edges of the scroll pages, but also the silent tempering of the bones deep within the wooden gaps. The bottom of the bamboo pen holder emits a warm rustling sound, like new snow falling on empty branches.
The old book repairman, Mr. Shen, suddenly slaps half a sheet of worm-eaten golden silk paper into the young man's palm. The back of the paper reveals fine golden threads, heavy and pressing. "Foolish child," he says, his withered finger tracing the broken edge of the silver cutting knife on the desk, "if you only focus on the paper corners that wear away on the surface, even nailing through ten thousand volumes won't secure half a page of a tattered scroll. The bones of an old bookworm lie within the 'paper vein's floating threads.'"
He leads Yunjian to the shadowy back of the attic. In the corner, filled with the smell of mold, stands a 'test paper old book support' with a notched frame, its sandalwood skeleton covered in spiderweb-like wind cracks. Mr. Shen takes the young man's goose feather brush, which is covered in paper scraps, and instead of dusting it off, he flips the feather root over and gently sweeps it through the deep gaps of the book support's mortise and tenon joints. In an instant, tiny golden dust begins to drift out of the cracks, like star sand drawn by a magnet, naturally adhering back up the feather tube along the groove, silently and quietly,凝聚成 a thin layer of golden scales at the split of the feather root, the touch slightly numbing like the cumulus clouds before a thunderstorm.
"The visible glue is for the surface's appearance," Mr. Shen scratches off a bit of golden scale from the feather root with his nail, his eyes reflecting the dim light from the wooden gaps, "the 'paper veins' nurtured by this book support (handling fee reduction) are the backbone of the book binder himself."
Yunjian holds his breath, feeling the crisp and heavy sensation of the golden scales at his fingertips, as if holding a segment of solidified lightning. He looks back at the snow-like Xuan paper on the writing desk, and the feather brush in his palm suddenly feels heavier — this time, what is being smoothed is not just the frayed edges of the scroll pages, but also the silent tempering of the bones deep within the wooden gaps. The bottom of the bamboo pen holder emits a warm rustling sound, like new snow falling on empty branches.
