手中纸,心中爱_附件

手中执笔心中写情作文嘿，大家好呀！我是一名小学生。

今天我要给你们讲讲手中执笔、心中写情是啥样的。

每次我拿起笔，就感觉自己像个小魔法师。

这支笔呀，就像是我的魔法棒，能变出好多好多神奇的东西。

我可以用它写下我的喜怒哀乐，就像在画一幅五彩斑斓的画。

有一次，我和小伙伴吵架了。

我心里可难过了，觉得自己好委屈。

回到家，我拿起笔，把心里的感受都写了下来。

写着写着，我好像不那么生气了。

我发现，把心里的话写出来，就像把坏情绪都倒了出来一样。

我想：这支笔可真厉害，它能帮我赶走不开心。

还有一次，我们去公园玩。

公园里的花可漂亮了，红的像火，粉的像霞，白的像雪。

我开心得不得了，赶紧拿起笔，把这美丽的景色画下来，不对，是写下来。

我写着花的颜色，花的形状，还有花的香味。

我觉得自己就像一个小画家，用文字画出了一幅美丽的画。

我想：这支笔就像我的照相机，能把美好的瞬间都记录下来。

我还喜欢用这支笔给爸爸妈妈写信。

我会在信里写下我对他们的爱，写下我在学校里的趣事。

每次爸爸妈妈收到我的信，都可高兴了。

他们会给我回信，写下他们对我的鼓励和期望。

我觉得我们之间的感情变得更深厚了。

我想：这支笔就像一座桥梁，连接着我和爸爸妈妈的心。

手中执笔，心中写情。

这支笔不仅能让我表达自己的情感，还能让我学到很多知识。

我可以用它写作文、做笔记、写日记。

每次看到自己写的满满的本子，我心里就有一种成就感。

我想：我要一直拿着这支笔，写下我的精彩人生。

你们喜欢用笔来表达自己的情感吗？快来和我一起，手中执笔，心中写情吧！让我们一起用文字创造一个美好的世界。

手中纸，心中爱导语:手中纸，心中爱文 / 刘宇昆【一】我最早的记忆是我儿时的一次哭泣。

那次，不管爸爸妈妈怎么哄，我就是不搭理，一个劲儿地哭个不停。

爸爸拿我没办法，只好任由我在卧室里哭。

妈妈却把我抱进厨房，将我安置在餐桌旁坐好。

她从冰箱上抽出一张彩色包装纸，想吸引我的注意，“瞧瞧，这是什么？”每年圣诞节过后，妈妈都会将各种圣诞礼盒的包装纸小心翼翼地裁剪下来，整齐地叠放在冰箱顶部。

几年下来，包装纸积了厚厚一沓。

她拿出其中一张，正面朝下反面朝上，平整地摊在桌上，给我叠小玩意儿。

折、压、吹、卷、捏……不一会儿，这张纸就在她指尖消失不见了。

她轻轻一吹，一个被压得扁扁平平的纸模型瞬间变成了有血有肉的生灵。

“瞧！小老虎！”她边说边将手中的纸老虎放到桌上。

它个头不大，和我两个拳头加起来差不多，白色虎皮上点缀着红色糖果和绿色圣诞松。

我接过妈妈手中的小老虎。

它似猫非猫，高翘着尾巴，在我指尖左右乱窜，“嗷……”的吼叫声夹杂着纸张的窸窣声。

我既惊又喜，用食指摸摸后背，小东西连蹦带跳，发出低沉的吼叫声。

“这叫折纸。

”母亲用中文告诉我。

那时我对折纸一窍不通，但我知道妈妈的折纸术神奇无比。

只要她轻轻一吹，这些纸玩意儿便可借助她的气息活蹦乱跳起来。

这么神奇的折纸术只有她一个人会。

【二】爸爸是从一本册子里挑中妈妈的。

记得有一次，正在读高中的我向爸爸询问其中经过。

他显得很不情愿。

那是1973年的春天，爸爸想通过婚介找个对象。

于是他漫不经心地翻阅着介绍册，每一页都瞟上一眼，直到他看到妈妈照片的一刹那。

“我从未见过那种照片。

”爸爸说。

照片里，一位女子侧身坐在藤椅上，她身着丝质的紧身绿旗袍，双眸视镜，一头秀发优雅地垂在胸前，依于肩侧，孩童般的双眼透过照片，盯着爸爸。

“自从看到她的照片，我就不想再看别人的了。

”爸爸说。

册子上说，这名女子芳龄十八，爱好舞蹈，来自香港，英语流利。

但这些个人信息没一个是真的。

后来，爸爸开始给妈妈写信。

在那家婚介公司的帮助下，他们一直保持着联系。

幼儿园感恩母亲节手工制作教案：心手合一，爱的表达母亲节是一个感恩母亲、表达爱意的节日，对于幼儿园的小朋友来说，制作一份特别的礼物送给妈妈是非常有意义的。

在这个特殊的日子里，我们可以通过手工制作来教育孩子们感恩父母，表达他们对妈妈的爱与感激。

本教案将通过心手合一的方式，帮助幼儿园的小朋友们制作一份特别的母亲节礼物，表达对妈妈的爱意。

一、材料准备1. 彩纸、胶水、剪刀2. 彩色毛线、针3. 印有母亲节祝福语的卡片4. 其他装饰材料（如珠子、小花等）二、制作步骤1. 制作爱心手链将彩色毛线剪成适当长度，让小朋友们自由选择自己喜欢的颜色。

将毛线在手腕上绕成手链的形状，小朋友们可以在手链上面加上珠子或其他装饰物，让手链更加漂亮。

在制作的过程中，老师可以和小朋友们讨论“爱”的意义，并引导他们思考妈妈对他们的爱。

2. 制作母亲节贺卡将彩纸折叠成卡片的形状，然后让小朋友们用剪刀剪出心形、花形等图案，可以在卡片上写下简短的祝福语或用印章印上“爱你妈妈”、“感恩妈妈”的字样。

在制作的过程中，可以引导小朋友思考妈妈的辛苦和付出，并表达对妈妈的感激之情。

3. 母亲节礼物包装将制作好的爱心手链和母亲节贺卡放入一个精美的礼盒中，并在盒子上面粘贴上小朋友们制作的“感恩妈妈”、“爱你妈妈”的标语。

可以让小朋友们亲自动手包装礼物，增加他们的参与感和责任感。

三、活动总结通过本次手工制作活动，小朋友们不仅可以学习到制作手工的技能，更重要的是在活动中体会到了对妈妈的感恩和爱。

在这个过程中，他们可以和老师、家长或其他小朋友共享自己对妈妈的爱，感受到爱的力量和共享的快乐。

通过此次活动，也可以培养小朋友们的动手能力和表达能力，让他们在表达爱意的也学会用心制作礼物，表达出对妈妈的爱和感激之情。

在幼儿园感恩母亲节手工制作教案中，我们可以通过心手合一的方式，教育小朋友们感恩父母、表达爱意。

通过制作爱心手链和母亲节贺卡，让小朋友们在制作手工的过程中，体会到爱的意义和爱的力量。

手中纸，心中爱刘宇昆，美籍华裔科幻作家，出生于1976年，职业是程序设计员与律师，业余从事科幻小说与诗歌的写作。

《手中纸，心中爱》讲述在美中国移民一代与移民二代的文化冲突，以及因为叛逆和钝感而错过了深沉母爱的故事。

本文获得2012雨果奖最佳短篇，雨果奖被誉为“科幻界诺贝尔奖”。

另外，本文还获得科幻界另一大奖——星云奖，刘宇昆也因此成为第一位出生于中国的世界科幻小说双料奖的得主。

———————————————————————————————————————————【一】我最早的记忆是我儿时的一次哭泣。

那次，不管爸爸妈妈怎么哄，我就是不搭理，一个劲儿地哭个不停。

爸爸拿我没办法，只好任由我在卧室里哭。

妈妈却把我抱进厨房，将我安置在餐桌旁坐好。

她从冰箱上抽出一张彩色包装纸，想吸引我的注意，“瞧瞧，这是什么？”每年圣诞节过后，妈妈都会将各种圣诞礼盒的包装纸小心翼翼地裁剪下来，整齐地叠放在冰箱顶部。

几年下来，包装纸积了厚厚一沓。

她拿出其中一张，正面朝下反面朝上，平整地摊在桌上，给我叠小玩意儿。

折、压、吹、卷、捏……不一会儿，这张纸就在她指尖消失不见了。

她轻轻一吹，一个被压得扁扁平平的纸模型瞬间变成了有血有肉的生灵。

“瞧！小老虎！” 她边说边将手中的纸老虎放到桌上。

它个头不大，和我两个拳头加起来差不多，白色虎皮上点缀着红色糖果和绿色圣诞松。

我接过妈妈手中的小老虎。

它似猫非猫，高翘着尾巴，在我指尖左右乱窜，“嗷……”的吼叫声夹杂着纸张的窸窣声。

我既惊又喜，用食指摸摸后背，小东西连蹦带跳，发出低沉的吼叫声。

“这叫折纸。

”母亲用中文告诉我。

那时我对折纸一窍不通，但我知道妈妈的折纸术神奇无比。

只要她轻轻一吹，这些纸玩意儿便可借助她的气息活蹦乱跳起来。

这么神奇的折纸术只有她一个人会。

【二】爸爸是从一本册子里挑中妈妈的。

记得有一次，正在读高中的我向爸爸询问其中经过。

他显得很不情愿。

那是1973年的春天，爸爸想通过婚介找个对象。

年份种类获奖作品1953长篇《被毁灭的人》1954无无1955长篇《他们相当正确》中篇《达夫斯讲述者》短篇《阿拉玛果沙》1956长篇《双星》中篇《探险队》短篇《星》1957无无1958长篇《大时代》短篇《或者所有有牡蛎的海洋》1959长篇《事关良心》中篇《大前庭》短篇《那地狱边缘的火车》1960长篇《星船伞兵》短篇《献给阿尔吉侬的花》1961长篇《莱博维兹的赞歌》短篇《最长的航程》1962长篇《异乡异客》短篇《温室》1963长篇《城堡中的男人》短篇《龙主》1964长篇《星际驿站》短篇《与国王们战斗到底》1965长篇《流浪星》短篇《战士，不要问》1966长篇《沙丘》《不朽》短篇《梯克托克曼说：“忏悔吧，哈勒昆!”》1967长篇《月亮是一个严厉的女人（严厉的月亮）》中篇《最后的城堡》短篇《中子星》1968长篇《光明王》长中篇《紫薪骑手》《维乐搜索》短中篇《打算滚动石头》短篇《我没有嘴，我要呐喊》1969长篇《站在桑给巴尔》长中篇《夜翼》短中篇《肉体的分享》短篇《在世界中心呼唤爱的野兽》1970长篇《黑暗的左手》中篇《阴影之船》短篇《时间像假宝石的螺旋线》1971长篇《环形世界》中篇《遭遇在兰克马》短篇《慢雕刻》1972长篇《到你散乱的躯体中去》中篇《空气与黑暗的女王》短篇《不恒定的月亮》长篇《神们自己》长中篇《世界之词乃森林》1973短篇《伊瑞马水坝》《会见》1974长篇《与拉玛相会》长中篇《被插上插头的女孩》短中篇《死鸟》短篇《离开麦欧拉的人》1975长篇《一无所有》长中篇《莱安娜之歌》短中篇《兰格汉斯开始漂流》短篇《洞人》1976长篇《千年战争》长中篇《家是刽子手》短中篇《索尔的边疆》短篇《抓住则皮林》1977长篇《迟暮鸟语》长中篇《通过任何其他的名字》《休斯顿，休斯顿，你读到了吗?》短中篇《两百岁的人》短篇《三百年国庆纪念日》1978长篇《门口》长中篇《星舞》短中篇《琥珀之眼》短篇《杰弗梯是五》1979长篇《梦蛇》长中篇《视觉的持续》短中篇《猎人的月亮》短篇《卡桑德拉》1980长篇《天堂的喷泉》长中篇《敌人的矿藏》短中篇《沙王》短篇《龙与十字架》1981长篇《雪王后》长中篇《失去的多赛》短中篇《斗篷与棍棒》短篇《舞鹿的洞穴》1982长篇《向下的站台》长中篇《土星游戏》短中篇《独角兽的棋路》短篇《推销者》1983长篇《基地边缘》长中篇《精灵们》短中篇《火警监视》短篇《忧郁的大象》1984长篇《星潮汹涌》长中篇《瀑布点》短中篇《血里的音乐》短篇《演说的声音》1985长篇《神经浪游者》长中篇《按回车[>键》短中篇《血孩》短篇《水晶天》长篇《安德的游戏》长中篇《富士山的二十四个风景，作者贺古赛》1986短篇《费米与霜》1987长篇《死者代言人》长中篇《内地的吉尔加美什》短中篇《永久冻土》短篇《切线》1988长篇《提升之战》长中篇《眼中眼》短中篇《戈尔斯，你今晚出来吗》短篇《为什么我离开了哈里的通宵营业汉堡店》1989长篇《赛亭》长中篇《温勒巴格斯的最后一个》短中篇《薛定谔的猫》短篇《基林亚戈》1990长篇《海伯利安》长中篇《悲悼的群山》短中篇《输入一个兵，再输入另一个》短篇《蠢人们》1991长篇《贵族的游戏》长中篇《海明威骗局》短中篇《曼拉姆基》短篇《熊发现了火》1992长篇《贝拉亚》长中篇《西班牙乞丐》短中篇《金子》短篇《追赶太阳》1993长篇《深渊上的火》《末日之书》长中篇《太空人比尔》短中篇《碎果钳政变》短篇《即使是王后》1994长篇《绿火星》长中篇《在底部世界降落》短中篇《佐治亚在我脑中》短篇《尼罗河上的死亡》1995长篇《镜舞》长中篇《欧都外峡谷的七个景观》短中篇《火星人的孩子》短篇《没人这么瞎》1996长篇《钻石年代》长中篇《未来的上尉之死》短中篇《像恐龙一样思考》短篇《林肯列车》1997长篇《蓝火星》长中篇《龙血》短中篇《修理自行车的人》短篇《灵魂选择她的社会》1998长篇《永远的和平》长中篇《天使恐惧的威胁》短中篇《我们要与鱼一起唱……》短篇《四十三个南极王朝》1999长篇《别忘了还有狗》长中篇《海栖者》短中篇《塔克拉玛干》2000长篇《天渊》长中篇《The Winds of Marble Arch》短中篇《10的十六次方到1》短篇《暴龙谐谑曲》2001长篇《哈里波特与火焰杯》长中篇《最终的地球》短中篇《千年贝贝》短篇《另一种黑暗》2002长篇《美国众神》长中篇《费尔蒙特中学的流星岁月》短中篇《地狱是上帝不在的地方》短篇《狗说汪汪》2003长篇《智人》长中篇《卡罗兰（鬼妈妈）》短中篇《缓慢的生命》短篇《坠落火星》2004长篇《灵魂骑士》长中篇《循环》短中篇《时间军团》短篇《绿字的研究》2005长篇《乔纳森·斯特兰奇与诺瑞尔先生》长中篇《都市丛林》短中篇《仙女手提包》短篇《与猫同行》2006长篇《时间回旋》长中篇《秘密任务》短中篇《双心》短篇《Tk’tk’tk》2007长篇《彩虹尽头》长中篇《万亿夜》短中篇《神怪之妻》短篇《幻梦》2008长篇《犹太警察联合会》长中篇《均已就座》短中篇《商人与炼金术师之门》短篇《潮痕》2009长篇《坟场之书》长中篇《The Erdmann Nexus》短中篇《Shoggoths in Bloom》短篇《Exhalation》2010长篇《被谋杀的城市》The City & The City《曼谷的发条女孩》The Windup Girl 长中篇《重写人生》Palimpsest短中篇《岛》The Island短篇《冰柱新娘》"Bridesicle"2011长篇《灯火管制/空袭警报解除》Blackout/All Clear长中篇《软件体的生命周期》 The Lifecycle ofSoftware Objects短中篇《火星的皇帝》“The Emperor of Mars”短篇《只因少了一颗钉》“For Want of a Nail”长篇《我不属于他们》Among Others长中篇《雾上架桥的男人》The Man Who Bridged the Mist2012短篇《手中纸，心中爱》The Paper Menagerie2013长篇《红衬衫：三个结尾的小说》Redshirts: A Novelwith Three Codas长中篇《皇帝魂》The Emperor’s Soul短中篇The Girl-Thing Who Went Out for Sushi短篇《物哀》Mono no aware2014最佳长篇 Ancillary Justice最佳中篇Equoid最佳短篇The Lady Astronaut of Mars最佳超短篇The Water That Falls on You from Nowhere2015最佳长篇小说《三体》最佳中长篇小说空缺最佳中篇小说《世界颠倒之日》The Day the World TurnedUpside Down最佳短篇空缺最佳长片《银河护卫队》最佳短片《黑色孤儿》作者阿尔弗雷德·贝斯特无马克·克里夫顿 弗兰克·瑞雷小沃尔特·M·米勒艾里克·F．拉赛尔罗伯特·A·海因莱因幕瑞·雷因斯特阿瑟·C·克拉克无弗里兹·雷伯A．戴维逊詹姆斯·布利什克利福德·D·西马克罗伯特·布罗赫罗伯特·A·海因莱因丹尼尔·凯斯小沃尔特·M·米勒波尔·安德森罗伯特·A·海因莱因布赖恩·奥尔迪斯菲利普·K·迪克杰克·万斯克里福德·D·西马克波尔·安德森弗里兹·雷伯戈登·R·迪克森弗兰克·赫伯特罗杰·泽拉兹尼哈兰·埃利森罗伯特·A·海因莱因杰克·万斯拉里·尼文罗杰·泽拉兹尼菲利普·J·法玛安妮·麦卡芙瑞弗里兹·雷伯哈兰·埃利森约翰·布鲁纳罗伯特·西尔弗伯格波尔·安德森哈兰·埃利森厄休拉·K·勒吉因弗里兹·雷伯撒缪尔·R·狄兰尼拉里·尼文弗里兹·雷伯西奥多·斯特金菲利普·J·法玛波尔·安德森拉里·尼文艾萨克·阿西莫夫厄休拉·K·勒吉因拉菲尔·A·拉弗蒂弗雷德里克·波尔& C·M·考恩布鲁斯阿瑟·C·克拉克小詹姆斯·梯普崔哈兰·埃利森厄休拉·K·勒吉因厄休拉·K·勒吉因乔治·R·R·马丁哈兰·埃利森拉里·尼文乔·霍尔德曼罗杰·泽拉兹尼拉里·尼文弗里兹·雷伯凯特·威廉斯比德·罗宾逊小詹姆斯·梯昔崔艾萨克·阿西莫夫乔·霍尔德曼弗雷德里克·波尔斯比德·罗宾逊 & 珍尼·罗宾逊琼·D·温基哈兰·埃利森冯达·麦金太尔约翰·瓦雷保罗·安德森C．J．切瑞阿瑟·C·克拉克巴里·B·龙耶乔治·R·R·马丁乔治·R·R·马丁琼·D·温基戈东·R·迪克逊戈东·R·迪克逊克里福德·D·西马克C．J．切瑞保罗·安德森罗杰·泽拉兹尼约翰·瓦雷艾萨克·阿西莫夫琼安娜·露丝康尼·威利斯斯比德·罗宾逊大卫·布林蒂莫西·扎恩格里格·贝尔欧克塔维亚·布特勒威廉·吉布森约翰·瓦雷欧克塔维亚·布特勒大卫·布林奥森·斯科特·卡德罗杰·泽拉兹尼弗雷德里克·波尔奥森·斯科特·卡德罗伯特·西尔弗伯格罗杰·泽拉兹尼格里格·贝尔大卫·布林奥森·斯科特·卡德厄休拉·K·勒吉因劳伦斯·瓦特伊凡斯C．J．切瑞康尼·威利斯乔治·阿列克·艾芬格迈克·雷斯尼克丹·西蒙斯洛伊斯·比约德罗伯特·西尔弗伯格苏泽·M·查拉斯洛伊斯·比约德乔·霍尔德曼迈克·雷斯尼克特瑞·比森洛伊斯·比约德南希·克雷斯艾萨克·阿西莫夫杰弗里·A·兰迪斯弗诺·文奇康尼·威利斯路修斯·谢芭德珍妮特·卡甘康妮·威利斯金·斯坦利·罗宾逊哈里·图特雷多夫查尔斯·谢菲尔德康妮·威利斯洛伊斯·比约德迈克·雷斯尼克大卫·戈罗德乔·霍尔德曼尼尔·斯蒂芬森爱伦·斯蒂尔詹姆斯·帕崔克·科利玛瑞·F·麦克芙金·斯坦利·罗宾逊乔治·R·R·马丁布鲁斯·斯特灵康妮·威利斯乔·霍尔德曼爱伦·斯蒂尔比尔·约翰逊迈克·雷斯尼克康妮·威利斯格雷格·伊根布鲁斯·斯特林弗诺·文奇康妮·威利斯詹姆斯·帕特里克·凯利迈克尔·斯万维克J·K·罗琳杰克·威廉森Kristine Kathryn Rusch大卫·郎福特尼尔·盖曼弗诺·文奇特德·蒋迈克尔·斯万维克罗伯特·J·索耶尼尔·盖曼迈克尔·斯万维克杰弗里·A·兰迪斯洛伊斯·比约德弗诺·文奇迈克尔·斯万维克尼尔·盖曼苏珊娜·克拉克查尔斯·斯特罗斯凯莉·林克迈克·雷斯尼克罗伯特·查尔斯·威尔逊康妮·威利斯彼得·S·毕格尔戴维·D·莱文弗诺·文奇罗伯特·里德伊恩·迈克唐纳德蒂姆·普拉特迈克尔·查邦康妮·威利斯特德·姜伊丽莎白·贝尔尼尔·盖曼南希·克雷斯伊丽莎白·贝尔特德·姜柴纳·米耶维China Miéville保罗·巴奇加卢比Paolo Bacigalupi 查尔斯·斯特罗斯Charles Stross 彼得·华斯Peter Watts威尔·麦金托什Will McIntosh康妮·威利斯Connie Willis姜峯楠Ted Chiang艾伦M.斯蒂尔Allen M. Steele玛丽·罗宾奈特·科瓦尔Mary Robinette Kowal舟·沃顿Jo Walton吉尔·强森Kij Johnson刘宇昆Ken Liu约翰‧史卡奇John Scalzi布兰登·山德森Brandon Sanderson 帕特·卡蒂根Pat Cadigan刘宇昆Ken LiuAnn LeckieCharles StrossMary Robinette KowalJohn Chu刘慈欣空缺作者：托马斯·奥尔德·赫维尔特 译者：利亚·贝特空缺。

手中纸心中爱原作：Kun Liu （美国，母亲是中国人）《手中纸、心中爱》讲述在美国的中国移民一代与移民二代的文化冲突，以及因为叛逆和顿感而错过深沉母爱的故事。

本文获得2012雨果奖最佳短片。

我最早的记忆是我儿时的一次哭泣，那次，不管爸爸妈妈怎么哄，我就是不搭理，一个劲儿地哭个不停。

爸爸拿我没办法，只好任由我在卧室里哭，妈妈却把我抱进厨房，将我安置在餐桌旁坐好。

她从冰箱上抽出一张彩色包装纸，想吸引我的注意，“瞧瞧，这是什么？”每年圣诞节过后，妈妈都会将各种圣诞礼盒的包装纸小心翼翼地裁剪下来，整齐地叠放在冰箱顶部，几年下来，包装纸积了厚厚一沓。

她拿出其中一张，正面朝下反面朝上，平整地摊在桌上，给我叠小玩意儿。

折、压、吹、卷、捏……不一会儿，这张纸就在她指尖消失不见了。

她轻轻一吹，一个被压得扁扁平平的纸模型瞬间变成了有血有肉的生灵。

“瞧！小老虎！”她边说边将手中的纸老虎放到桌上，它个头不大，和我两个拳头加起来差不多，白色虎皮上点缀着红色糖果和绿色圣诞松。

我接过妈妈手中的小老虎，它似猫非猫，高翘着尾巴，在我指尖左右乱窜，“嗷……”的吼叫声夹杂着纸张的窸窣声。

我既惊又喜，用食指摸摸后背，小东西连蹦带跳，发出低沉的吼叫声。

“这叫折纸。

”母亲用中文告诉我。

那时我对折纸一窍不通，但我知道妈妈的折纸术神奇无比。

只要她轻轻一吹，这些纸玩意儿便可借助她的气息活蹦乱跳起来，这么神奇的折纸术只有她一个人会。

爸爸是从一本册子里挑中妈妈的，记得有一次，正在读高中的我向爸爸询问其中经过，他显得很不情愿。

那是1973年的春天，爸爸想通过婚介找个对象。

于是他漫不经心地翻阅着介绍册，每一页都瞟上一眼，直到他看到妈妈照片的一刹那。

“我从未见过那种照片。

”爸爸说。

照片里，一位女子侧身坐在藤椅上，她身着丝质的紧身绿旗袍，双眸视镜，一头秀发优雅地垂在胸前，依于肩侧，孩童般的双眼透过照片，盯着爸爸。

“自从看到她的照片，我就不想再看别人的了。

《三体》英译本系列的副文本探究邓高胜,唐静（安徽信息工程学院通识教育与外国语学院，安徽芜湖241000）【摘要】副文本是原文的信息补充与意义阐述，是翻译文本中不可缺少的组成部分。

《三体》是首部获得科幻文学界国际最高奖项雨果奖的亚洲科幻作品，其成功原因值得深究。

借助热拉尔·热奈特的副文本理论，文章分析《三体》英译本系列的封面、注释、译者序、名家评论等副文本因素在其翻译、传播与接受过程中的积极作用。

以《三体》英译本系列为例，通过解读其副文本，能够发现副文本在翻译与传播过程中体现出来的译者翻译思想与赞助人的推介努力。

【关键词】《三体》；英译本；副文本；翻译研究中图分类号：I206文献标志码：A 文章编号：1673-8004（2022）04-0090-10Vol.41No.42022年7月第41卷第4期重庆文理学院学报（社会科学版）Journal of Chongqing University of Arts and Sciences （Social Sciences Edition ）Jul.2022DOI:10.19493/ki.issn1673－8004.2022.04.008收稿日期：2022-03-01基金项目：安徽省教育厅人文社会科学重点项目“改革开放以来的中国通俗小说英译研究”（SK2020A0644）。

作者简介：邓高胜（1995—），男，安徽亳州人，讲师，硕士，主要从事文学翻译、翻译理论与实践研究；唐静（1985—），女，安徽芜湖人，副教授，硕士，主要从事翻译理论与实践、英美文学研究。

一、引言《三体》是刘慈欣创作的长篇系列科幻小说，由《三体》《三体Ⅱ·黑暗森林》和《三体Ⅲ·死神永生》组成。

2006年5月，《三体》开始在《科幻世界》上连载，迅速在科幻文学界引起巨大反响，并在2008年出版单行本。

《三体》系列格局宏大、立意高远，从科幻的角度探讨人性，将科学与人文相结合［1］。

藏在折纸里的爱作文嘿，你们知道吗？在我的生活里呀，有一种特别特别神奇的东西，那就是折纸！它可不仅仅是一张纸折来折去那么简单哦，这里面藏着好多好多的爱呢！我记得有一次，我生病了，躺在家里的床上，觉得好无聊好难受呀。

这时候，妈妈走了过来，她坐在我的床边，微笑着拿出了一些彩纸。

“宝贝，我们来折纸吧。

”妈妈温柔地说。

我一下子就来了精神，对啊，折纸多好玩呀。

妈妈开始教我折小兔子，她的手好巧呀，几下就折出了一只活灵活现的小兔子。

我也努力地学着，哎呀，我总是折不好。

“妈妈，我折不出来。

”我有点泄气地说。

妈妈摸摸我的头，鼓励我说：“别着急呀，宝贝，慢慢来，你肯定能行的。

”在妈妈的耐心指导下，我终于也折出了一只小兔子。

我高兴极了，生病的难受都好像一下子减轻了好多。

还有一次，是在学校里。

那天我和好朋友吵架了，心里好难过呀。

我一个人坐在座位上，看着手里的纸发呆。

这时候，同桌看到了，他凑过来问：“怎么啦？不高兴啦？”我点点头。

他想了想，说：“那我们来折纸吧。

”说着，他就拿起纸折了起来。

不一会儿，他折出了一架小飞机。

“看，飞啦！”他把小飞机扔出去，逗得我哈哈大笑。

哎呀，刚刚的不开心一下子就飞走啦，就像那架小飞机一样。

折纸呀，就像是一个神奇的魔法，在我不开心的时候给我带来快乐，在我无聊的时候给我解闷，在我生病的时候给我安慰。

它就像妈妈的爱一样，总是暖暖的；它也像朋友的陪伴一样，总是那么贴心。

你们说，这藏在折纸里的爱，是不是特别珍贵呀？反正我觉得是！这就是我对折纸的感受，它真的很了不起呢！。

The Paper Menagerie (Best Short Story, 2012 Hugo Award)One of my earliest memories starts with me sobbing. I refused to be soothed no matter what Mom and Dad tried.Dad gave up and left the bedroom, but Mom took me into the kitchen and sat me down at the breakfast table.“Kan, kan,” she said, as she pulled a sheet of wrapping paper from on top of the fridge. For years, Mom carefully sliced open the wrappings around Christmas gifts and saved them on top of the fridge in a thick stack.She set the paper down, plain side facing up, and began to fold it. I stopped crying and watched her, curious.She turned the paper over and folded it again. She pleated, packed, tucked, rolled, and twisted until the paper disappeared between her cupped hands. Then she lifted the folded-up paper packet to her mouth and blew into it, like a balloon.“Kan,” she said. “Laohu.” She put her hands down on the table and let go.A little paper tiger stood on the table, the size of two fists placed together. The skin of the tiger was the pattern on the wrapping paper, white background with red candy canes and green Christmas trees.I reached out to Mom’s creation. Its tail twitched, and it pounced playfully at my finger. “Rawrr-sa,” it growled, the sound somewhere between a cat an d rustling newspapers.I laughed, startled, and stroked its back with an index finger. The paper tiger vibrated under my finger, purring.“Zhe jiao zhezhi,” Mom said. This is called origami.I didn’t know this at the time, but Mom’s kind was special. Sh e breathed into them so that they shared her breath, and thus moved with her life. This was her magic.Dad had picked Mom out of a catalog.One time, when I was in high school, I asked Dad about the details. He was trying to get me to speak to Mom again.He had signed up for the introduction service back in the spring of 1973. Flipping through the pages steadily, he had spent no more than a few seconds on each page until he saw the picture of Mom.I’ve never seen this picture. Dad described it: Mom was sitting in a chair, her side to the camera, wearing a tight green silk cheongsam. Her head was turned to the camera so that her long black hair was draped artfully over her chest and shoulder. She looked out at him with the eyes of a calm child.“That was the last page of the catalog I saw,” he said.The catalog said she was eighteen, loved to dance, and spoke good English because she was from Hong Kong. None of these facts turned out to be true.He wrote to her, and the company passed their messages back and forth. Finally, he flew to Hong Kong to meet her.“The people at the company had been writing her responses. She didn’t know any English other than ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye.’”What kind of woman puts herself into a catalog so that she can be bought? The high school me thought I knew so much about everything. Contempt felt good, like wine.Instead of storming into the office to demand his money back, he paid a waitress at the hotel restaurant to translate for them.“She would look at me, her eyes halfw ay between scared and hopeful, while I spoke. And when the girl began translating what I said, she’d start to smile slowly.”He flew back to Connecticut and began to apply for the papers for her to come to him. I was born a year later, in the Year of the Tiger.At my request, Mom also made a goat, a deer, and a water buffalo out of wrapping paper. They would run around the living room while Laohu chased after them, growling. When he caught them he would press down until the air went out of them and they became just flat, folded-up pieces of paper. I would then have to blow into them to re-inflate them so they could run around some more.Sometimes, the animals got into trouble. Once, the water buffalo jumped into a dish of soy sauce on the table at dinner. (He wanted to wallow, like a real water buffalo.) I picked him out quickly but the capillary action had already pulled the dark liquid high up into his legs. The sauce-softened legs would not hold him up, and he collapsed onto the table. I dried him out in the sun, but his legs became crooked after that, and he ran around with a limp. Mom eventually wrapped his legs in saran wrap so that he could wallow to his heart’s content (just not in soy sauce).Also, Laohu liked to pounce at sparrows when he and I played in the backyard. But one time, a cornered bird struck back in desperation and tore his ear. He whimpered and winced as I held him and Mom patched his ear together with tape. He avoided birds after that.And then one day, I saw a TV documentary about sharks and asked Mom for one of my own. She made the shark, but he flapped about on the table unhappily. I filled the sink with water, and put him in. He swam around and around happily. However, after a while he became soggy and translucent, and slowly sank to the bottom, the folds coming undone. I reached in to rescue him, and all I ended up with was a wet piece of paper.Laohu put his front paws together at the edge of the sink and rested his head on them. Ears drooping, he made a low growl in his throat that made me feel guilty.Mom made a new shark for me, this time out of tin foil. The shark lived happily in a large goldfish bowl. Laohu and I liked to sit next to the bowl to watch the tin foil shark chasing the goldfish, Laohu sticking his face up against the bowl on the other side so that I saw his eyes, magnified to the size of coffee cups, staring at me from across the bowl.When I was ten, we moved to a new house across town. Two of the women neighbors came by to welcome us. Dad served them drinks and then apologized for having to run off to the utility company to straighten out the prior owner’s bills. “Make yourselves at home. My wife doesn’t speak much English, so don’t think she’s being rude for not talking to you.”While I read in the dining room, Mom unpacked in the kitchen. The neighbors conversed in the living room, not trying to be particularly quiet.“He seems like a normal enough man. Why did he do that?”“Something about the mixing never seems right. The child looks unfinished. Slant y eyes, white face. A little monster.”“Do you think he can speak English?”The women hushed. After a while they came into the dining room.“Hello there! What’s your name?”“Jack,” I said.“That doesn’t sound very Chinesey.”Mom came into the dining room then. She smiled at the women. The three of them stood in a triangle around me, smiling and nodding at each other, with nothing to say, until Dad came back.Mark, one of the neighborhood boys, came over with his Star Wars action figures. Obi-Wan Keno bi’s lightsaber lit up and he could swing his arms and say, in a tinny voice, “Use the Force!” I didn’t think the figure looked much like the real Obi-Wan at all.Together, we watched him repeat this performance five times on the coffee table. “Can he do anything else?” I asked.Mark was annoyed by my question. “Look at all the details,” he said.I looked at the details. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say.Mark was disappointed by my response. “Show me your toys.”I didn’t have any toys except my paper menagerie. I brought Laohu out from my bedroom. By then he was very worn, patched all over with tape and glue, evidence of the years of repairs Mom and I had done on him. He was no longer as nimble and sure-footed as before. I sat him down on the coffee table. I could hear the skittering steps of the other animals behind in the hallway, timidly peeking into the living room.“Xiao laohu,” I said, and stopped. I switched to English. “This is Tiger.” Cautiously, Laohu strode up and purred at Mark, sniffing his hands.Mark examined the Christmas-wrap pattern of Laohu’s skin. “That doesn’t look like a tiger at all. Your Mom makes toys for you from trash?”I had never thought of Laohu as trash. But looking at him now, he was really just a piece of wrapping paper.Mark pushed Obi-Wan’s head again. The lightsaber flashed; he moved his arms up and down. “Use the Force!”Laohu turned and pounced, knocking the plastic figure off the table. It hit the floor and broke, and Obi-Wan’s head rolled under the couch. “Rawwww,” Laohu laughed. I joined him.Mark punched me, hard. “This was very expensive! You can’t even find it in the stores now. It probably cost more than what your dad paid for your mom!”I stumbled and fell to the floor. Laohu growled and leapt at Mark’s face.Mark screamed, more out of fear and surprise than pain. Laohu was only made of paper, after all.Mark grabbed Laohu and his snarl was choked off as Mark crumpled him in his hand and tore him in half. He balled up the two pieces of paper and threw them at me. “Here’s your stupid cheap Chinese garbage.”After Mark left, I spent a long time trying, without success, to tape together the pieces, smooth out the paper, and follow the creases to refold Laohu. Slowly, the other animals came into the livingroom and gathered around us, me and the torn wrapping paper that used to be Laohu.My fight with Mark didn’t end there. Mark was popular at school. I never want to think again about the two weeks that followed.I came home that Friday at the end o f the two weeks. “Xuexiao hao ma?” Mom asked. I said nothing and went to the bathroom. I looked into the mirror. I look nothing like her, nothing.At dinner I asked Dad, “Do I have a chink face?”Dad put down his chopsticks. Even though I had never told him what happened in school, he seemed to understand. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “No, you don’t.”Mom looked at Dad, not understanding. She looked back at me. “Sha jiao chink?”“English,” I said. “Speak English.”She tried. “What happen?”I pushed the chopsticks and the bowl before me away: stir-fried green peppers with five-spice beef. “We should eat American food.”Dad tried to reason. “A lot of families cook Chinese sometimes.”“We are not other families.” I looked at him. Other families don’t have moms who don’t belong.He looked away. And then he put a hand on Mom’s shoulder. “I’ll get you a cookbook.”Mom turned to me. “Bu haochi?”“English,” I said, raising my voice. “Speak English.”Mom reached out to touch my for ehead, feeling for my temperature. “Fashao la?”I brushed her hand away. “I’m fine. Speak English!” I was shouting.“Speak English to him,” Dad said to Mom. “You knew this was going to happen some day. What did you expect?”Mom dropped her hands to her side. She sat, looking from Dad to me, and back to Dad again. She tried to speak, stopped, and tried again, and stopped again.“You have to,” Dad said. “I’ve been too easy on you. Jack needs to fit in.”Mom looked at him. “If I say ‘love,’ I feel here.” She pointed to her lips. “If I say ‘ai,‘ I feel here.” She put her hand over her heart.Dad shook his head. “You are in America.”Mom hunched down in her seat, looking like the water buffalo when Laohu used to pounce on him and squeeze the air of life out of him.“And I want some real toys.”Dad bought me a full set of Star Wars action figures. I gave the Obi-Wan Kenobi to Mark.I packed the paper menagerie in a large shoebox and put it under the bed.The next morning, the animals had escaped and took over their old favorite spots in my room. I caught them all and put them back into the shoebox, taping the lid shut. But the animals made so much noise in the box that I finally shoved it into the corner of the attic as far away from my room as possible.If Mom spoke to me in Chinese, I refused to answer her. After a while, she tried to use more English. But her accent and broken sentences embarrassed me. I tried to correct her. Eventually, she stopped speaking altogether if I were around.Mom began to mime things if she needed to let me know something. She tried to hug me the way she saw American mothers did on TV. I thought her movements exaggerated, uncertain, ridiculous, graceless. She saw that I was annoyed, and stopped.“You shouldn’t treat your mother that way,” Dad said. But he couldn’t look me in the eyes as he said it. Deep in his heart, he must have realized that it was a mistake to have tried to take a Chinese peasant girl and expect her to fit in the suburbs of Connecticut.Mom learned to cook American style. I played video games and studied French.Every once in a while, I would see her at the kitchen table studying the plain side of a sheet of wrapping paper. Later a new paper animal would appear on my nightstand and try to cuddle up to me. I caught them, squeezed them until the air went out of them, and then stuffed them away in the box in the attic.Mom finally stopped making the animals when I was in high school. By then her English was much better, but I was already at that age when I wasn’t interested in what she had to say whatever language she used.Sometimes, when I came home and saw her tiny body busily moving about in the kitchen, singing a song in Chinese to herself, it was hard for me to believe that she gave birth to me. We hadnothing in common. She might as well be from the moon. I would hurry on to my room, where I could continue my all-American pursuit of happiness.Dad and I stood, one on each side of Mom, lying on the hospital bed. She was not yet even forty, but she looked much older.For years she had refused to go to the doctor for the pain inside her that she said was no big deal. By the time an ambulance finally carried her in, the cancer had spread far beyond the limits of surgery.My mind was not in the room. It was the middle of the on-campus recruiting season, and I was focused on resumes, transcripts, and strategically constructed interview schedules. I schemed about how to lie to the corporate recruiters most effectively so that they’ll offer to buy me. I understood intellectually that it was terrible to think about this while your mother lay dying. But that understanding didn’t mean I could change how I felt.She was conscious. Dad held her left hand with both of his own. He leaned down to kiss her forehead. He seemed weak and old in a way that startled me. I realized that I knew almost as little about Dad as I did about Mom.Mom smiled at him. “I’m fine.”She turned to me, still smiling. “I know you have to go back to school.” Her voice was very weak and it was difficult to hear her over the hum of the machines hooked up to her. “Go. Don’t worry about me. This is not a big deal. Just do well in school.”I reached out to touch her hand, because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. I was relieved. I was already thinking about the flight back, and the bright California sunshine.She whispered something to Dad. He nodded and left the room.“Jack, if—” she was caught up in a fit of coughing, and could not speak for some time. “If I don’t make it, don’t be too sad and hurt your health. Focus on your life. Just keep that box you have in the attic with you, and every year, at Qingming, just take it out and think about me. I’ll be with you always.”Qingming was the Chinese Festival for the Dead. When I was very young, Mom used to write a letter onQingming to her dead parents back in China, telling them the good news about the past year of her life in America. She would read the letter out loud to me, and if I made a comment about something, she would write it down in the letter too. Then she would fold the letter into a paper crane, and release it, facing west. We would then watch, as the crane flapped its crisp wings on its long journey west, towards the Pacific, towards China, towards the graves of Mom’s f amily.It had been many years since I last did that with her.“I don’t know anything about the Chinese calendar,” I said. “Just rest, Mom. ”“Just keep the box with you and open it once in a while. Just open—” she began to cough again.“It’s okay, Mom.” I stroked her arm awkwardly.“Haizi, mama ai ni—” Her cough took over again. An image from years ago flashed into my memory: Mom saying ai and then putting her hand over her heart.“Alright, Mom. Stop talking.”Dad came back, and I said that I needed to get to the airport early because I didn’t want to miss my flight.She died when my plane was somewhere over Nevada.Dad aged rapidly after Mom died. The house was too big for him and had to be sold. My girlfriend Susan and I went to help him pack and clean the place.Susan found the shoebox in the attic. The paper menagerie, hidden in the uninsulated darkness of the attic for so long, had become brittle and the bright wrapping paper patterns had faded.“I’ve never seen origami like this,” Susan said.“Your Mom was an amazing artist.”The paper animals did not move. Perhaps whatever magic had animated them stopped when Mom died. Or perhaps I had only imagined that these paper constructions were once alive. The memory of children could not be trusted.It was the first weekend in April, two years after Mom’s death. Susan was out of town on one of her endless trips as a management consultant and I was home, lazily flipping through the TV channels.I paused at a documentary about sharks. Suddenly I saw, in my mind, Mom’s hands, as they folded and refolded tin foil to make a shark for me, while Laohu and I watched.A rustle. I looked up and saw that a ball of wrapping paper and torn tape was on the floor next to the bookshelf. I walked over to pick it up for the trash.The ball of paper shifted, unfurled itself, and I saw that it was Laohu, who I hadn’t thought about in a very long time. “Rawrr-sa.” Mom must have put him back together after I had given up.He was smaller than I remembered. Or maybe it was just that back then my fists were smaller.Susan had put the paper animals around our apartment as decoration. She probably left Laohu in a pretty hidden corner because he looked so shabby.I sat down on the floor, and reached out a finger. Laohu’s tai l twitched, and he pounced playfully. I laughed, stroking his back. Laohu purred under my hand.“How’ve you been, old buddy?”Laohu stopped playing. He got up, jumped with feline grace into my lap, and proceeded to unfold himself.In my lap was a square of creased wrapping paper, the plain side up. It was filled with dense Chinese characters. I had never learned to read Chinese, but I knew the characters for son, and they were at the top, where you’d expect them in a letter addressed to you, written in Mom’s awkward, childish handwriting.I went to the computer to check the Internet. Today was Qingming.I took the letter with me downtown, where I knew the Chinese tour buses stopped. I stopped every tourist, asking, “Nin hui du zhongwen ma?” Can you read Chinese? I hadn’t spoken Chinese in so long that I wasn’t sure if they understood.A young woman agreed to help. We sat down on a bench together, and she read the letter to me aloud. The language that I had tried to forget for years came back, and I felt the words sinking into me, through my skin, through my bones, until they squeezed tight around my heart.Son,We haven’t talked in a long time. You are so angry when I try to touch you that I’m afraid. And I think maybe this pain I feel all the time now is something serious.So I decided to write to you. I’m going to write in the paper animals I made for you that you used to like so much.The animals will stop moving when I stop breathing. But if I write to you with all my heart,I’ll leave a little of myself behind on this paper, in these words. Then, if you think of me on Qingming, when the spirits of the departed are allowed to visit their families, you’ll make the parts of myself I leave behind come alive too. The creatures I made for you will again leap and run and pounce, and maybe you’ll get to see these words then.Because I have to write with all my heart, I need to write to you in Chinese.All this time I still haven’t told you the story of my life. When you were little, I always thought I’d tell you the story when you were older, so you could understand. But somehowthat chance never came up.I was born in 1957, in Sigulu Village, Hebei Province. Your grandparents were both from very poor peasant families with few relatives. Only a few years after I was born, the Great Famines struck China, during which thirty million people died. The first memory I have was waking up to see my mother eating dirt so that she could fill her belly and leave the last bit of flour for me.Things got better after that. Sigulu is famous for its zhezhi papercraft, and my mother taught me how to make paper animals and give them life. This was practical magic in the life of the village. We made paper birds to chase grasshoppers away from the fields, and paper tigers t o keep away the mice. For Chinese New Year my friends and I made red paper dragons. I’ll never forget the sight of all those little dragons zooming across the sky overhead, holding up strings of exploding firecrackers to scare away all the bad memories of the past year. You would have loved it.Then came the Cultural Revolution in 1966. Neighbor turned on neighbor, and brother against brother. Someone remembered that my mother’s brother, my uncle, had left for Hong Kong back in 1946, and became a merchant there. Having a relative in Hong Kong meant we were spies and enemies of the people, and we had to be struggled against in every way. Your poor grandmother —she couldn’t take the abuse and threw herself down a well. Then some boys with hunting muskets dragged your grandfather away one day into the woods, and he never came back.There I was, a ten-year-old orphan. The only relative I had in the world was my uncle in Hong Kong. I snuck away one night and climbed onto a freight train going south.Down in Guangdong Province a few days later, some men caught me stealing food from a field. When they heard that I was trying to get to Hong Kong, they laughed. “It’s your lucky day. Our trade is to bring girls to Hong Kong.”They hid me in the bottom of a truck along with other girls, and smuggled us across the border.We were taken to a basement and told to stand up and look healthy and intelligent for the buyers. Families paid the warehouse a fee and came by to look us over and select one of us to “adopt.”The Chin family picked me to take care of their two boys. I got up every morning at four to prepare breakfast. I fed and bathed the boys. I shopped for food. I did the laundry and swept the floors. I followed the boys around and did their bidding. At night I was locked into a cupboard in the kitchen to sleep. If I was slow or did anything wrong I was beaten. If the boys did anything wrong I was beaten. If I was caught trying to learn English I was beaten.“Why do you want to learn English?” Mr. Chin asked. “You want to go to the police? We’ll tell the police that you are a mainlander illegally in Hong Kong. They’d love to have you in their prison.”Six years I lived like this. One day, an old woman who sold fish to me in the morning market pulled me aside.“I know girls like you. How old are you now, sixteen? One day, the man who owns you will get drunk, and he’ll look at you and pull you to him and you can’t stop him. The wife will find out, and then you will think you really have gone to hell. You have to get out of this life.I know someone who can help.”She told me about American men who wanted Asian wives. If I can cook, clean, and take care of my American husband, he’ll give me a good life. It was the only hope I had. And that was how I got into the catalog with all those lies and met your father. It is not a very romantic story, but it is my story.In the suburbs of Connecticut, I was lonely. Your father was kind and gentle with me, and I was very grateful to him. But no one understood me, and I understood nothing.But then you were born! I was so happy when I looked into your face and saw shades of my mother, my father, and myself. I had lost my entire family, all of Sigulu, everything I ever knew and loved. But there you were, and your face was proof that they were real. I hadn’t made them up.Now I had someone to talk to. I would teach you my language, and we could together remake a small piece of everything that I loved and lost. When you said your first words to me, in Chinese that had the same accent as my mother and me, I cried for hours. When I made the first zhezhi animals for you, and you laughed, I felt there were no worries in the world.You grew up a little, and now you could even help your father and I talk to each other. I was really at home now. I finally found a good life. I wished my parents could be here, so that I could cook for them, and give them a good life too. But my parents were no longer around. You know what the Chinese think is the saddest feeling in the world? It’s for a ch ild to finally grow the desire to take care of his parents, only to realize that they were long gone.Son, I know that you do not like your Chinese eyes, which are my eyes. I know that you do not like your Chinese hair, which is my hair. But can you understand how much joy your very existence brought to me? And can you understand how it felt when you stopped talking to me and won’t let me talk to you in Chinese? I felt I was losing everything all over again.Why won’t you talk to me, son? The pain makes it hard to write.The young woman handed the paper back to me. I could not bear to look into her face.Without looking up, I asked for her help in tracing out the character for ai on the paper below Mom’s letter. I wrote the character again and again on the paper, intertwining my pen strokes with her words.The young woman reached out and put a hand on my shoulder. Then she got up and left, leaving me alone with my mother.Following the creases, I refolded the paper back into Laohu. I cradled him in the crook of my arm, and as he purred, we began the walk home.。