During the past 20 years, Hanfu has purchased nearly 50 kinds of books at 84 Charing Cross Road. This is not a large number, and he cannot be regarded as a good customer. However, he has maintained correspondence with Mr. Del and others in the bookstore, and has become a success. an essential part of her life.In particular, her generosity in the difficult period of the early 1950s brought her the sincere friendship of England, which is also the human touch of this book of letters. Katie Like every morning on a sunny day, the sun casts the shadow of the crooked row of second-hand bookstores on the center of the street. There are few pedestrians on the street, and the slow-moving shopkeepers are wearing cardigans and half bald. When the business is ready, dust off the tabletop and the window, straighten the rows of books with cloth and leather covers on the bookshelf, and then move the boxes of cheap small paperback books outside the door, along the front of the window. The walls are lined up.There is no need to solicit business or solicit customers. This group of booksellers are like the books of the last century bound in lambskin on the middle shelf of their store. Although they are not expensive, they have seen the world and hold a book Smoking a pipe, watching the big red double-decker cars ding-dong in the shadows of the sunshine house on the street.

She stepped out of a black taxi, a slender and thin woman, her wandering eyes glanced over the windows of the houses with books, No. 68, No. 72, No. 76, No. 78, No. 82, looking for it, like A treasure was lost.Eventually it stopped, but the number 84 in front of it was empty.Inside the gray glass window, the bookshelves woven with cobwebs are crumbling here and there, and there are some waste papers scattered on the floor, which are full of dust; when you open the door and enter, there is no expected surprise greeting, and the empty stairs lead to other abandoned rooms.The lonely woman wanted to open her mouth to tell the master that she had arrived, and she kept her promise, but no one responded in the empty room, only a gust of cold wind blew, and tears flowed down her cheeks quietly.Is it a relationship of books, or a relationship of love, that made this woman living alone in New York feel so sad for this dilapidated and closed bookstore in a small street in London?Holding that thin little book in your hand, what kind of wish was fulfilled at 84 Charing Cross Road?

one He asked her out for a chat, and the place he chose was Kong Yiji's restaurant, and in front of him was a bottle of Shaoxing Huadiao, naturally a plate of five-spice beans, and a few side dishes.Talking about their favorite writers, Nabokov, Qian Zhongshu, Yourcenar, Shen Congwen.Talking about his favorite book, "Let's Talk, Memories", the first edition bought in London, he naturally talked about those old bookstores, the original editions of rare books in them, those old smells that only book lovers can appreciate .Remember that broken street?My favorite thing to do is to sleep in on Saturday morning, invite some friends to Chinatown for morning tea, and then go to the old shop on the opposite street to look through old books.Why have I never met you there?Recalling the London past that I had never experienced together, I couldn't remember what kind of business 84 Charing Cross Road was doing now.Knowing that the old girl in New York and that meticulous second-hand bookseller, they corresponded for more than 20 years, but they still failed to meet in the end. Is there no fate?

It all started with a simple business letter from New York to London in October 1949: gentlemen: In your Saturday Literary Review ad that you specialize in out-of-print books, your use of the term "rare books dealer" terrifies me a bit, because I always associate "rare books" with expensive.I am a poor author with a "rare book" penchant for books, and the books I want are hard to come by here... Send me a list of the most urgently needed books, if you have a clean no more than Used goods for five dollars a copy, please treat this letter as an order form and send them all to me. (Ms. Katie’s translation is different from the main text of this book. To respect the author, they are not unified. The same below.)

(October 5, 1949) Signed Helene Hanff (Helene Hanff), also specially marked "Miss". In fact, this lady is in her thirties this year, and she is a freelance writer who makes a living writing TV and stage scripts.Hanfu was born in a garment maker family. His father was originally a folk rap artist. Although he was forced to do handicraft work due to life, the couple still like to take their daughter to the theater.At the age of nineteen, Hanfu went to Philadelphia University to study English, but her family was poor. She dropped out of school a year later and sought a job to make a living. Later, she won a drama writing award and made a living by writing.My love for books comes from hard self-study in the New York City Library, especially thanks to the writings of Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, a professor at the University of Cambridge.However, books in the United States are expensive, and Hanfu loves English literature, so he turned to the British Isles for buying books, and wrote a letter to a small bookstore by chance. The first time he placed an order, he received satisfactory service at a reasonable price. Mr. Frank Dell, the director of the Marks & Co. bookstore at No. 84 Ling Cross Street, is the object of Hanfu's correspondence for 20 years.

Although over thirty, Han Fu is still relaxed and lively, especially on the bamboo slips, she is better at writing with light and humorous brush and ink, freehand and informal.Mr. Dell called her "Madam" in the first letter back to her, and Hanfu added a footnote at the end of the second letter, "I hope the meaning of 'Madam' in your side is different from that here."Mr. Dell obediently referred to her as "Miss" in his next letter.After the fifth letter, Hanfu has changed the honorific title "Sir" or "Your Excellency" at the beginning of the letter to his first name, and the content of the letter seems to be written to an old friend who has known for a long time, and there is no lack of intimacy and coquettishness state: