有一次读到一篇文字很美的文章，让我知道有另一个地方要看，另一本书要读。
这个地方就在伦敦中国城旁边的查令街上（Charing Cross Road）。这条路上书店很多，从前没有网上书店和“水石”这样的超级书店之前，这里有很多小书店，应该是非常伦敦的地方。这本书叫做《84 Charing Cross Road》（《查令十字街84号》），作者是Helene Hanff。后来这本书被拍成了电影。
书是以书信的形式写在纽约的海莲和这条街上马克寺书店店员弗郎克和其他一些人之间的交往。海莲比较清贫，由于工作和对英国文学的炽爱，需要读很多英国书，而且有些也不能在纽约买到，于是和弗郎克的这个旧书店结下了不解之缘。后来即使能在纽约能买到，她也完全依赖弗郎克。交往了20年，由于没有足够的路费及其它种种原因，竟没有见过面，有一天弗郎克忽然逝去：
“全书只有几万字，一忽儿就读完了。当我读到海伦写给书店最后一封信的最后一句话时， 心为之一紧：‘你们若恰好路经查令十字街84号，请代我献上一吻，我亏欠她良多……’”
我不知道写这篇文章的是谁，只是读了这句话我的心也随之一紧，想起自己经常光顾的那个在大不列颠图书馆对过的小店。两镑一本，有很多我喜欢的书。太便宜了，经常怕它关门。
去网上查，竟查到另一篇精美的文章：“如果你爱书，喜欢手指摩挲书页的踏实温暖的感觉和隐隐的油墨的清香，如果你喜欢在陌生的城市独自凭吊古老的街巷，细心聆听逝去岁月空洞的回响，如果你懂得欣赏和享受‘花落如雨，人淡如菊’般温婉散淡的友谊、并不激烈的爱情……如果，如果在适当的条件下你是个有些怀旧的人，比如合适的温度和湿度，像现在我的窗外响著寂寞的雨声，或者午后慵懒的太阳透过碎花的帘子照进来，比如刚刚放下一本让你会心的书，在音乐中休息一下眼睛，书中的某一段话不禁让你生出‘于我心有戚戚焉’的感叹，比如你刚刚告别二三知友踏著月色 归来，口里仍有陈年老酒微熏的余香，那么你一定会喜欢这部电影。把这张碟放进你的碟机，会有一种久违的熟悉而陌生的情感，像那淡淡的书香，透过柔和的影像丝丝缕缕地飘散过来，将你幸福而温柔地淹没。
依稀记得在哪里看过关于这个女作家和她这本自传的介绍，我也懒得去翻检查找了，它们并不重要。每个爱书、爱这电影的人，一定会和我一样，像一条熏醉的鱼儿深陷入这老式的电影、老式的情感和老式的细节里不能自拔：因为对英国文学的爱，固执地渴望进入又不敢接近那个美丽的岛国，只有在羊皮面的书籍里，在想象和叙述中无限接近‘英国文学中的英国’，那是莎士比亚的英国，有乔叟的故事，有哈代的田野，也有狄更斯式的阴湿街道和光线昏暗的书店；永远不记得整理房间、化妆打扮的女人，却会在 口袋里装上漂洋过海而来的伊丽莎白一世时期镶金边的情诗集，去中央公园阳光下的草坪，享受属于爱情的美丽春日。安妮·班克罗夫特演的这个幽默可爱的女书虫和安东尼·霍普金斯扮演的外表冷漠内心细腻、善良温厚的书店经理，在这个夜晚，就这样深深地留在我的心里。
电影非常地英国，却不是那个古板的英国，而是温暖的、幽默的英国。战后英国的冬天尽管物质缺乏，天气寒冷，人们仍执拗地乐观，有秩序，温文有礼，乡间阳光灿烂，绿意盈盈。”
我从中国城出来，寻找查令街84号的这个马克寺书店（The Marks & Co ），却遍寻不着。最后在一个饭店的墙上，看到一个不太清楚的牌子，上面写着：查令街十字街84号，马克寺书店遗址，由于海莲汉芙的书而驰名于世。
我把海莲最后一封写给朋友凯瑟琳的信译到这里：
亲爱的凯瑟琳，
我在清洁我的书架，所以地毯上到处都堆着书。这会儿，我正偷闲坐在这些书的中间给你写几句话，祝你和布来安去伦敦一路平安。他那天电话里对我说：“要是你有票的话，会和我们一起去吗？” 让我几乎落泪。
可是我不知道，也许永远不会了。我以前去看英国电影就是要看看那些街道。我记得很久以前一个人对我说过，去英国的人都会发现他们要找的地方丝毫不差地就在那。我说我要找的是文学英国，他点头说：是在那啊！
也许在，也许不在。看着地毯上的这些书，我知道，它们在这儿！
卖我这些书的那个人，上帝保佑，前几个月死了。书店的老板马克寺也死了，但是那个书店还在。你们若恰好路经查令十字街84号，请代我献上一吻，我亏欠她良多……
附一：Helen的最后一封信，写给朋友Katherine
Dear Katherine, I take time out from housecleaning my bookshelves and sitting on the rug surrounded by books in every direction to scrawl you a Bon Voyage. I hope you and Brian have a ball in London. He said to me on the phone: 'Would you go with us if you had the fare?' and I nearly wept.
But I don't know, maybe it's just as well I never got there. I dreamed about it for so many years. I used to go to English movies just to look at the streets. I remember years ago a guy I knew told me that people going to England find exactly what they go looking for. I said I'd go looking for the England of English literature, and he nodded and said: 'It's there.' Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't. Looking around the rug one thing's for sure: it's here.
The Blessed man who sold me all my books died a few months ago. And Mr Marks who owned the shop is dead. But Marks & Co is still there. If you happen to pass by 84 Charing Cross Road, kiss it for me! I owe it so much.
Page 112:
All my life I've wanted to see London. I used to go to English movies just to look at streets with houses like thouse. Staring at the screen in a deark theatre, I wanted to walk down those streets so badly it gnawed at me like hunger. Sometimes, at home in the evening, reading a casual deion of London by Hazlitt or Leigh Hunt, I'd put the book down suddenly, engulfed by a wave of longing that was like homesickness. I wanted to see London the way old people want to see home before they die.”
Page 113:
After the interview the three of us and a photographer piled into a cab, and Carmen said to the driver: 'Eight-four Charing Cross Road'.
I felt unreal, knowing I was on my way to that address. I'd bought books from 84 Charing Cross Road for twenty years. I'd made friends there whom I never met. Most of the books I bought from Marks & Co. were probably available in New York. For years, friends had advised me to 'try O'Malley's', 'try Dauber & Pine'. I'd never done it. I'd wanted a link with London and I'd managed it.
Charing Cross Road is a narrow, honky-tonk street, choked with traffic, lined with second-hand book shops. The open stalls in front were piled with old books and magazines, here and there a peaceful soul was browing in the misty rain.
I started back downstairs, my mind on the man, now dead, with whom I'd corresponded for some many years. Halfway down I put my hand on the oak railing, and said to him silently: 'How about this, Frankie? I finally made it.'
这个地方就在伦敦中国城旁边的查令街上（Charing Cross Road）。这条路上书店很多，从前没有网上书店和“水石”这样的超级书店之前，这里有很多小书店，应该是非常伦敦的地方。这本书叫做《84 Charing Cross Road》（《查令十字街84号》），作者是Helene Hanff。后来这本书被拍成了电影。
书是以书信的形式写在纽约的海莲和这条街上马克寺书店店员弗郎克和其他一些人之间的交往。海莲比较清贫，由于工作和对英国文学的炽爱，需要读很多英国书，而且有些也不能在纽约买到，于是和弗郎克的这个旧书店结下了不解之缘。后来即使能在纽约能买到，她也完全依赖弗郎克。交往了20年，由于没有足够的路费及其它种种原因，竟没有见过面，有一天弗郎克忽然逝去：
“全书只有几万字，一忽儿就读完了。当我读到海伦写给书店最后一封信的最后一句话时， 心为之一紧：‘你们若恰好路经查令十字街84号，请代我献上一吻，我亏欠她良多……’”
我不知道写这篇文章的是谁，只是读了这句话我的心也随之一紧，想起自己经常光顾的那个在大不列颠图书馆对过的小店。两镑一本，有很多我喜欢的书。太便宜了，经常怕它关门。
去网上查，竟查到另一篇精美的文章：“如果你爱书，喜欢手指摩挲书页的踏实温暖的感觉和隐隐的油墨的清香，如果你喜欢在陌生的城市独自凭吊古老的街巷，细心聆听逝去岁月空洞的回响，如果你懂得欣赏和享受‘花落如雨，人淡如菊’般温婉散淡的友谊、并不激烈的爱情……如果，如果在适当的条件下你是个有些怀旧的人，比如合适的温度和湿度，像现在我的窗外响著寂寞的雨声，或者午后慵懒的太阳透过碎花的帘子照进来，比如刚刚放下一本让你会心的书，在音乐中休息一下眼睛，书中的某一段话不禁让你生出‘于我心有戚戚焉’的感叹，比如你刚刚告别二三知友踏著月色 归来，口里仍有陈年老酒微熏的余香，那么你一定会喜欢这部电影。把这张碟放进你的碟机，会有一种久违的熟悉而陌生的情感，像那淡淡的书香，透过柔和的影像丝丝缕缕地飘散过来，将你幸福而温柔地淹没。
依稀记得在哪里看过关于这个女作家和她这本自传的介绍，我也懒得去翻检查找了，它们并不重要。每个爱书、爱这电影的人，一定会和我一样，像一条熏醉的鱼儿深陷入这老式的电影、老式的情感和老式的细节里不能自拔：因为对英国文学的爱，固执地渴望进入又不敢接近那个美丽的岛国，只有在羊皮面的书籍里，在想象和叙述中无限接近‘英国文学中的英国’，那是莎士比亚的英国，有乔叟的故事，有哈代的田野，也有狄更斯式的阴湿街道和光线昏暗的书店；永远不记得整理房间、化妆打扮的女人，却会在 口袋里装上漂洋过海而来的伊丽莎白一世时期镶金边的情诗集，去中央公园阳光下的草坪，享受属于爱情的美丽春日。安妮·班克罗夫特演的这个幽默可爱的女书虫和安东尼·霍普金斯扮演的外表冷漠内心细腻、善良温厚的书店经理，在这个夜晚，就这样深深地留在我的心里。
电影非常地英国，却不是那个古板的英国，而是温暖的、幽默的英国。战后英国的冬天尽管物质缺乏，天气寒冷，人们仍执拗地乐观，有秩序，温文有礼，乡间阳光灿烂，绿意盈盈。”
我从中国城出来，寻找查令街84号的这个马克寺书店（The Marks & Co ），却遍寻不着。最后在一个饭店的墙上，看到一个不太清楚的牌子，上面写着：查令街十字街84号，马克寺书店遗址，由于海莲汉芙的书而驰名于世。
我把海莲最后一封写给朋友凯瑟琳的信译到这里：
亲爱的凯瑟琳，
我在清洁我的书架，所以地毯上到处都堆着书。这会儿，我正偷闲坐在这些书的中间给你写几句话，祝你和布来安去伦敦一路平安。他那天电话里对我说：“要是你有票的话，会和我们一起去吗？” 让我几乎落泪。
可是我不知道，也许永远不会了。我以前去看英国电影就是要看看那些街道。我记得很久以前一个人对我说过，去英国的人都会发现他们要找的地方丝毫不差地就在那。我说我要找的是文学英国，他点头说：是在那啊！
也许在，也许不在。看着地毯上的这些书，我知道，它们在这儿！
卖我这些书的那个人，上帝保佑，前几个月死了。书店的老板马克寺也死了，但是那个书店还在。你们若恰好路经查令十字街84号，请代我献上一吻，我亏欠她良多……
附一：Helen的最后一封信，写给朋友Katherine
Dear Katherine, I take time out from housecleaning my bookshelves and sitting on the rug surrounded by books in every direction to scrawl you a Bon Voyage. I hope you and Brian have a ball in London. He said to me on the phone: 'Would you go with us if you had the fare?' and I nearly wept.
But I don't know, maybe it's just as well I never got there. I dreamed about it for so many years. I used to go to English movies just to look at the streets. I remember years ago a guy I knew told me that people going to England find exactly what they go looking for. I said I'd go looking for the England of English literature, and he nodded and said: 'It's there.' Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't. Looking around the rug one thing's for sure: it's here.
The Blessed man who sold me all my books died a few months ago. And Mr Marks who owned the shop is dead. But Marks & Co is still there. If you happen to pass by 84 Charing Cross Road, kiss it for me! I owe it so much.
Page 112:
All my life I've wanted to see London. I used to go to English movies just to look at streets with houses like thouse. Staring at the screen in a deark theatre, I wanted to walk down those streets so badly it gnawed at me like hunger. Sometimes, at home in the evening, reading a casual deion of London by Hazlitt or Leigh Hunt, I'd put the book down suddenly, engulfed by a wave of longing that was like homesickness. I wanted to see London the way old people want to see home before they die.”
Page 113:
After the interview the three of us and a photographer piled into a cab, and Carmen said to the driver: 'Eight-four Charing Cross Road'.
I felt unreal, knowing I was on my way to that address. I'd bought books from 84 Charing Cross Road for twenty years. I'd made friends there whom I never met. Most of the books I bought from Marks & Co. were probably available in New York. For years, friends had advised me to 'try O'Malley's', 'try Dauber & Pine'. I'd never done it. I'd wanted a link with London and I'd managed it.
Charing Cross Road is a narrow, honky-tonk street, choked with traffic, lined with second-hand book shops. The open stalls in front were piled with old books and magazines, here and there a peaceful soul was browing in the misty rain.
I started back downstairs, my mind on the man, now dead, with whom I'd corresponded for some many years. Halfway down I put my hand on the oak railing, and said to him silently: 'How about this, Frankie? I finally made it.'