84, Charing Cross Road is a charming record of bibliophilia, cultural
difference, and imaginative sympathy. For 20 years, an outspoken New
York writer and a rather more restrained London bookseller carried on
an increasingly touching correspondence. In her first letter to Marks
& Co., Helene Hanff encloses a wish list, but warns, "The phrase
'antiquarian booksellers' scares me somewhat, as I equate 'antique'
with expensive." Twenty days later, on October 25, 1949, a
correspondent identified only as FPD let Hanff know that works by
Hazlitt and Robert Louis Stevenson would be coming under separate
cover. When they arrive, Hanff is ecstatic--but unsure she'll ever
conquer "bilingual arithmetic." By early December 1949, Hanff is
suddenly worried that the six-pound ham she's sent off to augment
British rations will arrive in a kosher office. But only when FPD
turns out to have an actual name, Frank Doel, does the real fun
begin. Two years later, Hanff is outraged that Marks & Co. has dared
to send an abridged Pepys diary. "i enclose two limp singles, i will
make do with this thing till you find me a real Pepys. THEN i will
rip up this ersatz book, page by page, AND WRAP THINGS IN IT."
Nonetheless, her postscript asks whether they want fresh or powdered
eggs for Christmas. Soon they're sharing news of Frank's family and
Hanff's career. No doubt their letters would have continued, but in
1969, the firm's secretary informed her that Frank Doel had died. In
the collection's penultimate entry, Helene Hanff urges a tourist
friend, "If you happen to pass by 84, Charing Cross Road, kiss it for
me. I owe it so much."
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