I found it behind my neighbor's garage. They have all retired and are going to move to Florida soon. They would rather sell most of their things than spend money to transport them to the south.

I was eleven years old, and I was looking for a book on Mount Tai, or the Adventure Epic of Hauperon Castie by Clarence mulford, or a restricted novel by Mickey Spellan. I found them all, but then I had to face the cruel reality. They are fifty cents each (even a whole dollar for Kiss Me Deadly), and I only have a nickel.

So I continued to rummage around and finally found the only book I could afford. It's called Traveling with My Cat, and the author is Miss Priscilla Wallace. Not Priscilla, but Miss Priscilla. I thought MISS was her last name for many years.

I turned over a few pages, hoping that there would be at least some photos of half-naked indigenous girls hidden inside. There are no pictures in the book at all, just words. I'm not surprised; Somehow I had expected that an author named Miss wouldn't post naked women in her book.

I think this book itself is too gorgeous and feminine for a boy who is training for a little league baseball-the font on the cover protrudes from the surface, the front page of the volume is elegant and smooth, yellow-brown, and the cover is wrapped in silky cloth, and it even has a bookmark with a smooth ribbon tied on it. Just as I was about to put it back, it turned to that page, which read: limited printing of 2 copies, the 121st copy.

this makes me treat it differently. I can have a real limited edition book with only one nickel-how can I refuse it? I took it to the front of the garage, honestly handed over my nickel, and then waited for my mother to pick it out (she always picks and chooses, but never buys it-buying means spending money, and she and my father never spend money on things that can be rented at a cheaper price, or things that can be borrowed for free more cost-effectively).

I faced a big decision that night. I don't want to read a book called Traveling with My Cat written by a woman named Miss, but I spent my last nickel on it-well, at least until I get my pocket money next week-and I have read my other books so many times that you can almost find traces of my eyes on them.

so I picked it up reluctantly, and then I read the first page, followed by the second page-suddenly I seemed to be transported to Kenya colony, Siam (the old name of Thailand) and Amazon. Miss Priscilla Wallace's description of things made me feel as if I had been there, and when I finished reading a chapter, I felt as if I had really been there.

Those are cities that I have never heard of. The names of these cities are full of exotic feelings, such as maracaibo and Samarkand (the eastern city of Uzbekistan in the Soviet Union) and Addis Ababa (the Ethiopian capital). Some names, such as Constantinople (Istanbul, a port city in the northwest of Turkey), I can't even find them on the map.

Her father used to be an explorer, when there were explorers long ago. Her first few trips abroad were with him, and he undoubtedly gave her a taste of the customs of those distant continents. My own father is a compositor. How I envy her! )

I have some expectations that the chapter on Africa will be full of grumpy elephants and man-eating lions. Maybe it is-but that's not the Africa she sees. Africa may have red fangs and claws, but for her, it reflects the golden morning light, and even some dark and shadowy places are full of surprises, but not terror.

she can find beauty anywhere. She described 2 flower sellers lined up along the Seine River in Paris on Sunday morning, and also described a fragile flower blooming in the Gobi desert, and somehow you know that they are all as amazing as she described.

suddenly, the buzzing alarm bell woke me up. This is the first time that I have stayed up all night. I put the book aside, dressed for school, and hurried home after school so that I could finish reading it as soon as possible.

I read it no less than six or seven times in that year. I can even recite some paragraphs word for word. I fell in love with those distant foreign countries, and maybe a little bit with the author. I even wrote a book superstition for her and sent it to: "Somewhere, Spuri Silas Wallace," and of course it was returned.

Next, in autumn, I fell in love with the novels by Robert A. Hein and Louis L 'Eam, and a friend of mine saw Traveling with My Cat and made fun of me for its feminine cover and the fact that it was written by a female author, so I put it on the shelf and forgot it in the following years.

I have never seen the places full of surprises and mysteries that she described. I have never done many things. I never got ahead. I was never rich or famous. I have never been married.

As time goes by, I am over forty, and I am finally ready to admit that nothing unusual or surprising will happen in my life. I have written half a novel, but I never intend to finish it or publish it. I spent twenty years in vain looking for someone I love. That's only the first step; The second step is to find someone who loves me, which may be more difficult, but I have never taken the time to do it. )

I'm tired of this city, and I'm tired of rubbing shoulders with people who have success and happiness that I didn't have. I was born and raised in the Midwest of the United States, and finally I moved to Northwood, Wisconsin, where the most exotic cities are Manitowoc, Minokwa and Wasawu, which is far from Macau and Malakash described in Priscilla Wallace's book and those splendid capitals.

I work as a copyright editor for a local weekly newspaper. For this newspaper, it is far more important to introduce where I can find restaurants or advertise real estate correctly than to spell the names in news stories correctly. This is by no means the most challenging job in the world, but I am satisfied with it and I don't want to look for any challenges. The dream of fame and fortune as a teenager has passed away with the dream of love and passion as a teenager; In this year of no doubt, I just want a stable life.

I rented a small house by an unknown lake, which is about fifteen miles away from the town. This is an old house with a lingering charm: it has a porch with a retro style, a swing almost as old as the house, a pier built for a boat I never owned and extending into the lake, and even a drinking trough for horses raised by the owner of the hut. There is no air conditioner in the room, but I don't really need it-in winter, I curl up by the fire and read the latest paperback horror novel.

It was a night in late summer, with a hint of Wisconsin chill in the air. I was sitting by an empty stove, reading a car chase with guns flying through Berlin or Prague or other cities that I would never see. At this moment, I suddenly couldn't help wondering if my future would be like this: a lonely old man sitting by the stove every night, killing time by reading popular novels. Maybe there is a blanket covering his legs, and the only one accompanying him is a tabby cat ...

For some reason-maybe it's about tabby cat-I think of Traveling with My Cat again. I have never had a cat, but she has; She once had two cats, and they were always with her.

I haven't thought of that book for years. I don't even know if it is still there. But there is an inexplicable reason that makes me feel a strong impulse to find it and read it.

I walked into the guest room, which was full of glove boxes that I hadn't unpacked. There are about twenty boxes of books. I opened the first box, and then the second box. I dug up bradbury, Asimov, KanDeleuse and Hammott, and rummaged deeper, and I got Ludram and Abole and two worn-out Zane Gray novels-and then, suddenly, it appeared, as elegant as ever. What I have is also the only limited edition book I have.

at this point, after about thirty years, I opened the book again and began to read it. As when I first read it, I was completely fascinated by it. Every detail in the book is as exquisite as I remember. Moreover, like thirty years ago, I forgot the time and read until dawn.

I didn't finish much work that morning. All I could think about was the beautiful descriptions in the book and my insight into the world that no longer exists-and then I began to wonder if Priscilla Wallace was still alive. She may be an old woman, but maybe I can rewrite that old book and send it eventually.

I went to the local library at lunch, determined to find out what other books she had written. But now I find nothing on the bookshelf or in the card filing cabinet. That's a friendly old country library; It will be at least ten years before computerized inquiry can be realized. )

I went back to the office and started searching for her on my computer. I found 37 different Priscilla Wallace. One is an actor in a low-budget movie. One teaches at Georgetown University. One is a diplomat in Bratislava (a city in south-central Czechoslovakia). One is an ornamental poodle breeder who has achieved great success One is a group of young mothers of sextuplets in South Carolina. One is a crossword writer who serialized cartoons on Sunday.

So, just when I was sure that the computer couldn't find her, the next line popped up on my screen:

"Wallace Priscilla was born in 1892 and died in 1926. He has a book: Traveling with My Cat. "

1926。 This is too late for a book superstition, whether it was thirty years ago or now; She had been dead for decades when I was born. Nevertheless, I suddenly felt lost and resentful-resenting her untimely death, resenting those people who were still alive in the years when she left, but never being able to see the beautiful scenery she saw everywhere.

people like me.

there's another photo. It looks like a reprint of an old tan tin photo, on which is a delicate girl with auburn hair and a pair of big black eyes, but it seems to me that there is a faint sadness. Or I'm just sad, because I know she died at the age of 34, and all her passion for life will die with her. I printed the page, put it in my desk drawer, and took it home at the end of the day. I don't know why I did this. There are only two sentences on it. But in any case, a life-any life deserves more. Especially one who can reach out from the grave and touch my life, one who can make me feel, at least when I read her book, that maybe the world is not as boring as I saw it.

that night, after I heated the cold dinner, I sat down by the fire and opened Travel with My Cat again, just flipping through my favorite chapter. One of them is a magnificent elephant team marching against the snow-covered Mount Kilimanjaro, and the other is in the early morning of May, when she was walking in the garden of Versailles, she was attracted by the flowers. There is another passage, at the end, which is also my favorite passage:

"There are so many beautiful scenery waiting for me to see and so many adventures waiting for me to do. Such a beautiful day makes me yearn for eternal life. My faith comforts me. I sincerely believe that no matter how long I leave this world, I will regain my life only if someone still opens this book and reads it. "

This is indeed a comforting belief, which is absolutely more immortal than any belief I have ever pursued. I never left any marks or traces to let others know that I once lived here. Twenty years after my death, maybe thirty years at most, no one will know that I once existed. That man named Ethan Owen-my name, you have never heard of it before, and you will no doubt never hear of it again-once lived, worked and died here. He tried his best to spend every day without causing any trouble to anyone, and that was all his achievements.

different from her. Perhaps, there are many similarities with her. She is not a politician, nor is she a female warrior. No monument has been erected for her. She only wrote a short and forgotten travel book, and she died before she could write another one. She has been dead for nearly three quarters of a century. Who remembers Priscilla Wallace?

I took a sip of beer for myself and started reading again. I don't know why, the more she describes the exoticism of those cities and the primitive wildness of those forests, the less exotic and savage they seem, and the more they look like an extension of home. The more I read it, the less I can understand how she did it.

I was interrupted by the clatter on the porch. Damn raccoons, they are reckless every night, I think-but then I hear a clear meow. My nearest neighbor is also a mile away, which is far enough for a wandering cat, but I think at least I can go out and see for myself. If it has a collar, I can call its owner. If not, at least I can get rid of it before it collides with the local raccoon.

I opened the door and stepped onto the porch. There is no doubt that there is a cat there, a white kitten with several brown spots on her head and body. I bent down to pick it up, but it took a few steps back.

"I won't hurt you." I said softly.

"he knows," said a woman's voice. "He's just shy."

I turned around-and there she was, sitting on my porch swing. She gestured and the cat crossed the corridor and jumped on her lap.

I saw this face earlier today, staring at me from a photo of a tan tin plate. I stared at it for hours until I remembered every outline of it.

that's her.

"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" She said, and I still stared at her gaping. "How quiet. Even the birds have gone to sleep. " She paused. "Only cicadas are still awake, playing their symphonies for us."

I don't know what to say, so I just stare at her and wait for her to disappear.

"You look pale," she said after a while.

"You look real," I finally said hoarsely.

"Of course," she replied with a smile. "I am real."

"You are Miss Priscilla Wallace. I must have spent so much time thinking about you that I began to hallucinate."

"Do I look like an illusion?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "I have never seen hallucinations before, so I don't know what they look like-unless they are all like you.