I love the poetry of awkward translations. This sign was in the window of a customer of ours who I visited about 20 times in the 80s and 90s. Matsumura Eiichi--a little older than me, plump, always wearing a black leather jacket--was a fourth generation bookseller whose shop was smack in the middle of the Kanda book district but was tiny and cramped; you practically had to walk sideways to make your way through teetering floor-to-ceiling stacks of valuable art books. Unlike many of my more formal meetings in Japan, we met in his cluttered cubby-hole of an office and I offered him our wares while he chain smoked and punched his calculator. Despite his English being almost as bad as my non-existent Japanese we somehow did business. Sadly he passed away about 15 years ago and though his son tried to keep the shop going, it folded after a couple of years and became yet another restaurant.