My Life in Beijing (10) | Panjiayuan
Written August 14, 2024
The place where I’ve bought the most books in Beijing is Panjiayuan. You could also say that it’s where I cultivated the habit of buying used books.
Sure, bookstores have good environments — well-organized shelves, beautifully designed covers, and a shy soul hiding behind the layer of shrink wrap. You must tiptoe in with reverence and buy the book at full price as printed on the back cover.
But Panjiayuan? It’s bustling and loud. The used books are piled at random. Haggling with the stall owner is an exercise in negotiation art. There’s also the thrill of hunting for hidden treasures. Selection and collection are instincts humans evolved in the jungles millions of years ago, and my genes keep me lingering there, finding joy in discovery.
When I lived in Beijing in earlier years, the used book section at Panjiayuan was much larger than it is now. Back then, the East Gate entrance led straight to the book stalls — outdoors, packed, and covering everything from the Ming and Qing dynasties to modern publications.
Each stall was a metal cabinet; at day’s end, they just turned around and packed it up. On weekends or early mornings, vendors would open them up again, waiting for buyers to come. Walk to the end and turn right — there were still several more rows of stalls under the shed.
Now, only a narrow corridor on the south side remains. Even the entrance has been partially taken over by embroidered gift box sellers (presumably for customers to carry away their “treasures”).
The hierarchy of goods is clearly reflected in the canopies overhead.
The used book area is now covered in plastic sheeting.
The antique section has shade netting.
The newer, trendier zones — selling walnut shells, beeswax beads, and Buddhist prayer bracelets — boast reinforced tin roofs that have pushed the antique vendors into a corner.
As for the storefront dealers? Their solemn setups are intimidating. If you’re not a true connoisseur, you’re better off not going in.
The world of antiques is deep and murky. I grew up hearing stories from my hometown — like that one village where counterfeit Tang Sancai ceramics were passed off as real in Panjiayuan and fooled a whole bunch of experts.
So I never ask, never buy, and rarely linger in the antique section.
The few ancient coins I’ve bought were just to appease my son’s curiosity.
Though I’m now middle-aged, I’ve never been interested in bead bracelets. They strike me as an extension of childhood oral fixation — something to fidget with when your mind can’t be still.
I come here for one thing: books.
In the past, your chances of finding a real treasure among the used books were far higher.
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There were no bold red banners warning “No sale of obscene, classified, political, pirated or unregistered publications.”
No staff with ID badges patrolling the aisles, barking at stall owners just as I was about to reach for a book: “Put that one away! If I see it again, I’m confiscating it!”
Nor did stalls get shut down for violating vague regulations (see photo below for evidence).
Everything in its wild, early stage of development is somehow more alluring.
A surprising number of vendors were fellow townspeople.
I’d often be squatting down to browse when a deep voice behind me shouted, “Coming through!”
Then I’d hear a Central Plains accent from the stall owner in front of me. Surrounded by my dialect, I’d feel like I’d returned home.
After many chats, I concluded that most stall operators came from the southwestern part of Henan Province, while the suppliers — middlemen — were mostly from eastern or southern Henan.
(A quick Baidu search for “Beijing waste collection workers by origin” confirms it — over 90% come from Gushi County. That fits my observation perfectly.)
The first time I visited, I was stunned by the sheer variety of original foreign-language books.
Many had handwritten notes in English, French, or other scripts on the flyleaf.
It made sense — Beijing hosts embassies from around the world. Family members of diplomats needed something to read to pass the time. Add to that the international students drawn to Beijing’s elite universities — especially the ones known for language studies — and you get a perfect supply pipeline. Books that once crossed oceans now found themselves too cheap or too heavy to bring home, naturally ending up here.
A glance at my bookshelf shows the bounty I’ve gathered:
Biographies of both Clintons and Donald Trump.
Original editions of The Devil Wears Prada, Slumdog Millionaire, The Last of the Mohicans, and Dear Me.
Japanese paperbacks like 中国人と日本人 (Chinese and Japanese).
In Chinese, I’ve bought first edition Zhang Ailing novels from the early Reform era, 1980s classics on literary appreciation, and even Zhi Hu Zhe Ye Luo Dayou — a book I once borrowed from the university library in my freshman year. I also bought a paper copy of Defying the Gods after finishing the e-book version on a flight.
My visits to Panjiayuan’s book stalls are ultimately limited.
So any book that managed to be chosen by me from this ocean of forgotten volumes is the product of a rare fate — a happy coincidence.
If its previous owner had decided to keep it, I wouldn’t have seen it.
If someone else had come before me, I would’ve missed it.
If it arrived right after I left, I would’ve missed it.
If the seller didn’t put it out that day, I wouldn’t have seen it.
If too many people were crowding the stall, I might’ve skipped it.
If the price was too high and bargaining failed, I wouldn’t have bought it.
If I hesitated and came back too late, someone else might’ve already taken it.
If I didn’t have enough money on me, I couldn’t buy it.
So many things have to align for one used book to part ways with its original owner, grow old and dusty, sit there waiting.
Then one day, I — adrift in Beijing — happen to step out of Exit C of Line 10 and wander in.
Suddenly I stop in the crowd, spot that book in a heap, pick it up, brush off the dust, flip through a few pages.
The seller names a price. I counter, just a little. We both agree.
And then the book comes home with me — leaving Beijing, resting quietly in a corner of my shelf, always ready to be opened again.
And it will stay with me, for a very long, foreseeable future.
So, I’m not really talking just about books.
All things in life are more or less like this — Even when everything else is ready, you still need the right moment of serendipity.
