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 As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
| He searched London for the book. Couldn't find it. Gave up. Then found it on a subway bench. Two years later, he met the author—who'd lost that exact copy in London. With his notes still inside. In 1974, Anthony Hopkins was cast in a film called The Girl from Petrovka, based on George Feifer's novel about a Russian ballerina and an American journalist in Soviet Moscow. Hopkins, known for his meticulous preparation, wanted to read the source material before filming began. He set out to find a copy of Feifer's book. He searched bookstores across London. One shop after another told him the same thing: out of stock, not available, try somewhere else. After exhausting his options, Hopkins gave up. He headed to Leicester Square Underground station to take the Tube home, resigned to preparing for the role without reading the book. As he walked through the station, he noticed a book sitting abandoned on a bench. He picked it up. It was The Girl from Petrovka. Hopkins was stunned. What were the odds? He'd spent hours searching London bookstores for this exact title, couldn't find it anywhere, and then literally stumbled upon a copy left on a subway bench. It was an extraordinary coincidence. Hopkins took it as a sign—maybe even a bit of good luck. He took the book home and read it, preparing for his role with the very copy fate seemed to have placed in his path. That alone would be a remarkable story. An actor searches for a book, can't find it, then randomly discovers it abandoned in a subway station. But the story doesn't end there. Two years later, Hopkins was in Vienna filming The Girl from Petrovka. During production, he was introduced to George Feifer—the author of the novel the film was based on. They began talking about the book, and Hopkins mentioned the strange coincidence of finding a copy on the Underground after searching unsuccessfully through London's bookstores. Feifer's expression changed. "That's extraordinary," Feifer said. "Because I don't have a copy of my own book anymore." He explained: Years earlier, he had lent his personal copy to a friend in London. It was a special copy—Feifer had filled the margins with handwritten notes, annotations, thoughts about the characters and story. It was essentially a working manuscript, irreplaceable. His friend had lost it somewhere in London. Feifer had never gotten it back. He assumed it was gone forever, probably thrown away or destroyed. Hopkins went back to his belongings and retrieved the book he'd found on the Underground bench two years earlier. "Is this it?" he asked. Feifer opened the book. There, in the margins, were his own handwritten notes. His annotations. His personal thoughts about his own novel. It was his copy. The one he'd lent to a friend. The one that had been lost somewhere in London. And somehow, through a series of impossibly unlikely events, it had ended up in Anthony Hopkins' hands. Think about the chain of coincidences required for this to happen: Feifer lends his annotated copy to a friend in London The friend loses it somewhere in the city Someone finds it and leaves it on a bench at Leicester Square station (or it ends up there through some other path) Hopkins, after searching unsuccessfully for the book, happens to walk through that exact station The book is sitting there at the exact moment Hopkins passes by Hopkins notices it and picks it up Two years later, Hopkins meets Feifer while filming the adaptation They have a conversation that reveals the connection The probability of all these events aligning is astronomical. London in the 1970s had millions of people. Thousands of books moved through the city daily. Leicester Square station saw tens of thousands of passengers every day. For Hopkins to find that specific book—the author's personal annotated copy—at that exact moment, and then meet the author years later to discover the connection... it defies reasonable probability. Some might call it coincidence. Others might call it synchronicity—Carl Jung's concept of meaningful coincidences that seem to carry significance beyond mere chance. Hopkins himself has told this story many times over the years, always with a sense of wonder. He's a thoughtful, intelligent man who doesn't strike you as someone prone to exaggeration or mysticism, yet this experience clearly affected him. George Feifer confirmed the story, verifying that the book Hopkins showed him was indeed his lost annotated copy. The story has been documented in interviews, biographies, and collections of remarkable coincidences. No one has ever disputed or debunked it. It simply happened. And it raises questions that have no satisfying rational answers: Was it pure chance? The mindless collision of random events that happened to align in a way that seems meaningful? Or was there some deeper pattern at work—something beyond our understanding of how the universe operates? Hopkins was meant to play this role. He needed this book. The universe somehow arranged for him to find it—not just any copy, but the author's personal copy, which would eventually lead to a meaningful connection with Feifer himself. That's the mystical interpretation. The rational interpretation is simpler but no less remarkable: sometimes, against all odds, impossibly unlikely things just happen. And when they do, they remind us that life can be stranger than any fiction we could write. What makes this story particularly compelling is its verifiability. This isn't an urban legend or a friend-of-a-friend tale. This happened to Anthony Hopkins, a famous actor who has told the story publicly. George Feifer, the author, confirmed it. The book itself existed, with Feifer's notes still visible. The evidence is there. The coincidence is real. And it remains one of the most remarkable documented coincidences in entertainment history. He searched London for the book and couldn't find it anywhere. He gave up and headed home on the Underground. He found it sitting on a bench at Leicester Square station—one book, in a city of millions, at the exact moment he needed it. Two years later, he met the author, who'd lost his personal annotated copy somewhere in London. It was the same book. The author's own copy. With his handwritten notes still in the margins. The probability of this happening by pure chance is so small it's almost impossible to calculate. Yet it happened. And decades later, the story still stands as one of those rare moments when reality becomes stranger than fiction, when the universe arranges itself in ways that seem almost scripted. Some stories are so unlikely they feel written by fate itself. This is one of them. And it's absolutely true. |
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