有一个以书为友的小男孩儿,名叫马丁。他住在哪儿,这倒没关系,或许就住在维也纳,或许在纽约、罗马、斯德哥尔摩,或许在芬兰或西班牙的一个小山村里。马丁和祖母住在一起,祖母待他可好了,好就好在她常给马丁讲故事,谁也没有祖母的故事讲得好听。在那漫长漫长的冬夜,每天干完活儿,她就坐在壁炉旁,一边织毛线衣一边开始她的故事：“很久很久以前啊……”或者“那时你还太小,不记事儿呢,听着,故事开始了……” There is a little boy book called friend, named Martin. It does not matter where he lives, maybe living in Vienna, perhaps in New York, Rome, Stockholm, perhaps in a small village in Finland or Spain. Martin and his grandmother live together, his grandmother to him, so good that she often told Martin story, no one grandma's story well. She was sitting by the fireplace and started her story with sweaters, long dry winter nights, long after a long winter's night: “A long, long time ago ...” or “Then you were too young, not to forget Listen, the story begins ... ”