I just finished re-reading 84 Charing Cross for the third time.  It's a book first published in 1970.  There's no real story or plot.  It's not a mystery, not a thriller, not a romance. Definitely not Sci-Fi.

So, what keeps taking me back to this book of under 100 pages?  It's a book of letters, written over a period of 20 years between 1949 and 1969.  Not love letters.  Just every day letters between a book seller in London, and a book buyer in New York.

The letters allow us to feel friendship, trust, sharing, and understanding developing. There are no photos, so we get to create our own images of the writers. I find myself cozying up to the warmth of conversation. Writing down the names of the books purchased, and recommended.  Wondering if they will ever meet.  Not to be a spoiler - but, no - they never meet in person.

My re-readings remind me how much I miss hand-written letters.  For years I devoured the letters from home.  I could hear the voices, see the places, smell the shepherd's pie. I could keep them close and read them again whenever I needed a taste of home. I still have many of the letters.

Sadly, most letters today are email (guilty as charged). Even if I could find them on my computer; it's not the same.  It's like e-books, I use them for convenience.  Holding a book, rustling the paper pages - makes me one with the story. 

Perhaps health advisors could suggest writing a letter by hand is relaxing and gives great satisfaction to the writer and recipient. Who knows. Could start a reverse trend.

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