Looking at the hardcover of Helene Hanff’s 84, Charing Cross Road, it’s hard to believe such a slight book spawned a cult, film adaptations and a stage production in both London and New York. It’s just under 100 pages long and nothing but LETTERS, some no more than a few scrawled lines.

But it’s what’s in the letters that’s made of invisible steel. From New York, there’s the brash, bossy Helene Hanff desperate to read/own great works. From London there’s the secondhand bookshop on Charing Cross Road filled with inexpensive treasures. And more than books cross the Atlantic. Helene gets a glimpse into the narrowness of everyday life in post war Britain and decides to do something even if it’s as small and simple as order a package of tinned foods and real eggs to be shared amongst the bookshop staff. The bookstaff gets a glimpse into the exotic sounding life of a writer living in far off New York City even if the writer’s days and nights are filled with cigarettes, gin and babysitting verus nightclubs and champagne. A true friendship develops that not even financial misfortune and death can break.

There are writers who can spend their lives trying to craft something glorious and meaningful. In a few handfuls of letters dashed off at moment’s notice during her everyday life, letters that anyone else might have thrown in the trash Helene Hanff had her masterpiece. Now try and read 84, Charing Cross Road and NOT become part of the cult.