I take uncommon delight in detective/murder mysteries/suspense stories that were written by various authors in the early half up to the middle part of the 20th century (roughly 1920 to 1960). They’re usually one of the reasons why I frequent second-hand bookstores.

Maybe it’s because I feel nostalgic about this particular period. (I have the same reaction to some films that were produced during this era — which is usually referred to as Hollywood’s golden age). Even now, books penned by Agatha Christie, Erle Stanley Gardner, Mignon Eberhardt, Mary Stewart, Helen MacInnes, Mickey Spillane still have the power to evoke in me a feeling of languorous excitement that reminds me of the iconic celebrities of the day — Humphrey Bogart, Katherine Hepburn, Grace Kelly, Cary Grant, Lauren Bacall, etc. — back when stars were grade A Celebrities, rather than just Actors.

Well… back to books.

My bookcases are lined up with weather-beaten copies of such books, and I don’t intend to throw them out just yet. I like to think of their disreputable condition as part of their charm. They’re an anachronistic keepsake in the age of the Internet. You know. Like old mementos you can’t bear to part with.

Occasionally I take them out to renew my acquaintance with such stalwarts as the distinctively odd but formidable M. Hercule Poirot and the harmless-looking but shrewd Ms. Marple. And oh, who can forget about super-lawyer Perry Mason and his girl friday Della Street? Or the resourceful Susan Dare and tough guy Mike Hammer? *sigh* I miss those guys.

Another character that I sorely miss is Sherlock Holmes, who made his first appearance in late Victorian England in 1887 (thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle). Holmes, with his sidekick Col. Hastings, continued to strike fear in fear in the hearts of fictional criminals and wrongdoers until his final case in 1914.