Debra and I went a few nights ago to an event at the Royal Albert Hall called “Letters Live,” in which noted actors (and a few non-actors — in this case, a completely unexpected John Kerry) read aloud from letters written by various correspondents over the centuries. The event takes place annually, and somehow is popular enough that the 5,000 seat venue was almost entirely sold out, but we weren’t sure whether we wanted to spend the money to grab up two of the few remaining seats.

“It’s a chance to visit the Royal Albert Hall,” I said.

“But it’s people reading letters,” said Debra.

“But one of the people is Benedict Cumberbatch,” I said. (Although the cast list is kept secret until the night of the event, Cumberbatch was an exception, and was featured prominently in the advertising.) “Have you heard his voice? I’d listen to him reading from the phone book.”

(In hindsight, I guess it’s time to retire that outdated cliché. When is the last time anybody saw a phone book? I should have said, “I’d listen to him reading Google search results.”)

In the end, we decided to go, and it was a mixed bag — some of the letters were less interesting than others, and some of the performers were less enthralling — but Cumberbatch was one of the standouts, assuming the personalities of three different people (one of whom was an American) from different times and places. His characterizations were so captivating that I didn’t even pay attention to the quality of his voice.

In a few of my earlier posts, I’ve alluded to my difficulty in processing spoken language. When listening to someone speak, I can focus intently on the meaning of the words, making sure I’m comprehending everything they say; or I can relax and just enjoy the voice, the manner, and the personality of the person doing the speaking. My tendency is to do the latter, which means that I often miss a lot of the content. A great performer can make those two aspects of speech so compelling and inseparable that I feel like I’m receiving it all in a single gulp. But unfortunately for my processing of everyday interactions, not everybody is Benedict Cumberbatch.

I remember driving from Princeton to my parents’ house on Long Island with my girlfriend at the time, Alex. She was telling me a long story and then stopped to apologize, saying “I guess I’m really going on, aren’t I?”

“That’s OK,” I said. “It doesn’t matter what you’re saying; I’m just comforted by the sound of your voice.” I meant that purely as an expression of affection, but she didn’t hear it that way.

“You mean that what I say isn’t important? That it’s all just babble?”

I quickly assured her that everything she said was indeed important, but I realized later that her anger was appropriate. I really didn’t remember anything about the story she told; I had just been delighting in the experience of being in the presence of Alex — the way she looked, the way she smelled, the way she sounded.

In recent years, I’ve come to realize that many of my relationships with people are similarly unbalanced. There have been many people that I’ve thought of as friends, but while each of them might think that our friendship centers around the things we say to each other, my perception is that our conversations are simply excuses for me to enjoy that person’s physical presence. And as much as I value honesty in a friendship, I can’t say so out loud, because that person is likely to (justifiably) react the way Alex did.

As a result, I’ve found myself largely withdrawing from the world of friendships. I think one of the reasons I’m so comfortable here in London is that everybody is a stranger, and I don’t have to pretend otherwise. When I strike up a conversation with a random person in a pub, it’s clear to both of us that what we’re saying is of no importance; we’re just appreciating the special moment of making a connection. And when there’s no connection to be had — as when I’m one of 5,000 people sitting and listening to the voice of Benedict Cumberbatch — I can guiltlessly sit back and enjoy the sensation.