Letters d' Amour...

Sometimes, the soppiest of emotions can be so beautifully worded...


Author E. B. White’s letter (supposedly written by Daisy, his dog) to his wife:
Dear Mrs. White:
I like having Josephine here in the morning, although I suppose I will get less actual thinking done — as I used to do my thinking mornings in the bathroom. White has been stewing around for two days now, a little bit worried because he is not sure that he has made you realize how glad he is that there is to be what the column writer in the Mirror calls a blessed event. So I am taking this opportunity, Mrs. White, to help him out to the extent of writing you a brief note which I haven’t done in quite a long time but have been a little sick myself as you know. Well, the truth is White is beside himself and would have said more about it but is holding himself back, not wanting to appear ludicrous to a veteran mother. What he feels, he told me, is a strange queer tight little twitchy feeling around the inside of his throat whenever he thinks that something is happening which will require so much love and all on account of you being so wonderful. (I am not making myself clear I am afraid, but on the occasions when White has spoken privately with me about this he was in no condition to make himself clear either and I am just doing the best I can in my own way.) I know White so well that I always know what is the matter with him, and it always comes to the same thing — he gets thinking that nothing that he writes or says ever quite expresses his feeling, and he worries about his inarticulateness just the same as he does about his bowels, except it is worse, and it makes him either mad, or sick, or with a prickly sensation in the head. But my, my, my, last Sunday he was so full of this matter which he couldn’t talk about, and he was what Josephine in her simple way would call hoppy, and particularly so because it seemed so good that everything was starting at once — I mean those things, whatever they are, that are making such a noise over in the pond by Palmer Lewis’s house, and the song sparrow that even I could hear from my confinement in the house, and those little seeds that you were sprinkling up where the cut glass and bones used to be — all starting at the same time as the baby, which he seems to think exists already by the way he stands around staring at you and muttering little prayers. Of course he is also very worried for fear you will get the idea that he is regarding you merely as a future mother and not as a present person, or that he wants a child merely as a vindication of his vanity. I doubt if those things are true; White enjoys animal husbandry of all kinds including his own; and as for his regard for you, he has told me that, quite apart from this fertility, he admires you in all kinds of situations or dilemmas, some of which he says have been quite dirty.Well, Mrs. White, I expect I am tiring you with this long letter, but as you often say yourself, a husband and wife should tell each other about the things that are on their mind, otherwise you get nowhere, and White didn’t seem to be able to tell you about his happiness, so thought I would attempt to put in a word.White is getting me a new blanket, as the cushion in the bathroom is soiled.Lovingly, Daisy


Vita Sackville-West’s letter to celebrated author Virginia Woolf
…I am reduced to a thing that wants Virginia. I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night, and it has all gone: I just miss you, in a quite simple desperate human way. You, with all your undumb letters, would never write so elementary a phrase as that; perhaps you wouldn’t even feel it. And yet I believe you’ll be sensible of a little gap. But you’d clothe it in so exquisite a phrase that it should lose a little of its reality. Whereas with me it is quite stark: I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal. So this letter is really just a squeal of pain. It is incredible how essential to me you have become. I suppose you are accustomed to people saying these things. Damn you, spoilt creature; I shan’t make you love me any more by giving myself away like this — But oh my dear, I can’t be clever and stand-offish with you: I love you too much for that. Too truly. You have no idea how stand-offish I can be with people I don’t love. I have brought it to a fine art. But you have broken down my defenses. And I don’t really resent it.


Letters exchanged between photographer Alfred Stieglitz and artist Georgia O’Keeffe:
Her to him:
Dearest — my body is simply crazy with wanting you — If you don’t come tomorrow — I don’t see how I can wait for you — I wonder if your body wants mine the way mine wants yours — the kisses — the hotness — the wetness — all melting together — the being held so tight that it hurts — the strangle and the struggle.

Him to her:
– How I wanted to photograph you — the hands — the mouth — & eyes — & the enveloped in black body — the touch of white — & the throat –How much we have in common. — Traits. — Both turn everything we touch into something really living — & amusing — for ourselves. — Both can laugh — really laugh — even at our heartaches… 300 years you want to live!! — I wish I could give you that as a gift –


Designer Charles Eames’ proposal to his wife Ray Eames:
Dear Miss Kaiser,I am 34 (almost) years old, singel (again) and broke. I love you very much and would like to marry you very very soon.* I cannot promise to support us very well. — but if given the chance I will shure in hell try –*soon means very soon.What is the size of this finger??as soon as I get to that hospital I will write “reams” well little ones.love xxxxxxxxxxCharlie


Novelist Jean-Paul Sartre’s letter to writer Simone de Beauvoir:
My dear little girlFor a long time I’ve been wanting to write to you in the evening after one of those outings with friends that I will soon be describing in “A Defeat,” the kind when the world is ours. I wanted to bring you my conqueror’s joy and lay it at your feet, as they did in the Age of the Sun King. And then, tired out by all the shouting, I always simply went to bed. Today I’m doing it to feel the pleasure you don’t yet know, of turning abruptly from friendship to love, from strength to tenderness. Tonight I love you in a way that you have not known in me: I am neither worn down by travels nor wrapped up in the desire for your presence. I am mastering my love for you and turning it inwards as a constituent element of myself. This happens much more often than I admit to you, but seldom when I’m writing to you. Try to understand me: I love you while paying attention to external things. At Toulouse I simply loved you. Tonight I love you ona spring evening. I love you with the window open. You are mine, and things are mine, and my love alters the things around me and the things around me alter my love.My dear little girl, as I’ve told you, what you’re lacking is friendship. But now is the time for more practical advice. Couldn’t you find a woman friend? How can Toulouse fail to contain one intelligent young woman worthy of you*? But you wouldn’t have to love her. Alas, you’re always ready to give your love, it’s the easiest thing to get from you. I’m not talking about your love for me, which is well beyond that, but you are lavish with little secondary loves, like that night in Thiviers when you loved that peasant walking downhill in the dark, whistling away, who turned out to be me. Get to know the feeling, free of tenderness, that comes from being two. It’s hard, because all friendship, even between two red-blooded men, has its moments of love. I have only to console my grieving friend to love him; it’s a feeling easily weakened and distorted. But you’re capable of it, and youmust experience it. And so, despite your fleeting misanthropy, have you imagined what a lovely adventure it would be to search Toulouse for a woman who would be worthy of you and whom you wouldn’t be in love with? Don’t bother with the physical side or the social situation. And search honestly. And if you find nothing, turn Henri Pons, whom you scarcely love anymore, into a friend.[…]I love you with all my heart and soul.


Literary genius Oscar Wilde’s letters to Lord Alfred Douglas:
My dearest boy,This is to assure you of my immortal, my eternal love for you. Tomorrow all will be over. If prison and dishonour be my destiny, think that my love for you and this idea, this still more divine belief, that you love me in return will sustain me in my unhappiness and will make me capable, I hope, of bearing my grief most patiently. Since the hope, nay rather the certainty, of meeting you again in some world is the goal and the encouragement of my present life, ah! I must continue to live in this world because of that. My own Darling Boy,I got your telegram half an hour ago, and just send a line to say that I feel that my only hope of again doing beautiful work in art is being with you. It was not so in the old days, but now it is different, and you can really recreate in me that energy and sense of joyous power on which art depends. Everyone is furious with me for going back to you, but they don’t understand us. I feel that it is only with you that I can do anything at all. Do remake my ruined life for me, and then our friendship and love will have a different meaning to the world.I wish that when we met at Rouen we had not parted at all. There are such wide abysses now of space and land between us. But we love each other. Goodnight, dear. Ever yours,Oscar

DARK AND STORMY NIGHT RELOADED

It was a dark and stormy night...

No, it wasn’t; I just wanted to get your attention, alright?

Besides, I didn’t want you to be mad,

And get slapped with suits of copyright.

So, it was a bright sunny day,

When I met two young men.

I didn’t add a rhyme there;

Figured they might for it not care.

Two young men in some ways alike,

Their characters to me as funny did strike.

They had a way with words;

They swore and they cursed.

They called each other names,

But mutual admiration they shared.

A poor outsider like me, couldn’t be

One of them even if I dared.

One named the other a looker,

The other called the former a…

Both loved weird cinema;

Watching them discuss it was an operatic drama.

Poor little me

Was stuck in their company.

One was blatant in his mockery, while the other’s

Subtle sarcasm made me want to flee.

But it was late at night

And I couldn’t go home,

So I stayed on,

And held my own.

One a joker,

The other a philosopher;

Amidst them me,

A novice drinker.

They wanted to get me drunk;

Buying me drinks one by one.

But alas, their evil plans did not succeed,

I was high; not dumb.

Then the stormy night

Turned into day.

(I lied; when I met them,

Sunlight indeed was away.)

The night had been interesting;

During its course we discussed,

Issues of movies, women,

Politics and trust.

As day emerged from the night’s loop,

One’s eyelids did begin to droop.

The other still trilled on like a flute;

He was excited about his shoot.

The first time I met them by the river;

This time, I said goodbye on the street.

Both times dusk gave way to dawn,

And I went home, stifling a yawn.

A LITTLE NOTE

A little note

For dear little you;

Friends like you in this strange land,

I have very few.

The drunken confessions,

The heartfelt chats,

The exchange of gossip,

The checking out of lads.

I could do it all with you

Without a single care,

And now we live so far;

Everything we cannot share.

But that’s okay,

For I know the truth;

You’ll be there if I need you,

Like a firm tree’s root.

I don’t mean to be soppy,

But I’d like to let you know;

I’m here if you need to rant or laugh,

Or talk your facial muscles sore.

Your birthday is over,

And this note is a tad bit late,

But the sentiment it carries,

Has no expiry date!

OBSESSIVE LOVE

For everyone

There is an age,

And everyone

Goes through this phase.

Obsessive love,

I call it;

When you face it,

You’ll know it.

The raging jealousy,

The anxieties galore;

Expecting to hear their voice

With every ‘hello?’

The disappointment that follows

When it’s not them,

But with the very next call,

New hope will stem.

The Facebook stalking,

The Twitter talking,

The Google+ circles;

Clearing all hurdles.

But you need to hold back,

You must stay calm;

Just let things be, or

You’ll cause less good, more harm.

If you try to rush it,

You’ll just scare them away;

And then your obsession,

Will have led you astray.

It is a romantic notion,

But when push comes to shove,

Keep your head on your shoulders

And, don’t give in to obsessive love.

Contradictions!

So they say 'Make hay while the sun shines'. But they also say 'Think before you leap'. Okay, so it isn't the best analogy to serve as point and counterpoint. But here's the thing: us humans are a confused lot. Why? Here's why.

How many movies must we have watched wherein the guy falls in love with a girl thinking she's the 'one', but who eventually turns out to be all wrong for him? Who's the right girl for him? His not-so-glamorous best friend, of course. He realises his mistake, and guy and best friend live happily ever after. Now consider this scenario (Note - this scenario is more likely in TV shows): Guy falls in love with girl. Guy asks girl out. Girl says yes, but then things don't work out. OR, girl says no for one of various reasons (career/family/personal morals, etc. etc.) So guy, after moping around for a while, gets over it, and finally finds someone else, someone he's 'truly' happy with. Until he finds out that the 'first' love is real, the current one is, much though he would like to deny it, a sort of consolation. So back he goes to the first love, and now they live happily ever after.

So my question is this: Which of the scenarios does one believe? Or are we just supposed to decide that based on who the 'hero' and 'heroine' of the movie/serial are, and accordingly be happy for the end, whichever way it may go?

This is what I wrote in my SOP: George Eliot asks in Adam Bede, “How is it that the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, so few about our later love?” If she were alive today, I’d have liked to propose a plausible answer to her. Poets talk only about the first love because it is the most intense, the most uncorrupt, the most sacred and the most powerful love. If a person is lucky, that love will stay with them for the rest of their lives. If not, they will learn to love again. But never will they forget that first love.

But how about when Ryan Erikson (no idea who he is, but makes a lot of sense!) says: "The road to finding 'the one' is paved with a bit of promiscuity."

Having said that, though, I come back to the same point I made earlier. Which is correct? Which do you believe?

Confusing, us humans!

Candy-coated Hearts and Pencil Heels

Candy-coated hearts

And pencil heels,

Valentine’s Day is here,

Oh, woe is me!

Neither a date,

Nor a dance,

Some poor sods hope,

But they don’t stand a chance.

Love is passé;

It’s all about the power;

You kid yourself if you imagine

You’re atop the Eiffel Tower.

That racing pulse,

Down on one knee;

I’ll crush your heart,

Don’t tempt me!

Love is but one illusion,

As goes MLTR’s spiel;

Don’t buy into the story,

No matter how vulnerable you feel.

Just be vary

Of candy-coated hearts

And pencil heels;

One gives false hope, while

The other is like hammer on steel.

Signs

Do you see the signs?

I see them everywhere.

They show me the way forward,

They show me that someone cares.

Signs are like pieces of a puzzle;

They are all around.

But you won’t see them,

Until you know what you have found.

And then you will realise,

That what you never saw,

Was something that was always there,

Ignorant to a flaw.

But mind you,

Signs aren’t always good.

Sometimes they bring clarity,

Sometimes, just cause to be misunderstood.

Signs of love,

Signs of fame,

Signs of hate;

It’s all the same.

Because until you can recognise them,

Signs are but silent,

See them, understand them,

And then they are brilliant.

So the next time you see a sign of love,

Halt, tread with caution.

For, what you see,

May well be an apparition.

Signs do that to you;

Show you treasure mines,

When all that was there,

Was just a whole lot of signs!

These signs will mislead you,

They will cause your heart to break.

Because they will tell you,

Tales of love fake.

So, learn to read them,

Don’t jump into a new fray,

Thinking you know the signs,

Which will lead you astray.

The heart is silly,

Listen to your brain;

It’ll tell you that signs

Are simply lame.

Follow your head,

Forget the heart.

Because signs and pain,

Never come apart.