Monday - April 17, 2006
"We had the love, but I long for the letters."
William Shaw, in his 80s, wishes he had a letter to
read and reread from his wife, two years after her
death.
But what I don't have is a letter from her in her handwriting—on her stationery—from her heart to mine. I regret she never had one from me and I wonder if she ever wanted one, or ever missed having a little bit of the real me to hold on to. A letter can be that.
There is not much that is more personal than a letter, particularly a love letter. No card, no poem, no gift is as intimate as a letter. I'm sorry now that I never wrote to her, even if it would have been in my nearly indecipherable handwriting. I probably shouldn't feel this way—there never really was a need, and who thinks ahead to what might happen? I know that what I'm sorry about is that I don't have a letter from her, in her bold, beautiful script, to read and reread.
What I'm trying to say is that our lives have changed. That special something in a personal letter has disappeared with the advent of telephones, airplanes and now e-mail—which is impersonal and limited by the lack of what I shall call "personal ambience."
The letter is dying. Epistolarians lie twitching in the ruins of post offices around the world. I adore data and Quartz-smoothed text just as much as the next geek, but there is nothing like a letter written in someone's hand, with the fractal quiver of breath and nerve impulse and muscle clench transforming pen on paper to blow-by-blow emotion.
Read the rest of the column. Then write someone.
But what I don't have is a letter from her in her handwriting—on her stationery—from her heart to mine. I regret she never had one from me and I wonder if she ever wanted one, or ever missed having a little bit of the real me to hold on to. A letter can be that.
There is not much that is more personal than a letter, particularly a love letter. No card, no poem, no gift is as intimate as a letter. I'm sorry now that I never wrote to her, even if it would have been in my nearly indecipherable handwriting. I probably shouldn't feel this way—there never really was a need, and who thinks ahead to what might happen? I know that what I'm sorry about is that I don't have a letter from her, in her bold, beautiful script, to read and reread.
What I'm trying to say is that our lives have changed. That special something in a personal letter has disappeared with the advent of telephones, airplanes and now e-mail—which is impersonal and limited by the lack of what I shall call "personal ambience."
The letter is dying. Epistolarians lie twitching in the ruins of post offices around the world. I adore data and Quartz-smoothed text just as much as the next geek, but there is nothing like a letter written in someone's hand, with the fractal quiver of breath and nerve impulse and muscle clench transforming pen on paper to blow-by-blow emotion.
Read the rest of the column. Then write someone.