More Letters of Note

by Shaun Usher

  See Sequoia aspiring in the upper skies, every summit modelled in fine cycloidal curves as if pressed into unseen moulds, every bole warm in the mellow amber sun. How truly godful in mien! I was talking the other day with a duchess and was struck with the grand bow with which she bade me goodbye and thanked me for the glaciers I gave her, but this forenoon King Sequoia bowed to me down in the grove as I stood gazing, and the high bred gestures of the lady seemed rude by contrast.

  There goes Squirrel Douglas, the master spirit of the tree-top. It has just occurred to me how his belly is buffy brown and his back silver grey. Ever since the first Adam of his race saw trees and burrs, his belly has been rubbing upon buff bark, and his back has been combed with silver needles. Would that some of you, wise – terribly wise – social scientists, might discover some method of living as true to nature as the buff people of the woods, running as free as the winds and waters among the burrs and filbert thickets of these leafy, mothery woods.

  The sun is set and the star candles are being lighted to show me and Douglas squirrel to bed. Therefore, my Carr, goodnight. You say, “When are you coming down?” Ask the Lord – Lord Sequoia.

  Letter No. 009

  HUSBAND UNTIL DEATH

  ABREAM SCRIVEN TO HIS WIFE

  September 19th, 1858

  In 1858, an educated Georgia slave named Abream Scriven was abruptly parted from his wife Dinah and their children when his master, Reverend Charles Colcock Jones, sold him to a trader based many miles away in New Orleans. As he waited for his departure, heartbroken, Scriven hand wrote a farewell letter to Dinah. A reply arrived but its contents are unknown. Her subsequent attempts to have her husband brought back failed; it’s believed that they never saw each other again.

  A slave trade business in Whitehall Street, Atlanta, Georgia, 1864

  Savannah Sept the 19. 1858

  Dinah Jones

  My Dear Wife

  I take the pleasure of writing you these few lines with much regret to inform you that I am Sold to a man by the name of Peterson a treader and Stays in new orleans. I am here yet But I expect to go before long but when I get there I will write and let you know where I am. My Dear I want to Send you Some things but I donot know who to Send them By but I will try to get them to you and my children. Give my love to my father & mother and tell them good Bye for me. and if we Shall not meet in this world I hope to meet in heaven. My Dear wif for you and my Children my pen cannot Express the griffe I feel to be parted from you all. I remain your truly

  husband until death

  Abream Scriven

  Letter No. 010

  BREAK BREAK BREAK

  SYLVIA PLATH TO HER FAMILY

  January 5th, 1953

  While in Ray Brook, New York in January of 1953, aged 20 and without any previous skiing experience to speak of, future Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and author Sylvia Plath took leave of her senses and decided to plummet down a slope recommended only for advanced skiers, let alone those who could barely stand in the snow. She later, in a letter, described the moment at which all control was lost as ”a sudden brief eternity of actually leaving the ground, cartwheeling [...] and plowing face first into a drift.” The result was a badly broken leg on which a heavy cast would sit for the next two months. Sylvia’s family were soon alerted by telegram.

  January 5, 1953

  BREAK BREAK BREAK ON THE COLD WHITE SLOPES OH KNEE ARRIVING FRAMINGHAM TUESDAY NIGHT 7:41. BRINGING FABULOUS FRACTURED FIBULA NO PAIN JUST TRICKY TO MANIPULATE WHILE CHARLESTONING. ANYTHING TO PROLONG VACATION. NORTONS WERE PLANNING TO MEET ME SO WHY NOT CALL TO CHECK. MUCH LOVE. YOUR FRACTIOUS FUGACIOUS FRANGIBLE SIVVY.

  BREAK BREAK BREAK

  Letter No. 011

  1984 VS. A BRAVE NEW WORLD

  ALDOUS HUXLEY TO GEORGE ORWELL

  October 21st, 1949

  In October of 1949, a few months after the publication of George Orwell’s dystopian masterpiece, Nineteen Eighty-Four, he received a letter from fellow author Aldous Huxley, a man who, 17 years previous, had seen his own nightmarish vision of society published, in the form of Brave New World, a book also now considered a classic. Having recently finished reading Orwell’s novel, Huxley had a few words to say. What begins as a letter of praise soon becomes a brief comparison of the two novels, and an explanation as to why Huxley believes his own, earlier work to be a more realistic prediction.

  1984 vs. A Brave New World

  Wrightwood

  Cal.

  October 21st 1949

  Dear Mr Orwell,

  It was very kind of you to tell your publishers to send me a copy of your book. It arrived as I was in the midst of of a piece of work that required much reading and consulting of references; and since poor sight makes it necessary for me to ration my reading, I had to wait a long time before being able to embark on Nineteen Eighty-Four. Agreeing with all that the critics have written of it, I need not tell you, yet once more, how fine and how profoundly important the book is. May I speak instead of the thing with which the book deals — the ultimate revolution? The first hints of a philosophy of the ultimate revolution — the revolution which lies beyond politics an economics, and which aims at total subversion of the individual’s psychology and physiology — are to be found in the Marquis de Sade, who regarded himself as the continuator, the consummator, of Robespierre and Babeuf.. The philosophy of the ruling monority in Nineteen Eighty-Four is a sadism which has been carried to its logical conclusion by going beyond sex and denying it. Whether in actual fact the policy of the boot-on-the-face can go on indefinitely seems doubtful. My own belief is that the ruling oligarchy will find less arduous and wasteful ways of governing and of satisfying its lust for power, and that these ways will resemble those which I described in Brave New World. I have had occasion recently to look into the history of animal magnetism and hypnotism, and have been greatly struck by the way in which, for a hundred an fifty years, the world has refused to take serious cognizance of the discoveries of Mesmer, Braid, Esdaile, and the rest. Partly because of the prevailing materialism and partly because of prevailing respectability, nineteenth-century philosophers and men of science were not willing to investigate the odder facts of psychology. Consequently there was no pure science of psychology for practical men, such as politicians, soldiers an policemen, to apply in the field of government. Thanks to the voluntary ignorance of our fathers, the advent of the ultimate revolution was delayed for five or six generations. Another lucky accident was Freud’s inability to hypnotize successfully and his consequent disparagement of hypnotism. This delayed the general application of hypnotism to psychiatry for at least forty years. But now psycho-analysis is being combined with hypnosis; and hypnosis has been made easy and indefinitely extensible through the use of barbiturates, which induce a hypnoid and suggdestible state in even the most recalcitrant subjects. Within the next generation I believe that the world’s rulers will discover that infant conditioning and narco-hypnosis are more efficient, as instruments of government, than clubs and prisons, and that the lust for power can be just as completely satisfied by suggesting people into loving their servitude as by flogging and kicking them into obedience. In other words, I feel that the nightmare of Nineteen Eighty-Four is destined to modulate into the nightmare of a world having more resemblance to that which I imagined in Brave New World. The change will be brought about as a result of a felt need for increased efficiency. Meanwhile, of course, there may be a large-scale biological and atomic war — in which case we shall have nightmares of other and scarcely imaginable kinds.

  Thank you once again for the book.

  Yours sincerely,

  Aldous Huxley

  Letter No. 012

  MY HEART ALMOST STOOD STILL

  HELEN KELLER TO THE NEW YORK SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA

  February 2nd, 1924

  On the evening of February 1st 1924, the New York Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Walter Damrosch, played Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 to a packed Carnegie Hall i
n New York, one of the most famous and prestigious concert halls in the world. Many who wanted to attend, couldn’t; thankfully, the performance was broadcast live on the radio. A couple of days later, with talk of the show still on the lips of many, the orchestra received a stunning letter of thanks from the unlikeliest of sources. The letter was written by Helen Keller, a renowned author and activist who, despite having been deaf and blind from a young age, had managed to “hear” their music through touch alone.

  Helen Keller touches an audio speaker to “hear” recorded sound

  93 Seminole Avenue,

  Forest Hills, L. I.,

  February 2, 1924.

  The New York Symphony Orchestra,

  New York City.

  Dear Friends:

  I have the joy of being able to tell you that, though deaf and blind, I spent a glorious hour last night listening over the radio to Beethoven’s “Ninth Symphony.” I do not mean to say that I “heard” the music in the sense that other people heard it; and I do not know whether I can make you understand how it was possible for me to derive pleasure from the symphony. It was a great surprise to myself. I had been reading in my magazine for the blind of the happiness that the radio was bringing to the sightless everywhere. I was delighted to know that the blind had gained a new source of enjoyment; but I did not dream that I could have any part in their joy. Last night, when the family was listening to your wonderful rendering of the immortal symphony someone suggested that I put my hand on the receiver and see if I could get any of the vibrations. He unscrewed the cap, and I lightly touched the sensitive diaphragm. What was my amazement to discover that I could feel, not only the vibrations, but also the impassioned rhythm, the throb and the urge of the music! The intertwined and intermingling vibrations from different instruments enchanted me. I could actually distinguish the cornets, the roll of the drums, deep-toned violas and violins singing in exquisite unison. How the lovely speech of the violins flowed and plowed over the deepest tones of the other instruments! When the human voice leaped up trilling from the surge of harmony, I recognized them instantly as voices. I felt the chorus grow more exultant, more ecstatic, upcurving swift and flame-like, until my heart almost stood still. The women’s voices seemed an embodiment of all the angelic voices rushing in a harmonious flood of beautiful and inspiring sound. The great chorus throbbed against my fingers with poignant pause and flow. Then all the instruments and voices together burst forth—an ocean of heavenly vibration—and died away like winds when the atom is spent, ending in a delicate shower of sweet notes.

  Of course, this was not “hearing” but I do know that the tones and harmonies conveyed to me moods of great beauty and majesty. I also sensed, or thought I did, the tender sounds of nature that sing into my hand—swaying reeds and winds and the murmur of streams. I have never been so enraptured before by a multitude of tone-vibrations.

  As I listened, with darkness and melody, shadow and sound filling all the room, I could not help remembering that the great composer who poured forth such a flood of sweetness into the world was deaf like myself. I marvelled at the power of his quenchless spirit by which out of his pain he wrought such joy for others—and there I sat, feeling with my hand the magnificent symphony which broke like a sea upon the silent shores of his soul and mine.

  Let me thank you warmly for all the delight which your beautiful music has brought to my household and to me. I want also to thank Station WEAF for the joy they are broadcasting in the world.

  With kindest regards and best wishes, I am,

  Sincerely yours,

  [Signed]

  HELEN KELLER

  Letter No. 013

  GO TO HELL WITH YOUR MONEY BASTARD

  ASGER JORN TO THE GUGGENHEIM

  1964

  Asger Jorn was born in the Danish town of Vejrum on March 3rd, 1914, and grew up to be a prolific artist of many disciplines which included painting, sculpture, book illustration, drawing and ceramics. In 1948, along with five other artists, Jorn co-founded COBRA, an important avant-garde art movement which, despite existing for only three years, made quite an impression in post-war Europe. His work was exhibited in many countries. In 1964, Jorn discovered that he had won the Guggenheim International Award. He responded by telegram.

  MR. GUGGENHEIM. GUGGENHEIM FOUNDATION N.Y.

  GO TO HELL WITH YOUR MONEY BASTARD. REFUSE PRICE. NEVER ASKED FOR IT. AGAINST ALL DECENSY MIX ARTIST AGAINST HIS WILL IN YOUR PUBLICITY. I WANT PUBLIC CONFIRMATION NOT TO HAVE PARTICIPATED IN YOUR RIDICULOUS GAME. JORN

  Letter No. 014

  THE PARAKEET HAS A GOITER

  BRIAN DOYLE TO VARIOUS

  2012 onwards

  The dreaded rejection letter is, more often than not, an entirely miserable experience for all concerned. To receive one is to instantly and all at once have one’s hopes dashed, confidence thinned, and mood dampened; to send the same is to knowingly rain misery down upon a stranger whose happiness will soon melt away thanks to a decision you had no choice but to make. Even worse than the rejection letter is the standard form rejection letter, a lifeless kick to the guts aimed en masse at a pool of unsuitables who are, it would seem, undeserving of a personal shove – a pre-printed shake of the head for one’s troubles. To find a standard form rejection letter of note, then, is quite a task, but not impossible, and here is the finest of examples, written and sometimes sent by Brian Doyle, current editor of the University of Portland’s Portland Magazine.

  Remington Steele the parakeet is prepared for surgery at the Animal Medical Center in New York City

  Thank you for your lovely and thoughtful submission to the magazine, which we are afraid we are going to have to decline, for all sorts of reasons. The weather is dreary, our backs hurt, we have seen too many cats today and as you know cats are why God invented handguns, there is a sweet incoherence and self-absorption in your piece that we find alluring but we have published far too many of same in recent years mostly authored by the undersigned, did we mention the moist melancholy of the weather, our marriages are unkempt and disgruntled, our children surly and crammed to the gills with a sense of entitlement that you wonder how they will ever make their way in the world, we spent far too much money recently on silly graphic design and now must slash the storytelling budget, our insurance bills have gone up precipitously, the women’s basketball team has no rebounders, an aunt of ours needs a seventh new hip, the shimmer of hope that was the national zeitgeist looks to be nursing a whopper of a black eye, and someone left the toilet roll thing empty again, without the slightest consideration for who pays for things like that. And there were wet towels on the floor. And the parakeet has a goiter. And the dog barfed up crayons. Please feel free to send us anything you think would fit these pages, and thank you for considering our magazine for your work. It’s an honor.

  --Editors

  Letter No. 015

  ALONG WITH THIS LETTER COMES A PLAY

  SHELAGH DELANEY TO JOAN LITTLEWOOD

  Circa 1957

  Born in Salford in 1938, Shelagh Delaney was just 18 years old and new to the world of theatre when she began to write A Taste of Honey, the play for which she is now widely known. In the blink of an eye she was the talk of the industry: by 1958, the play had been produced by Joan Littlewood’s Theatre Workshop and was winning over critics and audiences alike; the next year, it opened in the West End to similarly positive reviews. Undeterred by this instant fame, Delaney then adapted her debut for the big screen with aplomb – the resulting film premiered in 1961 and went on to win numerous awards, with Delaney still in her early twenties. All told, a remarkable entrance, made possible thanks to a sterling play and this plucky letter of introduction from Delaney to Littlewood, sent just two weeks after loading her first sheet of paper into a typewriter.

  Playwright Shelagh Delaney, c. 1965

  Dear Miss Littlewood

  Along with this letter comes a play, the first I have written. I wondered if you would read it through and send it ba
ck to me because no matter what sort of theatrical atrocity it might be, it isn’t valueless so far as I’m concerned.

  A fortnight ago I didn’t know the theatre existed, but a young man, anxious to improve my mind, took me to the Opera House in Manchester and I came away after the performance having suddenly realised that at last, after nineteen years of life, I had discovered something that meant more to me than myself. I sat down and thought. The following day I bought a packet of paper and borrowed an unbelievable typewriter which I still have great difficulty in using. I set to and produced this little epic - don’t ask me why - I’m quite unqualified for anything like this. But at least I finished it and if, from among the markings and the typing errors and the spelling mistakes, you can gather a little sense from what I have written - or a little nonsense - I should be extremely grateful for your criticism - though I hate criticism of any kind.

  I want to write for the theatre, but I know so very little about it. I know nothing, have nothing - except a willingness to learn - and intelligence.

  Yours sincerely