by Shaun Usher
U.S. Department of Justice
Federal Bureau of Investigation
August 1, 1989
Mr. Gui Manganiello
National Promotions Director
Priority Records
Suite 800
6430 Sunset Boulevard
Hollywood, California 90028
Dear Mr. Manganiello:
A song recorded by the rap group N.W.A. on their album entitled “Straight Outta Compton” encourages violence against and disrespect for the law enforcement officer and has been brought to my attention. I understand your company recorded and distributed this album, and I am writing to share my thoughts and concerns with you.
Advocating violence and assault is wrong, and we in the law enforcement community take exception to such action. Violent crime, a major problem in our country, reached an unprecedented high in 1988. Seventy-eight law enforcement officers were feloniously slain in the line of duty during 1988, four more than in 1987. Law enforcement officers dedicate their lives to the protection of our citizens, and recordings such as the one from N.W.A. are both discouraging and degrading to these brave, dedicated officers.
Music plays a significant role in society, and I wanted you to be aware of the FBI’s position relative to this song and its message. I believe my views reflect the opinion of the entire law enforcement community.
Sincerely yours,
[Signed]
Milt Ahlerich
Assistant Director
Office of Public Affairs
Letter No. 113
I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN TALKED ABOUT
ANSEL ADAMS TO NANCY NEWHALL
July 15th, 1944
It was in Yosemite National Park in 1916 that Ansel Adams, then aged 14 with ambitions to become a concert pianist, took a photograph for the first time using a Brownie box camera given to him by his father. He was bitten by the bug immediately and vowed to return to Yosemite often, camera in hand; thanks to this new obsession, his imagined musical career eventually faded. Adams went on to become an award-winning photographer of considerable standing, famous for masterfully shooting the American landscape like no other and producing numerous handsome books filled with his work. In July 1944, he wrote a revealing letter about his choice of career to photography critic Nancy Newhall, a friend who at the time was beginning work on a biography of Adams that was eventually published in 1963, titled The Eloquent Light.
Ansel Adams in the Yosemite Valley, holding a Hasselblad camera, circa 1955
El Capitan, Yosemite National Park, California, 1952 by Ansel Adams
Yosemite National Park
July 15, 1944
My Dear Nancy,
Nice letter from the Overland Limited. Nice you saw Dorothea and Imogen. Sorry you missed Wright. Hope you get home not too exhausted. Hope things are right for you there. Let me know everything that happens. Am terribly interested, as you know.
Did not really do much for you - not nearly what I had hoped to do. I think that we will get a perspective on lots of problems one of these days. You really worked hard most of the time.
I have always been talked about; in grammar school, as a kid, I was considered “unusual” - not in my right mind, so to speak. Then, I lived “north of Lake St.” which automatically made me an aristocrat in relation to those who lived “south of Lake.” This distinction seemed to be based on the fact of two hideous stone pillars, or pylons, which the real-estate development company set up to mark a perfectly ordinary area as “exclusive”; the only sad gap in their logic is that the pylons were built about eight years after my father “moved out there in the country.” Hence, my snootiness was thrust upon me. But I went through Hell at that time; was sent to a private school for “adjustment,” and otherwise enjoyed a rather irregular youth. Of course, I was always aware that people talked about me. The fact that I could do many things deftly and never was a “bad little boy” was not sufficient to overcome the stronger fact that I was “different.”
My father had a series of business misfortunes and things were not so hot for quite a few years. As my father was about played out an old friend insisted he take us to Yosemite for a vacation. This was in 1916. From that time on, things became crystallized in a far more healthy way. In making the choice between music and college, I still think I did the right thing, but others seem not to think so. Anyway, here I am in photography; most of my friends of earlier days keep stressing their regret I did not stay in music! My family said, “What!! you don’t want to be anything else but a photographer!!” That helped, of course. I was talked about because:
I could play AND photograph (something immoral about that!!) I wore a beard
I knew a lot of artists
I did not dance
I dared to question the status-quo I became engaged to Virginia
I became dis-engaged to Virginia I had too many girlfriends
I did not have enough girlfriends (something funny there, YES sir!!)
I married Virginia
I did not live in a garret
I moved to Yosemite
I liked Modern Art
I charged too much
I charged too little
I always did like women
Virginia should not have been so lenient
Virginia should have “understood” (think she has done a very good job of that kind of “understanding”)
I drink too much
I can’t follow the Commie line
I think expression is something in addition to politics and vice-versa
I’m a radical
I like to be reasonably precise (this seems to create immense annoyance)
I read PM
I know Ickes
I should be free
I should have some real responsibilities
I live in an ivory tower
I am complex
I am simple
I am rich as all get-out
I live off my wife
I live off my father
My work should be in line with my Tempo
I don’t like people
I don’t understand the BIG social problems of today
I’m precious
Nobody seems to inquire if I am actually any more or less happy than the average Homo sapien, any more or less adjusted to conditions, or figure out some objective appraisal. I have an answer which I think may suffice - perhaps it’s just a rationalization, but here goes:
I know what I have in photography - what I have done, and what I believe I can do. In relation to most of my friends I have made a rather obvious success. Very few of my friends have made that kind of success. They fundamentally, subconsciously resent it. They would like to uncover the weak spots; set me up as they think I should be - put me in my place, in other words. Well, perhaps I am not ideally situated, personally, financially, creatively. But I am definitely NOT unhappy. In fact, just about now I am happier than almost anyone I know. I would feel very bad to think I were not man enough to assume the normal responsibilities without adversely affecting my work. I am always violently in love with something - an idea, a person, a job. I am actually quite un-moral; my restraint in certain cases is not based on any personal moral inhibition, but on an objective appraisal of potential harm to the other, or others, concerned. I can’t think of much I wouldn’t do if it would not hurt anyone else. I think I have been most fortunate; after quite a few years of adjustments I find myself stable emotionally - to all outward appearances - fairly well set in a routine of daily life - terribly fond of my environment, terribly fond of my family. I have a huge program laid out, material obligations fairly well under control, hundreds and hundreds of friends. I do have distractions, worries, disappointments. But am I unique in that? I do not envy Stieglitz his life; it seems tragic to me - much more so than anything I have had to contend with. The fact that he has accomplished what he has is a miracle - the evidence of strength and clarity of purpose. Think how much more he gets talked about than I.
/> If the above sounds hopeless to you, write me what YOU think!!
Love and cheer!!
Ansel
Still in bed with the goddamn flu - but getting a lot done.
Letter No. 114
GROW UP AS GOOD REVOLUTIONARIES
CHE GUEVARA TO HIS CHILDREN
Circa 1965
In 1955, Argentinean-born Che Guevara met Fidel Castro and quickly joined his efforts to oust Fulgencio Batista as leader of Cuba – a revolution in which he would go on to play a major role, and which would lead to Guevara becoming Finance Minister under Castro’s rule. By 1965, Guevara was keen to spread his revolutionary ideas: he began by travelling to the Congo where he unsuccessfully attempted to train rebel forces in the area; he then moved on to Bolivia, where he was ultimately captured by the Bolivian Army and later executed on the orders of President René Barrientos. Before he left for Bolivia, he secretly visited his wife back in Cuba and gave her this letter, to be read by his five children in the event of his death.
Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara and wife Aleida March leaving for their honeymoon, 1959
To my children
Dear Hildita, Aleidita, Camilo, Celia, And Ernesto,
If you ever have to read this letter, it will be because I am no longer with you. You practically will not remember me, and the smaller ones will not remember me at all.
Your father has been a man who acted on his beliefs and has certainly been loyal to his convictions.
Grow up as good revolutionaries. Study hard so that you can master technology, which allows us to master nature. Remember that the revolution is what is important, and each one of us, alone is worth nothing.
Above all, always be capable of feeling deeply any injustice committed against anyone, anywhere in the world. This is the most beautiful quality in a revolutionary.
Until forever, my children. I still hope to see you.
A great big kiss and a big hug from,
Papa
Letter No. 115
WE HOPE YOU SHALL TRY…
JESSICA MITFORD TO HERSELF
February 3rd, 1937
It was in 1937 that 19-year-old Jessica Mitford – one rebellious sixth of the legendary Mitford sisters and future celebrated journalist and author – turned her back on the comforts of her privileged home life in England and headed for war-torn Spain. To further complicate matters, she chose to elope with her lover Esmond Romilly, a Communist nephew of Winston Churchill whose ideals contrasted sharply with those of her stubborn, aristocratic family. Indeed, were it not for this forged letter, written to Jessica supposedly from a French friend, but in fact from Jessica herself, her mother may have stopped her from fleeing the nest entirely. Luckily, the ruse was a success and within days Jessica and Esmond were en route to the Spanish Civil War. They married the same year and remained so until Esmond, then fighting in WWII, was killed in action. Shortly after leaving home, Jessica wrote to her mother and confessed all. A telegram soon found its way to Esmond from the Mitfords’ lawyers:
MISS JESSICA MITFORD IS A WARD OF COURT STOP IF YOU MARRY HER WITHOUT LEAVE OF JUDGE YOU WILL BE LIABLE TO IMPRISONMENT
The Mitfords eventually and reluctantly consented to the marriage.
Jessica and Unity Mitford, 1923
Garmisch, Germany
February 3, 1937
Please excuse awful paper
Darling Decca,
Twin and I are so anxious to see you before you go off round the world. Now I have a suggestion to make--sorry it’s such short notice, but do try and fall in. We have taken a house in Dieppe--that is, Auntie has taken it! We mean to make it the centre of a sort of motor tour to all the amusing places round. We are going there from Austria on Wednesday, and we should so love you to join us next weekend sometime if you could possibly manage it. There won’t be much of a party--just two boys from Oxford and us three and Auntie. But if you don’t mind that do try and come. Our address is 22, Rue Gambetta, Dieppe. So perhaps you could send a telegram to me there, if you can come. The boys (Dick and Leslie Cholmley) are coming by Saturday night boats so perhaps you could cross then, or if not on Sunday--anyway, just telegraph. Do you know them, by the way? I think you’ll like them. We shall be so disappointed if you can’t come; we could have asked you before, only we weren’t sure of getting a house. Our house in London is successfully let--I hope yours is.
Much Love, Mamaine
P.S. We hope you will try...
Letter No. 116
I DON’T ENJOY THIS WAR ONE BIT
DAVID FOSTER WALLACE TO DON DELILLO
October 10th, 1995
In February of 1996, 33-year-old David Foster Wallace’s highly anticipated second novel, his sprawling magnum opus, Infinite Jest, was published to widespread coverage and acclaim. It has since been hailed a masterpiece on more than one occasion. Behind the scenes, however, Wallace was faced with a problem: although the quality of his writing was improving, he was having less fun in the process. Some months before it was unleashed on the public, Wallace saw that a copy was sent to Don DeLillo, an award-winning author and playwright for whom he held a great deal of respect; this letter soon followed.
10-10-95
Dear Don,
Since it’s clear from your letters that you’re a person nice, and since it’s well-known that an overkeen sense of obligation tends to afflict the congenitally nice, I again want to implore you not to feel any obligation to read the BM any faster[1] than your own schedule and inclinations permit. If Little/Brown’s Pietsch put blurb-pressure on you or something, I implore you to ignore it. I did not have the BM sent to you because I hoped for a blurb. I sent it to you because your own fiction is important to me and because I think you’re smart and because, if you do end up reading it and end up saying anything to me about it, I stand a decent chance of learning something.
Your note of 9/19 was heartening and inspiring and also made me curious about several things. I would love to know what changes in yourself account for “And discipline is never an issue (as it was in earlier years).” I would love to know how this education of the will took place -- would that you could assure that it was nothing but a matter of time natural attritive/osmotic action, but I have a grim suspicion there’s rather more to it. I’d love to know how the sentence quoted above stands in relation to “The novel is a fucking killer. I try to show it every respect.”
As I understand your terms “discipline,” “respect,” “dedication,” your thoughts have confirmed my belief that what usually presents in me as a problem with Discipline is actually probably more a problem with Dedication. I struggle very hard with my desires both to have Fun when writing and to be Serious when writing. I know that my first book was the most Fun I’ve ever had writing, but I know also that the only remotely Serious thing about it was that I very Seriously wanted the world to think I was a really good fiction-writer. I cringe, now, to look at how so much of my first stuff seems so excruciatingly obviously exhibitionistic and so Seriously approval-hungry.
I have no idea whether this will make any sense to you, or whether this stuff is too personal to me to make sense about, or whether in fact it’s actually so banal and mill-run that seeming tormented about it or thinking I’m uniquely afflicted will seem to you grotesque. Fuck it -- an advantage to proofreading page-proofs (PP’s) is that I’m too tired to care.
I think a certain amount of time and experience and pain have helped me -- somewhat -- with respect to the immature and selfish stuff. I think IJ is less self-indulgent and show-offy than anything I’d done before it, and that the stuff I’ve done since finishing IJ is even less ego-hobbled. Part of the improvement inside me, too, I think, is starting truly to “Respect” fiction and realize how very much bigger than I the art and enterprise are, to be able not just to countenance but live with how very very small a part of any Big Picture I am. Because I tend both to think I’m uniquely afflicted and to idealize people I admire, I tend to imagine you never having had to stru
ggle with any of this narcissism or indulgence stuff, to imagine that the great gouts of Americana hurled daily at the page in the stoveless apartment of wherever you wrote it were as natively Disciplined and Respectful and humility-nourished as Libra or The Day Room. But now I rather hope that isn’t so. I hope that in the course of your decades writing you’ve done and been subject to stuff that’s helped make you a more Respectful writer. I would like to be a Respectful writer, I believe...though I know I’d far prefer finding out some way to become that w/o time and pain and the war of LOOK AT ME v. RESPECT A FUCKING KILLER.
Maybe what I want to hear is that this prenominate war is natural and necessary and a sign of Towering Intellect: maybe I want a pep-talk, because I have to tell you I don’t enjoy this war one bit. I think my fiction is better than it was, but writing is also less Fun than it was. I have a lot of dread and terror and inadequacy-shit, now, when I’m trying to write. I didn’t used to. Maybe the terror is part of the necessary reverence, and maybe it’s an inescapable part of the growing-up-as-a-writer-or-whatever process; but it can’t -- cannot -- be the goal and terminus of that process. In other words there must be some way to turn terror into Respect and dread into a kind of stolidly productive humility[2].