Above all remember, dear, that you have a great opportunity. You are in one of the world's best schools, in one of the world's greatest modern empires. Millions of boys and girls all over this world would give almost anything they possess to be where you are. You are there by no desert or merit of yours, but only by lucky chance.
Deserve it, then. Study, do your work. Be honest, frank and fearless and get some grasp of the real values of life. You will meet, of course, curious little annoyances. People will wonder at your dear brown and the sweet crinkley hair. But that simply is of no importance and will be soon forgotten. Remember that most folk laugh at anything unusual, whether it is beautiful, fine or not. You, however, must not laugh at yourself. You must know that brown is as pretty as white or prettier and crinkley hair as straight even though it is harder to comb. The main thing is the YOU beneath the clothes and skin—the ability to do, the will to conquer, the determination to understand and know this great, wonderful, curious world. Don't shrink from new experiences and custom. Take the cold bath bravely. Enter into the spirit of your big bed-room. Enjoy what is and not pine for what is not. Read some good, heavy, serious books just for discipline: Take yourself in hand and master yourself. Make yourself do unpleasant things, so as to gain the upper hand of your soul.
Above all remember: your father loves you and believes in you and expects you to be a wonderful woman.
I shall write each week and expect a weekly letter from you.
Lovingly yours,
Papa
JOHN O'HARA TO WYLIE O'HARA
“Beginning with the day you read this
you cease to be a child.”
John O'Hara was not a darling of the critics, nor was he the recipient of major literary honors—and it bothered him. Yet, beginning with his first novel in 1934, Appointment in Samarra, through thirty-five subsequent books, including Pal Joey and From the Terrace, John O'Hara consistently enjoyed the attention and financial rewards of a large readership. He had a plain and old-fashioned style, combining masterful dialogue and precise, accurate details, and always his mission was to show clearly “the way it was.” He wrote mostly in the hours after midnight, usually short stories in the summers and novels in the winters, and he considered himself a “pro”—one who was at his work day after day, making it “look easy,” when of course it was not.
In 1959, O'Hara was in the decade that would be his most prolific. His work had made him a wealthy man and he spent summers on Long Island, took pride in his Rolls-Royce, traveled often to England, joined clubs, and passed winters at his French manor house in Princeton, New Jersey. Yet, despite all of his commercial success and popularity, O'Hara's commitment to his writing never dwindled. His only daughter, Wylie, was fourteen years old in September 1959 and was just beginning her first year at her deceased mother's alma mater, the St. Timothy's School in Maryland.
22 Sept. 59
My dear:
Welcome to St. Tim's! I am writing this on Tuesday afternoon. You are upstairs, I am in my study, unable to leave because I am expecting two telephone calls. Hot out, isn't it?
By the time you read this you will have spent your first night in your new room, or so I imagine, and I am also imagining what your first day will be like. You will be doing and seeing so many new things and meeting so many new faces that you will wonder how so much could be crowded into one day, and you won't have a chance to think about it until you go to bed, the second night. That's the way it will be for a week—you must have had much the same experience at Interlaken and Ralston Creek. Then, almost without realizing it, you will find yourself a member of a new community.
And that's something I would like to talk about. Just as I am going on a voyage, so are you embarking on a journey that is much more important than my quick trip. Mine will be over in a month, and the real purpose of my trip is to get away from my typewriter and my habits of work in order to get a new perspective and come back, I hope, the better for my holiday. But your journey is more important because you are entering into a new phase of your life. Beginning with the day you read this you cease to be a child. Your memories, naturally, will all be memories of childhood, the life you have led so far. But each day will be part of the future that you have been looking forward to all your childhood days. You will be assuming new responsibilities but you will also find that responsibility does not necessarily mean something irksome. Responsibility, and responsibilities, can be a pleasure. The greatest pleasure I have in life is the responsibility of being your father. It is a greater pleasure than my work, which is saying a lot because I love my work. But a man is not born with a love of his work, and he is born with the nucleus of a love for his children, and his responsibility toward them, or toward her, in my case, is only the practical side of that love.
In the Catholic Church you are taught to start each day by dedicating everything you do that day toward the greater honor and glory of God. Most Catholics forget that, and none of them remembers it every day, throughout the day. We are all human. But it is possible to copy something from the Catholics that is helpful: as I wrote you two years ago, “to thine own self be true,” and if you do that every day you'll be all right. When I stopped drinking I did not say to myself “Quit for a year.” I did it a day at a time; get through one day, then repeat it the next. Well, that's more than six years ago. And quite frankly, I still do it day by day. I take those damned exercises every day, not with the thought that I will be taking them for the rest of my life, but with the thought that I will do them today—and let tomorrow's temptation to skip them take care of itself tomorrow.
I hope you will write me while I am abroad. The address is at the bottom of this page so you can tear it off. After the 15th of October write me at home, as letters sent abroad will not reach me after that date.
I wish you happiness in this new phase of your life. You have come through childhood as a fine person, with wonderful prospects for a wonderful future. You have made Sister love you as though you were her own. And I was born loving you.
Dad
Care of Cresset Press,
11, Fitzroy Square—London, W.1, England
“Life is tough, Wylie. But you don't
have to be tough to enjoy it.”
One week later, on September 29, 1959, O'Hara again wrote to Wylie. The following morning he departed by ship to join his third wife, Katharine “Sister” Barnes Bryan, in London.
Tuesday p.m.
My dear:
The Outerbridges very thoughtfully, very kindly had me to dinner tonight, otherwise I'd have been alone at home. They also invited Mr. and Mrs. Bramwell. We watched the Braves lose to the Dodgers until five minutes of nine, when I excused myself to telephone you. I wanted to speak to you again after you and Patience had your chat, but I guess she misunderstood me and the connection was broken. So I am writing you to finish up what I wanted to say—and probably will say it a little better here than on the phone.
You and I are really very close, I think. I think we understand each other because we are both sensitive people. I'm sure, for instance, that you understand what I mean when I say that I have misgivings about my trip, somewhat the way you felt when you were getting ready to go to the ranch last June. We are both shy people, and yet are fond of other people. For instance I had a good time with Mr. and Mrs. Outerbridge and Mr. and Mrs. Bramwell tonight because I know them and am relaxed with them. When I get on the ship tomorrow I will not know a soul, and even though there is quite a good chance that I will run into people I know, I am prepared to spend the entire time alone. The Cunard Line has put a typewriter in my room, and I have a book I want to read (The Education of Henry Adams) and a double-crostic to do, so I will be able to occupy myself until I meet Sister in London.
It would have been a lot easier for me just to stay home and not to take this trip. But because it would have been easier is precisely the reason I am going. I love my work, I am happy when I have work to do, but if I sit here in my study in Prince
ton I am really pampering myself, even though I may justify it by saying I am working. It is a dangerous thing for a writer to do, to bury himself in his work and never stir away from it. I know that is true, because I will confess to you that I am afraid to be alone in England, etc. I would not make the trip if I were not going to meet Sister. Now that is proof of the danger of sitting here and burying myself in my work. My life has become you and Sister, and even my friends don't count as much as they should. What remains is my work, with which, as I say, I pamper myself and make excuses for not participating in life.
What I am leading up to is that life is or should be full of doing things you would prefer not to do. The best recent example of that was the ranch experience, which you didn't want to do, but ended up being glad you did it. Believe me, it is easier to learn self-discipline when you are young than when you are older. By self-discipline I mean obeying your parents and your teachers. Yes, that may seem contradictory. You may think of it only as discipline and not self-discipline, but it is self-discipline if you follow advice in the proper spirit. It is discipline when you obey because you have no other choice.
Life is tough, Wylie. But you don't have to be tough to enjoy it. However, you do need some toughening, and the best toughening is that which you give yourself. In fact it may be the only kind that has lasting value. It becomes part of you and not something that originated with someone else.
You have only to look at the faces of men and women who have not learned to discipline themselves. Then look at those who have. Whom do you trust? Whom would you count on? Your Grandmother O'Hara is a case in point. She was strictly brought up in a family who were in comfortable circumstances, able to send her away to boarding school. Soon after that she married my father and she began to have children, eight of them, with all the problems of a large family. Then when my father died and there was practically no money and none of us old enough to make a decent living, she had to struggle somehow to keep a family going, giving up things she had been accustomed to, unable to provide what she wanted to provide. But I never heard her complain, and neither did anyone else. Sometimes I would come home and find her doing household arithmetic, trying to figure out how to pay taxes, grocery bills, etc., but there would be no complaints, although God knows she must have stayed awake many nights wondering and worrying. Now she is over 80, as enthusiastic and loving about you as though you were her first-born, and if you study her face you will see that it is remarkably unlined. There are women, and men, many years younger, who do not have her serenity, and the reason is that they do not have her character. And the character was something she acquired through self-discipline.
Already you have shown me that you have some of the same qualities. Honesty. Kindness. Sweetness. Courage. Understanding. You have all of these to a degree that is extraordinary in a girl your age. There are unlucky girls who grow into womanhood without any of them. You have something else: humility. And it is your humility that keeps you from realizing that you have the other qualities. Humility is a quality that the possessor of it does not enjoy, but that makes her or him easier to live with. Sometimes it is seen as shyness and sometimes as sensitivity. Whatever it appears to be, it is a gracious quality, a warm quality that is particularly attractive when it is accompanied by the five other qualities I mentioned. I'm very glad you have it now, because you are also going to become a handsome woman, and it is as a handsome woman that you will live the greater part of your life, not merely as a pretty teen-ager.
Please do me a favor. Save this letter and read it when you have time to give it some thought. There are things in it that will guide you and that you may overlook in a quick, first reading.
As I told you, we'll be on our way home before you will get my later communications. We sail from England a month from today and will be home on the 3d of November, and I will make plans to go see you. Do write me, all that you want to tell me. Once again the address: Care of Cresset Press; 11 Fitzroy Square; London, W.1; England. But letters mailed after about the middle of October will probably not reach me.
All my love
Dad
William James and daughter Margaret
Mark Twain and family (Clara far left, wife, Olivia, second from left, Jean center, and Susie far right)
The Pleasures
of Life
JOHN ADAMS TO
JOHN QUINCY ADAMS
“You will never be alone with
a Poet in your Poket.”
John Adams was one of the most learned Americans of his time and his eldest son, John Quincy, was his pride and joy. The following letter was written while the father was serving as Minister to the Netherlands and the son was a student at Leyden. The fourteen-year-old John Quincy was himself already one of the most well-traveled and well-read Americans of the day.
Amsterdam, May 14. 1781
My dear Son
I received yours of 13 this morning.
If you have not found a convenient Place to remove into, you may continue your present Lodgings another Month.
I am glad you have finished Phaedrus, and made Such Progress in Nepos, and in Greek.
Amidst your Ardour for Greek and Latin I hope you will not forget your mother Tongue. Read Somewhat in the English Poets every day. You will find them elegant, entertaining and instructive Companions, through your whole Life. In all the Disquisitions you have heard concerning the Happiness of Life, has it ever been recommended to you to read Poetry?
To one who has a Taste, the Poets serve to fill up Time which would otherwise pass in Idleness, Languor, or Vice. You will never be alone with a Poet in your Poket. You will never have an idle Hour.
How many weary hours have been made alert, how many melancholy ones gay, how many vacant ones useful, to me, in the course of my Life, by this means?
Your brother grows daily better but is still weak and pale. He shall write to you, Soon.
Your affectionate Father,
J. Adams
MARK TWAIN (SAMUEL CLEMENS)
AS SANTA CLAUS TO SUSIE CLEMENS
“I will call at your kitchen door about nine oclock
this morning to inquire. But I must not see anybody,
& I must not speak to anybody but you.”
In the mid-1870s, Christmas at the Clemens's Hartford, Connecticut, home was a grand affair. Mrs. Clemens spent hours on end in the “mahogany room” wrapping gifts and the children later remembered riding over the countryside in a horse-drawn sleigh delivering Christmas baskets and turkeys to less fortunate neighbors. Samuel Clemens himself dressed as Santa Claus and delighted in the family rituals, yet he also referred to the elaborate holiday production as Mrs. Clemens's “infernal Christmas-suicide.”
On Christmas morning 1875 the following letter from “Santa Claus” was left for Clemens's three-year-old daughter, Susie.
Palace of St. Nicholas
In the Moon
Christmas Morning, [1875]
My dear Susie Clemens:
I have received & read all the letters which you & your little sister have written me by the hand of your mother & your nurses; & I have also read those which you little people have written me with your own hands—for although you did not use any characters that are in grown people's alphabets, you used the characters which all children in all lands on earth & in the twinkling stars use; & as all my subjects in the moon are children & use no character but that, you will easily understand that I can read your & your baby sister's jagged & fantastic marks without any trouble at all. But I had trouble with those letters which you dictated through your mother & the nurses, for I am a foreigner & cannot read English writing well. You will find that I made no mistakes about the things which you & the baby ordered in your own letters—I went down your chimney at midnight when you were asleep, & delivered them all myself—& kissed both of you, too, because you are good children, well trained, nice mannered, & about the most obedient little people I ever saw. But in the letters which you dictated there were som
e words which I could not make out, for certain, & one or two small orders which I could not fill because we ran out of stock. Our last lot of kitchen furniture for dolls has just gone to a very poor little child in the North Star, away up in the cold country above the Big Dipper. Your mama can show you that star & you will say: “Little Snow Flake (for that is the child's name) I'm glad you got that furniture, for you need it more than I.” That is, you must write that, with your own hand, & Snow Flake will write you an answer. If you only spoke it, she wouldn't hear you. Make your letter light & thin, for the distance is great and the postage very heavy.
There was a word or two in your mama's letter which I couldn't be certain of. I took it to be “trunk full of doll's clothes”? Is that it? I will call at your kitchen door about nine oclock this morning to inquire. But I must not see anybody, & I must not speak to anybody but you. When the kitchen door-bell rings, George must be blindfolded & sent to open the door. Then he must go back to the dining room or the china closet & take the cook with him. You must tell George he must walk on tip-toe & not speak—otherwise he will die some day. Then you must go up to the nursery & stand on a chair or the nurse's bed, & put your ear to the speaking-tube that leads down to the kitchen, & when I whistle through it you must speak in the tube and say, “Welcome, Santa Claus!” Then I will ask whether it was a trunk you ordered or not? If you say it was, I shall ask you what color you want the trunk to be. Your mama will help you to name a nice color, & then you must tell me every single thing in detail which you want the trunk to contain. Then when I say “Good bye & a Merry Christmas to my little Susie Clemens,” you must say “Good bye, good old Santa Claus, & I thank you very much—& please tell that little Snow Flake I will look at her star tonight and she must look down here—I will be right in the west bay-window; & every fine night I will look at her star & say, “I know somebody up there, & like her, too.” Then you must go down in the library & make George close all the doors that open into the main hall, & everybody must keep still for a little while. I will go to the moon and get those things, in a few minutes I will come down the chimney which belongs to the fire-place that is in the hall—if it is a trunk you want, because I couldn't get such a thing as a trunk down the nursery-chimney, you know.
Posterity: Letters of Great Americans to Their Children Page 16