Hughes, 1926—1938”
“I don’t write to you, I am quite troubled in the depths of my soul. But that will pass, I hope…”
– George Sand (1804—1876), from a letter to Gustave Flaubert (1821—1880), at Nohant, dated September 6, 1871, in: “The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert Letters”, translated from the French by A.L. McKenzie
“I have the unfortunate ability to read the very depths of hearts.”
– Germaine de Staël (1766—1817), from a letter to Benjamin Constant (1767—1830), Coppet, dated April 17, I815, in: “Madame de Staël. Selected correspondence”, translated from the French by Kathleen Jameson-Cemper
“Don’t be upset by all of this, regardless. Better days are coming. But it is a sad return on so much work, deprivation, and suffering. Alas, life is miserable!”
– Arthur Rimbaud (1854—1891), from a letter to his Mother, Marie Catherine, Aden, dated April 30, 1891, in: “I Promise to be Good. The Letters of Arthur Rimbaud”, translated from the French by Watt Mason
“You speak of my desire to gratify all of your wishes. It is the greatest pleasure I have to think that I can do so, but you must remember how little I have done, and how you almost denied me the pleasure of doing even that little, and how chary you have been in permitting it.”
– Nathaniel Dawson (1829—1895), from a letter to Elodie Todd (1840—1877), Winchester, Virginia, dated July 11, 1861, in: “Practical Strangers. The Courtship Correspondence of Nathaniel Dawson and Elodie Todd, Sister of Mary Todd Lincoln”, edited by Stephen Berry and Angela Esco Elder
“Dearest Boy:
Oh! I wish I could see you tonight. I am lonely. Oh! So lonesome to see you. You & I are most always apart. May be that is the way of the world. It is best to only see a little of those we love best!”
– Carrie Hughes (1873—1938), from a letter to Langston Hughes (1902—1967), Atlantic City, N. J., dated February, 1926, in: “My Dear Boy: Carrie Hughes’s Letters to Langston Hughes, 1926—1938”
“Neither the heart nor the mind can embrace what is happening. One thrusts away
the days as if into an already packed suitcase, but they don’t fit in.”
– Olga Freidenberg (1890—1955), from a letter to Boris Pasternak (1890—1960), Leningrad, dated July 12, 1941, in: “The Correspondence of Boris Pasternak and Olga Freidenberg, 1910—1954″, translated from the Russian by Elliott Mossman and Margaret Wettlin
“At last I come to tell you that I am yours. And I pray God to bless us not only in each other but to each other, and to grant us His favor and protection in the important step we are about to take.”
– Sally Campbell Preston McDowell (1821—1895), from a letter to John Miller (1819—1895), dated April 30, 1855, in: “If You Love That Lady Don’t Marry Her: The Courtship Letters of Sally Mcdowell and John Miller, 1854—1856″
“Today, at last, your letter arrived and I’m a human being again, after days of worry and anxiety. I don’t know why but this time I was particularly worried about you.”
– Marie Bader (1886—1942), from a letter to Ernst Löwy (1880—1943), Prague, dated January 14, 1942, in: “Life and Love in Nazi Prague. Letters from an Occupied City. Marie Bader”, translated by Kate Ottevange
“Why is woman so jealous of expressing her feelings, so guarded in telling the promptings of her heart? If it were treason to love you, I could be found guilty from any one of my letters for I cannot conceal the fact. Probably you do not like my style of writing, but I cannot help it & even as my wife I would love & write to you as passionately.”
– Nathaniel Dawson (1829—1895), from a letter to Elodie Todd (1840—1877), Camp near Lynchburg, dated May 9, 1861, in: “Practical Strangers. The Courtship Correspondence of Nathaniel Dawson and Elodie Todd, Sister of Mary Todd Lincoln”, edited by Stephen Berry and Angela Esco Elder
“I love you the way I love certain memories.”
– Gabriela Mistral (1889—1957), from a letter to Doris Dana (1920—2006), dated November 28, 1949, in: “Gabriela Mistral’s Letters to Doris Dana”, translated by Velma Garcia-Gorena
“… I no longer have any personal interest of my own; all my interests
are identical with yours, because my present ambition – and the only purpose for which I drag on this horrible existence (horrible because far from you) – is this: to strive with all my forces (and they are still many!) to make you rich and in control of your destiny, in Art as much as in life.”
– Luigi Pirandello (1867—1936), from a letter to Marta Abba (1900—1988), dated March 1, 1930, in: “Pirandello’s Love Letters to Marta Abba”, translated from the Italian by Benito Ortolani
“I get out very little and am nearly crazy being so lonely, sometimes.”
– Carrie Hughes (1873—1938), from a letter to Langston Hughes (1902—1967), dated February 3, 1938, in: “My Dear Boy: Carrie Hughes’s Letters to Langston Hughes, 1926—1938”
“I don’t have qualities, only fragilities. But sometimes… sometimes I have hope.”
– Clarice Lispector, from a letter to Olga Borelli, dated December 11, 1970, in: “Why This World. A Biography of Clarice Lispector” by Benjamin Moser
“Writing to you is never a burden to me, as evening draws in I feel I must have my chat with you.”
– Elsie Rosaline Masson (1890—1935), from a letter to Bronislaw Malinowski (1884—1942), dated June 4, 1935, in: “The Story of a Marriage. The Letters of Bronislaw Malinowski and Elsie Masson”
“It’s midnight, everyone’s asleep, my radio is softly playing, cigarette’s burning, so I’m all set to write. I sort of like the idea of writing when it’s late because then I know exactly what you’re doing and I can visualize you very vividly. This may sound crazy but do you curl up when you sleep? Hug the pillow, or what? I seem to always write this time of night so since I know that you’re sleeping I want my vision to be as realistic as possible.”
– Mike Royko (1932—1997), from a letter to Carol Joyce Duckman (1934—1979), postmarked April 28, 1954, in “Royko in Love: Mike’s Letters to Carol”, by Mike Royko and David Royko
“I read with ecstasy your dear words about your loving me. You write: ‘Love me.’ But don’t I love you? It’s just that expressing myself in words sickens me, but you could see a lot for yourself, but it’s too bad that you are unable to see. […] And my ecstasy and delight are inexhaustible. […] So as to finish this tirade, I swear that I am dying to kiss every toe on your foot, and I’ll achieve my goal, you’ll see. You write: ‘But what if someone reads our letters?’
