a delight… it’s a gloomy life. Work from morning to night, and not much sense to it. … Money – as scarce as hen’s teeth.
But perhaps I want no one except you when I place poppies, a great many poppies, and memory, just as much as memory…”
– Paul Celan (1920—1970), from a letter to Ingeborg Bachmann (1926—1973), dated June 20, 1949
“While I – that is, all the years until now – was sure we would meet, it never would have entered my head or my hand to thus make you visible – to me and to others. You were my secret – from all eyes, even my own. And only when I closed my eyes – did I sec you – and I saw nothing else. 1 opened my eyes – into yours. It turns out that now I simply – have pulled you out of myself – and set you against the wall – like an artist sets up a canvas – maybe farther – and stepped back.”
– Marina Tsvetaeva (1892—1941), from a letter to Boris Pasternak (1890—1960), in: “Letters. Summer 1926. Boris Pasternak. Marina Tsvetaeva, Rainer Maria Rilke”, translated from the Russian by Margaret Wettlin, Walter Arndt, Jamey Gambrell
“excuse my dark writing… my love for you is different from your love for me; it’s of a very different type and category. Excuse those pages, dear. And for a few moments try to transport yourself to a soul who learned the bad habit of suffering and of having no hope in this world”
– Gabriela Mistral (1889—1957), from a letter to Doris Dana (1920—2006), dated December 1, 1949, in “Gabriela Mistral’s Letters to Doris Dana”, translated by Velma Garcia-Gorena
“Can one live peaceably, you say, when the human race is so absurd? I submit, while saying to myself that perhaps I am as absurd as every one else and that it is time to turn my mind to correcting myself.”
– George Sand (1804—1876), from a letter to Gustave Flaubert (1821—1880), Nohant, dated January 25, 1872, in: “The George Sand-Gustave Flaubert Letters”, translated from the French by A.L. McKenzie
“Physically I am ‘okay,’ as they say these days – mentally, too, though I am terribly exhausted spiritually. I want to say ‘mortally,’ ‘irreparably,’ for there is a limit to all things.”
– Olga Freidenberg (1890—1955), from a letter to Boris Pasternak (1890—1960), Leningrad, dated May 27, 1953, in: “The Correspondence of Boris Pasternak and Olga Freidenberg, 1910—1954″, translated from the Russian by Elliott Mossman and Margaret Wettlin
“Sorrow is better than joy – and even in mirth the heart is sad – and it is better to go to the house of mourning than to the house of feasts, for by the sadness of the countenance the heart is made better.”
– Vincent Van Gogh (1853—1890), from a letter to his brother, Theo Van Gogh (1857—1891), dated October 31, 1876, in: “The Letters Of Vincent Van Gogh”, translated from the French and Dutch by Arnold Pomerans
“You wanted a written promise, my adorable friend, you thought I would hesitate to give it: here it is: I declare that you have all rights over me and that I have none over you. Dispose of my person and of my life. Order, defend, I will obey you in everything. I aspire to no other happiness than the one you wish to give me; I want to possess nothing, I want everything I have to come from your generosity. I would willingly agree to think no longer of my fame, so as to dedicate exclusively to your particular use whatever knowledge and talents I may have. I am proud of belonging to you and being your property.”
– A.W. Schlegel (1767—1845), from a letter to Germaine de Staël (1766—1817), Coppet, dated October 18, 1805, in: “Madame de Staël. Selected correspondence”, translated from the French by Kathleen Jameson-Cemper
“My most dearly beloved treasure, I haven’t had any further news from you for a week, but just now I have such a longing for you so I am writing.”
– Marie Bader (1886—1942), from a letter to Ernst Löwy (1880—1943), Karlín, dated March 26, 1942, in: “Life and Love in Nazi Prague. Letters from an Occupied City. Marie Bader”, translated by Kate Ottevang
“I think I am getting to the point where words are inadequate. I love you.”
– Captain Hunnicutt, from a letter to Virginia Dickerson, dated January 19, 1944 – V-mail
in: “Dearest Virginia. Love Letters from a Cavalry Officer in the South Pacific”, edited by Gayle Hunnicutt
“A month and a half ago I quarreled with Zina and left her. At first I was miserable, but soon I was once more stunned by the noise, the deafening clamor of freedom, its vivacity, movement, color. And this lives beside us. What happens to it when we are not alone? I found myself transformed; once more I had faith in the future.”
– Boris Pasternak (1890—1960), referring to his second wife, Zinaida, from a letter to Olga Freidenberg (1890—1955), Moscow, dated June 8, 1941, in: “The Correspondence of Boris Pasternak and Olga Freidenberg, 1910—1954″, translated from the Russian by Elliott Mossman and Margaret Wettlin
“What bliss of resurrection I felt to see the marvellous loops of your handwriting after so many years, which seem to be capable of protecting the Celestial Garden which the Angel (now become redundant) bearing a blazing sword keeps watch over. Your kindness in writing to me like this, and so quickly (qui cito dat, bis dat) brought back to me ancient feelings that you have since martyred a little.”
– Marcel Proust (1871—1922), from a letter to Anna de Noailles (1876—1933), dated 1919 (http://theesotericcuriosa.blogspot.com/)
“I do not care for the body, I love the timid soul, the blushing, shrinking soul; it hides, for it is afraid…”
– Emily Dickinson (1830—1886), from a letter to Abiah Root, dated January 2, 1851
“I want to come to you, because of the new Marina who can emerge only with you, in you…”
– Marina Tsvetaeva (1892—1941), from a letter to Rainer Maria Rilke (1875—1926), in: “A Russian Psyche: The Poetic Mind Of Marina Tsvetaeva” by Alyssa W. Dinega
“Goodnight dear. If you were in my bed it might be the back of your head I was touching, where the hair is short, or it might be up in the front where it makes little caves above your head. But wherever it was, it would be the sweetest place, the sweetest place”
– Zelda Fitzgerald (1900—1948), from a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896—1940), dated 1931, in: “Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda. The Love Letters of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald”
“I embrace you and love you; I am happy. Sometimes when holding you in my arms, I regret not being able to be entirely yours; but when I consult only my heart, I tell myself that nothing can add to my feeling, and that I need nothing more to declare myself yours forever.”
– Prosper de Barante (1782—1866), from a letter to Germaine de Staël (1766—1817), Geneva, dated end
