The tongue is prone to lose the way,
Not so the pen, for in a letter
We have not better things to say,
But surely say them better.
Emerson
For all that he's a Yank - and one with one of those odd, once-were European, Yankish names (Waldo) - he certainly provided the editors of Books of Quotations a worthy drawer-full of papers to ponder.
Having gently suggested, over several etherial exchanges, that a hand-written letter would be pleasant to receive, I did indeed receive a most attractive letter from a friend.
Several pages of quite delicious, creamy butter-milk coloured pages, adorned with handwriting that perfectly suited how I imagined her to be. Having never actually seen this friend, and having only briefly heard her voice on a failed Skype liaison, when I saw her handwriting I felt happy that my people-barometer was proving itself still to be fairly reliable.
And what a letter! Had I sent her details of what I wanted to read, the tone it should take, the depth of detail it should plumb, she could have written me nothing more wonderful. I remember it arriving; the strength of character I showed in leaving it unopened until the right moment; that moment arriving with a coffee and a piece of ricotta slice almost exactly three hours after I first touched the envelope and at a tiny table in a frenetic cafe.
Unfolding the pages I found a photo, taken by her. Having seen a few of mine, she knew I would appreciate it. But also enclosed were a few little stickers, which fluttered from the pages onto my lap. These posed a question. Was she having a sly jab at my prejudices? You see, the stickers were decidedly American - little cowboy things. Again, her perception - and her humour - made me smile.
Finally, though, came the reading, and that silenced the cafe and the world for a few precious, gentle moments.
And does so still, a year later, for the letter is on my desk at work and every now and then, seeking refuge, I take the bush track to her world again. However, as I walk with her along this track, I hear her words becoming a tad brittle, losing some of their softness. I know why, of course...
In all this time, I have not replied. Last year, I was not able. Now, though, I don't know - perhaps I'm scared. Of my writing. Of where she is now. Of the time that has passed.
And now, merrily spilling salt over my self-flagellated self, comes another letter. This one much closer to home, more distant in style and of equal yet quite different significance.
A different generation of stationery; felt-tip rather than fountain pen. An equal but different beauty. But, oh, the words and oh, the world evoked. Once more I'll take a walk, this time down grimy backstreets and into old flats lit by candles in wine-bottles, smelling vaguely of cigarettes and wet wool. In one, I'll sit at a table, repainted and peeling, by an open window and drink red wine from an old cup, looking at the street below - lights and strange, strange people. From somewhere unidentifiable will waft faint music, seemingly smothered by distance or time... Paradise lost???
I chastise my students for their lack of self-discipline; berate them for not following a "rigorous home study timetable". Yet so much of my own life dissipates into air.
Not time - a timetable is what I need. Structure and the... um,... whatever it is that I need in order to follow it.
..
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